Monthly Archives: February 2024

carminative

Fabæ fructus musicales
Canitis tubas ventrales
Plenas flatus divinorum
Fabæ cibi angelorum

Does that look like it might be from the Carmina Burana? It’s not, though it would fit, specifically in the “In Taberna” section. It’s actually a Latin version* of that old favourite rhyme:

Beans, beans, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
The more you toot, the better you feel
So eat your beans at every meal!

You may be thinking, “Ew. Why do you have to be such a card?” But consider that today’s word is carminative, which is a name for a substance (such as simethicone) that relieves intestinal gas – either by reducing how much is made, or by the more traditional and more musical means of release.

And why bring in the Carmina Burana? Well, it happens that carmina and carminative both come from carmen – not Carmen as in the opera by Bizet, but the Latin noun. Carmina is simply the plural – it means ‘songs’ – while carminative is an English derivative.

So… a carminative makes your guts sing songs?

Heh. No. It turns out there are two identical Latin nouns carmen. This is from the other (somehow unrelated) one, which refers to a card for combing flax or wool. It’s not that a carminative literally scrapes the knots out of your guts (ow); the theory of the humours held that winds (i.e., farts, burps) arise from gross humours (gross in more than one sense, clearly), and a carminative substance combs them out like knots. So… from knotty to naughty (like that old joke: What did one burp say to the other? “Let’s be stinkers and go out the back way”).

So it makes your guts busy, though it doesn’t make them Bizet. But even if it doesn’t bring to mind medieval monk business, you’ll know something’s gone Orff.

* Not an exact translation; it more literally means

Beans musical fruit
You play the belly trumpets
Full of divine breath
Beans food of the angels

And yes, I made the Latin version. I really wanted to make the second line play on “carmina” but that’s a neuter noun and the adjective would have been “ventralia,” which I couldn’t make rhyme.

scruple

We all walk with little rocks in our shoes that twinge our soles and stop us short, cause us to pause a mere shaving of an inch and sliver of a minute before our goal, to leave the last fraction of a dram in our glass. We suffer with our little rocks and are impatient with others for theirs, and yet we despise those who lack them.

Those rocks are, literally and literarily, scruples: from Latin scrupulus, diminutive of scrupus, ‘rough or sharp stone’ – a word that shares a Proto-Indo-European root with short and curt. Scrupus was also, figuratively, ‘anxiety’, and so a scrupulus, a sharp little pebble, was a misgiving – and we call those who are free of such misgivings unscrupulous.

Ah, but how we long to take off the shoe and fling the pebble away! To make a scene as described by Rachel Wetzsteon in “After Eden”:

and when one too many led
to wise judgements too few, “I’m trying
to break up with you!” he shouted as
stockings and scruples flew

And how we dread and resent scruples, and see them as so much more and less and other than a simple hard little piece of earth, like Anna Lætitia Barbauld in “To Mr. [S.T.] C[oleridge]”:

Scruples here,
With filmy net, most like the autumnal webs
Of floating gossamer, arrest the foot
Of generous enterprise; and palsy hope
And fair ambition with the chilling touch
Of sickly hesitation and blank fear.

And how we are impatient with those who demur and “make scruples,” and how we, like Countess of Winchilsea Anne Finch in “The Spleen,” have distaste for those who inflict them on others:

By thee Religion, all we know,
That should enlighten here below,
Is veiled in darkness, and perplexed
With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vexed,
And some restraint implied from each perverted text.

And how we know that however much ground there may be to a scruple, it is too nice – and not nice enough – a distinction, too much discretion and not enough valor; like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, we scorn

some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on the event,
A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward

But how, too, we know that loss of scruples can lead us astray, and not always in ways we will enjoy remembering. Edgar Allan Poe’s victory over scruples in “To — — –. Ulalume: A Ballad” leads to a baleful discovery (and I don’t just mean his rhyme scheme):

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
      And tempted her out of her gloom—
      And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
      But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
      By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,
      On the door of this legended tomb?”
      She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—
      ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

And yet scruples are such little things. It’s not merely that a scruple is a short sharp shock in our sock, a tiny pointed pebble. It’s that scruple also, on the basis of littleness, names (or has in past times named) small units of measurement: a third of a dram (and thus a twenty-fourth of an ounce), a sixtieth of an arc degree, an eighteenth of a minute, a twelfth of an inch. 

