VOL XIX, No 2 [Autumn, 1992]

Frailty, Thy Name Is Bevilacqua!

Leslie Brunetta, Somerville, Massachusetts

Consider America. Christopher Columbus had been island-hopping in the Caribbean since 1492 and had touched foot on the New World mainland in 1498. But he had set out for Asia, and nothing would convince him that Asia was not where he had landed. Amerigo Vespucci, meanwhile, also looking for new routes to Asia, ran ashore in Brazil in 1499 and realized that something was not right. Returning to Brazil in 1502, he convinced himself that Columbus and he had in fact stumbled onto some continent—a “New World” he called it— completely unknown to Europeans. He apparently invented a 1497 voyage to make sure he and not Columbus got the credit and started writing letters announcing his “discovery.” Columbus died in 1506 still adamant he had been to Asia. But Vespucci’s letters hugely impressed others, including German cartographer Martin Waldseemuller, who in 1507 published the first map to label a depiction of Vespucci’s New World America in his honor.

Historians have argued for generations about whether Vespucci’s 1497 trip was a fib. But they do not seem to have spent much time arguing about whether people should have followed Waldseemuller’s lead in dubbing the “new” continent America. That may be simply because the name stuck and there did not seem to be much point. But I think it is also because America sounds so nice, because the pure music of Amerigo Vespucci makes up for any lies he might have told. People were lulled by that music into neglecting to notice that in Italian Amerigo is simply Henry in English.

Think of the power of that peculiarly Italian euphony! How much patriotism could we instill by requiring our schoolchildren to chant “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of Henry”? Would Walt Whitman have made the canon if he had written “I hear Henry singing”? And how much worse would our trade deficit be if General Motors tried to attach the Japanese with a slogan like “It’s the heartbeat of Henry, it’s today’s Chevrolet”? Still, we should be grateful that Waldseemuller opted for Vespucci’s first name, for disguising the dull Henry in the voluptuous Amerigo is nothing compared to what Italians have done over the centuries when giving each other surnames.

Like other Europeans, Italians made do with first names alone until well into the Middle Ages. In the Venetian Republic by the end of the 10th century, some people were using fixed secondary names to distinguish themselves, and at least some of these names were passed from parents to children. But outside Venice, Italians did not begin to adopt hereditary surnames until the 14th and 15th centuries, a bit later than most of the rest of Europe, according to Patrick Hanks and Flavia Hodges, authors of the addictive A Dictionary of Surnames (Oxford University Press, 1988). As in other European countries, what probably sparked the spread of surnames was the emergence of larger states that began to centralize tax collecting and other authority.

New bureaucratic functionaries now had to keep track of individuals they might never meet, and they (and other name-givers, such as priests and other local worthies) followed a few simple rules for distinguishing one Giovanni from another. They indicated where he lived or where he came from: Giovanni Montagna, lived on the mountain, while Giovanni Valle lived in the valley; Giovanni Lombardo had his roots in Lombardy while Giovanni Genovesi had his in Genoa. They sorted him by his hair: Giovanni Bruno was brunette, Giovanni Biondi blonde, and Giovanni Rossi red-headed, while Giovanni Rizzo had curly hair. They pointed out his general aspect: Giovanni Piccolo was short, Giovanni Macri tall, Giovanni Magro thin, Giovanni Grasso fat. They noted his job: Giovanni Ferraro made things, Giovanni Vaccaro herded cows. Or they tacked on the first name of his father or grandfather, who himself, reflecting Italy’s tangled history, tended to be called by some version of a Latin, ancient Germanic, saint’s, or Old Testament name: Giovanni Fabrizio derived his surname from Fabricius, Giovanni Alighieri from Aldiger, Giovanni Ciccarelli from Francis, and Giovanni Giacobazzi from Jacob. Whether any name, through local preference, finally came to end in the masculine -o, the feminine -a, or the plurals -i or -e, the root meaning of the name remained the same.

Other Europeans followed the same rules as the Italians: Bruno is essentially the same name as Braun or Brown, Piccolo as Klein, Magro as Meagher and Maigret, Grasso as Gross, and Ferraro as Smith. But, to the inherent music of their language (would Rigoletto sound the same if we knew Giuseppe Verdi as Joseph Green?), the Italians added something more—a game of phonetic theme and variation seemingly unmatched in other countries, a game whose wild rules allow Francesco to become Frances-chielli or Francescuzzi, Cesco or Schetti, Cicco or Zotti, Cicconetti or Ciccarelli. Hanks and Hodges list no fewer than 90 Italian surname forms of Giacobo (Jacob), for instance, and a further 76 variations of Giacomo (James), itself a New Testament derivative of Giacobo. A partial list of Giacomo diminutives— pet names that translate essentially as ‘little Jimmy’—is as liquid and intoxicating as Sambuca: Giacomello, Giammelli, Iacomelli, Comello, Comellini, Mello, Giacometti, Giametti, Giamitti, Iacometti, Iamitti, Cometto, Giacomini, Iacomini, Cominello, Comini, Cominetti, Cominotti, Cominoli, Giacomucci, Giacomuzzi, Giamuzzi, Giamusso, Comucci, Comuzzo, Comusso, Mucci, Mucilo, Muccino, Muzzi, Muzzini, Muzzillo, Muzzolo, Muzzullo, Musso, Mussetti, Mussettini, Muselli, Mussili, Mussotti, Mussolini, Giacomozzo, Camosso, Mozzi, Mozzini, Mozzetti, Comolli, Camolli, Comoletti, Camoletto, Commizzoli, Mizzi, Motto, Mottini, and Mottinelli.

One can easily see from this list that it is the suffixes -ello, -ino, -etto, -ucci, -uzzi, -olo, -ozzo, and their variants that allowed Italians to cut James down to size, and they have the same effect on any other name. Inflating him was as simple as tacking the augmentative suffixes -one or -oni—as in Giacomoni—to the root name or its variation to get ‘big James.’

And, when another approach seemed called for, some of Jameses' neighbors or overlords started sticking on the pejorative suffixes -azzo, -accio, -asso, and their variants, as in Mazzo and Giacomasso. One cannot easily translate these pejorative suffixes into English: they are a malignly ingenious way of turning an otherwise perfectly inoffensive name into an inherently insulting one, of saying James, for instance, in such a sneering way that no add-on adjectives are needed to convey your obvious but unspecified disdain. There were times, however, when Italians felt a need to be less subtle. At such times, they turned with a vengeance to nicknames.

Emidio de Felice, the maestro of Italian anthroponymy and author of I Cognomi Italiani (Bologna: Il mulino, 1981) and Dizionario dei Cognomi Italiani (Milano: A. Mondadori, 1978), has estimated that no fewer than 15 per cent of all Italian surnames have their origin in nicknames. Not all these nicknames are bad. If one is fortunate enough to carry one of those Italian names beginning with Bon- or Buon(buono ‘good’), for example, one’s value is announced to all the world: the parents of Michelangelo Buonarroti (arrota ‘gain,’ from arrogare ‘to acquire’; the compound, say Hanks and Hodges, was originally bestowed when parents welcomed the birth of a child) probably were not surprised that he turned out so well, although they might have had even higher hopes for his little brother, Buonarroto Buonarroti. Names beginning with Bel- or Bello(bello ‘beautiful’) are also historical gifts: someone called Bellofatto (fatto ‘made, put together’), probably has ancestors that were a good-looking lot. Likewise, the original Onestis were usually honest and Bevilacquas (bevi ‘drink,’ acqua ‘water’) usually sober, while Amantis (amante ‘lover’) usually exhibited a form of spiritual love that made them seem saintly, and Santillis (santo ‘sainted’), Salvos (salvare ‘to save’), Carideos (cari dear,' deo ‘god’), and Donadios (dona ‘given,’ dio ‘god’) usually had special relationships with their maker.

But notice that I say “usually.” Hanks and Hodges and de Felice say that most of these nicknames could also be bestowed ironically. Some Bevilacquas drank even less water than their wineloving neighbors (Bevivinos may have been even more intemperate); the spiritual love of some Amantis was directed toward women other than their wives and the patronymic form D’Amanti given to the children of such unions; some Santillis and Salvos were notably profane; and some Carideos and Donadios were assumed to be dear to or given by God because no one else stepped forward to explain how they came to be left on the steps of convents or monasteries.

There is a whole class of Italian surnames that were given to foundlings, including variations of Trovato (trovato past participle of trovare ‘to find’; trovatello ‘foundling’), Proietto (proietto ‘ejected or rejected’), Innocenti, and Nocenti (given to all children taken into Florence’s Spedale degli Innocenti orphanage; the name was also given to those who were innocent of evil, or simple-minded), Ignoto (ignoto ‘unknown’), and Esposito or Sposito (esposto ‘exposed’), which de Felice has found to be the most common name in Naples.

No sense of irony is needed to appreciate the name Malfatto (male ‘badly,’ fatto ‘made, put together’), however, or the names Gobbi (gobbo ‘hunchback’), Porcelli (‘piglets’), Boccioni (bocca ‘mouth’ plus the augmentative suffix, yielding ‘big mouth’), Capostagno (capo ‘head,’ stagno ‘tin’), Sozzi (from the Sicilian sozzu ‘filthy’), or Moccio (‘snot or slime’). Not all of these surnames are terribly common, but they are all real, appearing in telephone books in the U.S., England, and Italy. Some insults are more common than others. According to de Felice’s extensive studies of phone books and other records (much of his research is financed by SEAT, Italy’s telephone service), the most common of all surnames in Calabria is Rotundo, which means ‘obese.’ (Whether the food in 15th-century Calabria was especially filling or its well-fed citizens tended to be more prolific than their thinner neighbors is not clear.)

Although insulting nicknames form a small fraction of the Italian surname pool, chances are that anyone who knows any Italians has participated in this ancient slanging-match. I myself have known people named Busa, which in Salvatore Battaglia’s Grande Dizionario Della Lingua Italiana (the Italian equivalent of the Oxford English Dictionary) is defined as “il sterco bovino,” literally, ‘cow dung.’ I went to high school—a small school with only a minority of Italians—with a girl named Pochintesta (poco ‘little,’ in ‘in,’ testa ‘head’), another named Zucchi (a plural form of zucca ‘squash,’ or, colloquially, ‘head’; Hanks and Hodges say this name was often given to a person of “scarce intelligence,” as in “pumpkinhead”), one boy named Chiappa (‘buttock’), and another named Chiappinelli (which may be either an extended diminutive of Chiappa or the diminutive of chiappino, which Battaglia defines as a ‘type of ape’).

