Advertising slogan for the Apple II computer (1977), often hilariously misattributed to Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519)
In my previous post about ultima Thule, I traced the strange history of the Greek name Thule, and how it came to be associated with the Latin adjective ultima, meaning “far” or “farthest”. In this post I’m going to write about the etymological associations of ultima.
Ultima is the feminine form of Latin ultimus, which was not only used to mean “farthest”, but also to convey related ideas like “last”, “latest” and “utmost”. As well as doing service in the name ultima Thule, ultima also appears in the rarely used Latin tag, ultima ratio—literally, “ultimate judgement”, but used with the meanings “final sanction” or “last resort”. It has also mutated into an English noun, ultima, a technical term for the final syllable of a word, derived as a shortened form of the Latin ultima syllaba.
Something ultimate is the final (and presumably best) version; it is an ultimity—and ultimacy is the state of being ultimate. The verb to ultimate means to carry something through to a final resolution; something ultimative tends to produce a final resolution; and ultimation is the process by which that final resolution is reached. An ultimatum is the final part of something—but it has come to mean the final position in an argument, beyond which no further negotiation is possible. Ultimogeniture is a mode of succession in which the inheritance goes to the last-born of a family—it’s the opposite of primogeniture, in which inheritance goes to the first-born.
The ablative case of ultimus is ultimo—so ultimo die means “in the last day”. To designate the last day of a particular month, English speakers took to writing a short form—”ultimo July” or “ultimo December”. But by the eighteenth century ultimo came to be understood as “in the most recent month”, and people would refer to “your letter dated 22nd ultimo“, meaning “the letter you wrote to me on the 22nd of last month”. That was often contracted farther to “yours of the 22nd ult.“—an expression that crops up in Victorian novels to generally confusing effect for the modern reader.
The penultima (from Latin pænultima, “almost ultimate”) is the second-last syllable of a word. In the days when the ultimo was the last day of a month, the penult was the second-last day. But now penult is used to designate the last-but-one member of any sequence—the penultimate member, in other words. The word penultimatum is humorously contrived, designating something that is either just short of being an ultimatum, or which immediately precedes an ultimatum.
The antepenultima is the third-last syllable of a word, and an antepenult is the antepenultimate member of any sequence—the third-last. And preantepenult and preantepenultimate do exactly the job you’d expect, designating things that are fourth-from-last.
ultima Thule:a distant, unknown region at the extreme limit of travel
Years ago I talked with Knud Rasmussen, the great Danish explorer, who in the early twenties had made a trip by dog team from Greenland around the Arctic rim to Nome, Alaska. In our library here at Bluie West Eight [Sondrestrom Air Base] I come on Rasmussen’s book, “Across Arctic America”, and I recall as I read that he told me once of an ice-free harbor on the northwest coast of Greenland, a place called Thule.
Ultima Thule, a mixed Latin/Greek name, has been in the news of late, with NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft flying by the Trans-Neptunian Object (486958) 2014 MU69, nicknamed Ultima Thule after a public competition to find something more catchy than its official designation of numbers and letters. (The larger lobe of the contact binary object is designated Ultima; the smaller is Thule.)*
One of the great entertainments of recent reportage has been listening to journalists and scientists utterly failing to find a consistent pronunciation for those two little words. The one I give at the head of the post comes from the Oxford English Dictionary, but every syllable brings with it a pronunciation choice.
Is the first syllable “ull” or “ool”? Then is it “tim” or “teem”? And then “ah”, or a short neutral vowel? Do we start the next word with a “th” (as in thin) or use the Scandinavian pronunciation with a hard “t”? And then is it “ool” or “yule”? And finally, is the last vowel pronounced or not, and if pronounced, does the word end with “lee” or “lay”? So a conservative estimate suggests there are at least 2x2x2x2x2x3=96 options—no wonder I heard four or five during a single news broadcast.
The name is more than 2000 years old. Here’s the first occurrence we know of:
An deus immensi uenias maris ac tua nautae Numina sola colant, tibi seruiat ultima Thule, Teque sibi generum Tethys emat omnibus undis
In the introductory section to the Georgics, Virgil prays to a number of gods, including the deceased amd deified Julius Caesar, and the quote above forms part of a list of godly things Caesar might get up to in the afterlife. One translation of the passage goes like this:
Or as the boundless ocean’s God thou come, Sole dread of seamen, till far Thule bow Before thee, and Tethys win thee to her son With all her waves for dower
So Virgil is suggesting that Caesar might become an ocean god, with dominion over all the seas, even as far as the most distant land known to the Romans, “far Thule”.
The name Thule itself is 400 years older still, recorded by the Greek navigator Pythias of Massalia—he reported that, after sailing northwards for six days from Britain, he encountered a frozen sea and an island he named Thoule, in a place where there was no night at midsummer. Pythias’ original report is lost, and we know it only from the writings of later authors, many of whom didn’t believe what he said. Roman authors rendered the name as either Tyle or Thule—the latter version is the only one to have survived to the present day, but Tyle (and Tile) were still in use until the end of the Middle Ages.
There are lots of hypotheses about where Pytheas was when he encountered Thule, with Iceland being perhaps the favourite. But for mediaeval map makers, Thule was always somewhere else. Once any given island became a familiar place, it couldn’t possibly be Thule—so Thule became one of several imaginary islands that floated around early maps of the North Atlantic, always tantalizingly out of reach. The map at the head of this post shows one of its later incarnations (as Tile), on Olaus Magnus’s Carta Marina of 1572, optimistically marked “Hec insula habet XXX millia populus et amplius“—”This island has more than 30,000 inhabitants”.
As the North Atlantic became better known, Thule gradually disappeared from the maps—only to resurface, improbably enough, in twentieth-century Greenland, as described in the quotation at the head of this post.
In 1910 Knud Rasmussen, the Danish explorer, set up a trading post near the settlement of Pituffik in North Star Bay, at 76½° north latitude on the west coast of Greenland. The area was sparsely inhabited by the most northerly group of Inuit in the world, the Inughuit, whom Rasmussen knew as “Polar Eskimos”. The trading post was officially named Cape York Station Thule, as a nod to its extreme northerly location, but it came to be known as just plain Thule. (Neither Inuktitut nor Danish uses the unvoiced dental fricative “th” sound, so Rasmussen would have pronounced the name with a hard “t”—ˈtuːliː. That pronunciation has carried over, particularly among American English speakers, to the names derived from Rasmussen’s Thule, detailed below.)
Rasmussen mounted numerous expeditions from his base at Thule. On the Second Thule Expedition in 1916 his team, along with Captain George Comer, excavated an archaeological site now called Comer’s Midden, in which they detected the first evidence of the ancestors of the Greenland Inuit people. These proto-Inuit are now called the Thule Culture in remembrance of Rasmussen’s nearby trading post.
