VOL V, No 3 [Winter, 1978]

Jonson and the Talmudists—Notes on the History of a Word

J.H. Neumann, Croton-on-Hudson, New York

In 1623 a fire broke out in the London home of Ben Jonson, Shakespeare’s friend and fellow-craftsman, destroying most of his library and all of his unpublished manuscripts. Among the latter were poems, a play, a historical work, scholarly notes accumulated during twenty-four years of classical study, and “humbler gleanings” in theology. Poet and satirist that he was, Jonson celebrated his misfortune in a half-serious, half-comic poem entitled “An Execration upon Vulcan,” in which among other things he reproaches the god of fire for his undiscriminating voraciousness. Had he known, he says, of Vulcan’s desire to hold a feast of fire in his home, he would have supplied him with food a plenty—reams upon reams of paper, as well as the less important books in his collection—provided he could only have saved his precious manuscripts.

Among the books he would willingly have sacrificed, Jonson names some romances like those of Lancelot and Tristram, narratives of high adventure like those of Roland and Oliver, stories of magic and fairyland like those of Merlin, the “Legend” (that is, a well-known medieval compilation of miracles about Christian saints), the Koran and—the Talmud.

The reference to the Talmud raises several questions. Did Jonson know any Hebrew or Aramaic? To what extent was he actually acquainted with the Talmud? How explain his allusion to it?

From Jonson’s own works we learn that he was indeed interested in Hebrew. In his poems and plays, as well as in his correspondance, there are references to the language of the Hebrew Bible and to the commentaries of Ibn Ezra, the Kimchis, and the Aramaic translation of it by Onkelos. Occasionally, he alludes to the etymology of a Hebrew word. In his “Notes for an English Grammar,” published shortly after his death, he draws parallels between Hebrew and English idiom and syntax, quoting passages from the Bible accurately in order to bring out points of resemblance and difference. Moreover, one of the books in his library which escaped the holocaust of 1623 was a copy of the Latin version of David Kimchi’s widely known Hebrew dictionary, Sefer Hashorashim.

But precisely how much Hebrew did Jonson know? Some knowledge of it was, so to speak, in the air in the sixteenth century— a reflection no doubt of Renaissance interest in the classical languages and Puritan concern with the text of the Old Testament. Well-educated Englishmen—and Englishwomen, too, like Lady Jane Grey, luckless candidate for the throne of England—acquired at least a smattering of the language. Jonson, in addition to being a classical scholar, was also somewhat of a philologist, interested in the dialects of his native England and in languages more remote. Among the many dictionaries, grammars, and books on language in his library were works on the decipherment of Egyptian hieroglyphics and Conrad Gessner’s great compilation of specimens of all the known languages of the world. Jonson’s interest in Hebrew may therefore be explained on that ground alone.

On the other hand, there is little to indicate that this interest was really permanent or deep. A curious letter by the seventeenth-century orientalist John Selden has a bearing on this point. It seems that Jonson had asked Selden for an explanation of the Biblical injunction against a man’s wearing the apparel of a woman—a matter of considerable importance in the Elizabethan theater, in which women’s roles were invariably acted by men, and hence a subject of denunciation by Puritan divines. In his reply, Selden tells of his examining the literal and historical meaning of the passage in question (which, incidentally, he reproduces in Hebrew) and summarizes the opinions of the Hebrew commentators on the Bible as well as those of Christian scholars. In quoting the Hebrew passage, Selden transliterates the key words and phrases in Latin characters and concludes by merely referring to the Latin and Greek sources, implying that Jonson could read those for himself. One should observe in this connection that Jonson nowhere lays claim to actual proficiency in Hebrew and Aramaic; and, one might add, Jonson was not a man likely to hide such a fact from his contemporaries or from posterity.

There is another reason for doubting Jonson’s acquaintance with the Talmud. So far as is known, no complete translation of it had appeared in Jonson’s time; the first version of any part of it, consisting of several tractates in Latin, was published about twenty-five years after his death. Whatever Jonson could have known of the Talmud therefore came to him from secondary sources: from references in scholastic literature, from discourses with learned friends like Selden, and from occasional allusions in Puritan pamphlets. Certainly there is no indication in anything that Jonson wrote of personal contact with it or of special concern with its contents.

An explanation of his reference to the Talmud will lead us to the history and meaning of the word in English literature. Like many of his contemporaries, Jonson evidently thought of the Talmud as a collection of fantastic tales not to be taken seriously. That is the significance of his coupling it with romances of chivalry and the stories of Merlin and the Legend. This notion of the contents of the Talmud was common in Jonson’s time; it was the “aggadic” element of the Talmud, that is, the use of legend, anecdote, and parable to illustrate a point of law or a tradition or an episode in history that elicited the instant attention of Europeans. The essayist and philosopher Lord Bacon, writing a few years earlier, had already coupled the Talmud with the Legend and the Koran. “I would rather believe,” he says in his essay “On Atheism,” “all the fables in the Legend and the Talmud and the Alcoran than that this frame is without a mind.”[^a1] Indeed, throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the word Talmud appears as a synonym for something imaginative and unreal if not actually absurd. The Elizabethan pamphleteer and critic of London life, Thomas Nash, regards “this Gogmagog of a Jewish Talmud” as a collection of “old-wives' tales” when he alludes to the legend of the rebuilding of the Temple in one day. The word to talmudize, according to the Oxford Dictionary, meant “to mix fact with fable.” During the Puritan regime in England, when invective and abuse served the amenities of doctrinal discussion, one of the common insults to be hurled at an opponent was the charge that he was a talmudist: at best an impractical dreamer; at worst a hopeless fool. A “talmudical dotard,” exclaims one Puritan divine pointing a finger of scorn at a brother of the cloth; “talmudical dorbel [blockhead],” retorts another in the midst of acrimonious debate. Another warns ministers not to preach “poetical fictions, talmudical dreams, or scholastic quiddities” to their congregations. Even so scholarly and thoughtful a student as Sir Thomas Browne is more impressed by the “fables of the talmudists” than by the philosophical and moral ideas they are intended to imply. Milton, genuine admirer of Hebrew learning though he was and a man not averse to using “Christian talmudic” arguments of his own when occasion required, permits himself one or two uncomplimentary references to the “insulse rules” of the Talmud. And Bishop Hall, Milton’s adversary in a famous controversy of the period, could find nothing better to say of the Talmud than that, like the Koran, it abounds with stories of “carnal pleasure, both of the bed and board.”

The word fared no better in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The usually level-headed Lord Chesterfield, in one of his letters to his son, comments on the “monstrous extravagancies” and absurd stories of the Talmud. A certain amount of ridicule, not devoid of malice, was even directed at the compilers of the Talmud. Jonathan Swift in one of his satires ascribes the authorship of the folk-tale of Dick Whittington and his cat to that “mysterious rabbi” Judah Hanassi, editor of the Mishna, the earlier part of the Talmud. And early in the nineteenth century, the poet and philosopher Coleridge, who was not insensitive to the charm of some rabbinical legends and even thought of publishing a collection of them, found himself unable to shake off his chronic ambivalence and speaks contemptuously at one moment of the “puerilities and anilities, some impossible, mostly incredible, and all so silly and sensual, as befits a dreaming talmudist.”

These notions about the character and content of the Talmud were not confined to England; they are commonplace in other European literatures. Erasmus thought that the Talmud was so full of the oddest fables— “rubbish” he calls them—that it hardly merited serious study. Rabelais, in Pantagruel, lists a “talmudical fool” among several hundred others in his extraordinary catalogue of human stupidity. Bossuet has this feature in mind when he dismisses the Talmud for containing “un million de fables, toutes impertinentes, les unes que les autres.” And Luther, no mean hand at scurrility, relishes the word and its derivatives in his endless clashes with fellow churchmen.

One can see how the anecdotal and folk-lore material of talmudic literature played a part in the misunderstanding of the nature of that vast work. The occasional humor in the legendary material, bubbling up in exaggeration and unrestrained word-play, was hopelessly lost on those who had no taste for it. The well-known jocular account (ultimately of talmudic origin) that inflates the number of plagues suffered by the Egyptians from the Biblical ten to fifty and ultimately to two hundred and fifty is a good illustration of the playful treatment of an episode from tradition or history. What is lost is the humanity of a similar legend dealing with the same episode which represents the angels ringed around the throne of God singing songs of victory at the discomfiture of the pursuing hosts and elicting a divine rebuke for their insensitivity to the sufferings of drowning men and beasts: “The work of my hands perish in the sea and ye dare sing songs of joy!”