Even my own family has not escaped. My grandmother’s family, the Gannuscios, have long known that some distant relatives spell the name Cannuscio (the softening of hard c to hard g being very common as words move across Italy’s myriad dialects). What no one ever told me is that Cannuscio is very possibly the same word as cannuccio, (the softening of cci (pronounced “chee”) to sci (pronounced “shee”) being also common. Battaglia’s definition for cannuccio? “Membro genitale.” You can translate it yourself.

Insulting surnames generally fall into a few broad categories. One of the largest describes physical and mental defects. Someone with a limp was likely to be called some variation of Zoppo (‘lame’), Torti, or Storti (torto ‘twisted’), Gamba or Gambaccini (gamba ‘leg’), or Ciampa (ciampare ‘to stumble’). One who stammered or had some other speech defect, might be Tartaglia (tartagliare ‘to stutter’), Cianciulli (cianciugliare ‘to mutter’), Sannella (sanna is an archaic form of zanna ‘tusk’), or Mezzalingua (mezza ‘half,’ lingua ‘tongue’). If one was hard of hearing or refused good advice, the name Sordo or La Sorda (sordo ‘deaf’) might be applied; a person with neuromuscular disorders might be called Tremitiedi (tremito ‘bodily trembling’). The person perennially under the weather or perhaps just lazy might be Fiacco (‘feeble’) or Stanchi (stanco ‘tired’), while mental impairment earned the name Imbrogno (imbrogliare ‘to confuse’), Moscaincervello (mosca ‘fly,’ in ‘in,’ cervello ‘brain’), or Infante, Fantazzi, or Fanciullo (infante ‘infant or someone of childish intellect’). One who squinted or was missing an eye was called Berlusco (dialect for a ‘person with a squint’) or some variation of Occhi (occhio ‘eye’). And, demonstrating that in the realm of insults some things never change, one who wore glasses became Quattrocchi (‘four-eyes’).

The animal kingdom provided a rich source: Gallos (gallo ‘cock or rooster’) either sang well or had active sexual lives, Gazzas and Gazzanis (gazza ‘magpie’) and Malpighis (male ‘bad,’ piga a dialect word for ‘magpie’) made a habit of gossiping or “collecting” things, and many Calendris and Calandrinos (calandra ‘lark’) were so named because people believed larks to be remarkably witless. Quaglieris (quaglia ‘quail’) were quail hunters. But Quaglias and Quaglinos were either easily frightened, lecherous, or fat, characteristics that reminded people of the bird. Some Tassos (tasso ‘yew tree,’ ‘anvil,’ or ‘badger’) made their homes near an arboreal landmark or were ironworkers, but others tended to sneak around at night like certain members of the weasel family. Volpes (volpe ‘fox’) were cunning, Orsinos (orso ‘bear’) lumbering, Manzos (manzo ‘bullock’) taciturn, Botolinos (botolo ‘snapping cur’) irascible, Cagnas (cagna ‘bitch’) surly, and Buffas (buffa Sicilian dialect for ‘toad’) detestable. And you could always tell when a Caprino or Caprini was present (caprino ‘goatlike’ or ‘goat dung’). Nor were insects ignored: the habitually irritating were either Zampaglione (the Calabrian word for ‘mosquito’), or Mosca (‘fly’), Moscone (‘blue-bottle fly’), or some variant (including Mussolini, which, as we have seen, could be a diminutive of Giacomo).

Another group of names—a group Hanks and Hodges call imperative surnames, or names formed by the joining of a verb-stem and a noun—displays an especially playful method of Italian scurrility. One lacking in imagination could use Povero (‘poor’) or Scarso (‘scarce’) to name a pauper or a miser. But someone with more linguistic flair could use the imperative to bestow the name Mangiacotti (mangiare ‘to eat,’ cotti ‘bricks’). Baro or Barro (baro ‘cheat’) was the boring option for christening thieves; more interesting choices included Mangiavacchi vacchi a plural of vacca ‘cow’), Mangiagalli (gallo ‘rooster’), or Fumagalli (fumare ‘to smoke; de Felice says that such thieves would smoke the chickenkeeper out to get his charges). Indelicato (indelicate, unscrupulous’) or Inganni (inganno ‘deceit’) would do if one was not to be trusted, but Tagliavini (tagliare ‘to cut,’ vino ‘wine; in other words, ‘one who would stoop to adulterating wine’) had a certain extra punch. For those who made ends meet by sponging meals, Mangiapane (pane ‘bread’) filled the bill.

Another group of names falls into the “either-or” category, in which a well-researched onomastic history could consign a family to either comforting averageness or ignominy. In the case of Licciardo and such variants as Licciardello, for instance, the family’s honor depends on whether its origins are Northern or Southern. Northern Italian Licciardos can feel at home with all the other Rizzardos, Riccardinis, and Ciardos—they are just Ricciardos (Richard’) whose initial R has been transformed by dialect to L. Southern Licciardos, however, have to make do with the company of Rotundos, Grassos, and Faucis (fauci ‘gullet): their surname comes from the French dialect word lichard glutton.’

Fazio, another case of either-or, can be a shortening of the first name Bonifazio, which means good fate' and which has been popular in Italy owing both to its meaning and to the fact that it was borne by a number of saints and popes. Yet, fazio also means simpleton. The explanation for this coincidence may lie in the Italian expression esser Fra Fazio ‘to be Brother (or Friar) Fazio,’ a colloquialism for ‘to give away money.’ This probably alludes either to the generosity of some Saint Bonifazio or to the profligacy of Pope Boniface VI. In any case, it is hard not to make the connection that a Fazio and his money were soon parted.

While it seems likely that fazio the noun as well as Fazio the name descend from an otherwise benign, even auspicious name, the history of other names is not so easy to untangle. Schettino, for instance, can be a diminutive of Francesco; but it also translates as ‘careless.’ Likewise, Pazzo may have originally been hacked off the end of Giacopazzo, a pejorative form of Jacob; but it also means ‘lunatic.’ And although the ancestors of some Puzzos might have lived near a well (puzza dialect for pozzo ‘well or fountain’), the forebears of others may have smelled like a sewer (puzzo ‘stench’). It is not clear whether the two possible connotations for Schettino, Pazzo, or Puzzo are related, as in the case of Fazio, or entirely accidental. But it does provoke the question, Do Italians actually think ‘stench’ when they meet a Puzzo or ‘pumpkinhead’ when they meet a Zucchi? Did Oriana Fallaci’s first editors question the veracity of her reporting? (Fallace ‘fallacious.') Did the actors in the young Federico Fellini’s films wonder if he would honor their contracts? (Fellini comes from fello ‘wicked or rascally.') And is the wholesome image of Annette Funicello spoiled for Italian mouseketeers who know about the tormento dei funicelli, or ‘torture of the packthreads,’ in which 15th-century Neopolitans painfully lashed together the wrists and forearms of their prisoners?

Or do they too, like non-Italians, succumb to the music of these names and neglect to register their meaning? That is my guess. Italians are not the only ones to live with the burden of insulting surnames, of course. But it seems likely that the melodic rise and fall of, say, Licciardello can deceive the ear in a way that—just for an example—its German equivalent Schlick (Middle High German ‘to gulp’) simply cannot. Schneck (‘snail, slow worker’) sounds like an insult; Zoccadelli (nickname for a ‘stumpy, slow worker’) does not.

Which brings me back to Martin Waldseemuller and Amerigo Vespucci and why we should give thanks that the German fell under the spell of the Italian’s first name rather than his last. Where does “Vespucci” come from? It is the diminutive form of vespa ‘wasp,’ and was a nickname given to particularly ill-tempered individuals. “My fellow Henryans” does not sound so bad after all.

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“While he was alive, Jack Benny entertained millions.” [From Entertainment Tonight, TV program, 5 November 1990. Submitted by Emilio Benal Labrada, Falls Church, Virginia.]

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“…[S]wamp fever, a sometimes fatal viral infection spread by biting insects.” [From the Philadelphia Inquirer, 8 September 1990. Submitted by Stephen Robert, LaCheen, Philadelphia.]

Easy Does It?

Adrian Room, Stamford, Lancashire

Anyone who embarks on a foreign language, whether by syllabus in school or by choice rather later, soon becomes aware that there are some special hazards on the fairway; to wit, the handling of proverbs.

Like many sports, it can be both entertaining and frustrating at the same time. English speakers command the necessary vocabulary and grammar to translate the words of a proverb, but they cannot be sure that the end product will be meaningful in the target language. For example, how does one say A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush in French? A literal translation would be “Un oiseau dans la main vaut deux dans le buisson.” But the French equivalent, or near equivalent, is actually Un oiseau dans la main vaut deux dans la haie, ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the hedge.’ More to the point, to express this particular truism the French are more likely to say something quite different: Un ‘tiens’ vaut mieux que deux ‘tu l’auras’: ‘One “here-you-are” is worth more than two “you’ll-get-it’s.” '

How about German? There the equivalent is: Besser ein Spatz in der Hand als eine Taube auf dem Dach, ‘Better a sparrow in the hand than a dove on the roof.’ A finer distinction: not just one bird for two, but a “lowly” bird instead of a “lofty” one.

Ornithological differences exist elsewhere, too. Here is the Russian: He \?\, otherwise ‘Don’t promise a crane in the sky, give me a tit in the hand.’ A similar little/ great, low/high distinction—that is, birds that are not exactly of a feather.

Spanish? Más vale pájaro en mano que ciento volando, ‘Better a bird in the hand than a hundred flying.’ Again, not quite the same as the English.

So, appreciating that differences exist, from the slight to the complete, let us look at some more proverbial equivalents and see if any generalizations can be drawn regarding their formation or the home truths they express. To save space, the following abbreviations are used for languages quoted: F = French, G = German, R = Russian, S = Spanish. Other languages are spelled out.

Better late than never (F) Mieux vaut tard que jamais; (G) Besser spat als nie; (R) \?\; (S) Más vale tarde que nunca. All exactly the same! So it can be done, thank goodness!