Then, during the Second World War, Norwegian aviator Bernt Balchen was tasked with setting up American air bases in Greenland. Having once spoken with Rasmussen about Thule and North Star Bay, Balchen flew over the site in 1942 and identified it as an ideal location, with extensive gravel flats for runways and buildings, and a nearby deep-water harbour. He came back in 1951 to build Thule Air Base, which is still operational—take a look at their Newcomer’s Welcome Package (600KB pdf).
The construction of Thule Air Base drove the Inughuit out of their nearby villages, to resettle farther north in what is now the modern town of Qaanaaq. Which was fortunate, in a way, because in 1968 a B-52 bomber carrying nuclear weapons crashed in North Star Bay, contaminating their ancestral hunting grounds with plutonium.
Rasmussen, I think it’s safe to say, would not have been pleased.
Having explored the Thule connections in this post, next time I’ll write about words that are related to ultima.
* The choice of the name Thule has caused some controversy, because of its connection to a racist and anti-semitic occult organization called the Thule Society, popular among Nazis before the Second World War. Members believed that the island of Thule reported by Pytheas was a lost Aryan homeland in the far north. I’ve consigned them to a footnote. So should history.
Shakespeare is well known for being a wordsmith. Elsewhere in their excellent Shakespeare Miscellany, the Crystals note that the OED contains 1035 cases in which Shakespeare is recorded as the first user of a word, with the next user not recorded until at least 25 years later—suggesting Shakespeare coined the word. Many of these words haven’t made it to the present day, however—such as circummure (“to wall round”), facinorious (“extremely wicked”) and pibble-pabble (“to indulge in idle talk”).
More striking are the hundreds of words, as noted above, for which Shakespeare is the only recorded user—ever. It would appear that a good quarter of his coinings fell on completely deaf ears.
For your delectation, I offer a small sample of these uniquely Shakespearean words.
To smear or spread with bitumen
Pericles, Prince of Tyre Act 3, Scene 1 Second Sailor: Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready.
Shakespeare has formed a verb from bitumen, which is a Latin word meaning “pitch” or “resin”. But the Latin seems to have been borrowed from Gaulish, in which a word something like betu designated a birch tree, or birch resin.
Of a sword, lacking a sheath
Taming of the Shrew Act 3, Scene 2 BIONDELLO: Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced, an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town-armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless
A chape is a plate of metal inlaid in some other material. It was applied particularly to the metal cover protecting the tip of the sheath of a sword or dagger. It also seems, as in Shakespeare’s line above, to have been used to designate the whole sheath. By analogy, the pale tip of a fox’s tail is called a chape. And, in another strand of meaning, the metal bar by which a buckle is attached to a belt is called the chape.
To greet mutually
Henry V Act 5, Scene 2 BURGUNDY: My duty to you both, on equal love, Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d, With all my wits, my pains and strong endeavours, To bring your most imperial majesties Unto this bar and royal interview, Your mightiness on both parts best can witness. Since then my office hath so far prevail’d That, face to face and royal eye to eye, You have congreeted
Greet is a Germanic word, of uncertain origin. Its earliest meanings in continental Europe were varied—”to approach”, “to call upon”, “to annoy”, “to attack”, “to call to action”, “to salute”. In English, only the last meaning survives.
To melt or dissolve out of a crystalline condition
Antony and Cleopatra Act 4, Scene 12 MARK ANTONY: The hearts That spaniel’d me at heels, to whom I gave Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets On blossoming Caesar
The word candy is of Indian origin, from the Sanskrit khanda, “sugar in crystalline pieces”. This filtered through Persian and Arabic to reach Latin as saccharum candi—”sugar candy”. The combination is tautologous, and Shakespeare seems to have understood the candy part to mean “crystal”.
Studying and following fashion
Much Ado About Nothing Act 5, Scene 1 ANTONIO: Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,— Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, Go anticly, show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all.
Fashion comes from Latin facere, “to make”; monger comes from Old English mangian, “to trade” or “to deal”. The latter gives us cheesemonger, fishmonger,ironmonger and warmonger, among others. It also gave us the now-extinct verb to mong, which Shakespeare uses above, meaning “to traffic” or “to barter”.
A jocular term for a wife or sweetheart
All’s Well That Ends Well Act 2, Scene 3 PAROLLES: To the wars, my boy, to the wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen, That hugs his kickie-wickie here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars’s fiery steed.
Quite why a wife or sweetheart was a kickie-wickie, kicky-wicky or kicksie-wicksie is open to debate. One fears it has something to do with kickshaw, from the French quelque chose, meaning “something”. In Shakespeare’s time it was applied to things that were dainty and elegant, but of no perceived value—including people.
Towards denial or disbelief
The Winter’s Tale Act 2, Scene 1 HERMIONE: But I’d say he had not, And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe’er you lean to the nayward.
Literally, this means “towards no”. Although nowadays we look on yea and nay as simply archaic version of yes and no, there used to be a difference. Yes and no were used to respond to a question or statement couched as a negative. So to the statement, “You don’t really believe that!” one could respond either by disagreeing using yes (“Yes, I do really believe that”), or agreeing using no (“No, I don’t really believe that”). To a question or statement couched as a positive (“You really believe that!”) one could agree with yea (“Yea, I really believe that”) or disagree with nay (“Nay, I don’t really believe that”). Presumably, the tradition of yea and nay votes in the US Senate harks back to this usage, since the topic to be voted on is usually couched in a positive statement. And the French still make this distinction using two words for yes—oui and si. Oui is used to agree with a positive statement, si to disagree with a negative statement.
Fit to be shaved
ANTONIO: The man i’ the moon’s too slow—till new-born chins Be rough and razorable
A razor is something that razes. The original meaning of the verb to raze (or rase) was “to cut” or “to scrape”. That meaning evolved into “to remove by scraping”, which is where razor comes from. But one could also remove writing from paper or vellum by scraping—the origin of the verb erase. And it is that usage of raze, implying permanent and complete removal, that remains with us, often in the phrase “to raze to the ground”.
Romeo and Juliet Act 2, Scene 4
Nurse: Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains mates.
The list would not be complete without one mysterious offering. It’s not clear from Shakespeare’s usage what the Nurse actually meant to imply—and since Shakespeare is the only person we know of to have used the phrase, we’ll never know, barring the discovery of some new written evidence.
(Flirt-gill, on other hand, we know. The gill has nothing to do with fish. It is, rather, a woman’s name, pronounced with a soft “g”. It sometimes appears as flirt-gillian, and we also encounter gill-flirt or jill-flirt. The gill is a nickname for a young woman; the flirt refers to what the woman does. So, as the OED rather stuffily puts it, the phrase indicates “a woman of light or loose behaviour”.)
