The Lost Words E-Book

Pete May

• Herausgeber: The Robson Press
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 137

Beschreibung

Philip Howard's legendary 'Lost Words' column has been appearing weekly in The Times for many years, wittily illuminating a raft of the most obscure, esoteric words the English language has to offer. At the same time, his 'Word Watching' puzzles have provided readers with the chance to pit their lexicographical skill against his tongue-in-cheek multiple-choice conundrums. This unique collection, bringing together the very best of all these, is a feast for word lovers. Here we can lament the disappearance of words like 'accismus' (an insincere and feigned refusal of something that is earnestly desired), and wonder why we ever thought we could do without 'zoilus' (a censorious, malignant or envious critic). And, once we have completed our journey through the dictionary entries time has forgotten, there's more fun to be had, as we ponder whether having a 'tirrit' means one is in possession of a trumpet, throwing a fit or the proud owner of a type of bird, and if the charge of being 'spissid' is a comment on one's girth, sobriety or resemblance to a javelin, either literal or metaphorical. Endlessly fascinating, Lost Words continues Philip Howard's amusing and informative tour of words that enrich the English language and would otherwise have been lost forever.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title Page

Introduction

A

B

C

D

E

F

G

H

I

J

K

L

M

N

O

P

Q

R

S

T

U

V

Z

Word Watching

Acknowledgements

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Some words are born lost: ‘floccinaucinihilipilification’, for OOOOONE (big one). Some achieve loss: ‘vambrace’ from armoury, and ‘topgallant’ and ‘mizzen-mast’ (think Nelson’s navy). And some have loss thrust upon them: ‘Doodlebug’ was the jocular euphemism for the first German flying bombs in the 1939–45 war. By giving droning death a silly name, the victims hoped to disarm its terror. But Doodlebugs have been replaced in the vocabulary by nastier terrors from the sky.

It is a guess universally acknowledged that English has the largest word-list in the world. This is because it is the mongrel language, composed not just from Latin and Teutonic, but also languages from all the countries that were once coloured pink on the atlas, and some of those that weren’t, from the Round Earth’s imagin’d corners. ‘Jungle’ and ‘bungalow’ came into our ‘Mother Tongue’ from Hindi; ‘sauna’ from Finnish; ‘kimono’ and ‘bonsai’ (bowl or tray cultivation) from Japanese.

So we dispute how many words there are in English. It depends on what you count as a word. Each word is surrounded by a penumbra of inflected forms, cognates, relations, separate senses and compounds. Dog is a word. But are dogs and dogged separate ‘words’? Is ‘dog tired’ two words or one? Is ‘saccharomyces cererisiae’ – the formal name for bread yeast – one word, two words, or a pain in the word-box (though it shows that Latin is still the base for about three-quarters of the English vocabulary)? The word ‘set’ in the Oxford English Dictionary is given forty-seven separate senses and more than 60,000 words of definition.

Take in regional variations, slang, dialects, names, eponyms, toponyms, acronyms (abbreviations that can be pronounced, like Nato) and initialisms (that do not make pronounceable words, like GB), and polysyllabic medical compounds (syncytiotrophoblontic, holoprosencephaly), and some say that English has a vocabulary of a million words.

On one count, this must be an underestimate. There is a word for each number. And since numbers are infinite (on some counts), the words for naming them must also be infinite. Local dialect and slang is as uncountable as the laughter of the waves of the sea. The humble woodlouse has many local names in Britain: higgy-hog, cheeselog, pill bug, chiggy pig, rolypoly and lice unrecorded on paper … Each generation and group of children invent private jargons and slang to keep out adults.

At least we can count the number of words in a particular person’s vocabulary.

Semantic psychologists assert that an American sixteen-year-old has on average a vocab of 10,000–12,000 words; and that a graduate has between 20,000 and 25,000. Look at such averages through narrowed eyes.

We should distinguish between active and passive vocabulary. Active are the words we actually use. Passive are potential words that lie dormant in our semantic lockers, such as ‘-gate’, the much overused suffix from Watergate, and ‘-phobia’, as in ‘Europhobia’, which can mean hatred either of Europe or of its currency – or, in Australia, of a wallaroo, a large kangaroo. We hope that such clichés, as with ‘Budgetgate’, ‘explore every avenue’ and ‘leave no stone unturned’ will become laughing stocks and die of shame. But they don’t.