Nevertheless, the lack of perception of those who believed that stories of this kind constitute a fair sample of the contents of the Talmud is remarkable. A present-day non-Jewish scholar is aware of this fact when in the course of comment on a talmudic passage where “a veil of word-play” covers the seriousness of the matter under consideration he comments that the humor involved is of the kind which “delights the aggadist and is the despair of the Gentile who does not see it from the aggadic point of view.”[^a2] It remained for the German poet Heinrich Heine, himself a baptized Jew, to suggest a different perspective when he compared the Talmud to a Gothic cathedral, which “though overloaded with childish and grotesque ornaments, yet amazes one with its heavensoaring splendor.”

Other, more sinister overtones crept into the word: the idea that the Talmud is somehow connected with sorcery and witchcraft and, above all, that it is the ultimate origin of anti-Christian teaching. Sir Thomas More, for example, was convinced that a book of the Talmud had been set up to “destroy the sense of scripture.” The critic and author of an Elizabethan manual of poetry, George Puttenham, warns against the “malicious and crafty constructions of the talmudists.” Cotgrave’s French-English dictionary (1650) dismisses the Talmud as a “superstitious and blasphemous book” designed by the rabbis, apparently to destroy the faith. A popular writer puts it in the same class as books on magic and palmistry and warns his readers to have nothing to do with any of them. These ideas, which reflect the ignorance and prejudice of the Middle Ages, played a tragic role in the banning and confiscation of Hebrew books and the ultimate destruction of cartloads of them in Paris, Rome, Venice, and elsewhere. But this matter is really a chapter by itself and belongs to the history of the Talmud as a work, not to the history of the word in literature.

One would imagine that with the greater knowledge of the contents of the Talmud available in the nineteenth century as the result of translations into European languages, the old connotations of the word would fade away. Unfortunately, a prejudicial “lag” of sorts prevails and the negative image of the word continues to haunt it. The supplement to the Oxford English Dictionary even yields an additional form talmudization, and the two illustrative quotations it gives, both from the twentieth century, do not add luster to its meaning. Nevertheless, the idea that the Talmud is a vast compendium of law, philosophy, ethics, and tradition is generally recognized, and the use of the term in that sense is common. But the word does frequently carry with it an intimation of legalism, literal-mindedness, and hair-splitting argumentation. The old story of the pound of flesh, says a contemporary American critic, is “a gross, but not pointless caricature of the legalism of the talmudic mind.”[^a3] Another critic, reviewing a book by Ilya Ehrenburg, calls attention to the author’s “wild, talmudic talent for splitting false hair.”[^a4] To many the word suggests an interest in the intricate and arcane. One writer finds an intellectual connection between cryptographers and talmudic scholars.[^a5] For others the word seems to imply meticulous thoroughness, a devotion to minute details, and a sensitiveness to refinements of tone or meaning. The compilation of an impressive file and bibliography on a certain subject calls attention to itself according to one writer by its “talmudic thoroughness.”[^a6] An American humorist describes the members of a theatrical cast debating “like talmudical scholars” the validity of certain lines, musical passages, and dance steps in a play about to be produced.[^a7] An art critic believes that museum specialists and art students of today are the “intellectual descendants of mediaeval scholars and talmudic Jews” because their world revolves around fine nuances and exquisite shadings of meanings.[^a8] Another writer, analyzing Saul Bellow’s style, finds that it is at once mandarin and colloquial, talmudic dazzle [and] a brilliant despairing chat, just this side of harangue.”[^a9] References to the complexity of the Talmud abound. An editorial writer in The New York Times, commenting on a current political problem, says that it “sounds almost talmudical in its complexity.”[^a10] Sometimes the word “rabbinic” is used as an obvious substitute for “talmudic.” A Nobel prize winner is characterized as the only scientist really enjoying the “rabbinical complexity” of his own papers on the genetics of bacteria.[^a11] Nevertheless, with all of this emphasis on the complexity which the Talmud is said to call to mind, a contemporary novelist can yet write of the “talmudic simplicity” of a certain character’s background and life.[^a12]

A similar uncertainty of meaning appears in another use of the term. It is sometimes intended to suggest both a blind adherence to an idea or theory and at the same time its very opposite, a hypercritical deviation from it. The “most talmudic” of Freud’s followers, we are told, accept his theories as an important contribution to truth and knowledge.[^a13] Yet we read that his critics are labeled talmudic revisionists. Beginning with the middle of the last century the word came to be used with increasing frequency as a term of opprobrium in discussions of socialist philosophy, carrying with it hints of faulty reasoning and deviousness in action. Karl Marx sneered at Ferdinand Lassalle’s contribution to German socialism as examples of “talmudic wisdom,”[^a14] and he pursued him with this epithet to the end of his life. This label or a variation of it is still very much alive in contemporary communist polemics. One recalls the periodic blasts of Stalin against doctrinaire socialists, whom he denounced as “talmudic interpreters” of communist ideology[^a15], or the use of the word in the Slansky trial in Czechoslovakia, where the defendant’s “talmudic microbes” were said to be responsible for his deviation from Marxist teachings.[^a16] The term cropped up again when Khrushchev attacked those who invoked Marxist doctrine to challenge his own interpretation of it by calling them “talmudists” and “parrots” who had learned by heart phrases from the early theoreticians and had shown poor judgment in applying them to the problems of today.[^a17]

For the Nazis, the world provided a wonderfully Protean term of abuse, a Schimpfwort of unparalleled virtuosity.

It implied anything that was bad or contemptible in language, literature, art, sciences, philosophy, government, or for that matter anything else. Even the creation of new words from abbreviations, or acronymic formations, like flak or kapo, though quite popular in Nazi writings and common in official use, was called a talmudic device introduced into the language by insidious subversionists, and the vicious oxymoron “talmudic-bolshevik” was applied to anything that resisted or was likely to resist Nazi domination.[^a18]

Other meanings of the word appear from time to time in contemporary journalism, though they are difficult to define and do not seem to fit into the patterns indicated above. They might best be called nonce usages, intended for a particular occasion with only a remote or vague connection with the original meaning of the word. One writer, in the course of a book review, takes occasion to attack teachers of literature in provincial universities—“embalmers” of literature, he calls them—who at best carry on “primitive forms of research” and at worst are “smug and snooty talmudists.”[^a19] What the connection of the epithet here is with the subject is not clear. In an article by another writer a person is called a “talmudic satyr” because he appears in some kind of theatrical entertainment in the flesh as a pot-bellied academic and as the “professor” of what is called a Dionysia Theatre.[^a20] The only relevance of the word seems to be that the person thus described had once studied the Talmud with a doting grandfather and had acquired some skill in argumentation.

What then can be said of the word and its use in contemporary writing? It is certainly more widely used than ever before, and with this wider use has come a proliferation of meaning leading to vagueness, inaccuracy, and occasional contradiction. As to its emotional overtones, it has certainly lost much of the contempt which invariably accompanied it in earlier times and now carries with it an occasional shade of admiration—except of course in the violent polemical contexts noted above. Yet one wonders at times whether the thrust of its allusiveness is really directed at the work for which the word is the name or at something quite different. It is certainly a strange word, rich in emotion, implying something peculiar, out of the ordinary, not in harmony with its environment, impressively alien. This image is conveyed in vivid color and tone in Padraic Colum’s verses entitled “Copper Beeches.”

[a1]: This coupling, incidentally, is quite common in the seventeenth century. Robert Burton makes use of it no less than three times in The Anatomy of Melancholy (1628).

[a2]: R. Travers Herford, The Tractate “Fathers,” 1925, p. 151.

[a3]: Leslie Fiedler, “What Can We Do about Fagin?” Commentary, 1949, p. 411.

[a4]: Time, August 28, 1960.

[a5]: Time, January 20, 1963.

[a6]: Time, August 8, 1969.

[a7]: S.J. Perelman, “Slow Down—Dangerous Footlights Ahead,” The New Yorker, November 21, 1970.

[a8]: Aline B. Saarinen, The Proud Possessors, 1958.

[a9]: John Leonard in The New York Times, October 1976.

[a10]: The New York Times, “Review of the Week,” February 18, 1966.

[a11]: The New York Times, “Review of the Week,” February 18, 1966.

[a12]: Mary McCarthy, The Company She Keeps, 1942, p. 149.

[a13]: Geoffrey Gorer, “Freud—Self-Knowledge as a Solution,” The New Republic, May 9, 1959.

[a14]: Judd Teller, Seapegoat of Revolution, 1954, p. 51.

[a15]: The New York Times, August 20, 1950.

[a16]: The New York Times, April 22, 1952.

[a17]: The New York Times, August 28, 1957.

[a18]: The New York Times, August 28, 1957.