God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay
Traditional English Christmas carol
The three words I’m going to write about in this post are pretty much inextricably linked with Christmas, but all of them started off meaning something different from their current usage.
merry: cheerful and lively; characterized by festivity and enjoyment
This word started out in Proto-Indo-European sounding something like mreghu-, and meaning something like “short”. (That original meaning is preserved in its descendants brief and breve, among many others.) How it evolved into a word that meant “pleasant” in Old English is a bit of a puzzle, but it’s suggested that there was a verb involved, meaning “to shorten” and then “to make time pass quickly”—and something that made the time pass quickly was pleasant. The same PIE root also gives us mirth, presumably by the same etymological route.
The sense “pleasant” was around for a long time, and has left a confusing legacy for speakers of modern English, more used to the festive senses of merry. Merry England was simply pleasant, rather than noted for its liveliness. A person could be described as merry if they were in good spirits and feeling well:
Julius Caesar Act 2, Scene 4 PORTIA: Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry: come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee.
And that’s the sense in which merry appears in the Christmas carol at the head of this post—”God rest you merry” means “may God keep you in good health”. That’s why a comma is correctly positioned just before “gentlemen”, who (in more sexist days) were the people to whom this wish was addressed.
The weather was merry if it was pleasant, and a wind was merry if it blew in a favourable direction:
The Comedy Of Errors Act 4, Scene 1 DROMIO OF SYRACUSE: The ship is in her trim; the merry wind Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all But for their owner, master, and yourself.
And a merry man or merryman was the companion in arms of a knight or chief. Robin Hood’s merry men were good people to have around, not necessarily riotous in their good humour.
But by Shakespeare’s time the meaning of merry was shifting. He was able to use it in its old sense of “pleasant”, as illustrated above, but could also deploy it with something like its modern meaning, as when Ophelia frostily describes Hamlet as being “merry” when he indulges in a tedious double entendre at her expense. Sixty years later, Charles II was called the Merry Monarch, in part because people thought it was pleasant to have a king again after the excesses of Cromwell’s government, and in part because of the lively nature of the court he kept.
Soon after that, we find merry-andrew used to designate a clown or buffoon (though no-one is sure who the original Andrew was), and the modern meaning is firmly in place.
A merrythought is an old and lovely name for the “wishbone” of a bird. A merry-go-round is a pretty boring fairground ride, but it dates from after the transition of merry to imply “cheerful and lively”, so people were obviously short of fun in those days. A merry-totter is an old name for a see-saw, and merry-go-down is obsolete slang for strong ale. Sadly, the name of the Merrydown vintage cider company seems to be unconnected—named instead after the house of one of the original owners. But the association with alcoholic beverages brings us to one final meaning for merry—as the OED coyly puts it, “hilarious with drink”.
jolly: happy and cheerful
Jolly came into Middle English from Old French, in the form of jolif. The final “f” was lost in both languages, and French joli preserves one of the word’s orginal meanings: “pretty”. The OED lists a multitude of other meanings for jolif, including “brave”, “amorous”, “finely dressed”, “gallant”, “festive” and “lively”—apparently a list of desirable attributes for the young and healthy.
So we see jolly used to imply lively spirits and good health. From there it was but a short step to using it for anyone who was in a party mood, and from that it became a euphemism for “drunk”, a meaning it had acquired by the seventeenth century. And it became fashionable to refer to Bacchus, the Roman god of wine, as the jolly god.
Full jolly knight he seemed, and fair did sit, As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters fit.
And that’s probably the sense in which it was used for the pirate flag, the Jolly Roger. (The “Roger” perhaps comes from a common nickname for the Devil at the time—Old Roger.)
Another strand relates to connotations of amorousness and lustfulness, and it’s in that sense that Shakespeare uses the word here:
Richard III Act 4, Scene 3 KING RICHARD III: Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter, And, by that knot, looks proudly o’er the crown, To her I go, a jolly thriving wooer.
But in Shakespeare’s time all those youthful and (in the main) positive associations led to jolly becoming a sort of non-specific sound of approval, much as nice has become in the present day. And that also allowed it be used as an intensifier:
The Taming Of The Shrew Act 3, Scene 2 KATHARINA: For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself: ‘Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom, That take it on you at the first so roundly.
Good health, bravery and lust gradually fell by the wayside during the seventeenth century, and jolly eventually settled down to its present connotation of lively good cheer with a possible side-order of inebriation. Its use as an intensifier can still be heard, but the days of Wodehousian ejaculations like, “Jolly good show, old chap!” are sadly long gone.
happy: feeling or showing pleasure or contentment
Happy was originally the adjective derived from Middle English hap, which meant “chance” or “fortune”, either good or bad. So an event was happy if it occurred by chance. But both these meanings soon shifted to concentrate on good things—hap was good fortune, and happy designated the results of good fortune.
Although hap is no longer used, it has left a list of derived words. The verb to happen originally implied “to occur by chance”. A mishap is a piece of bad luck, and someone who is hapless is luckless. Something haphazard is exposed to the hazards of chance. And a happenstance is a circumstance that happens by chance—it’s occasionally rendered as happenchance, just to make that clear. Happen-so is another word for the same thing.
We still occasionally talk about events as being happy if they are favoured by good luck—a “happy coincidence”, for instance—but we’ve largely moved on to thinking of happy as being the state of mind induced by good fortune.
For Shakespeare, though, a person was described as happy if they were blessed by good luck, even if that good luck was unlikely to be giving them much joy at the time:
Henry V Act 4, Scene 3 KING HENRY V: We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
The St Crispin’s Day speech is stirring stuff, but it seems unlikely that any of Henry’s listeners were “feeling or showing pleasure or contentment” at the time, especially when he got to the “sheds his blood” bit—this was grim good fortune that could only be savoured by the survivors.
Finally (wouldn’t you know it), pretty much as soon as happy became associated with a state of pleasure and contentment, it became associated with alcoholic drink—by the eighteenth century, happy had joined merry and jolly as a euphemism for drunkenness.
If you’re disposed to celebrate Christmas, I wish you a merry, jolly, happy one, in the modern senses of those words; the involvement of alcohol is entirely up to you.