At least we can count a particular text. Or can we? Take Shakespeare. Bean-counters have calculated that Shakespeare uses 884,647 words in 29,066 distinct forms, including proper names. But what counts as a distinct word?

We all create the language, not just Shakespeare, professors, schoolmistresses and Noam Chomsky. Language is the only true democracy. Pop songs and advertising slogans do more than Milton can to justify semantic creation to man. Children continually create their own jargon: note how ‘wicked’ has come to mean ‘super-duper-doli-dacious’ on the playground. We all remake the meanings of words to suit our contemporary purposes.

Observe the rambling career of the little adjective ‘nice’. It came into English from the Latin nescius, ignorant, ‘not-knowing’. After several metamorphoses, it came to mean something like ‘precise’ for males and, in the male chauvinist bias of language, ‘fast, immoral, lascivious’ for women. By the Victorian era it had turned into a genteel term of commendation. Now it has changed its colours again, to mean something like ‘nasty’. ‘You’re a nice friend, I must say,’ is no longer a hurrah-phrase. Au contraire. On another note, ‘silly’ originally meant ‘holy’.

All languages are continually changing and growing, unless they are truly dead languages, such as Aztec and the runes of Old English. Panta rhei – eveything is in a state of flux; especially English.

In such a state, does it make sense to revive lost words? Words fade away when nobody uses them anymore. They become literally ‘useless’. Is it not, therefore, a work of supererogation to try to revive ‘lost’ words? Are we not grave-robbers of the language, who will dig up only corpses?

Well, to an extent, Karl Popper. But some words are not dead, but merely sleeping. And some of them express a meaning more precisely than any possible synonym.

In fact, there are no exact synonyms. Gorse, furze and whin name the same prickly plant with yellow flowers into which it is a pain to fall or hit your golf ball, but they each have a long trail of individual connections, connotations and regional references. Some sleeping words are interesting, amusing and even useful.

Take, for example, ‘quaresimal’. It is used to describe a meal as meagre, skimpy, austere, having the qualities of inadequate (fasting, hungry) grub. It is an adaptation of the Italian word for Lenten. James Joyce, intoxicated with the labyrinths of his verbosity, in a letter of 1923 wrote: ‘Can we not have a quaresimal dinner somewhere together?’ Showing off? Of course. But ‘quaresimal’ is a more satisfying word to get one’s mouth around than Lenten or stingy.

We should speak English in a common denominator pronunciation to our fellow-speakers, as far as possible. To talk posh or Mockney is irritating. That is why we have invented Estuary Speak, as a jocular neutral pronunciation. But we should collect the largest vocabulary that we can. It is a sign of education, interest and pleasure. A wide and various word-store is a mark of a civilised human being. And ‘civilised’ is a word that merits inspection. Non? The following words are not lost, but dormant. Here are some more sleeping words that are worth a whistle.

ACCISMUS

Pronounce: ‘Back this mouse.’ An insincere and feigned refusal of something that is earnestly desired. An old term of rhetoric. Adaptation of the Ancient Greek word for coyness or affectation.

Chambers, 1753: ‘Cromwell’s refusal of the crown may be brought as an example of an Accismus.’

Richter’s Levana, 1876: ‘A woman uses no figure of eloquence – her own, at most, excepted – so often as that of accismus.’

This narrow psychological term is often appropriate to the English, out of politeness, genteelism, hypermodesty or unselfishness. It merits revival for its precision, provided by no other word.

As in: ‘No, please, I really would like YOU to have the last éclair.’

ACNESTIS

That part of the back between the shoulder blade and the bum (loins) that an animal cannot reach in order to scratch. Adapted from the Greek for the spine or backbone.

The Observer, 1927: ‘That spot known to crossword-solvers as the acnestis.’

I admit that opportunities to use this word will be rare outside the crossword, but it explains why your dog rolls on the ground in apparent ecstasy. And it is a critical example of onomatomania, ‘word-madness’, or intense mental anguish at the inability to recall some word or to name a thing. We all suffer from it.

As in: ‘Dear girl: please take this scratcher – what is the damn thing called? Damn onomatomania – and apply it to my acnestis.’