Birds of a feather flock together Better proceed with caution here, could be tricky. (F) Qui se ressemble, s’assemble ‘Those who resemble one another, gather together’: (G) Gleich und gleich gesellt sich gern ‘Like and like keep ready company’; (R) \?\ ‘A fisherman sees a fisherman from afar’; (S) Cada oveja con su pareja ‘Each sheep with its pair.’ Here we have a difference every time, and a range from the French and German generality to the various birds and beasts of the other languages. But at least almost all the proverbs incorporate a pleasant rhyme (making them more memorable), while the German nicely alliterates. The Russian, too, suggests an English alternative: it takes one to know one.

Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched (F) Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l’ours avant de l’avoir tué ‘You should not sell the skin of the bear before you have killed him’; (G) Man soll die Haut nicht verkaufen, ehe man den Bären gefangen hat ‘You should not sell the skin before you have caught the bear’; (R) He \?\ ‘Not having killed the bear, do not sell the skin’; (S) No vendas la piel del oso antes de matarlo ‘Don’t sell the skin of the bear before you have killed him.’ The conclusion to be drawn here is something of a zoological or at any rate ethnic nature: the bear is far more familiar in continental Europe than in insular Britain. Indeed, he is still found there. (We are talking about the brown bear, Ursus arctos, not the black bear of North America, Euarctos americanus, although that animal is seldom encountered in much of the United States.) Moreover, to Germans and Russians at least, the bear is both a valuable beast (for his hide and meat) and a symbolic one (standing for strength and power). But the bear has long ceased to be a wild denizen of Britain, so the British prefer to express the platitude that one should not promise something one may not be able to come up with.

On some beasts, however, the five languages can more or less agree: Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth (F) À cheval donné on ne regarde pax aux dents: (G) Einem geschenkten Gaul sieht man nicht in’s Maul; (R) \?\ (S) A caballo regalado, no se le mira el diente. The German once again has the agreeable rhyme.

Encouraged, we proceed to a change of subject: A new broom sweeps clean (F) Il n’est rien de tel que balai neuf “There is nothing like a new broom,’ or Un balai neuf nettoie toujours bien ‘A new broom always cleans well’; (G) Neue Besen kehren gut ‘New brooms sweep well’; (R) \?\ ‘A new broom sweeps cleanly’; (S) Escoba nueva barre bien ‘A new broom sweeps well.’ Again, unity and concord.

But there is a hazard coming up: It is no use crying over spilt milk (F) Ce qui est fait est fait ‘What is done is done’; (G) Was geschehen ist, ist geschehen ‘What has happened, has happened’; (R) \?\ ‘What has been written with the pen cannot be hacked out with an axe’; (S) A lo hecho, pecho ‘To what has been done, courage’ [literally ‘breast’]. Here we have the philosophical generality of the French and Germans with the stoical stance of the Spanish and the more colorful imagery of the Russians. English speakers, too, have an equally vivid turn of phrase, although, come to think of it, who is likely to shed real tears over an overturned milkjug? (Yes, that is the image I have, too. But the source of the English proverb lies not in tea-parties but in teats: it is the cow who has kicked the bucket, and the poor dairymaid who weeps over her lost labor.)

A pattern is already emerging of varying traditions and differing national identities: the English maid mourns the milk, but the Russian woodman cannot alter the written word, hack and hew he never so well. On the other hand, many lands see the world with a single eye: a new broom does sweep better than one with worn-out bristles.

Sometimes one needs to name the right names in the search for an equivalent proverb:

Rome was not built in a day (F) Paris n’est pas fait en un jour; (G) Rom is nicht an einem Tage erbaut; (R) \?\ (S) No se ganó Zamora en una hora. German agrees with English here, but other countries choose their own cities. The Spanish pick not their capital, however, but ancient Zamora, famous for its stand against the invading Moors in the 10th century. (The actual sense is ‘Zamora was not conquered in an hour’). It is fair to say, though, that a Spaniard might equally side with the Germans and English speakers, and more generally add: ni Roma se fundó luego toda ‘nor Rome built in one go.’ And although a Pole might patriotically declare Nie od razu Kraków zbudowano (not Warsaw, you notice), he too could well prefer to throw in his lot with the Romans: Nie Jednego Rzym zbudowano roku.

Talking of Romans, one should bear in mind that almost all proverbs, however modern, however nationalistic, will have had a Latin original or prototype. The eight English proverbs cited above thus have respective equivalents as follows: Plus valet manibus passer quam sub dubio grus ‘It is better to have a sparrow in the hand than a crane in doubt’; Sero quam nunquam melius ‘Better late than never,’ literally ‘Late than never better’; Sic fuit, est et erit: similis similem sibi quaerit ‘Thus it was, is and will be; like seeks like for itself’: notice the rhyme; Currens per prata non est lepus esca parata ‘A hare running through the meadows is not a ready meal’: a nice variation on the bear and his skin; Donati non sunt ora inspicienda caballi ‘Gift horses do not need their mouths looking into’: Scopae recentiores semper meliores ‘New brooms are always best’; Factum infectum fieri nequit ‘A deed not done cannot happen’: a negative equivalent to the English positive “What is done cannot be undone” as an alternative to the spilt milk; Roma non fuit una die condita (but of course, of course).

So when seeking a foreign proverbial parallel, proceed with care. You might get away with an exact word-for-word equivalent, but more than likely you might not. As the Romans had it, Festina lente!

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“In physics, where other forms of misconduct are relatively rare, I have seen serious breeches of ethics committed under the cloak of anonymity by referees of journal articles and research proposals.” [From The American Scholar, Autumn 1991, p. 513. (Author not supplied.) Submitted by John Biddle Lawrence, San Bernardino, California.]

OBITER DICTA: Leaping quantums!

J.A. Davidson, Victoria, British Columbia

There is a weekly television program with the general title “Quantum Leap.” When I hear or read that term—or quantum jump, as it is also put—I cannot keep from imagining enchanting little quantums (or quanta) having fun leaping over walls and madly jumping up and down. The Concise Oxford Dictionary defines quantum as “a discrete quantity of energy proportional in magnitude to the frequency of radiation it represents.” Ah, yes. And it has this for quantum jump (or leap): “an abrupt transition in an atom or molecule from one quantum state to another.” Of course.

For many years quantum leap (or jump) belonged exclusively to the physicists, but during the past quarter-century or so it has come to be used metaphorically by speakers and writers who like to flaunt that sort of thing. It now designates a sudden, spectacular, extensive change in a program or policy or process—“a major breakthrough,” or something along that line. But long before the physicists got hold of quantum it was used by ordinary writers. The OED reports that quantum (from the Latin quantus: ‘how much, how great’) has been used in English since early in the 17th century.

In 1786 Robert Burns used it in his poem, “Epistle to a Young Friend,” in which he, interestingly, warned against casual sexual indulgence: “I waive the quantum o’ the sin, / The hazard of concealing; / But, och! it hardens a’ within, / And petrifies the feeling.” The OED does not give Burns’s use of the word as an example, but other Scots may have been influenced by it. Thomas Carlyle in 1857, wrote of “Some smaller quantum of earthly enjoyment.” Edward Caird, theologian and philosopher, in 1877 offered this observation: “All phenomena, as perceived, are extensive quanta.” (I must memorize that: it could useful as a conversation muddler.) The OED Supplement devotes nearly seven columns to quantum and compounds in which it is used.

Critics point out that in physics a quantum leap is actually a very small change, but nevertheless a significant one. Despite the illogical element in the popular, metaphorical use of the phrase, it does seem to have become firmly imbedded in current discourse. But perhaps it has already become what Fowler called a “battered ornament.”

While reading about quantum in the OED Supplement, I noticed the preceding word, quantophrenia, which is defined as “A term used for an obsession with and exaggerated reliance upon mathematical methods or results, especially in research connected with the social sciences.” It also gives quantophrenic. Useful words, clinically.

Lexicographic Quirks and Whimsy

John Kahn, London

lexicographer…A writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge, that busies himself in tracing the original, and detailing the signification of words.

—Johnson’s Dictionary

Whether mainstream lexicographers are harmless is very much open to doubt, but drudges they certainly are. Dr. Johnson’s definition, curiously, marks one of those rare occasions when the drudge rebels against his drudgery and defiantly indulges in a moment’s humor or whimsy. “The lexicographic mind,” Ambrose Bierce observed in one of his newspaper columns, “is a merely human affair and will occasionally cut its capers.”

Such humor or whimsy tends, in Johnson’s work at any rate, to be of a fairly cynical turn—in keeping both with his general opinionatedness and with his specific feelings of demoralization while compiling the dictionary in the run-up to its publication in 1755. Hence those various other acid chestnuts of his:

oats… A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.

patron… One who countenances, supports or protects. Commonly a wretch who supports with insolence, and is paid with flattery.

pension… An allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England it is generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country.

(The Cynical Definition went on to become a kind of literary genre, thanks especially to Ambrose Bierce.)

Johnson’s opposite number in North America, Noah Webster, was hardly a wit of the same order, but he too seems to have occasionally injected a (somewhat plodding) cynical humor into the definitions in his dictionary of 1828:

viceregent… A lieutenant; a vicar; an officer who is deputed by a superior or by proper authority to exercise the powers of another. Kings are sometimes called God’s viceregents. It is to be wished they would always deserve the appellation.

It is possible that much of the supposed humor in Webster’s dictionary is unintentional—a 20th century response to his earnestly homiletic approach to lexicography. Certainly some of his “definitions”—really, short moral tracts—cannot fail to arouse a condescending smile today, so quaint do they seem across a distance of 165 years. The entry at vice, for instance, ends with these helpful words:

Vice is rarely a solitary invader; it usually brings with it a frightful train of followers.

The monumental Oxford English Dictionary [OED], now in its second edition and filling 20 vast volumes, contains many extremely quaint definitions that were written a hundred years ago or more and remain unrevised:

amœba… A microscopic animalcule (class Protozoa) consisting of a single cell of gelatinous sarcode, the outer layer of which is highly extensile and contractile, and the inner fluid and mobile, so that the shape of the animal is perpetually changing.

And this from an edition published in 1989 and purportedly up to date!