Brown is talking about Loch a’ Choire Mhoir, above—an out-of-the-way spot tucked around the back of Seana Bhraigh, one of Scotland’s more out-of-the-way hills. There aren’t any topographic features called sgurr (a pointed peak) in the vicinity, but Brown’s description, black sgurr, certainly fits the ridge of Creag an Duine, which looms across the loch from Coiremor bothy, where he was spending the night. Brown uses the word gangrel fourteen times in his classic book, and always with approval. In Brown’s vocabulary, a gangrel is the very model of a hill-wanderer, someone to be admired and respected—in contradistinction to its original meanings, all of which to some extent reflect the implications of the -rel suffix, which the Oxford English Dictionary describes as “diminutive and depreciatory”. Brown’s book, describing his continuous, self-propelled round of all Scotland’s Munros (hills over 3000ft), was hugely popular among Scottish hill-walkers. Brown was the first to complete this feat, and his book has been pretty much continuously in print ever since. There’s no doubt that Brown cemented this particular usage of the word gangrel into the minds of a generation of walkers. How did it come to acquire this new meaning? I don’t know, but there was a fashion among hill-writers of Brown’s generation (and among his predecessors) to resuscitate and repurpose Scots words—I suspect a close examination of back-issues of the Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal would cast a lot of light on the subject. Brown also introduced many of his readers to the word stravaig. Its original meaning is “to stroll or wander aimlessly”, but again under Brown’s care it became a positive thing—the sort of thing gangrels do. But nowadays, any hill writer who uses gangrel or stravaig is aiming for a particular effect—a sort of couthy, misty-eyed harking-back to a Golden Age of Scottish hill-walking. Use should be sparing—anyone who puts them both in the same sentence is liable to incur mockery. Both words feel as if they’re Gaelic, don’t they? But stravaig is Latin in origin, a cut-down rendering of extravagate, “to wander”, which will perhaps be the focus of another post. This time I’m going to concentrate on gangrel, which is a fine Germanic word. Gangrel comes from the Old English gangan, “to go”, which has living cousins in many Germanic languages—German eingang and Icelandic inngangur both mean “entrance”, for instance. In Scots, the Old English verb has been kept alive as gang, “to go” as in Robert Burns‘s lines from To A Mouse:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley
(The second line can be rendered into standard English as “Go oft awry”.) A person who walks is a ganger. That usage is commemorated in the cognomen of Rolf the Ganger (in Old Norse, Gongu-Hrólfr), the first Viking ruler of Normandy—a man so large he couldn’t find a horse that could carry him, obliging him to walk everywhere. (Although I’ve also seen it suggested that he was simply so tall his feet hung down to the ground when mounted on one of the diminutive horses of his time, so it looked as if he was walking.) As a noun, gang has had multiple meanings in English. First, it was used to designate the act or a style of walking, or a journey; then a road or passage, or the course of a stream. Much later, it was used to indicate the amount of something that could be carried in a single journey, by a person or a pack animal—two pails of water was a gang, for instance. From that idea, it came to mean any set of things—so a pair of oars was a gang. And from that, a group of people working or going about together—a gang of workmen, a gang of thieves—which is our current understanding of the noun. The oldest meaning is preserved in gangway and gang-plank, which are things you walk along. The Edinburgh suburb of Oxgangs gets its name from an old measure of land area, the oxgang. A carucate was the amount of land that could be ploughed by a team of eight oxen in a year; an eighth of that area was considered to be the contribution of a single ox—an oxgang. (An odd measure, really, since all the oxen had walked all the way around the land.) And what the Christian church now calls Rogation Days (the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday before Ascension Day) were once called gang-days, because they were a time of processions; Rogation Week was then called Gang-week. (Rogation means “supplication”—so the focus has shifted from the processions themselves, to the prayer chanted during the processions.) As well as people, some animals go around in gangs—bison, elk and turkeys. All of these have alternative collective nouns—a herd of bison or elk, an obstinacy of bison, and a rafter of turkeys. Finally, we have gangling, which was once applied to straggling growth in plants—as if the plant were seeking to travel somewhere. By analogy, it’s now applied to people who are tall and loose-limbed, and that’s probably the derivation of the second meaning for gangrel (“a lanky, loose-limbed person”) I gave at the head of this post. With regard to -rel, that “diminutive and depreciatory” suffix, we have numerous examples. Some are of obscure origin, like mackerel, doggerel, scoundrel and kestrel. Some are obvious diminutives—a cockerel seems to have originally been the word for a small cock, and a pickerel is a young pike. A hoggerel is a young … sheep. (The word comes from hogg, a sheep that is no longer a lamb but has yet to be sheared.) And some are dismissive—a wastrel is someone who wastes; a haverel is someone who havers (talks nonsense); a bedrel is a bedridden person; a dotterel is a stupid bird (from the same root as dote and dotard); and a mongrel takes its name from a shortened form of among, indicating a mixture. Some are splendidly obscure. A custrel was the attendant of a knight—the name coming from custile, a large two-edged knife carried by such attendants. A costrel was “pilgrim’s bottle”, supplied with looped handles so it could be carried on a belt while travelling. Its name derived from the Old French costier, “a thing which is by the side”. And a stammerel is a stammerer, but not the sort you think. Stammerers and stammerels were loose stones left in the quarry after the larger rocks had been removed—as if the rocks had developed some sort of physical stammer. Finally, Scots dialect gives us gomerel and gamphrel, both of unknown origin, both indicating a simpleton. But perhaps Scottish hill writers of the future will find a way to give them a positive spin, as happened with gangrel.
If you were transported unconscious to a foreign country and then wakened in the street, a glimpse of this plumber’s van would tell you exactly where you were—only Icelandic contains the two unusual letters that feature in that first word viðhaldsþjónusta (“maintenance services”). In fact, the Icelanders refer to their letters ð and þ as séríslenskur: “uniquely Icelandic”.
The þ character is called thorn in English, and it derives from the ancient runic alphabet once used by speakers of the Germanic languages (which include the languages of Scandinavia). Below, it appears as the third letter of the Elder Futhark, the earliest known version of runic, which prevailed in northern Europe for about the first eight hundred years of the Christian Era:
The þ rune was associated with the dental fricative sound now symbolized by “th” in English. In fact, the name Futhark for this alphabet comes from the pronunciation of its first six letters. (Be sure to pronounce the first syllable “foo” rather than “fuh”.)
The letter’s name in proto-Germanic has been reconstructed as something like þurisaz, meaning “giant”. If you want to know how complicated it is to figure something like that out, take a look at the first few minutes of this video, by Jackson Crawford, a historical linguist:
The letter acquired its modern English name, thorn, when the Elder Futhark was modified by the Anglo-Saxons, and used to write Old English (among other languages). Elsewhere, the Elder Futhark gave way to (you guessed it) the Younger Futhark, which was used to write various Scandinavian languages.
When languages that used the thorn rune started being written in the Latin alphabet, the old runic letter was retained, but its shape shifted from the incised straight lines of runic to a more rounded version suited to pen and ink.*
But the Latin alphabet already had a conventional way of indicating the dental fricative sound that thorn symbolized in runic—the Romans had used the “th” digraph when they transliterated Greek words containing the letter θ (theta) into Latin. So thorn gradually faded out of use, being replaced by “th” in every language but Icelandic.
The fading of thorn in English took an odd turn, however. As Old English evolved into Middle English, generations of scribes gradually modified the thorn letter so that its upper stem shortened and then disappeared, and the bowl of the letter opened at the top. What was left looked very like a letter y. For instance, here are the opening words of the Gospel of Saint John in a fourteenth-century Wycliffe’s Bible:
“In the beginning …” is written as “In þe bigynyng …” But the open-topped þ is so like the subsequent y characters, that the scribe has felt obliged to indicate the y‘s by adding a dot or a line above each.