[a19]: The New York Times, Book Review Section, January 15, 1978.

[a20]: The New York Times, Book Review Section, January 15, 1978.

Copper Beeches

Padraic Colum

Talmudic in their alienness
The Copper Beeches are beside
The Willow, Ash and Sycamore—
Dark, ponderous trees.

The Willow, Ash and Sycamore
Profess the green. And them beside,
With branches close around dark stems
And leaves like burnished metal, dark—
Unordained trees.

Alien as minds that pondered on
The letters twelve and forty-two,
And in their inner depths pronounced
The name that’s figured in the great
Tetragrammaton.

The Copper Beeches spread beside
The Willow, Ash and Sycamore,
Alien, but more—discordant they—
Discordant as the metal clang
Against the lutes, the flutes, the chimes—
Dark ponderous trees!

OBITER DICTA: War Against whynot

Alfred Alexander, London, England

I was brought up with great respect for the proper use of words and this urged me to fight whynot since I faced it for the first time. It was at the end of the last war. A friend, an American serviceman, said “Why don’t you come over tonight and have a drink with us?” I thought, “Isn’t it odd that I should be asked to give my reasons for not doing something which I would enjoy doing?” I hesitated to answer, and eventually muttered “Yes, I’d very much like to come.”

The monstrous habit of saying “Why don’t you?” when you mean “Would you care to?” began, I believe, in the United States. It spread like wildfire and its anti-syntactical doctrine still flourishes.

Whynot is in fashion and in power, dominates the newspapers and abounds on television. Only the guerilla tactics of unexpected attack offer any chance against it. The proper weapon is the anti-whynot bomb, a verbal Molotov cocktail, which you mix yourself and hurl with pretended innocence at the offender.

If, for argument’s sake, you are assailed with “Why don’t you come with me on Sunday to see Charles?” you answer: “Because I promised to take Maggie to her aunt in Eastbourne.”

You can load your charge with different explosives: “Why not come and have dinner with us on Tuesday night?” can, in hostile fashion, be countered by “Because I’ve had poor reports of your cooking,” but it is more tactful to say: “Because I promised to take Betty to the theatre.” The society doctor who likes to tempt his patients with “Why not go for a cruise to cure your cough?” is best given the antidote “Because I simply cannot afford it, Doctor.”

With the right mixture and correct aim every whynot can be blown to pieces. Let everyone with the will to fight take heart: our position, though difficult, is not hopeless. Every hit demoralises the opponent.

The Arabic Star-Names

E.E. Rehmus, San Francisco, California

Although even a little history should serve to remind us that it was the Arabs who, in the Middle Ages, reintroduced astronomy into European culture, still many of us may have wondered why so many of the brightest stars have Arabic names. The Mohammedan contribution to astronomy was actually much less remarkable than their contribution to arithmetic. They called astrology ‘ilm ahqām (or sina ‘āt) al nudjūm, ‘science of the decrees of the stars’ and astronomy ‘ilm al hai’a, or ‘science of the aspects (of the universe).’ But they made little real distinction between an astronomer (falakī) and an astrologer (munadjdjim). Indeed, it is to the unlettered Bedouins, as you might suspect, that we look for the names themselves—to those desert nomads who traveled by night over the trackless sands on their “ships of the desert” and who observed the comparative positions of the moon to 28 different groups of stars called the ‘lunary stations’ (manāzil alqamar).

During the Dark Ages, at a time when such lore had elsewhere sunk into oblivion, however, they did manage to preserve the earlier progress of the Greeks. And the great number of names that the Arabs gave to the stars shows us how thorough in astronomical observation they must have been. The Greeks had, as a matter of fact, either missed altogether or simply not bothered to list a number of bright stars easily visible to the naked eye. We should remember, too, that during the Dark Ages the Arabs were capable of making quite accurate projections of such esoterica as the circumference of the earth. During that same era, the European astronomers were lucky to be able to make accurate predictions for the dates of religious holidays. And although astronomy is said to have begun with the Greeks, undoubtedly still other Semites preceded them. Kochab, for instance, found in Ursa Minor, is certainly the Phoenician word quite simply for ‘star.’

What is interesting to us, then, about the ancients is their manner of seeing. The Greeks apparently saw the stars simply as patterns, that is, as constellations. The Arabs, on the other hand, focused their attention on the individual stars themselves.

The oldest extant star catalogue is the Almagest of Ptolemy (137 A.D.). It was replaced by an Arabian catalogue in the 15th century. Many abortive attempts were made by the Europeans to replace the pagan Greek and—to the Europeans—the barbarous-sounding Semitic star names with more modern ones. The best-documented of these was that of Juluius Schiller (1627). In his Coelum Stellatum Christianum (‘The Christian Stars of Heaven’) he made a zealous effort to replace all the fascinating old names with the tiresome names of popes, bishops, saints, and the like. That he failed utterly is testimony to the innate good sense of the human race, which obviously prefers that the stars retain their ancient mystery and romance and not be dragged down to the level of commonplace Church dignitaries.

But aside from a few Latin names: Sirius ‘the dog star’ (Sothis of Ancient Egypt); Regulus ‘the little king’; Foramen ‘the opening’; Manubrium ‘a handle’—and others from Greek mythology, such as Alcyone in the Pleiades, etc.—an amazing number of the most common stars retain their old Arabic names. What, then do they all mean? Good question—and one not so easy to answer as one might think. There are few reference works that can supply us with everything we want.

For the benefit of the reader’s curiosity, here are a few origins that are known by Arab scholars, plus a couple of guesses (indicated by question marks). The reason that guesses should sometimes be necessary at all owes itself to the fact that transliterating from the Arabic writing often obscures the original words. For example, the star Algol, which is located in Taurus, is given in many dictionaries as descending from al-ghāla, ‘the destroyer,’ but its more likely origin is the more familiar form from the same root: ghul ‘a woodland demon’ from which we got our word ghoul, ‘a defiler of graves.’ The Egyptians themselves, of course, were the first to break into the ancient tombs to seek their pharaonic treasures, but the Arabs did their share of such grave-robbing, too, we have been told. Most of the names given here, however, are accepted with little question by historians.

Achernar ‘Last fire.’

Aldebaran (Al-dabarān is from dabar ‘to follow’ because it follows upon the Pleiades.) A star in the constellation of Taurus (Thūru in Arabic) means ‘the one who is more easily led’ or ‘The Follower,’ referring to one of a team of oxen. The -an ending here apparently does not indicate the accusative, but rather the dual, as in a pair.

Adhafera ‘The one who holds out’ or ‘The Victorious.’

Algenubi ‘The Southerner.’

Algorab ‘The Crow.’

Alhena ‘The Henna’ (because it is red).

Alioth (Alyat) ‘fat tail of a sheep.’

Al Jabhah ‘The Front’ or ‘Forehead.’

Almach ‘The Brain.’

Alphard ‘The Solitary One.’

Altair Corrupted Arabic for ‘The Bird.’

Antares Not Arabic, but Greek: Like Ares’ (cf. Arctic and Antarctic).

Alpharg Like the Roman star, Foramen, ‘The Opening.’

Baten Kaitos ‘Inside the Whale’ (see Deneb Kaitos).

Betelgeuse (Properly bat-al-jauza) ‘Shoulder of the Central One.’

Caphir ‘Atheist.’

Dabih ‘Slitter’ or ‘Slasher.’

Deneb ‘Tail,’ hence all names like Deneb Adige ‘tail of Night’s Darkness,’ Deneb Algedi ‘Tail of the Kid’; Deneb by itself, however, refers to Dhanab AlDajājah ‘Tail of the Hen.’

Deneb Kaitos (Dhanab gaytūs) from Gr. kētos ‘whale.’

Denebola (Abbrev. of dhanab al-asad) ‘Tail of the Lion.’

Dhur (Zahr) abbr. of zahr al-asad) ‘Back of the Lion.’

Difda or Diphda (Properly, modern: dufda) ‘Frog.’

Dirah ‘Little house.’

Dubhe (From Al-Dubb al-Akbar) ‘The Greater Bear,’ 2nd mag. star Alpha Ursae Maioris.

El Nath ‘The Butting’ (as of two rams or goats).

Fomalhaut (Properly fam for ‘mouth,’ cognate of Greek phemū and al-hūt) ‘Mouth of the Whale.’

Giedi ‘Goat’s…(tail?)’ —considered part of Capricorn, though technically in Aquarius.

Hamal ‘Lamb.’

Homam (Sa’d al-hūmam) ‘Luck of the Hero.’

Kitalpha (qit’ah al-faras) ‘Part of the Mare’ in const. of Equuleus.