So a scruple is to an inch as an inch is to a foot, but a scruple is to a foot an intolerable impediment, not to be stood for or on. To make scruples is to argue on the finest little points, but the finest little point of a scruple in your shoe is simply not to be argued with. And yet there must be some point to having scruples, for when unscrupulousness is afoot it simply cannot be allowed to stand.

chumming

“Looks like some friends are joining us!”

That’s the sound of someone who’s been chumming. But chumming is two different words, and the sentence has two different connotations.

You certainly know the more common chum, verb and (more often) noun. “Why so glum, chum?” “Who’ve you been chumming around with?” It’s of murky origin, but might be related to chambermate; the oldest use (from the earlier 1700s) refers to having someone as roommate: “We chummed together in university.” More recently and generally, it has come to mean ‘be on friendly terms with’; chumming around tends to imply being on widely and extravertedly friendly terms with various persons, and it often has a negative tone: “He’s been chumming around with some rather shady sorts”; “He got the contract? What do you expect – they’ve been chumming around together”; “You can tell a lot about a person by who they’re chumming with, and just look who she’s having for dinner at her place.”

You may or may not know the other chum, noun and (more often) verb. It’s from an American language, perhaps Powhatan or perhaps Chinook Jargon, and it refers to the kind of stuff you distribute in the ocean to attract sharks and other marine predators: the often rancid remnants of desecrated marine life – fish blood, fish guts, fish bits – and the distribution thereof in the water. If you’re in a fishing vessel rather than a cruise ship and you’re “chumming around,” it probably means not literally making new friends but more wryly “making new friends”: drawing the attention of sharks, bass, and similar carnivorous sea creatures.

And so you have a sort of mirror “never the twain shall meet” relation between the two: are you chumming, or are you chumming? Except… what if someone is socially baiting to attract friends who are, figuratively, sharks? Let us imagine that someone is making public statements on social media or in the press that are “just asking questions” about something that non-vicious people had settled a long time ago. “No, I’m not committing to a position; I just want to know whether you really think this kind of people are truly equal human beings.” They’re not attacking, but by raising the topic, they are treating it as an open one, one for which either answer might have some merit. And in so doing they’re attracting the responses of people who they are happy enough to be generally friendly with – they’re chumming for people to chum around with – people who approach such “debates” about the same way as sharks approach discussions over who to have for dinner.

hopscotch

Hopscotch, as you can tell by the name, is a kind of whisky made with beer.

You doubt me? It’s made in Vermont by Mad River Distillers. They use “Triple Sunshine” IPA (a kind of beer that has a lot of hops in it) made by Lawson’s Finest Liquids. Now, obviously, as they are in Vermont, it is not truly Scotch; it would have to be made in Scotland for that. But it is a single malt made in the same style.

So we’ve cleared that up.

What?

Children’s game? Are you serious? With hops and Scotch whisky?

I see: in the Oxford English Dictionary they have a quote from 1886 referring to “the well-known boys’ game of ‘hop-scotch’” and another quote from 1801 saying “Among the school-boys in my memory there was a pastime called Hop-Scotch.” So it was boys playing with a bitter plant and…

No?

OK. Scotch that. Apparently it has nothing to do with those kinds of hops or that kind of Scotch. (And lately, at least in North America, it seems to be thought of more as a girls’ game.)

In fact, this word, hopscotch, is a fun little lexical grid game because it is made of two parts, each of which has an unrelated homonym:

  • Hops, the plant (which can be in the singular, hop, though it seldom is), comes from Proto-Germanic *huppô and has cognates in German Hopfen and French houblon
  • Hop, the action, comes from Proto-Germanic *huppōną and has cognates hoppen and hoppa in several Germanic languages (and also hobble in English). 
  • Scotch, the beverage, is formed from Scot plus ish distilled together, and Scot is from Latin Scōtī, which named both the Scottish and the Irish peoples. 
  • Scotch, the noun and verb meaning ‘scratch, cut, score’, referring in this case to the markings on the ground for the game (now often done with chalk or even paint) – and, as in “scotch a rumour,” using the metaphor of scratching out – comes from Anglo-Norman escocher, from Old French coche ‘notch’, apparently from Italian cocca ‘notch, corner’.