Thorn then drifted almost entirely out of use, being retained only in a few small grammatical words—for instance, “the” was written þe, and “this” and “that” were abbreviated as þs and þt. Written down, they looked very like ye, ys and yt. Here are the latter two, looking like YS and YT, appearing in the inscription on Shakespeare’s funerary monument in the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon:
The thorn characters are rendered identically to the letter y as it appears elsewhere in the same text. So it was natural that when the word “þe” appeared in printed books, many English printers, finding no thorn character in their imported continental type-boxes, used a letter y instead.
Which is why the world is still full of shops and pubs called “Ye Olde …” something-or-other.
That “ye” should be pronounced “the”, and it’s the very last gasp of the runic character thorn in English.
Although the thorn character was imported, the edh has its origins in the Latin alphabet. (It’s also spelled eth. Either way, pronounce its name with a voiced “th”, as in the first syllable of weather.) Edh first appeared in Old English, and the curved shape of its lower-case form (ð) preserves the curved shape of a lower-case d in the uncial script of Ireland. Scribes took the uncial d, and crossed its ascender, like this:
Its name in Old English was ðæt, which is often rendered as that in the modern English alphabet. The Oxford English Dictionary has no record of the name edh before the nineteenth century—presumably it was coined in imitation of its sound.
And that’s the odd thing about edh and thorn—they were both used to symbolize the same dental fricative sounds in Old English. Sometimes a scribe would even shift the spelling of a word from one letter to the other, halfway through a manuscript. It’s no surprise that one eventually won out—edh disappeared from English in the fourteenth century; thorn persisted for a while in a Middle English (as described above), before surrendering its job to “th”.
The mediaeval Scandinavians borrowed the edh for their own alphabets, but gradually replaced it with “dh” or just plain d. Even Icelandic mislaid the edh for centuries—for example, it is not mentioned in the First Grammatical Treatise, a twelfth-century work on the phonology of Old Icelandic, in which thorn performs solo duty in representing the dental fricative sound. But edh was restored when the Icelandic alphabet was finalized in the nineteenth century. Edh and thorn now have complementary roles, representing the voiced and unvoiced dental fricatives, respectively. So edh is the hard “th” sound at the start of that, while thorn is the soft “th” sound at the start of, well, thorn.†
Once Icelandic got the ball rolling for edh, the letter was revived in a couple of other languages, too. An alphabet for Faeroese was adopted in 1854 (it had languished unwritten for centuries), and it included the edh on mainly etymological grounds. Written Faeroese contains an edh where a dental fricative would have been sounded in Old Norse—but that sound is absent from modern Faeroese, so the edh most often signals a gliding link between two vowels. The placename Viðareiði is pronounced something like VEE-ya-rye-ih, for instance. (The fact that written Faeroese preserves some of the appearance of Old Norse, from which Icelandic also evolved, means that Icelanders can often puzzle out written Faeroese despite being unable to understand the spoken language.)
More recently, the Elfdalian language of Central Sweden (with around 2500 speakers) acquired its own alphabet in 2005—the edh does duty for the voiced dental fricative, just as in Icelandic.
And that’s it for edh—three languages, of which Icelandic is by far the most commonly spoken. It’s also used as a phonetic symbol in the International Phonetic Alphabet, indicating a voiced dental fricative. The unvoiced dental fricative, for which Icelandic uses the thorn character, is indicated phonetically by the Greek letter θ (theta).
So edh is not as “uniquely Icelandic” as the Icelanders might claim, but they do speak the only modern language that uses the letter thorn.
Strangely, the BBC did recently try to insert the thorn into Turkish. Michael Scott’s fascinating television series Ancient Invisible Cities visited Istanbul for Series 1 Episode 3, which was broadcast just as I was putting the finishing touches to this post. With amazing synchronicity, and to my initial alarm and subsequent amusement, some strange orthographic misadventure in the bowels of the BBC converted the family name of the Turkish art historian Ferudun Özgümüş into Özgümüþ.
* For the runic and uncial illustrations on this page, I’m using the excellent Pfeffer Mediæval font. † You might wonder if edh and thorn performed similar duties, indicating different sounds, in Old English—but that seems not to be the case. They were treated as entirely interchangeable characters, and the reader was left to work out the voiced/unvoiced distinction for themselves, just as we do today with the “th” digraph, which stands for both voiced and unvoiced sounds.
First Latin scholar: Crispin, I have some fresh lime. Would you decline a tequila? Second Latin scholar: Certainly. Tequil-a, tequil-am, tequil-ae, tequil-ae, tequil-ā. Tequil-ae, tequil-ās, tequil-ārum, tequil-īs, tequil-īs.
The first problem is deciding how to pronounce -ae. The Oxford English Dictionary favours /iː/, to rhyme with “ski”. But there’s a body of opinion, in British English at least, that favours /eɪ/, to rhyme with “say”, and even a minority view that champions /aɪ/, to rhyme with “sky”.
But however you say it, we have alga/algae, antenna/antennae, formula/formulae, lacuna/lacunae, larva/larvae, nebula/nebulae, vertebra/vertebrae. And the female equivalent of alumnus is alumna/alumnae.
As with all unusual plural forms, there’s a tendency to regularize. Here’s the Google Ngram for the two plural versions of formula:
In the nineteenth century, formulae was the more popular; now formulas is winning. In the Google corpus, antennas achieved dominance over antennae as recently as the 1980s, but nebulae is still dominant over nebulas (though perhaps because the Google corpus contains rather a lot of scientific literature). And some first-declension feminine nouns have almost never taken the Latin plural form: area/areas, arena/arenas and era/eras. (The Oxford English Dictionary gives the plural of verruca as verrucae, with a soft “c”—but that just seems like a guarantee of incomprehension from your listeners.)
Then there are the Latin-derived English nouns ending in -a that are not first-declension feminine singular, and which therefore cannot take an -ae plural ending. Opera is already a Latin plural, of the third-declension opus, “work”, so the English plural has to be regular—operas. And we have Saturnalia/Saturnalias for the same reason—Saturnalia is the plural of third-declension Saturnalis, “something pertaining to Saturn”. Candelabra is the plural of second-declension candelabrum, “candlestick”, and so becomes candelabras in the plural. Likewise, agenda is the plural of second-declension agendum, “task to be done”, and becomes agendas. (Though when committee meetings become really tedious, there is some diversion to be had from referring to a single agenda item as an agendum. Or is that just me?) Insignia is the plural of third-declension insigne, “emblem”—it’s still widely used as a plural noun in English, with insigne as its rare singular; but the singular “an insignia” is increasingly common, with an associated plural insignias. And propaganda is not a Latin noun—it derives from the Latin Congregatio de Propaganda Fide, “Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith”, a missionary wing of the Catholic Church. In current English it tends to be a mass noun, with no plural—but Google Ngram records a couple of interesting spikes in the usage of the plural propagandas:
Can it be merely a coincidence that the spikes correspond to the rise of communism and fascism?