Lesath ‘Jawbone’? (Cf. Hebrew LESETH).

Markab ‘Boat’ or ‘Chariot.’

Matar ‘Water bottle.’

Menkalinan ‘Container.’

Menkar ‘Beak.’

Mirach ‘Abdomen.’

Mizar ‘Veil, Cloak’ (also the star Izar).

Rasalhague (Ra’s al-hāwi) ‘Head of the Serpent-Charmer.’

Rigel ‘Foot.’

Muphrid (M. al-ramīh) ‘Solitary (star) of the Lancer.’

Sabik ‘Ahead of.’

Sadalmelik ‘Dam of the King.’

Sadalsuud ‘Dam of the (Sindhi?).’ Arabic astronomy/ astrology had a rather naive premise, that the moon and planets were all in conjuction at the beginning of time and in a million years will be in conjunction again. This idea was based on a work called Al-Sindhind (a very ancient treatise on astronomy, a corruption of the Sanskrit Siddhāntā).

Sadr Short for sadr al-dajājah ‘Breast of the Chicken.’

Schedar (Sadr) ‘upper part.’

Saiph ‘Sword.’

Sheratan Two stars in the horns of Aries, dual of sharot ‘sign; notch.’

Tejat ‘Crown.’

Unukhalhai ‘Neck of the Snake.’

Wasat ‘Middle’ (of the constellation).

Wega (or Vega) (Properly waji') ‘Falling.’

Yed (Pior or Posterior) ‘Yed’ is probably ‘hand.’

Zaniah Variation of Zavijava.

Zuben El Genubi ‘The Southern Claw’ (of the Scorpion).

Zubeneschamali ‘The Northern Claw’ (of the Scorpion).

Since the original meanings of the stars are often difficult to obtain, I would be grateful to any reader who is able to come up with any additions to this list.

Works Cited

The Islamic Encyclopedia

Van Nostrand’s Scientific Encyclopedia

Webster’s New Intl. 2nd Ed. 1956

Islamic Society of California

Ahlam Abu-Zayyad

Seyyed Hossein Nasr Science & Civilization in Islam

Again and Ageyn and Agane

W.R. Edwards, Chesham, England

There seems to be a modern dogma that this word must always be pronounced AGEN, even when poets rhyme to such words as plain, slain, rain. Am I alone in objecting to some trained speaker deliberately breaking a rhyme, as if to show that he or she knows better than Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Donne?

It is quite clear that the word, in ordinary speech, may be pronounced AGANE or AGEN. With one exception, every dictionary I have consulted gives both pronunciations. The exception is a recent edition of Cassell’s New English Dictionary, which gives only A’GAN.

The word is of Anglo-Saxon origin, two spellings being given in the OED: ongean and ongaegn. The latter is recognizable in the modern German entgegen ‘against, contrary to, towards,’ and in fact the word, in its earlier usages, was both a preposition and an adverb, with several meanings, including ‘again, against, towards and in return.’ This last is still found occasionally, as in A.E. Housman:

Ah, let not only mine be vain,
For lovers should be loved again.

And I am certain that that great precisionist intended a true rhyme and did not reckon on being “corrected” by some radio elocutionist.

Amongst the spellings recorded in dictionaries are: again, againe, agayn, agayne, agein, ageyn, agane and agen. Only the last seems to offer any support to the modern dogma, unless the pronunciation of the other spellings has changed over the centuries. What evidence have we as to how a word was pronounced in the past? It seems to me that rhyme is the strongest evidence, if the spelling cannot be accepted. Let us see how poets, from the beginning of English rhyme, have chosen to rhyme again. (With the earliest examples, the rhyming word and the spelling are given.)

RHYMED WITH main RHYMED WITH men

14th century:

Robert Mannyng—seyn ageyn

Gawain—again/fain

Chaucer—agayn/slayn certayn/Alain/

ageyn/certeyn/seyn/pleyn/again/sain/ slain/fain

15th century:

Dunbar — paine/againe

Henryson — agane/certaine

Border Ballads:

The Nut-brown Maid—twain/again

Chevy Chase—slaine/againe

Cospatrick—breast-bane/again

Lord Thomas—nane/againe

Lament of the Border Widow— again/slain

16th century:

Spenser, Surrey, Marlowe, Greene, Wyatt

16th-17th centuries

Shakespeare, Beaumont, Chapman, Webster, Donne, Dowland, Campion, Quarles Drayton, Drummond, Fletcher

Ben Jonson — vaine/again
Ben Jonson — men/agen

Cowley, Marvell, Dryden, Herrick, Crashaw, Henry King, Sedley, Traherne, Milton, George, Herbert

17th-18th centuries:

Prior, Ambrose Philips, Swift

18th century:

Pope, Gray, Cowper, Burns

18th-19th centuries:

Campbell, Coleridge, Wordsworth

19th century:

Shelley, Hood, Browning, W.E. Henley (spelt agen), Fitzgerald, Wm. Morris, Rossetti, G.M. Hopkins, Patmore, Arnold, Carroll, Darley, Francis Thomson, Stevenson, Longfellow, Tennyson, Keats

19th-20th centuries

Bridges, Kipling, Housman, Housman, Hardy Hardy

20th century

Flecker, R Brooke, W.H. Davies, D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, Walter de la Mare, Walter de la Mare, W.B. Yeats

It will be seen that, in my random browsing, I have found no example of a men, pen rhyme earlier that Chapman and Ben Jonson, and it is highly significant that Jonson spells the word according to the rhyme: vaine/again, men/agen. Francis Quarles also spells it agen to rhyme with when.

Ben Jonson is the earliest of the small number of poets who sometimes use rain/pain rhymes and sometimes men/pen rhymes. The proportion of the latter increases in the 19th century, and it may be that the dogma dates from then. But why? It is inconceivable that the vast majority of poets were using false rhymes. It is equally incredible that all the rhymed words have changed their pronunciation. Who could argue that fain was ever pronounced as fen, pain as pen, ta’en as ten, or main as men? (Chaucer rhymes men with hen).

My own conclusion is that again was pronounced AGANE in common speech, as in verse, by the majority of English-speaking people over the centuries. In every case the apparent intention of the poet should be respected when speaking his verse, varying the pronunciation according to the rhyme.

SIC! SIC! SIC!

Our friend John F. Gummere writes a regular column called “Words &c” for The (Philadelphia) Enquirer. If you pester your local newspaper, you may be able to read and enjoy it, too.

Q: From Richard Toeman, London, England, comes the enigmatic Q and A exchange:

“FUNEM?”

“SVFM.”

“FUNEX?”

“SVFX.”

“OKLFMNX.”

[See page 727 for the A.]

B-P Words

Malcolm Wells, Brewster, Massachusetts

[Editor’s Note: One of the more interesting features of a language is its patterns. All of us are familiar with paradigms in English and we know about the paradigms for the French “irregular” verbs, German nouns, adjectives, and verbs, and the reflexes in most other inflecting languages. In the past, VERBATIM has published articles on binomial, trinomial, and other varieties of semantic, euphonic, alliterative, and syntactic patterning, but as far as I know, no study has been offered of patterns of initial sounds or letters. It is unlikely that the list given below is complete. But how many other such lists can be made for English? Readers are not encouraged to send addenda to VERBATIM: please send contributions to the author at P.O. Box 1149, Brewster, MA 02631. VERBATIM will, however, entertain comments and observations.

—L. Urdang

ONE OF THE MOST provocative questions ever aired on television was asked a few years ago by British Petroleum: “What’s a B-P?”~~~~

I never heard whether or not the corporation got its answer, but I for one, having been forced to face the B-P issue for the first time, decided to find out for myself.

It wasn’t easy. And I never dreamed that the Great American Novel itself would lie among the lists of words I’d soon compile. Nor did I ever dare to hope my friends and correspondents would offer so much help.

Just the other day, for instance, the editor of one of the country’s leading newspapers phoned me and said, “Malcolm?” “Yes?” “Brillo.” (click) Thus had yet another B-P addict been hooked by these simple rules: find a pair of B-P words or syllables so comfortably familiar that only the B need be spoken to suggest the P.

What could possibly go with Buckingham but Palace?