Unintended humor in dictionaries would usually originate elsewhere. First, simply, in a severe error within the definition. One American dictionary, which I cannot identify, apparently defines the British slang term pooftah as “a lady’s man” (possibly a misfire for “an effeminate man,” a secondary sense nowadays, after “a male homosexual”). It is difficult to explain to a non-Brit just how funny this misdefinition is—almost as funny as Webster’s attempt at defining wicket-keeper: “the player in cricket who stands with a bat to protect the wicket from the ball.” (One might expect bilingual dictionaries to abound in such confusions, yet I have no record of any: simple mistakes, yes, but nothing in the least risible).

Early dictionaries are obviously riddled with bizarre errors of fact. In what is probably the very first English dictionary, published in about 1623, Henry Cockeram unskeptically defines animals according to current folklore: the ignarus “singeth six kinds of notes, one after another, as, la-sol-me-fa-me-re-ut” (there is no arguing when the details are so specific); the barble is “a Fish that will not meddle with the baite untill with her taile she have unhooked it from the hooke.” Nathan Bailey, whose dictionary of 1721 was to guide-Johnson’s own work, happily defined the Loriot or Golden Oriole as “a bird that, being looked upon by one who has the yellow jaundice, cures the person and dies himself.”

Errors may be typographical rather than lexicographical. One gremlin has a Nazi streak, I notice. Here are a couple of his pranks:

Oświecim… it lies near the site of the Auschwitz-Birkenau extermination camp, where, between 1942 and 1945, some 4,000 people, mostly German and east European Jews, were systematically put to death by the Nazis. [Great Illustrated Dictionary, first printing, Reader’s Digest, London, 1984; subsequently corrected to read “4,000,000 people.”]

parev/parve referring to foods prepared with meat or milk products and therefore suitable for any meal. [Reader’s Digest Reverse Dictionary, first printing, London, 1989; subsequently corrected to read “prepared without meat or milk products.”]

Next, the wackiness of the concept or word itself, whose dutiful definition cannot fail to provoke a gasp of comic disbelief—wackiness often being in direct proportion to rudeness. Bilingual dictionaries are the major source:

raphanidoo thrust a radish up the fundament, a punishment of adulterers in Athens. [Liddell and Scott’s Greek English Lexicon, OUP]

These call for special treatment.

Defenestration ‘the act of throwing someone out of a window’ is probably too familiar to attract notice of how wacky it is, but what about the following?:

sooterkin… Dutch woman’s afterbirth allegedly produced by sitting over stove. [Concise OED, seventh edition; omitted in the current, eighth edition.]

mephistopheles… A beard consisting solely of the hairs between the lower lip and the chin, often waxed and shaped in an upward curve. [Reader’s Digest Dictionary]

merkin… an artificial hairpiece for the pudendum; a public wig. [Collins English Dictionary, third edition.]

koro a mental state…in which the subject experiences the sensation that his penis is shriveling or is being drawn into the abdomen. [Stedman’s Medical Dictionary, Baltimore]

mallemaroking… carousing of seamen in icebound ships. [Chambers English Dictionary, 1988]

OED2e avoids spelling out the definition of merkin in this way, but does add the following mind-spinning citation:

Variant reporters interviewed a French public wig maker, the head of one of the world’s most important firms making merkins and other ‘intimate wigs.’

The implications here are stupendous—not just that there are types of “intimate wig” other than merkins, but also that there are several other merkin-factories round the world vying for the honor of most important firm, and a great many more such factories that are of lesser importance.

Next, a comic disproportion between the simplicity of the word being defined and the earnestly detailed complexity of the definition:

network… Any thing reticulated or decussated, at equal distances, with interstices between the intersections. [Dr. Johnson again.]

acorn… the nut of the oak usu. seated in or surrounded by a hard woody cupule of indurated bracts. [Merriam-Webster III.]

Two of *Merriam-Webster III'*s weirdest definitions are the famously convoluted wordings at the main senses of door and hotel.

Then, the monumentally unsuccessful definition, with a bizarre failure to elucidate—ignotum per ignotius, explaining the unknown by means of the incomprehensible:

cactolith… A quasi-horizontal chonolith composed of anastomising ductoliths, whose distal ends curl like a harpolith, thin like a sphenolith, or bulge discordantly like an akmolith or ethmolith. [Glossary of Geology and Related Sciences, American Geological Institute, 1957.]

kophobelemnonidae… A family of stelechotokean anthozoons, belonging to the alcyonarians, with a rachis longer than peduncle, cylindrical and with pararachides provided with retractile autozooids in indefinite rows. [Funk & Wagnalls New Standard]

Serious dictionaries are likely to let down their hair more often in the examples they choose or construct to illustrate a meaning than in the wording of the definitions themselves. To illustrate the expletive use of the word damn, for instance, H.C. Wyld’s Universal Dictionary of the English Language [George Routledge and Sons, 1932] prints the phrase damn this dictionary. To illustrate the sense and syntax of partial ‘having a particular liking for a different Universal Dictionary [Reader’s Digest 1987] offers the example very partial to fat Turkish cigarettes and strawberries.

The recently published Oxford Thesaurus, by Laurence Urdang, contains thousands of example sentences to illustrate usage, including a sprinkling of quirky specimens, all from the American Edition; these were excised from the British Edition on the grounds that they were “distracting”

jump…10…My horse cleared the jump easily, but I didn’t quite make it.

retrieve…1…1…Simon trained his dog to retrieve his slippers—Simon’s, that is.

*take…26…*They asked me to take the part of Yorick in the next production of Hamlet.

traumatic…Surviving a plane crash may be a traumatic experience, but it can’t compare with being killed.

The zaniest example I know of occurs in a bilingual dictionary published in 1966, the Ensk-Islensk Ordabók [English-Icelandic Dictionary] of Sigurour Orn Bogason. The headword toad is duly glossed, as padda, karta, and then—quite needlessly—illustrated, with this remarkably elucidating sentence: the toad was delighted to see his mother again. (Bogason’s dictionary is notable for another curious feature: the entry for the word disappear was somehow omitted, or perhaps it simply disappeared. Was it a deliberate joke, comparable to the omission, from the spellcheck subroutine of WordPerfect 5.0, of lost?)

To return to whimsical definitions. The mainstream lexicographic minds that cut far and away the most capers to relieve the drudgery are those that have compiled Chambers English Dictionary over the decades [Edinburgh; latest edition, 1988]. (Previous contributions to VERBATIM have noted some of these: see XV, 1, p. 5; XV, 3, p. 18.) The game began nearly a century ago with the 1898 edition, under its second editor Rev. Thomas Davidson (any relation of J.A. Davidson, who wrote the article in XV, 1). Through the dictionary’s various editions and changes of name, the whimsical definitions waxed and waned, until the 1972 edition purged almost all of them from the text. Following a great deal of outraged protest from traditionalist readers, most of the famous definitions were rehabilitated in the 1983 edition and can still be found in the current edition. Let them now speak for themselves. Here is a selection of the best (those marked with an asterisk are not in the current edition, never having been reinstated after an earlier expulsion).

Agapemone,… a religious community of men and women whose ‘spiritual marriages’ were in some cases not strictly spiritual, founded in 1849 at Spaxton…

bump,… a protuberance on the head confidently associated by phrenologists with qualities or propensities of mind

charity begins at home, usually an excuse for not allowing it to get abroad

double-locked,… locked by two turns of the key, as in some locks and many novels

éclair,… a cake, long in shape but short in duration, with cream filling and chocolate or other icing

fish,… v.i. to catch or try to catch or obtain fish, or anything that may be likened to a fish (as seals, sponges, coral, compliments, information, husbands…)

ghost-word, a word that has originated in the blunder of a scribe or printer—common in dictionaries

hagweed, the common broom-plant—a broomstick being a witch’s usual aircraft

havana…a fine quality of cigar, named from Havana, the capital of Cuba, fondly supposed to be made there

he-man, a man of exaggerated or extreme virility, or what some women take to be virility

jay-walker, a careless pedestrian whom motorists are expected to avoid running down

Land o’ the Leal, the home of the blessed after death—Paradise, not Scotland

lunch…a restaurateur’s name for an ordinary man’s dinner

man-eater, a cannibal: a tiger or other animal that has acquired the habit of eating men: a woman given to chasing, catching and devouring men (coll.)

middle-aged…between youth and old age, variously reckoned to suit the reckoner

nice…agreeable, delightful, respectable (often used in vague commendation by those who are not nice…)

noose…a snare or bond generally, esp. hanging or marriage

ozone…an imagined constituent in the air of any place that one wishes to commend

perpetrate…to execute or commit (esp. an offence, a poem, or a pun)

petting party, (coll.) a gathering for the purpose of amorous caressing as an organised sport

Pict,… in Scottish folklore, one of a dwarfish race of underground dwellers, to whom (with the Romans, the Druids and Cromwell) ancient monuments are generally attributed

picture-restorer, one who cleans and restores and sometimes ruins old pictures

restoration…renovations and reconstruction (sometimes little differing from destruction) of a building, painting, etc.

sea-serpent, an enormous marine animal of serpent-like form, frequently seen and described by credulous sailors, imaginative landsmen, and common liars

temperance hotel, one which professes to supply no alcoholic liquors; temperance movement, a political and not always temperate agitation for the restriction or abolition of the use of alcoholic liquors

vamp, a featherless bird of prey

EPISTOLA {Peter L. Overmire}

Further to the comment in the review of the 20th Century Brewer [XVIII,4]: Hashbury is a derivation from the names of two intersecting San Francisco streets: Haight and Ashbury. The neighborhood, often known as The Haight or The Haight-Ashbury was, in the 1960s, a center of the hippie/ flower child movement. It is certainly true that the main drug used was grass, but there was widespread drug experimentation, with so much familiarity with hash that the play on the three words hash, Haight, and Ashbury was inevitable.

Perhaps the new Brewer does mention this background, and my comments are redundant.

[Peter L. Overmire, San Francisco]

EPISTOLA {Robert C. Scott}

John A. Fust suggests [XVIII, 1] that I list to a Canutian position in an effort to drag the populace from such aberrations as “It’s me.” Fust labels my view, “Canutian”… more gracious than the jargonal, “Knutty.” The sage from Chatauqua asks, rhetorically.