The singular “a bacteria” (with plural bacterias) is sometimes sighted in the wild, but is still considered an error—bacteria is the plural of bacterium. The same can be said of strata, which has been making sporadic appearances as a singular noun since the eighteenth century. (The Merriam-Webster Concise Dictionary of English Usage wearily describes it as “a Latin plural with ambitions to become an English singular”.) But despite its long history, the singular use of strata is still considered erroneous—the singular is stratum. And then there’s datum/data. Some of us still say “the data are …” but “the data is …” has been around for a century or more, and is now the dominant usage. The singular data is generally treated as a mass noun, however, so there’s no need to reach for datas.
Then there are the English nouns ending in -a that have Greek, rather than Latin, origins. These would take the Greek plural ending -ata, but that usage is fading fast, and all can be safely regularized. Stigma/stigmata is still standard in a religious context, but stigmas is more common in general use. Miasma/miasmata is likely to be interpreted as rather affected, as will dogma/dogmata. And diploma/diplomata, dilemma/dilemmata and drama/dramata have never been popular, with diplomas, dilemmas and dramas having always been the dominant usage. (Though the marvellous phrase pedagogical dramata will turn you up a few Google hits—it means “educational computer games”, apparently.) Both diorama/dioramas and phantasmagoria/phantasmagorias are Greek in origin but came to us via French—they’ve never taken the plural -ata ending in English.
A couple of Greek plurals ending in -a have been trying to edge their way into singular use—but criteria and phenomena are the plurals of criterion and phenomenon, and treating them as a singular is still considered an error.
And finally, there are all those nouns ending in -a that have come to us from other languages, which are simply too numerous to list. But we have credenza/credenzas (Italian), pavlova/pavlovas (Russian), yarmulka/yarmulkas (Yiddish), quagga/quaggas (Nama), jerboa/jerboas (Arabic), bazooka/bazookas (nonsense) and … well … tequila/tequilas (Spanish).
Writing about the noun form of bogus recently made me think about nouns ending in -us, and how some of them have irregular plurals derived from their Latin origins: alumnus and alumni; cactus and cacti; stimulus and stimuli—and so on. What these words have in common is that they derive from Latin second declension masculine nouns.
My three examples above are still in fairly standard use, but not all English -us words that are derived from the Latin second declension customarily take -i in the plural. Here’s the Google Ngram for crocus and its two plural forms, for instance:
Pretty much everyone is saying crocuses, while croci has always languished. Other second declension nouns in the same category are callus/calluses, campus/campuses, chorus/choruses, circus/circuses, genius/geniuses and lotus/lotuses. Virus/viruses is something of a special case, since virus (“poison”) was a non-countable noun in Classical Latin (like “music” in English) so it had no plural form. And in the singular it seems to have behaved as a second declension neuter noun, for which plural forms were rare and irregular. So viri has never been an appropriate plural.*
For -us words that do take -i, there’s been a creeping trend towards regularization. Here’s the Ngram for hippopotamus and the two versions of its plural, for instance:
There has been declining discussion of the hippopotamus in the Google corpus over the last century, but we can see that the regular plural hippopotamuses started to edge out the traditional hippopotami at some time during the 1980s.
And the two plurals of nautilus fought a brief tussle in the 1960s, but nautiluses is now the clear winner:
You can still say nautili if you want to, of course. But there are some -us nouns in English that never take -i in the plural, except by mistake.
One reason for this is that not all Latin nouns ending in -us were second declension. Some were masculine fourth declension nouns, for instance, which signalled their plural form simply by lengthening the “u” in -us—the spelling remained the same. In English, nouns derived from the fourth declension take the conventional plural form. Among the commoner examples, we have: apparatuses, censuses, consensuses, foetuses, hiatuses, impetuses, linctuses, nexuses, plexuses, prospectuses, sinuses and statuses.
Then there are the occasional neuter third declension nouns ending in -us that have carried their own elaborate plurals into English: corpus/corpora, genus/genera, onus/onera, opus/opera. And should you ever need to talk about more than one Venus, (at a classical sculpture exhibition, perhaps) you should know that as a feminine third declension noun its plural is Veneres.
Octopus was adopted into Latin from Greek oktopous (“eight-footed”), and retained its Greek plural octopodes, which is also used in English. If you’re nervous of that one, octopuses is equally acceptable. Platypus, also from the Greek, might perhaps take platypodes, but standardizes instead on platypuses. Platypus was originally the formal genus name assigned to this Australian mammal, and it’s customary for all common names derived from “modern Latin” biological nomenclature to take a standard English plural—tyrannosauruses, colobuses, ficuses, acanthuses.
Another reason for a Latin-derived English noun ending in -us to avoid the -i form in the plural is if it’s not a noun at all in Latin. So we have bonus/bonuses (an adjective in Latin); ignoramus/ignoramuses (“I do not know” in Latin); omnibus/omnibuses (“for all”) and rebus/rebuses (“by things”). I’ll spare you a few other more recondite examples, but I can’t resist mentioning the marvellous pair mumpsimus and sumpsimus. Mumpsimuses are people who cling to erroneous ideas to which they’ve become accustomed; sumpsimuses are new ideas brought in to replace old errors. Both words derive from a story told by Richard Pace, the Tudor diplomat, in his book De Fructu Qui Ex Doctrina Precipitur (1517). Pace tells how a priest, illiterate in Latin, intoned “quod in ore mumpsimus” during the Mass instead of the correct “quod in ore sumpsimus” (“what we have received in the mouth”). When challenged on the matter, he declared, “I will not change my old mumpsimus for your new sumpsimus.”
While sumpsimus was good Latin (“we have received”), mumpsimus was of course not Latin at all. Which brings me to my final group of English nouns ending in -us—the ones that aren’t Latin. Many are simply nonsense sounds: wampus/wampuses, rumpus/rumpuses, ruckus/ruckuses, doofus/doofuses, goofus/goofuses. The old noun bogus/boguses, designating a counterfeit coin or an illegal coin press is (as I’ve previously described in detail) probably Germanic in origin, and related to the word bogy. The source of caucus/caucuses is obscure, but it may come from an Algonquian word cau-cau-asu. Grampus/grampuses is an old name for a porpoise (or for someone who puffs and blows like a surfacing porpoise) and comes from Old French graundepose, “big fish”. Surplus/surpluses is likewise Old French (“more over”). And hocus-pocus/hocus-pocuses is probably also nonsense, though it may have originated as a parody of the phrase hoc est corpus from the Latin Mass. But the correct version is hoc est enim corpus meum (“for this is my body”), which rather strains the proposed etymology.