The Top 100

baby powder
bagpipe
bachelor pad
baked potato
back pocket
baking powder
bad pun
balancing point
baffling problem
ballpoint
bamboo pole
blowpipe
banana peel
blue period
banjo player
blueberry pancakes
bank president
blueberry pie
Baptist preacher
blue-pencil
Barbary pirates
blue peter
barbecue pit
bluepoint
barbecued pork
blueprint
barber pole
boarding pass
barely perceptible
boat people
bargain prices
bobby pin
bargaining power
body paint
barometric pressure
body pores
Bartlett pear
body putty
baseball player
boiled prunes
basketball player
boiler pipe
bath powder
boiler plate
be patient
bold pattern
beach party
bold plan
beanpole
bomb pin
beaten path
Bonaparte
beautification project
bone pile
beautiful people
bonsai plant
beauty parlor
book-pusher
bedpan
boot-puller
beer party
born physician
behavior pattern
borrow pit
belaying pin
Boston Post
below par
bottled Pepsi
Bert Parks
bottled propane
Bic Pen
bowling partner
bicycle path
box pleat
big prick
boxing promoter
bike pedal
boyish prank
bingo parlor
boysenberry pie
biplane
bra padding
birthday party
braided pigtails
Black Power
brain-picker
bleeding profusely
braised pig
blind person
brake pad
block party
brass pin
block pier
brass plate
block print
brazen prostitute
blocked pass
bread pan
blocked play
breaker points
blood plasma
breakfast platter
blood pressure
breastplate
blood pudding
breast pump
bloody pulp
breath protection
blotting paper
brickpile
bridge painter
bad posture
bridge party
badminton player
bridge pier
baggy pants
bridge piling
balancing point
bridge prize
ballpark
bride’s parents
banana pie
brief period
banana pudding
bright person
band practice
bright polish
bank payroll
bright promise
barely possible
brilliant physicist
bargaining point
British Parliament
baseball practice
British pub
basic principles
broiled porkchop
basso profundo
broken parole
battery plate
broken pelvis
be prepared
broken play
beach patrol
broken paddle
bear pit
broken pane
beauty pageant
broken pipe
bed partner
broken plate
bed patient
browned potatoes
Beeman’s Pepsin
buckshot pellets
beer parlor
bulb plants
beg pardon
bulbous protrusion
beleaguered planet
bulk postage
bell pepper
burger patty
belt parkway
Burgundy punch
benzedrine pill
bus platform
Beethoven prelude
business phone
betting parlor
business procedure
Bible passage
busy phone
Bicentennial parade
butler’s pantry
Big Papa
buttermilk pancakes
big pain
butt plate
big pig
buyers’ party
bike path
byplay
bipartisan
biped
birth pains
The Next 100
birthday present
Byzantine plot
birthplace
B-pictures
bit part
baby pictures
bitter pill
backpack
Black Panther
back pain
black pepper
back pay
blackberry pie
back porch
blacktop paving
back-pressure
blackeyed peas
backwoods preacher
blank page
bad penny
blatant pornography
blind panic
border patrol
blood poisoning
boring people
bloody punch-up
born poor
boarding party
Boston Pops
bodily processes
bosom pal
body politic
bottomless pit
boiled potato
bowling pin
boiler pressure
boyhood pal
bombing practice
brackish pond
bombproof
brandied peaches
Bonnie Prince
bread pudding
book publisher
breaking point
boot polish
Brenner Pass
borax powder
briar patch
boring program
bridal party
Boris Pasternak
bridge partner
botulism poisoning
bridle path
brake pedal
bright penny
brandied peaches
Brillo Pads
briar pipe
British Petroleum
brick paving
Broadway play
brick patio
broken promise
Bridgeport
brownie points
bright prospects
bubonic plague
brilliant perception
buck-passer
British passport
Buckingham Palace
bubble pipe
building permit
bubbling personality
bulletproof
buck private
bullpen
buckwheat pancakes
burglar-proof
Buddhist priest
business proposition
bugle player
butter pecan
building program
butterscotch pudding
burial plot
burning passion
Rejects and Runners-up
bush pilot
business partner
Rejects
buttered popcorn
a) Cheaters:
butter plate
Brussels prouts
buying power
Bare-ass Perinn
bypass
birda paradise
bypath
Baya Pigs
by-product
bitzen pieces
boiling point
balansa power
bomb plot
Ben Phranklin
bomber pilot
breacha promise
bond paper
Buckminster Phuller
booby prize
b) Bores:
booster pump
bad place
Bo Peep
bad player
bad person
band performance
bad procedure
Bandaid pad
bad prices
banjo practice
bad prison
banished poet
bad program
barbed point
bad party
Barcelona Pavilion
etc.
bare poles
big pile
barnacled post
big package
barnyard pet
big petunia
base plate
big pipe
basketball practice
big pump
bass player
big prostitute
bassoon player (+ practice)
big platter
batch plant
big path
battle plan
etc.
battle plain
z-z-z-z-z-z…
beach pea
black paint
beach plum
blue paint
bean pot
brown paint
bearded patriarch
etc.
beat poet
beaver pelt
Runners-up
bedpost
bee pollen
baby pacifier
beggar’s purse
baby pageant
beleaguered parents
baby parade
bell player
baby poopy
bell pull
baby potty
benevolent patriarch
back-paddle
bent pin
back page
Bergdorf’s prices
back pasture
berry picker
backpat
beta particle
back payment
betel palm
backfield position
biblical prophet
backward people
bid proposal
backyard patio
big phony
bad planning
bilge pump
badminton paddle
billiard player
bagpipe player
bipolar
bait pail
bird perch
baking pan
bit player
balance pole
black pine
baldpate
black plague
ballet program
black people
ballpeen
black powder
ballpoint pen
black pride
bamboozled public
bland platitude
banal pap
blasting powder
Blaupunkt
blind pig
bleaching powder
blinding pain
blind passion
block plane

also: bow pen, brain pan, bilge piece, bumper pool, bus patrol, bread poultice, bookplate, blood platelet, black poplar, Billy Penn, barking puppy, bellbottom pants, bare patch, beer pitcher, banished president

A: [to the Q that appears on page 721]

“FUNEM” “Have you any ham?”

“SVFM.” “Yes, we have ham.”

“FUNEX?” “Have you any eggs?”

“SVFX.” “Yes, we have eggs.”

“OKLFMNX.” “Okay, I’ll have ham and eggs.”

(—with apologies to dialecticians and dietitians.)

ETYMOLOGICA OBSCURA

Kenneth A. MacFadyen, Kearny, New Jersey

I would like to suggest the origins of two words that my dictionaries list as “origin unknown.” The first of these is “jalopy” for an old automobile. I am sure this is based upon an old joke that I used to hear as a child. Men would say of an old horse: “The only way you’ll get that horse to run is to give it jalap (a common horse laxative),” meaning of course that its bowels would run. Extending it to old cars is natural.

The other word is “monadnock.” One dictionary says “American Indian,” another says “after Mt. Monadnock in N.H.” My Gaelic dictionary gives monadh as ‘mountain; moor’ and cnoc as ‘hill’ and I feel that the occurrence of both roots in the one word is not mere coincidence.

BIBLIOGRAPHIA: The Book of Names

The Southern New England Telephone Company, (Southern New England Telephone Company, Publisher, New Haven, 1969-1978), 995pp., gratis.

In preparing a recent manuscript of mine, I ran across a most interesting volume and superb resource directory dedicated exclusively to names—The Book of Names. Since the book, now in its ninth edition, has never been reviewed formally, I wish to make it known to the readers of VERBATIM, particularly those whose interests are in the areas of etymology and onomastics. The major purpose of this annually revised publication is to facilitate communication among people. To help fulfill this purpose the editors have tried “… to humanize what is generally regarded as a very stereotyped and uninteresting collection of materials [people’s names].

With names arranged in alphabetical order, this huge volume presents name material from several different perspectives, all of linguistic and social historic interest. One perspective is to provide information regarding name derivations, giving brief explanations about the origins of family names. For example, we learn that Cain and Kane share common origins, that Fitzpatrick is said to be the Anglicized form of Giolla-Phadruic, the name of an ancient Irish chief of the Tenth Century, with the literal meaning ‘the servant of St. Patrick,’ and that Hoffman is an old German name which refers to one who worked on a large farm, whether as owner or manager.

Another perspective is on any given page of the book to offer biographical sketches of famous people who have one of the names on that page. In this regard, we read that Gail Borden (1801-1874) erected the first condensed milk factory in the world in 1856; that Samuel Colt (1814-1862) invented a revolver; and that Charles Goodyear (1800-1860) in 1839 accidentally discovered the process for the vulcanization of rubber. Similarly, we learn more about such other famous people as Samuel Clemens, Nathan Hale, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Eli Whitney.

In addition to the above offerings, the book summarizes the accomplishments of many famous Connecticut residents, past and present. For example, we read about Mary Adam (1689-1803) who lived in three different centuries; about P.T. Barnum (1810-1891) who started out as a storekeeper and ran a weekly paper in Danbury, Connecticut; about Edward A. Bouchet (1852-1918) who was the first black person to receive the Ph.D. degree from Yale University; and about joe Currie, known for his big black cigars, who was a New England featherweight champion never knocked out in 345 fights.

