Category: Words Words Words

Bernd Brunner, in his Bears: A Brief History (trans. Lori Lantz), introduces the denizen of the Appalachian woods as the American Black Bear (Ursus americanus) with the synonym baribal, a term unknown to me. Furthermore, as a 1982 query by A. Richard Diebold, Jr. indicates, it’s not at all clear where this word came from. Folk etymology suggests a loanword from a Native American language, but Diebold could find no evidence for this claim.

Via Leta’s Day, according to this codebook for telegraphic communication, my birthday is Attitle. What an interesting 19th-century word list: obsolete legalisms, iconographic terms, spelling bee words not borrowed from the Italian, all mingled with the mundane.

Chapter IV of Absalom, Absalom! repeats the word durance several times, as in the passage, “…Henry waited four years, holding the three of them in that abeyance, that durance, waiting, hoping, for Bon to renounce…” It doesn’t quite mean the way it looks. My Compact Oxford glosses it as “archaic imprisonment (in durance vile),” but yet there is an etymologic connection to durable and one of Bill’s favorite words, endure.

Sutpen’s adjunctive (ch. VII, “when he repudiated that first wife and that child when he discovered that they would not be adjunctive to the forwarding of the design”) is also in the desktop dictionaries, but only as a related form to the main entry, and adjectival form of another adjective, not unlike his own attitude to spouse and spawn.

Doggery is clear from context (ch. VII, “doggeries and taverns now become hamlets, hamlets now become villages, villages now towns”), yet only turns up in American Heritage as “dogs, collectively.” Merriam-Webster adds the more apposite slang definition, “cheap saloon.”

Joe Palca has a great job: he gets to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull on air. Mark Liberman checks off various presenters’ runs at the tricksy Icelandic volcano’s name.

Language Log contributor Geoff Nunberg explores new crannies of curmudgeonliness. My kind of guy:

I have this notion that “gingerly” shouldn’t be used as an adverb, as in, “She hugged the child gingerly,” because there’s no corresponding adjective “ginger” — you wouldn’t say, “She gave the child a ginger hug.” I’ll concede that “gingerly” has been used as an adverb for 400 years, and nobody’s ever complained about it before. But so much the better: Every time I see the word used as an adverb, I can take a quiet satisfaction in knowing that I’m marching to a more logical drummer than the half-billion other speakers of English who haven’t yet cottoned to the problem.

Now let me explain how to pronounce the names of the years of this past decade…

At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below the level of the street—a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed’s mind—seated in two black horse-hair porter’s chairs, one in each side of the fireplace, the superannuated Mr and Mrs Smallweed wile away the rosy hours.

—Bleak House, ch. 21, p. 343

Wile away: eggcorn or no? Arnold Zwicky isn’t so sure. My edition is merely the 1971 Penguin paperback, and doesn’t offer any editorial suggestions about Dickens’ intentions. There are many versions of the book online that amend the phrase to the more widely accepted while away.

In chapter 38, Mr. Guppy is hypermeticulously securing an oral witness (Caroline) to a renunciation of a marriage proposal:

‘Married woman, I believe?’ said Mr Guppy. ‘Married woman. Thank you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn, within the City of London, but extraparochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford Street. Much obliged.’ (p. 602)

A dictionary and some thought gives us extraparochial as “outside of any church parish.” So before she married Turveydrop, Caroline lived in a place within the City that was not part of any parish. But the connotations of this term run deeper, when we consider Dickens’ (who composed Bleak House in the early 1850s) steady theme of providing for the poor. A UK government guide to 19th century census reports elaborates:

Besides parishes, with their tythings or townships and chapelries, there were also many places in England and Wales not contained in the limits of any parish. These extra-parochial places had inherited an independence by which they enjoyed virtual exemption from taxation; from maintaining the poor, since there was no Overseer on whom a Magistrate’s Order could be served; from the Militia Laws because there was no Constable to make returns; and from repairing the highways, because there was no official surveyor….

In 1857 the peculiar privileges enjoyed by extra-parochial places were curtailed under an Act ‘to provide for the Relief of the Poor in Extra-Parochial Places’ which decreed that places named extra-parochial in the 1851 Census report were to be deemed parishes for this purpose and to have Overseers appointed for them by the Justices of the Peace. In the case of extra-parochial places covering a very small piece of land, the place was annexed to an adjoining parish, if the consent of the owners and occupiers of two-thirds in value of the land was forthcoming. Special provision was made for the particular cases of the places in London termed the Inner Temple, the Middle Temple and Gray’s Inn where the officer acting for the time being as Under Treasurer, and the Registrar in Charterhouse were appointed Overseers. This act did not apply to places not specified as extra-parochial in the census reports. In these cases the act was merely permissive and, therefore, largely inoperative. In a later Act of 1868 it was declared that every extra-parochial place existing on 25 December 1868, should be added to the next adjoining civil parish which had the longest common boundary. In spite of these acts there are still some places in England and Wales which are extra-parochial from civil parishes. They are all islands or lighthouses which were probably overlooked in the act since they were not contiguous with any parish and, therefore, could not be added to any. There are also still many extra-parochial places from ecclesiastical parishes which enjoy special privileges under Church laws or custom.

Yes, I’m a little woozy after reading that, too. According to a Wikipedia article stub, certain places in the City are yet today considered extraparochial. Something to do with the Knights Templar, ’nuff said.