And then (sigh) there’s Prius. The car made by Toyota. For reasons best known to themselves, Toyota invited the general public to vote on a plural for this name—and they got what they deserved, ending up with the frankly daft Prii. Now, Toyota are a little incoherent about what Prius means—according to their website it’s “derived from the Latin prefix meaning ‘to go before’”. Actually, prius is either a Latin adverb (“before”, “sooner”), or the neuter form of the adjective prior (“first”, “previous”). The only way to wring a plural out of that is to use the plural neuter adjective, priora. Which, I think you’ll agree, is no better than Prii.
So. Repeat after me. These cars are Priuses. Priuses.
* And virii, concocted by the hacker community as a plural specific to computer viruses, makes no sense at all, since (if anything) it would have to be the plural of the nonexistent word virius. Let me just write that again: IT MAKES NO SENSE AT ALL.
bogus (noun): a press for producing counterfeit coins; a counterfeit coin bogus (adjective): not real, counterfeit, existing in order to deceive bogus (adjective, 21st Century): bad, wrong, inappropriate
This organisation is the respectable face of the chiropractic profession and yet it happily promotes bogus treatments.
The BCA brought a libel action against Singh. The Guardiansubsequently reported the findings of the preliminary hearing:
Mr Justice Eady gave a preliminary ruling on the meaning of the words used in Singh’s piece. He held that the phrase implied the association was being consciously dishonest. Singh yesterday denied he intended any such meaning, but said such an interpretation made it very difficult for him to fight his case in court as he had planned. “If we go to trial it’s almost impossible for me to defend the article, because it’s something I never meant in the first place.”
Since Singh was surprised by the ruling, it’s evident that he had not intended his use of the word to imply “existing in order to deceive”—which is the original meaning of the adjective, referring back to its connection to the production of counterfeit coins. Presumably Singh had intended one of the word’s milder modern meanings, implying wrongness or inappropriateness, but without the baggage of any deceitfulness. Whereas it was always on the cards that a High Court judge with a well-thumbed dictionary would adhere to the older meaning. And so it turned out. Eady judged that:
Bogus treatments equate to quack remedies; that is to say they are dishonestly presented to a trusting and, in some respects perhaps, vulnerable public as having proven efficacy in the treatment of certain conditions or illnesses, when it is known that there is nothing to support such claims.
Singh (already on the sharp end of £100,000 in legal fees) appealed the judgement, Eady’s ruling was overturned, and the BCA subsequently withdrew their libel action. The finding of the Court of Appeal is interesting, since it deliberately steers clear of defining the word “bogus”:
Ms Rogers [representing the BCA] has understandably not sought to make a major issue of the word “bogus”. In its context the word is more emphatic than assertive.
But the written ruling then goes on to use the word repeatedly in contexts that make it clear the Appeal Court judges are using it in the way Singh used it, and not the way Eady interpreted it.
Meanwhile, British Chiropractic Association vs. Singh had become something of a cause célèbre, fueling widespread debate over the potential use of libel laws to stifle free speech, particularly in matters of science. It ultimately led to a revision of the libel laws in England and Wales, the Defamation Act 2013. But I do wonder if any of that would ever have happened if Singh hadn’t settled on that fateful little word bogus.
Something that is bogus has bogusness; it behaves bogusly. But the origin of the word, as applied to a counterfeit coin press, is a little obscure. The Oxford English Dictionary relays a convoluted but pleasing story concerning the word’s first appearance in print, in the Painesville (Ohio) Telegraph of 6 July 1827:
Mr. Eber D. Howe, who was then editor of that paper, describes in his Autobiography (1878) the discovery of such a piece of mechanism in the hands of a gang of coiners at Painesville, in May 1827; it was a mysterious-looking object, and some one in the crowd styled it a ‘bogus’, a designation adopted in the succeeding numbers of the paper. Dr. Willard considers this to have been short for tantrabogus, a word familiar to him from his childhood, and which in his father’s time was commonly applied in Vermont to any ill-looking object; he points out that tantarabobs is given in Halliwell as a Devonshire word for the devil.
The OED ties the Devonshire tantarabobs, the Devil, to a little group of words signifying evil spirits of one kind or another, all deriving from Middle English bugge, “ghost”, which I’ll come back to in just a second. James Halliwell’s Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, Obsolete Phrases, Proverbs and Ancient Customs from the Fourteenth Century (1847) also lists tantara, with the meaning “a confused noise”—so tantarabobs was presumably a noisy evil spirit. The OED says that tantara (together with its more elaborate synonym, taratantara) imitates and denotes the sound of a trumpet or drum. Taratantara is also used, metaphorically, for “loud, extravagant, or pretentious talk”. To taratantarize is to sound a trumpet, or to make a sound like a trumpet.
Now, back to those evil spirits with names derived from Middle English bugge. First, there is bug, which was a goblin of sorts. (Whether or not that bug gave its name to the insect bugs seems to be a topic of debate.) A variant form was the bugbear, a creature in the form of a bear that was supposedly sent specifically to devour naughty children. It subsequently came to designate any source of imaginary dread, and then its meaning softened towards mere sources of annoyance. Bugbeardom is the collection of all imaginary fears; someone or something that behaves in an annoying manner is bugbearish. And a bugaboo is … well, a bug that goes “Boo!”—another imaginary terror.
From bug we get bog—another word for an evil spirit or a source of imaginary dread. To boggle is to jump as if you’ve just seen an evil spirit. It was originally said of skittish horses, which were describes as being bogglish. The verb then went through a series of evolutions, all now extinct: “to raise objections, to demur”; “to quibble, to equivocate”; “to hesitate”; “to bungle”. We’re now left only with its presence in the stock phrase “to boggle the mind”, which probably harks all the way back to those skittish horses, in describing a state of uncomprehending amazement.
Adding the augmentative suffix -ard gives us the name of another goblin, or source of imaginary dread—the boggard or boggart. A gloomy place, potentially haunted by boggarts, is said to be boggarty.
Adding a diminutive suffix gives us bogy or bogey—again originally an evil spirit, again now used for imaginary sources of dread. If you promote imaginary sources of dread, you exhibit bogyism; if you are much affected by imaginary sources of dread, you suffer from bogyphobia.
The Devil himself was Old Bogey or the Bogey Man, and he ruled over bogydom—Hell. He seems to have managed to work his name, in this form, into the game of golf. The OED relishes another convoluted story:
One popular song at least has left its permanent effect on the game of golf. That song is ‘The Bogey Man’. In 1890 Dr. Thos. Browne, R.N., the hon. secretary of the Great Yarmouth Club, was playing against a Major Wellman, the match being against the ‘ground score’, which was the name given to the scratch value of each hole. The system of playing against the ‘ground score’ was new to Major Wellman, and he exclaimed, thinking of the song of the moment, that his mysterious and well-nigh invincible opponent was a regular ‘bogey-man’. The name ‘caught on’ at Great Yarmouth, and to-day ‘Bogey’ is one of the most feared opponents on all the courses that acknowledge him.