Finally, the book includes a focus on Connecticut place names and how they originated. For exampe, Dumpling Pond, in the town of Greenwich, has a rich history. When the British raided this section in 1779, they stopped at a gristmill and invited themselves to a meal of dumplings which the miller’s wife chanced to be making. Taking advantage of a lapse in their attention, she threw the dumplings into the mill pond, an act that is commemorated in the name.

Readers of this book also are encouraged to enjoy any of several name games, suggested on the inside covers, such as the finding of famous namesakes in the book.

The volume is published throughout the state of Connecticut in several different versions, in accordance with the needs and interests of the people of each area it is intended to serve. Its popularity is reflected in the fact that each of the first nine editions has been owned by more than three million readers in Connecticut alone. It has great practical value for everyone and is the kind of work which ought to be in every home.

To Connecticut residents this book is easily recognized and is widely known as The Book of Names. To most of the rest of us, it is known as our telephone directory. To my knowledge, it is the only telephone directory in the world which has been named and published in this manner. Although most of the above kinds of information sections were recently discontinued, the directory’s name remains unchanged and is worth noting if only for its uniqueness in an area of our day-to-day lives which generally is deemed uninteresting.

Gary S. Felton, Los Angeles, California

BIBLIOGRAPHIA: A Gardener’s Dictionary Of Plant Names

A. W. Smith, rev. and enlarged by William T. Stearn with J. L.L. Smith, (St. Martin’s Press, 1972), xii + 391pp.

Stearn’s credentials are impeccable: he is a botanist of the Natural History section of the British Museum, a doctor of science, a Fellow of the Linnaean Society, and author of the highly informative volume Botanical Latin. In revising the earlier work of A. W. Smith (a highly informed amateur), he was forced to be excruciatingly selective, for, since Linnaeus began the systematic description of plants in the 18th century, botanical nomenclature has expanded so drastically that its vocabulary includes more than a half-million items, half of them concerning the flowering plants gardeners attempt to raise. (This word list is so vast that not even Hortus III attempts to contain it all.) Dr. Stearn’s solution is elegant: he has chosen almost 6000 terms basic to even the most enterprising gardener, providing necessary etymologies and extremely clear but simple explanations. To aid a gardener new to the intricacies of botanical terminology, he has provided a remarkably clear but brief introduction explaining the necessity for a single international term for each plant family, genus, and species; in addition, he has classified the modes of plant-name origins beginning with those from pre-Christian Greece, illustrated the procedures involved in using binomial nomenclature, and added a brief grammar and syntax relating to the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature. His word list is so complete that a gardener meeting an unfamiliar botanical name (say, Maclura pomifera) can readily learn that it refers to a species of Osage orange (named after the American geologist William Maclure) that bears fruit as well as flowers.

The botanical-to-common section of the book, occupying the first 336 pages, is followed by a highly praiseworthy “Introduction to Vernacular Names,” a selective bibliography, and an index of 3000 vernacular names and botanical counterparts in parallel columns.

At this point, the usefulness of the volume declines precipitately for the American. Smith was an Englishman transplanted to American, and his experience was chiefly British; Stearn is also English. As a result, the vernacular names are almost exclusively British. The fault is probably Stearn’s; as a professional botanist, he cannot be expected to be at home in vernacular nomenclature.

Unfortunately, his list is not entirely useful even for British common names. Case in point: the genus Impatiens contains at least three species, all grown in both Britain and USA: Impatiens noli-tangere, known commonly in England and America as balsam and touch-me-not; Impatiens sultana and Impatiens holstii, known in England as dizzy Lizzy or busy Lizzie and in America (erroneously) as patient Lucy and patience. In both countries it is also referred to correctly as impatience and impatiens. The Smith/Stearn/Smith volume lists the first but omits balsam from the vernacular list. It does not mention the second and third species either botanically or vernacularly, despite their very strong popularity on both sides of the Atlantic. Ditto for Schlumbergera truncata (Thanksgiving cactus), Plectranthus australis (Swedish ivy), Senecio mikanioides (German ivy), etc.

If this analysis of the Smith/Stearn/Smith volume has a moral, it is this: publishers should not merely add a gardening title to their lists. St. Martin’s should realize, despite their English origins, that a book by an English botanist specifically stating that the volume “includes most of the genera… being cultivated in the British Isles, Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia” is hardly a book for most American gardeners.

Thus, until the first three parts of the Smith/Stearn/Smith volume are edited and reprinted with a thoroughly overhauled vernacular section, most avid American gardeners must still unhappily await the ideal botanical-to-common dictionary.

Howard G. Zettler, New Britain, Connecticut

Notes Found in Bottles

Deborah Wing

Location of find: The River Avon

Inscription:

“Finding that my mind is untrue, I admit impediment. So long.

—Dark Lady”

SIC! SIC! SIC!

A young woman in a shop, confused as to the meaning of ‘rough estimate,’ as the light finally broke: “Oh! You want a ball-point figure!” [Maxine Frosch Reingold, Houston, Texas].

Defile Your Records!

When one has been editing dictionaries for as long as I have, a condition of paranomastic fatigue sets in, and, as far as I know, there is no cure for it. It happens in many editorial offices: someone comes up with a weird sort of joke that has occurred to him while his mind was wandering through the organization of the materials he was working with. The next thing you know, the joke has become systematized into a game, and the entire staff—all language-oriented—is playing it. One such game was played at Newsweek in the mid-1940s, when I was employed there for a while in a capacity that I have tried to forget and that Newsweek has probably consigned to the dustbin. It consisted of translating popular English songs (literally) into French and German. “Ich werde dich warden in einem Taxi, Honig,” was originally “I’ll be down to get you in a taxi, Honey,” and “Y avait un gars. Un gars qui était tout bizarre” had been “There was a boy, A very strange, enchanted boy.” Since some of those songs had actually been translated for consumption abroad. I cannot any longer be certain which were our translations and which the “official” ones. But they were a lot of fun. The best collection I know of that treats a wide range of such translations is The Astonishment of Words, by Victor Proetz, which is one of the first and most popular books offered through the VERBATIM Book Club.

Other games—if they can be elevated to that status— abound: in VERBATIM [III,4] we featured a solitaire version described by Walter Kidney in “The Seating of Zotz.” One game focused on collecting bloopers made by fellow editors. The American College Dictionary, for example, defines yoheave-ho as, a cry that sailors give when heaving together. One editor on The Random House Dictionary (Unabridged), assigned to writing definitions of idioms and to the contrivance of example contexts had great difficulty in keeping the literal separated from the metaphoric. For get in on the ground floor, she gave the example, He heard they were building a new factory in the area and wanted to get in on the ground floor; for last straw, the example was The service in this restaurant has been bad before, but this is the last straw; and for give someone his head she wrote. She wanted to go to college out of town, so her parents gave her her head. If you were writing that stuff all day long, week in, week out, for months on end you might do worse. I imagine that Tom Swifties were invented in just such an atmosphere.

One of my favorites, though, was one of my own invention, and everyone is invited to play. It’s absurdly simple: If clergymen are unfrocked and lawyers are disbarred, how are members of these trades and professions to be got rid of? A few examples are given, with the answers printed upside down below.

electricians

carpenters

exhibitionists

vintners

mathematicians

wall flowers

mourners

Italian fascists

manicurists

florists

casting directors

prostitutes

alcoholics

pornographers

segregationists

swearers

reweavers

models

denominationalists

puzzle-makers

farmers

hairdressers

bankers

dry-cleaners

examiners

9th-century Scots

delighted

devised

debriefed

decanted

deciphered

decoyed

decried

deduced

defiled

deflowered

deformed

delayed

delivered

deluded

discolored

discussed

dispatched

disposed

dissected

dissolved

distilled

distressed

distrusted

depressed

detested

depicted

Laurence Urdang

Philip Howard on English English

Philip Howard

Little Englishers, stick-in-the-muds, and snobs grumble about American linguistic imperialism. They are foolish to do so. The United States are the linguistic melting-pot of our age. Most new English flows eastwards across the Atlantic, partly because so many people are speaking and writing the stuff over there, and partly because so much innovatory work that needs new jargon to describe it is done over there. American English is the principal source of new life for the language. It is not surprising that a certain amount of linguistic scum comes to the top of the pot that refines the bright new metals of slang, jargon, and other accretions to English. But of all languages English is a functional organism. If there is a need for the new English, it establishes itself. Slang and jargon that are merely fashionable cottonwool words rapidly become boring and fade away. Not many unnecessary Americanisms have established themselves. My learned and fastidious chief revise sub-editor asserts that the American word (and possibly also the virtue) of know-how are otiose as well as ugly. I am not persuaded that there is another way of saying precisely know-how.

