New varieties
The earliest records of English were inevitably formal in character, illustrating a ‘high style’ of literary expression, or reflecting such specialised domains as religion, law and politics. The linguistic creativity of the Anglo-Saxon age is seen in its riddles (9 riddle) and poetic forms (11 bone-house), and illustrates an imaginative strand of expression that continued through Middle English (16 swain, 35 gaggle) and Early Modern English, reaching a high point in the coinages of the Elizabethan era (43 bodgery, 44 undeaf). The playfulness is no less important today, as shown by invented words (82 doobry, 83 blurb, 90 bagonise), comic effects (84 strine) and the creations of modern fiction (97 muggle).
Doubtless Anglo-Saxon society demonstrated the same range of everyday colloquial expression that we have today – human nature hasn’t changed so much in a thousand years – but almost all the texts that survive from the Old English period are formal or oratorical in character, and there is hardly any sign of the rhythms and vocabulary of ordinary conversation. Things begin to change in the 11th century. An informal, earthier vocabulary begins to appear in writing, and we see the origins of many modern taboo expressions (15 arse, 24 cunt, 47 bloody), as well as words reflecting everyday sounds (23 cuckoo), playful coinages (35 gaggle) and a wealth of idioms (31 money). English society in all its diversity is vividly represented in the writing of Chaucer and the other Elizabethan dramatists, notably Shakespeare, and it is not long before enthusiasts start collecting the colloquial words of their age, especially those belonging to the criminal fraternity (64 dragsman), illustrating a fascination with slang that has continued to the present day (66 dude, 86 grand).
Regional vocabulary has also played its part in the increasing diversity of the language. Dialect variation can be seen from the outset (8 merry), and as English came to be established in new geographical locations we see the proliferation of local words and phrases (26 wee, 42 dialect, 73 y’all). During the Middle Ages, the need to facilitate communication between all parts of Britain led to the gradual emergence of an increasingly standardised form of written English. Several influential factors were involved, such as the arrival of printing (29 egg), the growth of a national civil service, the popularity of major authors (such as Chaucer) and the prestige of biblical translations (37 matrix, 46 shibboleth). The formation of a standard English, with an agreed spelling (32 music), grammar (34 information) and terminology (38 alphabet), took several centuries, and at times was highly controversial, especially when people argued the case for spelling reform (40 debt). Indeed, the controversies are with us still, as can be seen in words which still have variant spellings (51 yogurt), the varying reactions to non-standard spellings (88 gotcha) and debates over correctness in grammar (61 ain’t) and pronunciation (76 garage).
Two views of vocabulary
Vocabulary is different from other areas of language, such as grammar and spelling, in that it offers us a direct insight into the social milieu, ways of thinking and cultural innovations of a period of history. Some words inform us about the structure of society (55 polite, 65 lunch) or its social practices (49 fopdoodle, 53 tea, 95 jazz). We encounter emerging professions (52 gazette) and monitor progress in science (60 species, 75 DNA) and technology (63 hello, 99 unfriend, 100 Twittersphere). We are confronted with new attitudes and mindsets, as we see people looking critically at vocabulary (81 double speak, 89 PC, 93 cherry-picking). When we explore the history of words, we find a window into society. It is a major theme of this book.
But there is a second way of looking at vocabulary: to examine the techniques the language makes available to build the words that form this history, and this strand also needs to be prominent in a wordbook. One important method, as we have already seen, is to borrow the words from other languages. But there are many other techniques of word formation. A Germanic language element can be combined with an element from another language, such as French or Latin (36 doable). Words can be reduplicated (56 dilly-dally), shortened (57 rep, 59 edit, 92 app), conflated (67 brunch, 98 chillax), compounded (91 webzine) or abbreviated (79 UFO, 94 LOL). A suffix can turn into a word (72 ology), as can a prefix (87 mega). Names can become words – first names (28 valentine), surnames (85 Alzheimer’s), place-names (80 Watergate) and product names (77 escalator).
But perhaps the most interesting side to vocabulary is when the exploration of word origins (etymology) brings to light results that are unexpected or intriguing. We see people adapting the language in order to make sense of it (14 bridegroom). We see extraordinary reversals of meaning over long periods of time (25 wicked). We see confusions of meaning (50 billion) and disputes over usage (54 disinterested). And we see some totally unexpected links between words (27 grammar). Not all word origins are known, and there have been some longstanding arguments (71 OK). But every etymology at some point takes us by surprise. As I was researching each chapter of this book I learned something new about the history of English words – and you will too.
Roe
the first word (5th century)
In the dry summer of 1929, the crew of an RAF aircraft took photographs of the site of the important Roman town of Venta Icenorum – ‘the market-place of the Iceni’. The site is about three miles south of Norwich, in Norfolk, next to the church of Caistor St Edmund. When the pictures were developed, a remarkable street-plan could be seen beneath the fields.
Archaeologists began to excavate the area and discovered a large Anglo-Saxon cremation cemetery on the high ground to the south-east. They found several urns containing remains, and one of them yielded an unexpected linguistic prize. Among a pile of sheep knuckle-bones, probably used as pieces for playing a game, was an ankle-bone (or astragalus) from a roe-deer. And on one side of the bone were carved six runic letters. Turning these into the Latin alphabet, we get the word RAIHAN.