Could anyone imagine Hemingway… sitting in the grandstand at Yankee Stadium, hot dog (with mustard) in hand, asking, “Whom are you rooting for?”

Such a gaffe would have been mind-boggling from the author of Who the Bells Tolled For…

[Robert C. Scott, Fort Lauderdale]

More Texas Prison Slang

David Stuart Schofield, Huntsville, Texas

Slang collected in the Texas prison at Huntsville is that used by prisoners, not by the prison’s employees. Some of the expressions originated during riots, or thrill killings, or both. Prisons are ugly; so are the prisoners; so is the slang.

Before prison reforms of the early 1980s, the prisons were run mostly by prisoners who were strictly accountable to strategically scattered guards, comparatively few in number. Many of the disciplinary measures then used by state employees and supervising prisoners are now illegal. With or without the knowledge of state employees, torture to the point of death was not uncommon, and some of the words in the following list refer to torture. It is evident that the torturers had several different motives: to humiliate, crush, or punish the victim; to force him to cooperate; to learn the location of valuables “outside”; to assert one prison gang’s dominance over another; to give the torturer a “macho trip.”

Even after the reforms, prison is far more dangerous than most non-prison environments. But reforms led to more direct state supervision, more prison units were built, and the prison became less like a huge collection of hellish sardine cans. Although the long overdue reforms came, the slang lingers on.

Some of the following expressions, like writ room, must have had their beginnings in states of tranquillity. Not so with words like skill and singarette. The spellings of a few of the words, like singarette and worman, are attempts at reflecting their pronounciation, for they have no spelled tradition.

A-1 Sauce 1. the blood of a prisoner-victim killed in a cell on the Wynne Units A-1 block. 2. any blood spilled anywhere.

air-raid See singarette.

all-night popcorn marvellous; great: When things are going your way, it’s like all-night popcorn.

autocrats car thieves.

banker a prisoner who runs “The United Stakes of America” or the property pooling system, on a cell block or in a tank.

big “I” the F.B.I.

bombs 1. the manual dismemberment of a victim in order to make identification more difficult. 2. the nickname given to prisoners who dismember their victims.

building tender (before reform) a prisoner designated to maintain order on a cell block; the methods used and building tenders themselves are no longer legal.

catch the chain to be transferred to another prison unit.

cell warrior a prisoner who talks tough when he is safely in his cell but who is meek when out of it.

cho-cho ice cream.

chocolate mocha the name given by a prisoner of Latin-American origin to a concoction of feces and warm water that he offered to a sick “gringo” prisoner.

Chuck Taylors tennis shoes.

collector one who extorts money from other prisoners.

cure a folk remedy sold and administered by Mexican-American maestros to sick “gringo” prisoners (which always makes them sicker).

Cyclops a prisoner with a glass eye.

daughter a pimp’s prostitute.

dims sadness; depression; melancholy: an attack of the dims.

dine to eat with cannibals.

director, the a pimp who “directs” prostitutes.

Elmers, the nickname for homicidal maniacs similar to the well-publicized one named Elmer.

fram to frame a person for an act he did not commit.

free world the world beyond prison walls.

gill kill.

Grinch nickname for a collector.

guacamole feces.

huffable any substance capable of causing a “high” when sniffed.

Johnnies sack lunches for prisoners unable to avoid missing a meal in the dining room. They are sometimes served during lulls in riots.

klondyke, klon derogatory nickname for any female prison employee. [Play on dyke ‘lesbian.']

lockdown the confinement of all prisoners to their cells, as during a riot.

maestro Tex-Mex lingo for practitioners of Latin-American-style folk medicine, which they both sell and administer.

Maxicans the most influential and presumably powerful of the Mexican-American prisoners.

metamorphosis the butchery of a prisoner, e.g., by the castration of males, removal of the breasts of females; a term used by some Latin-American prisoners.

nobodies prisoners.

notspitals any of the prison system’s medical facilities that supposedly provide in-patient care and are loosely described as “hospitals.”

other side, on the dead. [From Cuban Spanish En el otro lado.]

PBS, on the generally circulated details of a person’s life. [From the initials of the old Public Broadcasting System.]

out there in the free world.

piddler a prisoner who participates in the prison’s crafts programs.

piddling room a craft shop for prisoner recreation, supervised by prison employees.

pistols leather riding gloves sold in the prison commissary, sometime worn during prison fist fights in order to scar an opponent’s face.

porcupine beef a meat patty rolled in rice and chopped onion before cooking. [Not literally from porcupine.]

pretzel the position of a prisoner immobilized by being handcuffed behind and, with his knees bent, having his crossed ankles shackled; used in subduing particularly unruly prisoners.

proteen a teenaged professional criminal.

rock and roll 1. a drug mixture. 2. to fight.

Rockefellers a gang of prisoners who specialize in rape in the free world. [The rocks referred to are the gang members’ testicles.]

rots (formerly) as in He’s got the rots, refers to having been placed in an isolation cell deprived of food, water, and medical care.

run a walkway on a cell block.

set off postpone; usually used in reference to a set off parole.

shakedown a search of a prisoner or his cell.

shot a spoonful of dry instant coffee.

singarette one of a number of lit cigarettes used in torturing a prisoner to make him confess (that is, sing); dozens of cigarettes so used constitute an air raid.

skill 1. to kill. 2. the conditioning by torture of a victim over an extended period to make him obedient.

slay ride a punning reference to ride in a vehicle in which the victim is slain.

somebodies prison employees.

spoked (of a prisoner-victim) forced to use a wheelchair (with spoked wheels) because his legs have been broken.

Spokes nickname of a prisoner who has been spoked.

square a cigarette from a pack.

stinger an electric water heater sold by the prison commissary for making coffee, tea, or soup.

stoon 1. to decorate a human victim with cigarette burns as a means of torture. 2. the corpse of a victim murdered in this way. [From festoon.]

stuck out 1. left out. 2. locked out. 3. overlooked.

tag, on restricted to one’s cell, said of a prisoner in the psychiatric treatment center.

tank a large cell that can accommodate many prisoners.

tank boss (formerly, before reform) a prisoner-supervisor of a tank.

Tex-Mex the lingo spoken by many bilingual Texans who combine English and Spanish in the same sentences.

That the carnage that occurred during a riot: No one wants to go through That again!

T. Jones black slang for mother.

trainee See trainer.

trainer an enforcer who specializes in prolonged torture to elicit certain conditioned responses from his victims, or trainees, who become highly obedient.

training physical obedience training.

transmogrify to maim and kill.

turnkey (formerly, before reform) a prisoner-supervisor who locked and unlocked hallway doors.

Vampire, the a laboratory technician in an infirmary who takes blood samples.

vulcanize to inflict severe burns on a victim, causing him to become a stoon.

wampus 1. a female used as a medium of exchange. 2. white slavery. [From wampum.]

wham a cookie. [From a trade name?]

worman a decomposing corpse of a woman infested with maggots.

writ room the law library used by prisoners.

writ writer 1. a prison “attorney”; a barrackroom lawyer. 2. a litigious prisoner.

zoom 1. anything that causes a “high.” 2. the “high” itself. 3. to get “high.”

zu-zu a cookie. [From the trade name.]

OBITER DICTA: Old…What?

Mike Walton, Aberdeenshire

Some areas of the world are particularly rich in strange names, and my own—the Banff and Buchan district in Grampian, Scotland—must be one of the best.

Fancy a plod up Plodhill Wood? Or a toddle up Toddlehills? Or would you rather go to pot at Mill of Pot? And how would you like to live in Lightnot, Whigabuts, Rashypans, Waggle Hill, Clattering-briggs, or Crawheat?

You could have a very gay time on Happyhillock or Merryhillock, a rotten time on Rottenhill, a gruesome time at Gallowhills, and it is up to you what you do on Ballhill! How would a trip to Spital grab you? Is Dumpstown really a dump? If you really want a holiday with a difference, how about Mill of Kinmuck, Scoghill, Rumblingpots, Swineden, or Boghouse? If the pressures of life get the better of you, there’s North Bedlam, Hardbedlam, or even Myre of Bedlam! And if your memory fails, there is even an Oldwhat.

When all is said and done, you can take off to Waterloo, Farewell, or Worldsend.

EPISTOLA {Burling Lowrey}

Although Freud, so far as I know, did not discuss Spoonerisms on his classic analysis of slips-of-the-tongue, his theories as to the psychoanalytic implications of transposed sounds, such as those attributed to Rev. Spooner, could have been usefully added to “Learn To Spike Lunars” [XVIII, 4] by Robert Archibald Ford. Let me suggest two examples:

Spooner’s most widely quoted slip was his firm announcement to a student, “You have hissed my mystery lecture.” The conventional response to this amusing transposition is “A funny jab at a recalcitrant pupil.” However, Freud, I am sure, would have stressed how the slip reveals anxieties that all lecturers, including Rev. Spooner, harbor about addressing an audience. For example, “hissed…my lecture” clearly reflects a reality that few professors are willing to voice: that their gems of wisdom are not universally praised—in fact, are sometimes denounced, usually in private, as platitudinous and simplistic. In like fashion, “my mystery lecture” exposes the unconscious fear of obfuscation, turgidity, and other obstacles to clarity on the part of the speaker. In both of these instances, Freud would argue that Spooner merely voiced what has long been repressed in Academe.

Another case: Television reporter, Roger Mudd, in his early days as a radio announcer, was called upon to present an update on the ill health of the Pope. The announcement came out as, “The condition of Pipe Pois grows steadily worse.” Mudd, roaring with laughter, immediately blanked out the sound. Back in control, he meant to say, “The Pope’s doctor has summoned to the Vatican a Swiss specialist”, but this, to Mudd’s chagrin, came out as “The Pope’s doctor has summoned to the Vatican a Swish specialist.”

If Freud had had his say on the significance of this Spoonerism he would probably have assumed that Mudd unconsciously voiced not only his unspoken disrespect for the Pope but also gave vent to the universally repressed notion that it is conceivable that a Pope could be a homosexual.

I am not suggesting that all the fun should be taken out of Spoonerisms; but, when transposed sounds reveal profound universal anxieties, then perhaps we should go beyond merely enjoying a good laugh.