Instead of grumbling about new Americanisms that time will prove to be either ephemeral or useful, for a change let us call for a new word that neither American nor British English has yet invented. We desperately need a word to mean ‘people who are living together but not married.’ The Social Services Correspondent of The Times (of London, which Americans will describe erroneously as The London Times) has attempted to introduce cohabitee, which is ugly as well as irregularly formed. The regular cohabitant is still a mouthful. Perhaps it might pass in written bureaucratese, but not in conversation: “Can I introduce you to my cohabitant?”

The Department of Health and Social Security has begun to recognize this linguistic deficiency. In its latest circular on the Cohabitation Rule it settles for ‘those living together as man and wife.’ Extreme feminists object to this on the grounds that it should be either ‘husband and wife’ or ‘man and woman’; and anyway, that it omits the possibility of homosexual partners, triolism, and other arrangements.

Friend, boy-friend, and girl-friend all deserve thumbs down for being intolerably coy euphemisms and for muddying the established meanings of those words. Consort is stuffy and has a ring of royalty in the United Kingdom. Lover and mistress, though fine words, do not convey that anybody is living with anybody else: on the contrary, they have connotations of romantic clandestinity. Leman is both arch and archaic. The French are starting to use compagnon for this meaning. But that is a genteel euphemism, and companion already has a useful meaning. At present the most straightforward way of describing the relationship is to say: “We live together.” We need a new noun for contexts where a clause will not fit. Is there an obsolete name for the partner of a clandestine marriage from the Middle Ages? If there were, could we revive it? It would be more sensible and more probable for the United States, our richest source of new English and new social customs, to bubble up a suitable new word for our tied tongues.

Allen Walker Read, Professor Emeritus of English, Columbia University, has reached into his extraordinary files—made the more so by virtue of his knowing everything that is in them—to extract the following by way of response and further illumination of “You know what I mean…” [V, 2]. It appeared in American Scholar, xix (Spring, 1950), 239, in “Under Whatever Sky,” a regular department written by Erwin Edman, Professor of Philosophy, Columbia University. Its title is “You Know What I Mean?,” (which, for this editor’s edification, ought to be subtitled, “There is nothing new under the sun”).

It has become a familiar locution in colloquial New York speech, especially among the not very literate, after the most obvious sentence, to add “You know what I mean?” with a wistful, rising inflection implying that between “buddies,” in the common brotherhood of men, among men who know their way around, explanations are unnecessary—and impossible. Thus, I have heard a taxi driver say, “I was just walking down the street; you know what I mean? I was going home and was going to stop for something to eat; you know what I mean?” …Is it perhaps a shrewd suspicion on the part of those not accustomed to elaborate speech that even the simplest experience can somehow not be communicated, and that even walking down the street or stopping for something to eat is not quite explicable or communicable in its fullness?

EPISTOLA {Richard Condon}

I suppose that even an octogenarian who has devoted, and continues to devote, his life to the exploration of the most fascinating by-ways of the English language cannot expect to be immune from adverse criticism, but I found your review of Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Catch Phrases unduly harsh. It gave little indication of the fun to be found between its covers.

Is his failure to give a snappy definition of a catch phrase really “vagueness?” For me he at least makes it clear what kind of thing he means by this elusive phrase; and surely anyone’s selection would look arbitrary to others, especially if it relied partly on information volunteered by those interested and helpful enough to correspond with the author.

I should like to comment on some of your specific complaints. Partridge does not say that “after you my dear Alphonse, etc.” is Canadian dating from 1959, merely that a Canadian contact told him in 1959 that the c.p. was used in Canada. Even if the phrase is much older, your “distinct impression” of its U.S. origin is hardly proof. More generally, your claims for the American origin of various phrases may or may not be true; my main conclusion is that more Americans should write to Partridge.

You may not consider “pop goes the weasel” very English. The fact remains that it is the last line of a nursery rhyme known to every English child containing specific references to places in London, with all respect to Arthur Fiedler. As for “Polly put the kettle on,” the nursery rhyme is still current, but the catch phrase is surely obsolescent or even obsolete. Having lived in England for 34 years (until last year) I have never heard “I’ll be Polly,” and as the father of a daughter called Polly I think I should have noticed it. Either you know some odd Britons, or you are mis-remembering the common “I’ll be mother,” omitted by Partridge but said when pouring tea.

It must be hard to write such a book as this without appearing idiosyncratic and eclectic, and even the friendliest reviewers have complained about omissions that seemed important to them. No doubt Partridge will take account of this and of any correspondence if and when he prepares a second edition. The fact remains that the apparently immortal author of the undeniably immortal Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English continues to delight his readers. He tries very hard not to be parochial (is it fair to ask that a book written in Britain should label “Briticisms” as well as Americanisms? would you expect an American author to label Americanisms?) and if he sometimes fails to be omniscient, let us hope that American (and other) readers will be tempted to help.

[Richard Condon, Rixensart, Belgium]

EPISTOLA {Tom Bagnal}

In response to Mr. Geoffrey Bocca’s piece [V, 1], it may have escaped Mr. Bocca’s attention that the sign reading “No Dogs Allowed” actually grants permission for dogs to congregate in the Post Office building. If one does not have a dog, it is allowed. The same is true of signs reading “No Smoking Allowed.” It is not smoking that is disallowed; it is no smoking that is allowed.

[Tom Bagnal, Mount Airy, North Carolina]

EPISTOLA {Donald Hawes}

At the risk of seeming over-pedantic, I must point out that the “binomial phrases” which Philip E. Hager lists so abundantly in VERBATIM [IV, 4] are not examples of hendiadys, as he implies. The definition in the Oxford English Dictionary indicates that a typical form of hendiadys is the “use of two substantives with and instead of an adjective and substantive.” Therefore, as Fowler’s Modern English Usage (revised edition, 1965) makes clear, one constituent of an hendiadys is subordinate to the other. Fowler’s examples include nice and warm, try and do better, and grace and favour, which can be used instead of nicely warm, try to do better and gracious favour. On the other hand, phrases excluded by Fowler from this figure of speech include assault and battery, might and main, toil and moil, and spick and span, all of which appear in Mr. Hager’s list. The term “Siamese twins” used in Modern English Usage is not, however, a happy one. Admittedly, some of the components of such phrases are indivisible (e.g., bits and pieces, on and on), but others can be decisively separated (e.g., flotsam and jetsam, thick and thin). Probably “binomial phrases” is the best description, despite mathematical connotations.

The article on “Siamese twins” in Modern English Usage mentions the Book of Common Prayer. One of its most prominent stylistic features is the use of phrases consisting of two synonyms (usually nouns or verbs). Here are examples taken from three parts of the Book: the Order for Morning Prayer, the Order for Evening Prayer, and the Order of the Ministration of the Holy Communion.

sins and wickedness; dissemble and cloke; assemble and meet together; requisite and necessary; pray and beseech; erred and strayed; declare and pronounce; pardoneth and absolveth; vanquish and overcome; joy and felicity; desires and petitions; acknowledge and confess; rest and quietness; perils and dangers; everlasting and infinite; rule and governance; dispose and turn; prayers and supplications; rightly and duly; comfort and succour; religiously and devoutly; food and sustenance; search and examine; [make] restitution and satisfaction; injuries and wrongs; counsel and advice; scruple and doubtfulness; try and examine; confirm and strengthen; offer and present.

There is a brief but searching discussion of this feature of the Book of Common Prayer in C.S. Lewis’s English Literature in the Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954), pp. 217-218. Lewis writes that “it has sometimes been supposed that the second word is added in order to explain the first to the unlearned, but this is a mistake. Sixteenth-century writers (including Cranmer himself in his Homilies) do sometimes add synonyms for this utilitarian purpose, but much more often they add them to adorn their style…. To ring the changes, wordum wrixlan, was as natural a delight to the men of that age as it had been to Virgil or the Anglo-Saxon scop.” Whatever the origin and purpose of the device, it certainly makes the prayers memorable, emphatic, and rhythmical—qualities essential for successful participation by the congregation in a religious service. It also demonstrates the rich resources of vocabulary in sixteenth-century English, sometimes making use in parallel of words derived from Latin and Anglo-Saxon roots, as in assemble and meet together, rightly and duly, and food and sustenance.

[Donald Hawes, Polytechnic of Central London].