Kinbote writes of dialling 11111 to summon first responders to the scene of the shooting (“I then dialled 11111 and returned with a glass of water to the scene of the carnage,” Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire, note to line 1000). At the time of these events, various countries were beginning to adopt 3-digit emergency telephone numbers, following the lead of Britain’s 999. New Zealand introduced a 111 emergency number in 1958; the year before, California rolled out a ZEnith 1-2000 (presumably one asked for rather than dialled this number, since Z is not assigned a digit on the telephone dial); Australia adopted 000 in 1961. Use of 11111 for emergency purposes is undocumented, as far as my searches go.

Old World/New World: “…the disguised king’s arrival in America where he descended by parachute from a chartered plane piloted by Colonel Montacute, in a field of hay-feverish, rank-flowering weeds, near Baltimore whose oriole is not an oriole.” (note to line 691) As is often the case, a New World family of birds (the black and yellow Icteridae, “jaundiced ones”) is not closely related to its Old World namesake, in this case the orioles, family Oriolidae.

Nabokov appears to have introduced two coinages in the book, one by Shade (“And that odd muse of mine,/My versipel, is with me everywhere,/In carrel and in car, and in my chair.” [ll. 946-948]) and one by Kinbote (“The Shades were out, said the cheeky ancillula, an obnoxious little fan who came to cook for them on Sundays and no doubt dreamt of getting the old poet to cuddle her some wifeless day.” [note to line 802]). Versipel is glossed as a back-formation from versipellous, “changeable; protean; having a form, nature or appearance that changes often.” Ancillula is from the Latin, and is a diminutive of ancilla, “handmaid.”

11D points to a round-up of recommendations on the whats and the hows of purging books from your library. I’ve been promising that I will get rid of back issues of IEEE journals (I have a digital subscription as backup), and the minor water damage I incurred after the big December snowstorm will make that finally happen. What other useless space-fillers do I have downstairs?

In the course of tracking down some of the more obscure vocabulary in Blood Meridian (obscure, unless you’re a Scots-descended horseman living in what is now the American Southwest), I ran across the interesting word scantlin or scantling (“I got busted in the head with a scantlin,” chap. III, p. 32 in the Modern Library edition). It refers to a timber used for framing a house or a ship, like a 2×4, and is often used in the plural. It has several other older senses, reaching back to its derivation from scantillon, jumping from the French échantillon, with senses of “a sample” or “a measuring rod.” But of course the confusion with scant is all too easy, and one proceeds with caution in tracing its etymology.

Slear (“Climbing up through ocotillo and pricklypear where the rocks trembled and sleared in the sun…”, chap. V, p. 62) does not show up in my printed references, but there are online uses of slearing as a industrial process performed on coiled metals. Perhaps a portmanteau of shear and slit? And is this the sense that Cormac McCarthy had in mind?

I’m a little disappointed with the notes to the LOA edition of The Beautiful and Damned. We get no help with “a seidel of beer” (p. 516) (nothing more complicated than a drinking glass, but still); most of the song lyrics are glossed, but not “Out in—the shimmee sanitarium…” (p. 784). And, most significantly, nothing on Bilphist and Bilphism (pp. 475 and passim), apparently a brand of spiritualism of Fitzgerald’s own invention.

However, a trip to the dictionary was worth it for this sentence. The Patches have come down in the world:

Anthony lay upon the lounge looking up One Hundred and Twenty-Seventh Street toward the river, near which he could just see a single patch of vivid green trees that guaranteed the brummagem umbrageousness of Riverside Drive. (“No Matter!”, p. 760)

Brummagem, a Menckenesque “cheap and showy; meretricious.” Umbrageousness here doesn’t mean what you think, but rather the property of “affording shade”. Coleridge has “A chestnut spread its umbrage wide.”

I have yet to make much of this passage in A Peculiar Treasure:

One of my delights was to have [Grandpa Neumann] take me on his knee and tell me stories of Edelvard and Kunigunda. (p. 25)

I suspect that the personages were Neumann’s own invention.

Tracking down Cutler-Hammer, to which Edna Ferber refers as an important employer in the upper Midwest, is much easier. Although the electrical and electronic products supplier was acquired by Eaton Corp. in 1978, the brand maintains an identity, albeit diminished, to this day.

Although I am defeated (as many others before me) by Edna Ferber’s “The schnuckle among the nations of the world,” (A Peculiar Treasure, p. 10), Leo Rosten’s The Joys of Yiddish gives some guidance on the following:

It was Alexander Woollcott who acted as schatchen in the marriage between the novel entitled Show Boat and the music of Jerome Kern. (p. 304)

Rosten has:

schadchen

1. A professsional matchmaker
2. Anyone who brings together, introduces, or maneuvers a man and woman into a meeting that results in a wedding.

And, indeed, context explains this one. Woollcott and Ferber, attending an opening together, are hanging out at intermission, in different parts of the lobby, when Woollcott is accosted ever so gently by Kern:

“Look, Aleck, I hear you are a friend of Edna Ferber. I wonder if you’ll kind of fix it for me to meet her. I want to talk to her about letting me make a musical from her Show Boat. Can you arrange an introduction or a meeting or something?”

Mr. Woollcott, with a dreadful relish for the dramatic plum which had thus fallen into his lap (if any), said, musingly, “M-m-m, well, I think I can just arrange it if I play my cards right.”

“Thanks,” said Kern. “Thanks awfully, Aleck, I’ll be—”

Woollcott now raised his voice to a bellow: “Ferber! Hi, Ferber! Come on over here a minute.” Then, “This is Jerome Kern. Edna Ferber.”