So bogey was originally the par score for a hole—only later did the name attach itself to a score that is one over par.
As an object of dread, it’s no surprise that bogey also came to be a slang word for a policeman and, during the Second World War, an enemy aircraft. Quite how it came to designate a piece of dried nasal mucus is a mystery, though.
Finally, in Scotland, we have another diminutive of bog—bogle. And once again a word originally associated with evil spirits has come to be associated with mere imaginary fears. And from there, to an association with scarecrows. There can be very few Scottish children who didn’t love the word tattie-bogle (“potato-bogle”, “scarecrow”) from the moment they first heard it.
The Septentrion is pictured above—the seven stars that make up the asterism known in the UK as the Plough and in the USA as the Big Dipper. The name is Latin, from septem triones, traditionally understood to mean “seven plough-oxen”.* And, pleasingly enough, the Septentrion septentrionates—two of its stars, Dubhe and Merak (the rightmost pair in the image above), point to the Pole Star.
Since the Septentrion stays always in the northern sky, it became (with a lower-case “s”) a synonym for northern things—the direction, and places in that direction. Northern things are septentrional, septentrial or septentrionic. The state of being northern is septentrionality, and if you move northwards you travel septentrionally. (Webster, having been rude enough about septentrion and septentrionate, could barely speak when it came to septentrionality and septentrionally, dismissing each as simply “A bad word“.)
In the days when map-makers used Latin, they marked the northern edge of their maps Septentrio, as in Abraham Ortelius’s Septentrionalium Regionum Descriptio (“Map of the Northern Regions”), from the sixteenth century:
If you look around the edges of the map, you’ll see that they’re all labelled with the names of the principal directions, and I’m going to come to the others later. But first, some more northern words.
The Greeks and Romans called the cold north wind Boreas, and that gives us our word boreal—the boreal forest, the band of conifers that circles the globe in high northern latitudes, is the largest biome on the world, outside of the oceans. And of course the aurora borealis (“northern dawn”) is a quintessentially northern phenomenon. Something pertaining to the north is borean, and something pertaining to extreme north is hyperborean. (Ortelius’s map contains an Oceanus Hyperboreus, which we now know as the Greenland Sea.) And Robert E. Howard was undoubtedly playing with the Greek concept of hyperborea (“extreme northern lands”) when he invented his own Hyborean Age for the adventures of Conan the Barbarian. Finally, I can’t move on without mentioning the verb to borealize, a word reserved for the affectation of Northern English manners or pronunciation by a Southern English person. (Does that ever happen?)
At the start of this post, I described the Plough (Big Dipper) as an asterism because, strictly speaking, it is not a constellation in its own right, merely part of the constellation of Ursa Major, the Great Bear—the three stars of its handle forming an improbable tail for the bear:
The Greeks called this constellation Arctos (“bear”), which gives us our word arctic. Someone who explores or navigates in arctic regions is an arctician, and if you have become accustomed to arctic conditions you have arcticized. And of course the part of the world opposite the Arctic is the Antarctic.
Then there’s our word “north”, which comes from a Germanic root that also gives us nordic, “pertaining to Scandinavia and its peoples”. Nordicism is the state of being nordic, and Norway was the “north way” for ancient navigators. Finally, there’s the rather splendid Canadian concept of nordicity, which refers to “the state, degree, awareness and representation of cold territoriality in the northern hemisphere”. Nordicity is measured using a nordic index, which scores a location against ten criteria relating to environmental conditions in high northern latitudes, allowing a map to be drawn connecting places of equal nordicity using isonords. (No, really.)
Now, moving to the side edges of Ortelius’s map, we find the Latin directions Occidens (“West”) and Oriens (“East”), which give us the English words Occident and Orient with the same meanings, as well as the adjectives occidental and oriental, and the nouns occidentalism and orientalism, denoting the culture or style of western and eastern nations, respectively. An orientalist studies oriental languages or culture; an occidentalist does the same for occidental languages and culture, but the word is much more rarely used.
A “pearl of orient” was once the term for a pearl taken from an Indian Ocean oyster, considered to have superior lustre to European pearls—so orient is a rare technical term for pearl lustre. The verb to orient originally meant to position something so that it points east—specifically Christian churches, which are traditionally built with the chancel and altar at the east end. It later took on the more general meaning of moving something (or oneself) into a specific position, or of finding one’s position—the latter giving us the name of the sport, orienteering. The verb to orient has a cousin, to orientate, with exactly the same meaning—its use is restricted almost entirely to British English.
Churches aligned conventionally to the east are said to be oriented. Those rare Christian churches which face west instead are sometimes said to be occidented, though this seems to be more of a joke than a technical term of art.
Ortelius marks the south with Latin Meridies, which means “south” but also “mid-day”, because that’s the direction in which the sun lies at noon, north of the tropics. It gives us our word meridian, which used to mean “mid-day”. By association, it was also used as a name for some things that happened at mid-day—either a rest period, if you were a hard-working monk, or a shot of whisky, if you were a nineteenth-century Scot. Nowadays it designates a north-south line of longitude—at noon, the sun lies on the same meridian of longitude as the observer.
Something that pertains to the south, or noon, or a meridian line, is meridional. Something that occurs in the morning is antemeridian; something in the afternoon is postmeridian—hence our familiar abbreviations for these time periods, a.m. and p.m. And a meridiation is a fine old word for a mid-day snooze. Both the word and the concept should enjoy greater popularity.
The Romans called the south wind Auster, which gives us our word austral, pertaining to the south. The aurora australis is the southern cousin of the aurora borealis, and Australia is a southern country. (Confusingly, Austria is an eastern country—its German name, Österreich, means “eastern realm”.) The word austrian was once used to mean “southern”, but that never took off, for obvious reasons; and austrine died a similar death. Australopithecus means “southern ape”—it was an extinct genus of hominin first discovered in South Africa.
Finally, austromancy is a the practice of divining the future by observing the winds and cloud movements. I can offer no technical advice, but the etymology suggests that the south wind was particularly important to austromancers, for some reason.
* I say “traditionally” because triones meaning “plough oxen” is apparently only ever attested by Latin authors, such as Varro, who are attempting to explaining the etymology of the word septentrio. We don’t have any examples of its use applied to real plough oxen. If the name really does refer to oxen, one is left wondering why. One suggestion is that the rotation of the Septentrion asterism around the Pole Star reminded the Romans of the movement of oxen around the central axis of a threshing floor. But that doesn’t explain the “ploughing” reference.