[Burling Lowrey, Washington]

EPISTOLA {Douglas Sutherland Dodge}

I enjoyed Robert Archibald Ford’s article on spoonerisms, “Learn to Spike Lunars” [XVIII, 4]. He and your readers, if they appreciate the French language, will realize that slips of the tongue in the English language are laughably unfunny to the French who speak the only language in the world that lends itself so beautifully to what they call a contrèpeterie.

For the French, in all walks of life, to “render one sound for another” is not a slip but an art, practised equally studiously in bistros as well as in the salons of nobles, academicians, and beautiful people. When translated into English the words and thoughts that are spirituel [in the sense of ‘witty’] or cochon [in the sense of ‘licentious’] become crude locker-room obscenities. Many translations into English of the nouns le con and la queue, for example, grate. They shock with sound, and not always with image. But these, and like words, when formed in the mouth and on the lips of the French are soft, inviting, amusing. The f-verb in French is the same as for kiss: baiser. Calling a man a con is not insulting until you change your mind and add that he has ni la douceur, ni la profondeur of that lovable object. For the most part, what is irreverent, scatological, or pornographic in French sounds benign, and is, of course, plein d’esprit.

(It is not within the province of this letter to delve into the principal female and male sexual organs and ponder why they have reversed genders. For the French, it just fits.)

I have never come across a contrepèterie that was not off-color or irreverent, or touched on sex. That is Gallic, I guess. Let us start with irreverence:

Femme folle à la messe

vs.

Femme molle à la fesse

—Rabelais

La joyeuse population du Cap

not

La joyeuse copulation du Pape

(A high-school French-English dictionary will handle most of these. For the vulgar meanings of a couple of the words in the last contrepèteries, something like Le Petit Robert: Dictionnaire de la Langue Francaise will be needed. I cringe at having to put those innocuous words into feelthy English.)

Grounds Maintenance and Home Economics (including sex in the kitchen):

Il ne faut pas glisser dans la piscine

do not say

Il ne faut pas pisser dans la glycine

is the genus Wisteria in the plant kingdom.

Le linge qui séche

but not

Le singe qui léche

Madame: votre mouton bouille

not

Madame: votre bouton mouille

Sex in the drawing room:

La duchesse braquait sa lorgnette sur le jeune homme

qui descendait en ballon

vs.

La duchesse lorgnait la braquette du jeune homme

qui débandait dans le salon

To prove by exception, I bring this to an end with a contrepèterie employing a word that sounds shitty even in French:

La philanthropie de l’ouvrier charpentier

not

La tripe en folie de l’ouvrier partant chier

I would like to thank all my French friends who have furthered my contrepeteric education. Although there are many volumes of collections of contrepèterie, I would be delighted to learn of fresh and new ones—even “clean” ones.

Afterthoughts: Speaking of/in French, I am surprised that no reader has yet commented on the Colonial American English alamode (v.), [XVIII, 3]. It might have been a very over here in 1796, but for the French, then as now, it is adjectival. À la mode in the fashion [of]' is generally followed by a place name: tripes à la mode de Caen. The abbreviated boeuf à la mode—no geography necessary for this national plat du jour—is, of course, and as correctly described in Amelia Simmons’s American Cookery, “a round of Beef” cooked “with spices and vegetables.”

[Douglas Sutherland Dodge, Guilford, Connecticut]

EPISTOLA {Udo Pernisz}

Philip Weinberg’s EPISTOLA [XVIII, 2] regarding the Russian word for railroad station in Bryson’s “English Know-How, No Problem” [XVIII, 4] deserves a comment: While loan words often undergo vast changes in meaning when introduced into a new language, the change from the whole to one of at least two of its parts (assuming there would have been a First Class waiting room for a Volksaal [sic] to make sense) in this case seemed too far-fetched. And phonetically, Volk… which has an initial f-sound seemed too removed from vag … to apply. Indeed, Langenscheidt’s Russian-German Pocket Dictionary has the entry fol’klor which reflects the sound correctly (the letter l has a soft sign after it), meaning ‘Volkskunst’ or ‘folklore.’ The dictionary also gives vokzal, stressed on the second syllable, as ‘Bahnhof’ or ‘railroad station.’ It turns out, then, that Bryson’s rendering of the word in his article, vagzal, is the phonetic spelling rather than the transcription of the word.

Although zal is Russian for ‘Saal’ ‘large room,’ the Volk… part is very implausible. On the other hand, the V, au-sound, and x in Vauxhall are satisfactorily represented by the VOKS sequence so that the etymology given by Bryson appears to be preferable.

[Udo Pernisz, Midland, Michigan]

EPISTOLA {Donald R. Morris}

Further to voksal—Russian for ‘railway station’—although not to its etymology. In the early 1950s, before overflight and satellite programs had been developed, the CIA included amongst its collection programs one of briefing selected travelers to the Soviet Union and debriefing them on their return. These were not recruited agents, simply “assets.”

There were numbers of factories and other installations to which no access was possible, which were encapsulated in small triangles (or sometimes rectangles) formed by the nearest roads and railroads. By carefully briefing an observer who was to travel that road or rail line as to the beginning and end of the bounding segment and having him make a count a count of electrical, water, or gas lines crossing the stretch and of side roads, rail spurs, and the like, it was possible, after all three legs had been traversed by observers, for analysts to make surprisingly accurate estimates of the size and significance—even the nature—of the targeted installation.

One mysterious factory was enclosed by two public roads and a rail line, little used by foreigners, on which the only scheduled train passed the required checkpoints in the dead of night. The roads were no problem, but it took a year to find an American businessman with an excuse to travel that rail line—and he spoke no Russian. He was, however, taught the Cyrillic alphabet and could transcribe signs.

On his return, he reported phenomenal luck. There had been a lengthy unscheduled stop at a small station at 2 a.m., thanks to a “hot box,” and the passengers had been allowed off the train to stretch their legs. He had wandered several hundred yards up the line where he had found, crossing it, a large cluster of transmission lines, an oil line, assorted piping, and a bridge with, even at that hour, heavy truck traffic. He was not quite sure all this was within the specified stretch of track, as it was pitch black and the best we had been able to give him was an estimate of the times the train would enter and leave the segment. But he made a careful count of everything and copied down the name of the town from the sign on the station platform.

“What was it?” we asked eagerly.

“Voksal,” he proudly replied.

[Donald R. Morris, Houston]

EPISTOLA

In my upcoming Greek Tragedies, I often refer to the Chorus. The problem is whether or not to consider the noun singular. That depends. In some contexts, the Chorus is thought of as a unit (as it is in this very sentence). We would not say, “The Chorus are thought of as a unit.” But there are times when the noun seems to cry out for a plural verb:

The Chorus enter shortly after, almost in panic at the threatened attack by Polyneices.

The word panic, at least to me, suggests individual reactions. Members panic. Collective nouns do not. Sometimes the distinction is almost metaphysical.

The following classic pair of sentences makes the point more unequivocally:

My family is going to California this summer. Don’s family are taking separate vacations.

I wish my Chorus contexts were as easy to decide.

[Henry I. Christ, Flat Rock, North Carolina]

EPISTOLA {Robert F. Loud}

The review of the new Random House Webster Dictionary [XVIII, 1] gave space to the matter of inconsistent hyphenation, which I appreciated, and I also agreed with the reviewer’s comments regarding the admittance of so-called “naughty bits” into the dictionary. But I was surprised, upon reading Time’s review of this dictionary [June 24, 1991], to realize that there were issues raised there that were not touched upon in VERBATIM. I wish attention had been given to these rather than some of those to which space was devoted, ones I consider of less consequence, such as the use of the name Webster, the dating of words such as ordinals, and the cost of the dictionary in per-word terms—and the cost of college dictionaries in general. While each of these subjects is of interest, they pale in comparison to the central issued raised in the Time review, namely of whether a dictionary is better simply because it has more words in it, words which are included if only to mirror the language of the moment, e.g. womyn (pl.), herstory, waitron, and Mirandize.

In short, just because a new word has been coined does not mandate its publication in dictionaries in the frequency to which we have become victim over the past thirty-odd years. I have no statistics to back me up, but it is my impression that, as the rate of publication of English dictionaries has increased over the past few decades, the fabrication of new words has similarly increased. A kind of Parkinson’s Law may be in effect here: words will increase in number to occupy the pages publishers are willing to print. Meanwhile, can we not say that accurate use of the language has declined, both in the meaning of words and in their syntax? Or, put another way, have we not become too lazy to look things up in the dictionary and too prone instead to make up another word in place of the one we have forgotten or never learned in the first place?

I would like to think that a college dictionary is best which is easy to use because it answers basic questions about commonly used vocabulary: spelling, pronounciation, meaning, part of speech, synonym, and antonym. Perhaps, because it probably serves most students as the single source for such matters, it should also include those addenda which, in Webster’s 9th, consume 188 pages, e.g. a list of abbreviations, a gazetteer, etc. However, let it become cluttered with etymologies, essays, and vocabulary that, I think, belong in more encyclopedic tomes and published at less frequent intervals, and the result is a cumbersome volume that I, for one, would not be inclined to use as the handy reference a “college” dictionary implies.

Would a lexicographer agree?

[Robert F. Loud, Lincoln, Massachusetts]

EPISTOLA {Robert S. Keefe}

I have been entertained by the discussions of computerized hyphenation [XVI, 4; XVII, 3]. There is no one alive who is more enthusiastic about computers than I. For one thing, I make my living by manipulating words on them. Whether it is right to abandon any part of the creative process to them, however, is another.

And creativity is indeed involved in hyphenation—not in recognizing rules and conventions and exceptions, but rather in deciding whether (and how) to apply those rules, conventions, and exceptions.

The decision is often aesthetic, which is where computers are useless. One may hyphenate, but should one? No hyphenation algorithm has been invented to control rivers of white space, nor to distinguish between pro-ject (verb) and proj-ect (noun, unless one is Canadian).

Someday, however, even that may change. After all, it has been 15 years, since the early days of computerized typesetting, that I’ve seen anything to compare with the single article about sexual dysfunction in a newspaper in Virginia that contained these two algorithm-driven hyphenations: “the-rapist” and “mole-ster.”