1. The runic letters carved into the surface of the roe deer’s ankle bone found in the Roman town of Caistor-by-Norwich, Norfolk. The shape of the H rune is especially interesting. It has a single cross-bar, which was characteristic of a northern style of writing. Further south, the H was written with two cross-bars. It suggests that the writer may have come from Scandinavia.
What could it mean? Linguists did a lot of head-scratching. It could be someone’s name. An -n at the end of a word in the Germanic languages of the time sometimes expressed possession – much as ’s does in English today. So perhaps the inscription says Raiha’s or Raiho’s, telling everyone that this piece belonged to him (or her). But a rather more likely explanation is that it names the animal it comes from: the roe-deer, a species that was widespread in northern Europe at the time.
We can plot the history of the word roe. In Old English it appears several times as raha or ra. And it’s seen in some place-names and surnames, such as Rowland (‘roe wood’) in Derbyshire and Roeburn (‘roe stream’) in Lancashire. The vowel changed to an oh sound in the Middle English period. So raihan could mean ‘from a roe’.
Why would anyone write such a thing? It was actually quite a common practice. An object, such as a sheath or a pot, would often display the name of its maker or what it was made of: ‘Edric made me’. ‘Whale’s bone,’ says the runic inscription on one side of the 8th-century Franks Casket. I can’t imagine raihan could mean anything other than ‘roe’, given that it’s written on the only bone in the urn to come from a roe-deer. And if it does mean ‘roe’, then this makes it a candidate for the first discovered word to be written down in the English language.
But is it an English word? The archaeologists dated the find to the 5th century, and it may even be as early as around 400. That would be well before the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons in 449 – the year we usually think of as marking the start of the Old English period in Britain. The Romans were still in the area then. So maybe the writer was an immigrant who spoke some other language?
There’s evidence that at least some of the settlers in Caistor were from Scandinavia. Several of the urns are very similar to those
found in Denmark and the nearby islands. So, imagine such a person settling in Norfolk around the year 400. He would have spoken some sort of early Germanic language, such as Old Norse. But it wouldn’t have taken him long before he started to speak like the people he met in his new surroundings. Settlers have to adapt quickly, if they want to survive. And if he wrote a word down on an object being used in a game – ‘Find the Roe’, perhaps? – then surely it would need to be in a form that the other players would understand.
When we do see ‘roe’ in Old English, a couple of centuries later, it’s spelled with a, not ai. So why did the writer use an i in raihan? It might represent his original language. Or it might be an old-fashioned way of spelling the word he’d picked up in his new language. Or it might genuinely reflect the way he was pronouncing the word at the time. We’ll never know for sure, but my feeling is that the Caistor astragalus, now in the Castle Museum in Norwich, is as close as we can get to the origins of English.
Lea
naming places (8th century)
Most people never use the word lea. It’s a poetic word, meaning a grassy meadow. I remember it especially from Thomas Gray’s poem ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea …
I’ve never heard it used on its own outside of poetry. And yet we hear it and see it in a hidden form everywhere in daily life.
Lea is one of the commonest elements to turn up in English place-names. It comes from an Old English word leah (pronounced ‘lay-ah’), meaning an open tract of land, such as a pasture or meadow, natural or man-made. England was heavily forested in Anglo-Saxon times, and it was common practice to make a new settlement by chopping the trees down and starting a farm. If Beorn made a space in this way, it would be called ‘Beorn’s clearing’ – ‘Beorn’s leah’ – modern Barnsley.
The word turns up in many spellings. It’s commonest as ley, but we see it also in such forms as leigh, lee, lees, lease, ly and lay. Sometimes it provides the whole name, as in places called Lea or Leigh. More usually it is just the way the name ends. But if lea is the final element, what does the first element mean?
Often it’s the name of someone, as with Beorn. Someone called Blecca lived in the clearing now covered by modern Bletchley. Dudda lived at Dudley. Wemba lived at Wembley. They are mainly men. Just occasionally we see a woman’s name: Aldgyth lived at Audley. And sometimes a whole tribe lived in the clearing. Madingley means the clearing where Mada’s people lived.
The natural features of the clearing often prompted the name. In Morley the clearing was moorland; in Dingley it was in a dingle. The land must have been level in Evenley, rough in Rowley, stony in Stanley and long-shaped in Langley. Also common is a name where the first part describes the trees that used to grow there, as in Ashley, Oakleigh and Thornley. It can be tricky sometimes to work out what the tree-name is. The birch is hidden in Berkeley, the bramble in Bronley, the yew in Uley and the oak in the strange-looking Acle.
Some lea names refer to what grows in the clearing. It’s obvious what this is in the case of Clover-ley; slightly less obvious in Farleigh (ferns) and Ridley (reeds). And when the farming started, the name sometimes tells us what was grown (as in Wheat-ley and Flaxley) or what animals were around (as in Durley, Gateley, Horsley and Shipley, for deer, goats, horses and sheep, respectively). Birds and insects are remembered too, in such names as Finchley, Crawley (crows) and Beeleigh.