EPISTOLA {Marvin Grosswirth}

Geoffrey Bocca’s article, “If It Isn’t In Writing…” [V, 1] was amusing, interesting, and I am afraid, a trifle biased. It may be that we become so accustomed to our native signs that we fail to recognize them as being particularly unusual. Still, some of my favorite recollections of signs are British in origin.

It has been several years since I have been to England, but I still remember the posters embellishing every store-front office of the British School of Motoring: “Good driving begins and ends here.” Nor can I forget the neatly hand-lettered sign in front of a lumber yard near the railway station in St. Albans: “When purchasing our fences, be sure to enquire about our erection service.”

As for official public notices, I would not have believed that New York could outdo London. Unfortunately, I cannot remember the precise wording of the London signs warning dogowners to watch their pet’s excretory habits. I do know that in New York, such signs say, simply: “Curb your dog.” In London, the signs carry a short essay about “persons in charge of animals that befoul the footway,” etc. The doors in New York subway cars carry the simple admonition: “Please keep hands off doors,” while the London Underground doors bear (or, if things have changed, bore) a legend about not interfering with the safe operation of the train. (In Paris, as I recall, the Metro cautions passengers not to interfere with the doors at the risk of dying.)

On a prophylactics vending machine in the Gents’ in a London pub was a sign reading: “Manufactured in accordance with British Standards,” under which someone scrawled: “So was the Titanic.”

I must confess, however, that my two favorite signs do appear in New York. A midtown taxidermist has a sign in his window reading: “Glass eyes for every occasion,” and a Madison Avenue costume jewelry shop announces: “Ears pierced while you wait.”

And then there are the little signs all over Amsterdam promoting a product called “Superglans.” It is, I am told, an automotive product. Still, wouldn’t it be nice if it were…. Well, never mind.

[Marvin Grosswirth, New York, New York].

EPISTOLA {Penn Melnick}

I recently found myself at a gathering of New York City school teachers and administrators. Not being in the field myself, I could sit back and listen to the conversation going on around me. I believe I heard a new use for an old word: “to grieve someone” in the active sense, meaning to cause a grievance to be filed against one’s supervisor. It is used principally in discussing Union procedures.

I took the trouble of checking with other teachers in the New York City system and found that this was an accepted use of this word.

[Penn Melnick, Putnam Valley, New York].

EPISTOLA {Maxey Brooke}

I am pleased to see that Mr. Price has seen fit to bring the sordid f situation into the open. It is high time the whole ugly story be told.

It starts some three thousand years ago when the letters were invented by the Phoenicians. Everyone knows this part of the story, how the arrangement of letters was named “alphabet” after the first two letters aleph, ‘ox’ and beth, ‘house.’

Less well known is that to the north, another letter arrangement was used by the inventors of the runes. The first three letters were f for feoh, ‘money’; u for ur, ‘aurochs’; and þ for ‘thorh.’ Hence the letter collection was known as futhark, futhark, futhorc, or futhork.

As the alphabet moved north and the futhark moved south, it was inevitable that they meet. And that meeting was a violent conflict. With the full force of the Holy Roman Empire behind it, the alphabet was an easy winner. And the alphabet was a vindictive victor. It was not content with merely winning, it tried to utterly destroy futhark.

The net result was that f was relegated to the inferior position described by Mr. Price. If you check, you will find that u is an equally unsavory letter and þ has completely disappeared as a letter.

sic transit….

[Maxey Brooke, Sweeney, Texas].

EPISTOLA {Dorothy Willey}

Bruce D. Price’s “A Metalinguistic Inquiry into F” [V,1] deserves “A Forensic Inquiry into M.” His disquisition on the unpleasant attributes of many F-beginning words, while discerning and amusing, was also irritating. His category of pejorative F-words seems endless. No real quarrel with that. But he has the gall to arbitrarily assign the word female and the characteristic feminine to the entire negative syndrome he projects regarding F, with no explanation why female doesn’t rate inclusion in his brief list of positive or “good” F-words. Well, thanks a lot!

Baloney! The words female and feminine are among those which add grace and balance to the whole batch of F-words.

Why not a brief foray into M-beginning words? Frankly, M-words are pretty ho-hum, in the main, with plenty of them falling into both “good” and “bad” categories. But one could just as arbitrarily assign male and masculine to a category of nasty M-beginning words, as he did female to his pejorative list of F-words.

Here are lists of some F and M words. Who can say whether female or male would properly fit either group? Chauvinists, either male or female, might have opposite viewpoints.

F
fair ball (to counter Price’s “foul ball”
faithful
family
father
felicitous
FEMALE
FEMININE
festive
fidelity
fine
flamingo
flavorful
flower
fondant
football
fortuitous
forthright
fragrant
free
fresh
frolic
fruitful
fullbodied
funny

M
measles
mace
Machiavellian
MACHO
maladjusted
malignant
MALE
MAN
maniac
manipulate
mawkish
mean
mediocre
melancholy
menace
miasma
migraine
misanthrope
misery
mooch
moody
morbid
mouldy
murder

How about them apples? (As in tooty-FRUITY).

[Dorothy Willey, Oak Park, Illinois].

EPISTOLA {David B. Guralnik}

In your critique of Kister’s Dictionary Buying Guide [V,1], you cite his quotation of something I said in a published talk of 1953, which was reprinted in toto in 1977. My talk, given just after the publication of WNWD, was meant to explain our practices and principles, one of which was at that time (for better or worse) to supply definitions for all terms entered and to enter only those terms whose frequency of occurrence or orthographic irregularity seemed to demand their inclusion. (Incidentally, flavorfully and flatterer have never appeared as headwords in any of our dictionaries, and I cannot imagine why you would say they have.) Since, in 1953, our major competitor had a far lower vocabulary count than our own—c. 130,000 vs. 142,000—we felt no need to pad the figure with such entries or run-ins as mythologization or permeableness, as in, for example, The Random House College Dictionary. There was no “propaganda” intended in my comment. It was an honest explanation of some prevailing practices.

In the preparation of our Second College Edition, the necessary increase in our basic vocabulary list coupled with the increases in the costs of paper and production forced us to a reconsideration, and we decided to include as run-ins terms that were both self-evident and in relatively common use. We have still managed to eschew the permutableness’s and torturingly’s of some dictionaries.

In any case, as you are surely familiar with the current dictionary, it is disingenuous of you to put your description of our earlier practices in the present tense (and with the fabricated flavorfully and flatterer yet) and then accuse me of “propaganda.”

[David B. Guralnik, Collins + World].

Crossword Puzzle

Across

1. Alacrity’s needed to conceal such knavery. (9)
2. Hair-raising thrills. (5)
3. A hard day’s work at the stud farm. (6, 8)
4. Count rats among the traitors. (9)
5. An affair in the awkard age, all for love. (5)
6. There’s a gentle stir in return to former position. (10)
7. Get one’s back up, like a very uncool cat. (4)
8. A frame easy to see through. (4)
9. Darling red card to complete that flush. (10)
10. Jump to be safe. (5)
11. Being laid back with a bad press results in removal. (9)
12. Tendered no blue insinuation? Vice versa. (6, 8)
13. Flavor found in sea of ouzo. (5)
14. For all its faults, these pipers love their instrument. (9)

Down

1. Grows weary at the end, changing these shoes. (4, 5)
12. Separates when caught in undress. (7)
16. Rod’s ideas come at the curbs. (9)
2. Is in dire straits with the caustic comedians. (9)
17. Lie, among various others, in their guest rooms. (9)
3. Plump for a lawyer. (8)
4. Enjoyment at no cost. (5)
18. Is Tess here in her finest? (8)
6. Song about a bad guy in a bucolic setting. (7)
20. Quit with panache. (7)
21. Delays in the criminal proceedings. (7)
7. Tragic’s the word for stomach upset. (7)
25. Perfect statement, from the cardsharp’s point of view. (5)
8. Lady with nothing to wear. (3)
11. Let everybody wed without a ring. (7)
26. Work with veneer. (3)

Crossword Puzzle

Answers

Across

1. RASCALITY
5. Bangs
9. Active services
10. TURNCOATS
13. A-do-RE
14. r-E-s-E-t-TL-i-NG
15. Arch
19. Sash
22. Sweet-heart
23. Vault
24. DI-spers-AL
27. D-o-UBLE E-n-TENDRE
28. A-ni-SE
29. FLAUT-ist-S

Down

1. Rear tires
2. SATIR-is-TS
3. Advocate
4. Treat
6. AR-cad-IA
7. GASTRIC
8. Eve
11. all-O-wed
12. SUNDERS
16. RO-a-DS-ides
17. HOTE-lie-RS
18. S-heer-EST
20. Abandon
21. Holdups
25. I-deal
26. Ply

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