AGERASIA

The quality of not growing old. The non-appearance of the signs of age. A green old age. From the Greek for eternal youth: a-, privative, and geeras, old age.

Leo H. Grindon, Life; Its Nature, Varieties and Phenomena, 1863: ‘Agerasia belongs only to the soul: this alone lives in perpetuity of youth.’

There are many words in English that have a similar meaning to agerasia, but this is the only one that I can find that does not carry pejorative implications and connotations of immaturity and childishness. Therefore worth reviving as a hurrah pro-word.

As in: ‘Your agerasia, Isabel, is a consequence of the eternally questing spirit of Thetis, and interest in others.’

AGRESTIC

Countrified. Of or pertaining to the country. Rural, rustic. Hence (unkindly) uncouth. Pronounce to rhyme with ‘majestic’. From Latin ager, agrum, a field. Cf. ‘domestic’, and, for formation, ‘forensic’.

Words were mostly coined and changed by city slickers, who took a snobbish view of their agrestic roots. This is part of the stock battle between town and country, which has been fought since Confucius, Theocritus and Horace. Horace was lyrical about the agrestic charms of his Sabine farm but his lyrics were performed in the big city.

Evelyn in Pepys’ Diary, 1703: ‘He has his time for his agrestic flute.’

Disraeli, Endymion, 1880: ‘A delightful ramble to some spot of agrestic charm.’

As the country is increasingly buried beneath concrete and asphalt, we need to preserve the countryside in the lexicon if we cannot manage it on the ground.

As in: ‘Shall we pack the picnic, Myrtle? I have agrestic urges this fine morning.’

APODICTIC

Incontrovertible. Of clear demonstration. Established on incontrovertible evidence. Rhymes with ‘Slap on Pritt Stick’. From the Greek apodeiknunai, to show off, demonstrate, via Latin. The analogical spelling is -dict-.

Coleridge, 1816: ‘In the heights of geometry there exist truths of apodictic force in reason, which the mere understanding strives in vain to comprehend.’

Right on, Samuel Comberbache, when it comes to the centre of inversion of circles. Aaargh!

Sir Thomas Urquhart, ‘Ekskubalauron, or the discovery of a most exquisite jewel’, 1652: ‘This apodictick course to infer consequences from infallible maximes.’

This is a philosopher’s word, favoured by moralists such as Kant. It is shorter and neater than incontrovertible.

As in: ‘It is as apodictic as two plus two equals four that you are not suited to become a nurse, Doris.’

ASPECTABUND

Expressive in the face. Showing one’s feelings as an extravert. Rhyme, approximately, with ‘Your specs are found’. After the Latin lacrimabundus, weeping, osculabundus, kissing, moribundus, dying: -bundus creates a verbal adjective with an active force.

So aspectabund means exhibiting one’s aspect or feelings.

J. Downes, ‘Roscius Anglicus’, 1708: ‘On the Stage, he’s very Aspectabund, wearing a Farce in his Face.’

Wearing one’s feelings on one’s face can be as dodgy as wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve. But in general we prefer faces that are open and expressive to those that are closed and secretive.

Aspectabund describes a quality that is good for actors and pop singers, not so good for spies and bankers.

As cosmetic procedures continue to work their magic, perhaps the very notion of having an expressive face will soon be forgotten. Meanwhile, let’s hear it for aspectabund.

As in: ‘You do not need to wag your tail and bark at me, you aspectabund hound, Alfie. I am aware that it is your dinnertime. Here. Good boy.’

BALAAMITE

Somebody who is avariciously religious for the sake of financial gain, for example televangelists in the American South and peccant Presbies in Ulster. Rhyme, approximately, with ‘Hail ’em right’.

Milton, 1648: ‘God hath so dispos’d the mouth of these Balaams, that coming to Curse, they have stumbled into a kind of Blessing.’

Balaam was the prophet sent by the Warlord of Moab to parley with the Israelites in order to curse them. An angel bars his road. Donkey shies. Balaam falls, sprains his ankle and curses his poor moke. The donkey speaks back. So Balaam praises the Israelites instead of cursing them.

Later the Israelites killed him, a piece of monstrous ingratitude for which the Old Testament offers no explanation or excuse. Unfortunately, by II Peter ii:15, the anthropomokey story is revised, and Balaam is portrayed simply as a greedy bastard.