Place-names are an integral part of a language, and should always be represented in a wordbook. Lea is an example of an Anglo-Saxon place-name element. Other such elements are:
ham – ‘homestead’, as in Birmingham and Nottingham
ing – ‘people of’, as in Reading and Worthing
ceaster – ‘Roman town, fort’, as in Chester and
Lancaster
tun – ‘enclosure, village’, as in places ending in -ton
or -town
Each wave of invaders brought its own naming practices. The Vikings settled all over the eastern side of England, establishing hundreds of villages ending in -by – the Norse word for ‘farmstead’ – as in Derby, Rugby and Grimsby. Several French names (such as Beaulieu and Devizes) arrived in the early Middle Ages.
We always have to be careful, though, when exploring place-names. Often words with different origins have ended up with the same spelling. For example, rivers named Lea or Lee are hardly going to mean ‘forest clearing’. We have to look for the meaning of water names elsewhere. There was a Celtic form lug-, meaning ‘bright or light’, which was also used as the name of a deity. So River Lea may originally have meant ‘river dedicated to the god Lugus’ or simply ‘river which was bright and sparkling’.
And
an early abbreviation (8th century)
Early in the 8th century, monks at the monastery of St Augustine in Canterbury wrote out a long list of English translations of Latin words, in roughly alphabetical order. Towards the end, in the section on words beginning with U, we find the Latin phrase ultroque citroque – in modern English we’d say ‘hither and thither’. The scribe must have been feeling tired that day, because he glosses it wrongly as hider ond hider. The second h should have been a d. But the phrase is interesting for a different reason: ond is an old way of spelling and. Doubtless the Anglo-Saxons used the word a lot in their speech, as we do today; but in these ancient glossaries we see it written down for the first time.
Why get so excited over a ‘little word’ like and? In most wordbooks, it’s the ‘content words’ that attract all the attention – the words that have an easily statable meaning, like elephant and caravan and roe. The books tend not to explore the ‘grammatical words’ – those linking the units of content to make up sentences, such as in, the and and. That’s a pity, because these ‘little words’ have played a crucial role in the development of English. Apart from anything else, they’re the most frequently occurring words, so they’re in our eyes and ears all the time. In our eyes? The four commonest written words in modern English are the, of, and and a. In our ears? The four commonest spoken words are the, I, you and and. In Old English, and is there from the very beginning, and when it appears it’s often abbreviated.
We tend to shorten very common words when we write them. It is becomes it’s. Very good becomes v good. You becomes u (especially in internet chat and texting). Postscript becomes PS. The shortened form of and is so common that it’s even been given its own printed symbol: &, the ‘ampersand’. The modern symbol is historically a collapsed version of the Latin word et: the bottom circle is what’s left of the e, and the rising tail on the right is what’s left of the t. The word ampersand is a collapsed form too: it was originally and per se and – a sort of shorthand for saying ‘& by itself = and’.
When did people start shortening and? We find it in some of the earliest Old English manuscripts. It’s written with a symbol that looks a bit like a modern number 7, but with the vertical stroke descending below the line. In some documents, such as wills and chronicles, where strings of words are linked by ‘and’, we can see 7s all over the page. They’re especially noticeable when they appear at the beginning of a sentence.
And at the beginning of a sentence? During the 19th century, some schoolteachers took against the practice of beginning a sentence with a word like but or and, presumably because they noticed the way young children often overused them in their writing. But instead of gently weaning the children away from overuse, they banned the usage altogether! Generations of children were taught they should ‘never’ begin a sentence with a conjunction. Some still are.
There was never any authority behind this condemnation. It isn’t one of the rules laid down by the first prescriptive grammarians. Indeed, one of those grammarians, Bishop Lowth, uses dozens of examples of sentences beginning with and. And in the 20th century, Henry Fowler, in his famous Dictionary of Modern English Usage, went so far as to call it a ‘
superstition’. He was right. There are sentences starting with And that date back to Anglo-Saxon times. We’ll find them in Chaucer, Shakespeare, the King James Bible, Macaulay and in every major writer. And God said, Let there be light … Joining sentences in this way has been part of the grammatical fabric of English from the very beginning. That’s one of the lessons the story of and teaches us.
Loaf
an unexpected origin (9th century)
Something to eat; something to drink. Words to do with nutrition always play an important part in language history. In particular, the essential role of bread in society, known since prehistoric times, is reflected in a variety of idioms. In English, it can stand for ‘food’, as in breadwinner and the plea for daily bread (in the Lord’s Prayer). It can mean ‘money’. It can identify a state of mind (knowing on which side one’s bread is buttered) or a level of achievement (the best thing since sliced bread).
The surprising thing is that bread didn’t have its modern meaning in Old English. In one of the word-lists compiled by Anglo-Saxon monks, we find breadru translating Latin frustra – ‘bits, pieces, morsels’. What seems to have happened is that the word came to be applied to ‘pieces of bread’ and eventually to ‘bread’ as a substance. It’s still used in this way in some dialects: you might still hear someone in Scotland asking for a piece, meaning ‘a piece of bread’.
The Story of English in 100 Words Page 2