[Robert S. Keefe, New York, New York]

EPISTOLA {Frank L. Peters, Jr.}

In OBITER DICTA [XVIII, 4, 15], you remark that older has come to mean, in certain contexts at least, ‘less old than old.’ I have another example, well established although not part of the vernacular, of a comparative gone into reverse. Real-estate firms and agents around here routinely use newer on written house descriptions to mean ‘recent but not new.’ For fear of litigation the companies use new only if the roof, carpet, or whatever was replaced at the time of listing. Even recent is avoided because it is thought to imply something newer than newer, whereas a furnace up to two years old can safely be described as newer. Customers sometimes inquire about the word and laugh when it is translated; it is confined to print and may be considered an encapsulated piece of real-estate trade jargon without the currency of your older.

[Frank L. Peters, Jr., St. Louis]

EPISTOLA {Charles A. Moncrief}

As an adjunct to your article on PC [“Politically Correct Nomenclature, XVIII, 4], I submit the following output of my PC (Personal Computer).

The NHL is planning an expansion franchise in a Florida city. The mascot is to be the Lightnings. Since I am a degreed electrical engineer, I must do a lot of soul-searching to determine if any of my brother engineers and electricians should be offended. I mean that, if some Native Americans (and the usual liberal protesters) are being offended by such mascots as the Chiefs, the Redskins, and the Indians, maybe the NHL ought to consider the feelings of us Nerds. After all, I can visualize such headlines as “Coach fails to spark Lightnings,” “Lightnings strike twice in Toronto,” “Bruins singed by Lightnings,” etc. How can anybody conceive of such insensitivity on the part of the NHL?

[Charles A. Moncrief, Dallas, Texas]

OBITER DICTA: Name Withheld

Laurence Urdang

Over the years and especially recently, in connection with the publication of the vast Omni Gazetteer of the United States of America (Omnigraphics, 1991) [XVIII, 2], contributors have commented on the curious and funny names one can find in almost any listing of place names. I have seen no criticism, however, of the total lack of imagination evident in the naming of many roads, avenues, boulevards, streets, etc. On a recent expedition by car, I noted a large number of roads with names like P Avenue, Q Avenue, and the like, and everyone is familiar with the street names in Washington, DC, that reflect the same sort of thing.

One can easily understand the desire of the committees responsible for such things to number streets, then designate house numbers in such a way that strangers can readily get the idea that “65-42 83rd Street” is on 83rd Street near 65th Avenue, and I can find nothing to quarrel with in that practice. Also, the simple system used in New York City for numbering streets and (most) avenues above Washington Square makes sense, as anyone who has been to Paris, London, or any other old European city might agree.

But surely there are more interesting ways in which streets can be named. For example, they could be named after American (or foreign) cities, American states, constellations, foreign countries, American and foreign statesmen, famous operas, opera singers, composers, works of fiction, music, and art, novelists, poets, and other writers, artists, characters in fiction or mythology, trees, flowers, animals, etc. —the supply is almost inexhaustible. Moreover, if it is deemed advisable to have the names in alphabetical order to make it easy to find a given street, it would be a simple matter to put Karachi Street between Istanbul and Lisbon Streets, Bach Boulevard between Jerusalem and Copland Boulevards followed by Debussy. If the inhabitants are predominantly of a particularly ethnic stock, they might like to commemorate Italian painters, Spanish poets, or Greek playwrights; if they are of a classical bent, they can find names of important works of Latin and Greek literature; on the other hand, if they like modern music, they can name their streets after rock groups or stars. The procedure would require a little research in the library, but that would not be onerous.

One of the problems with existing names is that they can be misleading or ambiguous: Sound View Drive, for instance, has not afforded a view of the Sound since all those houses were built in the 1920s. Was Bank Street named after someone named Bank, because it was near the bank of a river (which has now been moved three blocks away because the land was filled in), because the town bank was once on it, or because it was where they used to bank fires? How many Sunrise Highways and Sunset Boulevards are there? It is not suggested that well-established, traditional names be changed, only that boring names be replaced by interesting ones. One would expect that a certain amount of common sense be exercised: Palm Drive and Bougainvillea Boulevard would be as out of place in Massachusetts as Yucca Lane; with the devastation wrought by Dutch elm disease, one might consider renaming all the streets in America named Elm Street to describe a hardier species. An office with which I have occasion to do business is at 123 Elm Street, Old Saybrook, Connecticut, and I cannot help feeling that Freddie lurks there, ready to strike down the unwary. But then, although I formerly owned a house (in Essex, Connecticut) where the film, Let’s Scare Jessica to Death was made, I have survived that peril. In this vein, I do not advocate naming a street Bubo Boulevard or Plague Place. In Bridgeport, Connecticut, I have seen a Lesbia Street, which arouses all sorts of untoward speculation.

Obviously, one must be careful: few people would want to have to say that they live on Hyena Highway or Anteater Avenue or Vulture Drive; but Coyote Canyon Drive offers some alliteration, Chipmunk Way sounds cute, and who could object to Raccoon Road? The road leading to Laurel Heights (where the editorial offices of VERBATIM are situated and which is, believe it or not, somewhat elevated from the surrounding land, a laurel or two can actually be found there, too) is named Boggy Hole Road, an apt name till a year ago or so, when the town of Old Lyme rebuilt it, widened it, paved it, and provided it with drainage; it is now in such good condition that I have suggested that the name be changed to Boggy Hole Boulevard, an idea that has not found much favor at the town hall. Boggy Hole Road it will probably remain, even though the name is proving expensive to maintain owing to the frequency with which its (one) identifying sign is filched by onomophilic souvenir hunters.

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“…EXTERMINATING: We are trained to kill all pets…” [From san ad in TV Hi-Lites (Flushing, New York), December 27-Jan 2, 1988. Submitted by Dennis Wepman, Bronx.]

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“Instead of their usual Friday collections on December 25 and January 1, Friday customers will be picked up on Saturday, December 26, and Saturday, January 2.” [Holiday garbage schedules in the San Francisco Examiner, 18 December 1987. Submitted by Randy Alfred, San Francisco.]

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“An investigation found the employee occasionally slept on duty for almost five years.” [From the York (Pennsylvania) Daily Record, 12 January 1987. Submitted by Margery H. Freas, New York.]

The Names of Some North American Indian Tribes

Mary M. Tius, Portland, Maine

The names tribes gave themselves are not always known, sometimes because both tribe and language are extinct, attested to only by the name assigned to them by others. Some names (Beaver, Blackfoot, Crow, Dog-Rib, Hare, Stone) are English translations of Indian ones. Others have entered English through French (Bois Brûlé, Coeur d’Alêne, Gros Ventre, Huron, Loucheux, Nez Percé, Pend d’Oreille) and Spanish (Guapo, Laguna, Manso, Orejón, Seminole, Tonto). Still others were given by neighboring tribes and, sometimes, even when the literal sense is known the connotations are unclear: for example, the Dakota name for the Iowa (Ayuhwa) ‘Sleepy Ones’; the Blackfoot name for the Kainah, a division of the Blackfoot, (Ah-kai-nah) ‘Many Chiefs.’ Can we be sure no insult, no irony was intended?

Some names seem to have been caught in English by a stranger’s question: “Who are you?” “I am a man, a human being,” or, “We are people, the people who live here.” Hence, perhaps, come the names by which are known the Déné, Etchemin (archaic name of the Passamaquoddy), Illinois, Inuit, Klamath, Kutchin, Maidu, Miwok, Patwin, Pomo, Tu-nica, Wintun, Yahi, Yana, Yokuts, and Yuit: all mean ‘person or people.’ Other peoples gave more specific answers describing their being distinctly different from neighboring tribes. The Clallam said they were ‘strong people.’ The Caddo called themselves kädohädächo ‘real chiefs’; the Kiowa, at least to themselves, were kâ-i-gwŭ ‘the chief or principal people’; the Iroquois were ‘superior men.’ By contrast, the Hopi said, “We are Hopituh ‘people of peace.’ ” Was it after the same fashion that the Cahita answered? Or was their name, which means ‘nothing’ in Cahita, the answer to a quite different question?

The question, “Who are those people?” must often have been asked—and answered. The Choctaw said, Apalachi ‘helpers, allies’; the Blackfoot, Atsina ‘Good people’ the Nootka, also, inadvertently named the Wakash, saying, “Good = waukash ‘good’ just as the Sheepscot named the Wannoak by saying they were nopesawenoak ‘warriors’; the Pomo said of their southwestern cousins, the Kashaya, that they were kashaya ‘nimble, quick,’ by way of praise, blame, or mere description.

Often a tribe’s fear or fearful experience is revealed in a name: [The name following > is that yielded by the italicized word.]

Ojibwa ab-boin-ug ‘roasters’ > Abanic

Zuñi apachú ‘enemy’ > Apache

Choctaw hatak-apa ‘man-eaters, cannibal’ > Atakapa

Mohican maquia ‘cannibal’ > Mohawk

Abnaki mayquay ‘cannibal’ > Mohawk

Ojibwa nadoweoisiw ‘little snake’ > Sioux

Pima opata ‘hostile people’ > Opata

Narragansett paquatanog ‘destroyer’ > Pequot

Blackfoot sa arsi ‘not good’ > Sarcee

Blackfoot shoshoni ‘snake’ > Shoshoni

Wintun yuki ‘stranger, enemy’ > Yuki

Strangers were not only likely to be hostile, they also spoke strangely. The Malecite or Maliseet were maliseet ‘broken talkers’ to the Micmac and ‘talkers of gibberish’ males to the Abnaki. To the Dakota, the Cheyenne were shaiyena ‘people of unintelligible speech’; to the Creek, the Cherokee were tciloki ‘people of a different speech’; and the Tul’bush, to the Wailaki, were ‘babblers, foreigners’ tul’bush.

The Wabanaki (or Lenni Lenape) called the Mohicans amahiganiak ‘wolves,’ referring either to their predatory habits or (less probably) to their totemic animal, as the Dakota name for the Absaroka ‘bird- or crow-people’ seems to have done.