As in: ‘Politicians as well as priests can be Balaamites, Tom.’

BAYARD

Somebody who has the self-confidence of ignorance. One blind to the light of knowledge.

Originally this meant a bay-coloured horse, and, specifically, the bay-coloured magic steed given by Charlemagne to Renaud, one of the four sons of Aimon, famous in medieval romance. Hence, a kind of mock-heroic allusive name for any horse; cf. the occasional use of Rosinante, Pegasus, Bucephalus.

Isaac Barrow, sermon, 1677: ‘The bold and blind Bayards (who usually out of self-conceit are so exceedingly confident of their election and salvation).’

The progress from a bay-coloured horse to a conceited horse’s arse is obscure, but popular proverbs and phrases converted ‘bayard’ to blindness or blind recklessness.

1630: ‘As boldly as blind bayard rusheth into battle.’

This horsey epithet is a useful learned put-down for such tiresome prats.

As in: ‘I congratulate you on your speech, Charles; you are a true bayard of debate.’

BOUFFAGE

An enjoyable or satisfying meal. Adoption of the Old French word. Rhyme, approximately, with ‘You’re large’.

Randle Cotgrave, in his French–English dictionary of 1611, defined it as: ‘Any meat that (eaten greedily) fills the mouth and makes the cheeks to swell; cheek-puffing meat.’ In other words, a blow-out.

Sir Thomas Browne, ‘Letter to a Friend’, 1672: ‘His inwards and flesh remaining could make no bouffage, but a light bit for the grave.’

This gutsy old word may be of less use in these sad days of salad and weight-watching than it was in the merry old England of roast beef and beer and pies, but it can still come in handy when taking small boys out for a treat.

As in: ‘To celebrate your victory over Sedbergh, Harry, let us have a team outing for a bouffage at Joan’s Kitchen.’

CACHINNATOR

Somebody who laughs too loud and too much. Adaptation of the Latin cachinnare, to laugh loudly or immoderately. Compare and contrast ‘agelastic’ and ‘hypergelast’.

Robert Chambers, Wheesht, 1800: ‘They mark a cachinnator as a man to be avoided.’

There are fewer of these noisy pests among us than we suppose; because their parents presumably strangled them at an early age. There is no other word that fills this precise hole in the vocabulary: laugher, smiler, chortler, chuckler, shrieker? They don’t quite do it, do they?

Note the cognates.

Robert Browning, The Ring and the Book, 1868: ‘He moved to mirth and cachinnation all.’

Nathaniel Hawthorne, Moses, 1846: ‘Which threatened death on the slightest cachinnatory indulgence.’

Laughter is a blessing. But not when it comes from a hyena. This useful lost word fills a hole in the lexicon, e.g., to describe the hysterical crowd laughter at some crude comedians.

As in: ‘I agree that he is funny, but we must take care not to annoy others by becoming cachinnators. Non?’

CHARIENTISM

A rhetorical term to describe saying a disgreeable thing in an agreeable way. Adaptation of the Greek word for gracefulness of style, by way of Latin and French.

George Puttenham, Elizabethan scribbler, The Arte of English Poesie, 1589: ‘The Greeks call it charientismus.’

Puttenham defines and illustrates figures of speech, and suggests vulgar names for Greek and Latin originals, e.g., ‘single supply, ringleader, and middlemarcher’ (zeugma, prozeugma and mezozeugma).

The British Apollo, 1709: ‘A Charientism is that Species of an Irony, which couches a Disagreeable Sense under Agreeable Expressions.’

As in: ‘You have delighted us long enough with your piano-playing, Mary.’

CHRESTOMATHIC

Devoted to the learning of useful matters. From the Greek for learning useful things, by way of French. ‘Chrestomathy’, the noun, means a collection of choice passages from an author or authors, especially one compiled to assist in the acquisition of a language.

Southey, The Doctor, 1834–37: ‘Which the said Jeremy [Bentham] proposes should form part of the course of studies in his Chrestomathic school.’

But what are useful matters? For some it is how to solve simultaneous quadratic equations or how to darn a hole in a sock; for others it is how to predict the winner in the 2.30 at Ascot.

As in: ‘I can see that it is fiddly fun, but is philately seriously chrestomathic?’