Many names point to the appearance, customs, staple diet, occupation, possessions or “stamping ground” of a tribe, as in the following:

Achomawi achomawi ‘river people’ > Achomawi

Huron adirondack ‘men of the trees’ > Adirondack

Mohawk adirondack (hatiróntak) ‘bark-eaters’ (‘they eat trees’) > Adirondack

Acoma akomé ‘people of the white rock’ > Acoma

Skidi Pawnee arikara ‘horns’ (from their hairstyle); Arikara

Ojibwa atâwe ‘to trade’ > Ottawa

Cree atâweu ‘trader’ > Ottawa

Choctaw bashokla, paskokla ‘bread people’ > Pascagoula; báyuk-ókla ‘bayou people’ > Bayogoula

Caddo bidai ‘brushwood people’ > Bidai

Chehalis chehalis ‘sand’ > Chehalis

Chetco cheti ‘close to the mouth of the stream’ > Chetco

Apache chiricahue ‘great mountain’ > Chiricahua

Choctaw chutimasha ‘they have cooking pots’ > Chitimasha

Walapai havasúpai ‘people of the blue water’ > Havasupai

Kalispel kalispel ‘camas’ > Kalispel

Karok káruk ‘upstream’ > Karok

Choctaw katápa ‘separated’ > Catawba

Pomo kato ‘lake’ > Kato

Coos kūūs ‘south’ > Coos

Cree mashkek, Fox maskyägi ‘grassy bog, muskeg’ > Muskogee

Delaware minassiniu ‘people of the stony country’ > Minsi

Sioux miniconjou ‘they who plant by the water’ > Miniconjou

Mandan minitari ‘they crossed the water’ > Minnetaree (=Hidatsa)

Hopi móchi ‘awl people’ > Móchi

Nanticook naitaquok ‘tidewater people’ > Nanticook

Hopi ngölapki ‘the crook of longevity’ > Walpi

Wintu or Nomlaki nomlaki ‘west speech’ > Nomlaki

Choctaw panshiokla ‘hair-people’ > Pensacola

Cree pegonow ‘muddy-water people’ > Piegan

Nez Percé peluse ‘something sticking up out of the water’ > Palouse, Appaloosa

Shawnee shaawanawa, shawan ‘south’ > Shawnee

Shoshoni shoshoko ‘walker’ > Shoshoko

Sioux sihasapa ‘black foot’ > Sihasapa > Siksika

Keresan sĩni ‘middle’ > Zuni

Kalapooia tfalati ‘river people’ > Atfalati

Shoshoni tübatulabal ‘pine-nut eaters’ > Tübatulabal

Quapaw ugákhpa ‘down-stream people’ > Quapaw or Kwapa ( > Acánsa > Arkansas)

Delaware umalachtigo ‘tidewater people’ > Unalachtigo, W’nalachtigo

Ojibwa ŭsini-ŭpwäwa ‘one who cooks by use of stones’ > Assiniboin

Wintan wailaka ‘northern language’ > Wailaki

Wanapum wanapum ‘river-people’ > Wanapum

Wasco wasq’o ‘cup, small bowl’ > Wasco

Osage wazha’zhe ‘water’ (a clan name) > Osage

Yuman xawálapáiya ‘pine-tree people’ > Walapai

Karok yúruk ‘a considerable distance downstream’ > Yurok

There are names with more than one possible etymology. The Arapaho called themselves ‘trader (s) arapaho; the Crow called them aa-raxpé-ahu ‘having much skin’ (i.e., ‘tattooed’), and it is the Crow word that has found its way into the etymological information in Webster’s Third New International Dictionary. The Micmac called themselves megumawaach ‘perfect men’ and migmac ‘allies’; the Maliseet called them micmac ‘porcupine people’ and mi k’am in Maliseet meant both “Micmac” and ‘wood spirit.’ In various Algonquian languages, the Ojibwa were ‘the greatest’ (ochibe, ochippe, ochipwe, ojibwa, otchipwe) but ojib-ubway ‘mocassins with a puckered seam’ (a style characteristic of Ojibwa footwear), literally, ‘to roast till puckered up’ is the origin cited in Webster’s.

No etymology is provided for Papago and Pima; both might be Hopi for, respectively, ‘mark on the forehead’ and ‘reed grass,’ plausible origins since all three peoples have inhabited parts of what is now known as Arizona.

A few names are neither English translations nor mispronounciations and approximations of Indian words. Flat-Head, for example, refers to several tribes (Catawba, Chinook, Choctaw, Waxshaw, et al.) that once practised head-flattening; and the Yellowknife, an Algonquian people living east of Great Slave Lake, Canada, were so named from their use of copper implements: pedestrian names, these, in which inventiveness played no part. But, for that matter, it seems that inventiveness never has played a part in producing the names of tribes. Their multiplicity merely reflects the rich diversity of those who have inhabited North America since before the arrival of the “white man” —whenever that might have been.

How D.A.R.E. You?: Katie Bar the Door

Frederic B. Cassidy

This old exclamation, probably dating centuries back, had a sudden vogue in the late eighties and early nineties when the sports fraternity latched on to it and spread it everywhere through radio and television. The best translation I have heard is, ‘Watch out! Hell’s about to break loose!’ It will suit a lot of occasions, domestic, political, military and of course those critical moments in sports. It means threat and tension; beyond that nobody seems to care. Katie, bar the door! But where does it come from? Like many long-ago happenings, nobody thought to make a permanent record. Those who knew the story—in this case a heroic one—had no way to keep it in memory except by folk tales and songs. But these may not get written down, and the tellers and singers may have no successors. So, great deeds of the past are ultimately forgotten, the remnants distorted or no longer understood. Who was Katie? When, why, how did she bar the door? The following tale is pieced together from obscure and scanty sources, with some logical surmise.

King James I of Scotland, a strong man who drew a number of chieftains together under him, strengthening the kingdom, naturally aroused rivalry and enmity, which led at last to his assassination in 1437. This was accomplished in an outbuilding to which the King had retired with members of his court for recreation. The assassination had been carefully planned: the bar had been removed from the door, and when the murderers attacked, it could not be found. One of the guests, by legend Lady Katherine Douglas, thrust her arm through the staples where the bar should have been, and temporarily kept the door shut. The King took refuge in a lower room, but ironically, the outer door had been recently sealed by his order. The Lady’s arm was broken, the murderers rushed in; the King defended himself but was outnumbered and killed. But the lady’s heroic deed was told and sung: she became “Kate Barlass”—the lass who barred the door. That is the legend, but I have found no written record of the song nor anyone who can sing it. “Katie bar the door” must have been a refrain or a line of verse. We may guess that as the King’s company realized they were under attack, the men looked to their swords, and one of the other ladies shouted to Katie, who finding that the bar was not there, did the best she could think to do. A noble woman and a noble deed. And the shout became a dire warning of imminent danger.

The last part of the tale? Katie and her story must surely have been brought to America and sung in some of the Scottish settlements in Appalachia, made mostly in the 18th century. Many of these old ballads have survived to the present; this one, as we put it together, must at least have made current the warning Katie, bar the door! And out of the hills some hill-born singer coming north introduced it there, perhaps directly into the world of sports and sportscasting. But nobody has written down the facts, or if written, they lie hidden in obscure places. And historians of language, lexicographers, need records too. Is it now too late to track our surmises back to facts, to recover the missing pieces of Katie’s story? The Dictionary of American Regional English is now editing the letter K. Lady Katherine deserves to be honored in memory once again, “as all good folk agree.”

Information would be welcomed by the Chief Editor at 6125 Helen White Hall, 600 N. Park St., Madison, WI 53706.

Crossword Puzzle

Across

1. Republican going through Los Angeles slum is not too swift (9)

6. Leader of Huns killed re- treating from part of Britain (5)

9. Government ultimately re- stricted profit from hard work (7)

10. Fingers made of metal grasp- ing vases (5, 2)

11. Uneven walkway around front of country club (6)

12. Object of humor in sincere refutation (8)

14. College head, interrupting sermon, is deserving of forgiveness (10)

15. Turning point before zero activity (2-2)

17. Dogs raised incorrectly, by the way (4)

19. Route goes around grand city building (10)

22. Got back car with scarlet exterior (8)

23. Question worker with suspi- cion (6)

26. Examine bug eating core of apple (7)

27. American poet with hired killer (7)

28. Bouts of drinking excessively with Eliot (5)

29. “Overturned,” for example, means “irritated” (3, 2, 4)

Down

1. Made bright tulip arrange- ment (3,2)

2. Genuine nonsense upset per- son with lots to offer (7)

3. Man with a cast in famous airport (8)

4. Reportedly follow story (4)

5. Storefront healer tried ad- vertising, staying vigilant (2, 3, 5)

6. Greek character getting into twisted condition in exercise (4-2)

7. Resort hotels at west end of one African nation (7)

8. Non-Hispanic in stockings to stay relaxed (4, 5)

13. Band leaders raised hunting dog with bit of orange marmalade (10)

14. Station shows start of a miniseries: “Modern Painter” (3, 6)

16. The first person taken in by bridge player (7)

18. Units for printers and thus for a painter (7)

20. United Nations dream— clashing without weapon (7)

21. Uniform worn by college force (6)

24. Tightly wrapped present, for example (5)

25. Poke fun at true comic (4)

SIC! SIC! SIC!

“You’ll have the specific facts you need to analize your markets.” [From a direct mail piece of Commodity Research, August 1990. Submitted by Dimitri Raftopoulos, Fort Lee, New Jersey.]

Crossword Puzzle Answers

Across

1. SUB-S (bus rev.).

3. WA(STEP-APE)R.

10. INGROUP (anag.).

11. E(A)RRING.

12. IN(AMORA)TO (aroma rev.).

13. MAID (homophone).

15. U(LYS)SES (sly anag.).

17. FINA(G)LE.

18. LEAD OUT (anag.).

21. TRAIPSE (anag.).

23. T(R)OT.

24. O-LIVE D-RAB (bar rev.).

27. STENCIL (anag.).

28. T(RUDE)AU.

29. E-GO T-RIPPED.

30. AS(P)S.

Down

1. SPI-RITUALS (sip anag.).

2. BA(G LAD)Y.

4. APPEALS (Pa. rev.).

5. TEES OFF (anag.).

6. (s)PY-ROMANIA.

7. P-AIRING.

8. RIG-A.

9. SOS-O.

14. HEREABOUTS (anag.).

16. S(PORTS)CAR.

19. A-GREE T-O.

20. T(ROLL)OP.

21. TH(ISTL)E (silt anag.).

22. PER SE-US.

25. (r)EMUS.

26. ISLE (hidden).

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