So, it stands to reason that there are four options:

 hop ‘bitter plant’hop ‘leap’
Scotch ‘whisky’Hopscotch (1)Hopscotch (2)
scotch ‘scratch’hopscotch (3)hopscotch (4)

If hopscotch (4) can be leaping around a scratched court, and Hopscotch (1) can be whisky made from beer featuring bitter herbs, then there should also be a Hopscotch (2) that is leaping around whisky – perhaps a whisky bar (yes, in Saint John, New Brunswick) or a whisky festival (yes, in Vancouver) – as well as a hopscotch (3) that is something made by scratching bitter herbs (well, there’s a whole beer company by that name in Auckland, New Zealand, and there are also I’m not even sure how many beers by that name made by various companies, including one made sometimes across the street from me at Goose Island, though I don’t see any that are of the type of beer called Scotch ale; there is also a hopped cider called Hopscotch made by Saltbox Brewing Company in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia).

And if you want to know about the rules of the game hopscotch, there’s a whole Wikipedia article on it. Look there. I’m just the word dude. Besides, I’ve never played it. When I was a kid in Alberta, it was for girls only. Oh, and if you want to know about the Vermont whisky? Never had that either, but I’ll take the next chance I get.

rigmarole

Ugh, those friggin’ regulations. Whatever you do, it’s not enough. It’s like some kind of deranged quadrille or cotillion – every step you take, there’s another step to take, all being called by some man running you ragged. It saps morale. It feels rigged, like you have to know the right strings to pull. It’s just more and more rigmarole.

Rigmarole. It could be such a nice thing, like eating rigatoni to the sound of a barcarolle. But no, it’s nothing but multifarious regulations made of murky regurgitated legal blither.

Or… well, how would you define rigmarole? Like the big runaround? A long litany of hocus-pocus? Legal blah-blah-blah? A verbal mugging? Or simply beleaguering gibberish? Or some other kind of verbal thingamajig?

Speaking of which, you may know this as rigamarole, with the extra a syllable to give it a rhythm like thingamajig or gobbledegook. But that’s just a needless addition – though, for that very reason, rather apposite. And the truth is that rigmarole is already an altered form. It is from – get ready for this – Ragman roll.

That’s kind of confusing or suspicious or disappointing, isn’t it? How is there rhyme or reason in that? What, for that matter, is a Ragman roll?

As it turns out, it’s two things, and there is disagreement about which of them it came from, and how the two are related and how either of them gave rise to rigmarole, and the various often lengthy discourses on historical minutiae never give a fully satisfying explanation.

The first Ragman Rolls are the… oh, here, I can’t even, I’m just going to quote this rigmarole from Wikipedia:

the collection of instruments by which the nobility and gentry of Scotland subscribed allegiance to King Edward I of England, during the time between the Conference of Norham in May 1291 and the final award in favour of Balliol in November 1292; and again in 1296. Of the former of these records two copies were preserved in the Chapter House at Westminster Abbey (now in the National Archives (United Kingdom) at Kew), and it has been printed by Thomas Rymer. Another copy, preserved originally in the Tower of London, is now also in the National Archives. The latter record, containing the various acts of homage and fealty extorted by Edward from John Balliol and others in the course of his progress through Scotland in the summer of 1296 and in August at the parliament of Berwick, was published by Prynne from the copy in the Tower and now in the National Archives. Both records were printed by the Bannatyne Club in 1834.

Whoever all those people are, not one of them is Ragman. The further explanation, quoted from Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, is that Ragman Roll “originally meant the ‘Statute of Rageman’ (De Ragemannis), a legate of Scotland, who compelled all the clergy to give a true account of their benefices, that they might be taxed at Rome accordingly.” Which still does not explain the etymology.

But then there’s the second thing. There was a game of chance called Ragman, in which the key instrument was a roll of writings, called the Ragman roll, which had verses within it with strings attached to them, and you pulled a string and read the verse, which described some personal character (like a roll-playing game?). And… yeah, I don’t really get the picture either. But why the name? Merriam-Webster explains, “The roll was called a Ragman roll after a fictional king purported to be the author of the verses.” Which explains nothing. A ragman was someone who collected and dealt in rags, which was not a high social position, so applying the name to a king or noble seems to have been a derogation.

So perhaps the game is named after the Scottish records described above. Which, it has been suggested, are so called because the original was a number of rather ragged pieces of paper or parchment sewn together. And also perhaps to insult the king in question, Edward I (insults not being out of the ordinary when dealing with questions of royalty between Scotland and England). At the end, though, the histories and explanations, once unrolled, remain ragged, the connection between all of that and what we have now seems roughly stitched without further justification, and so we’ve learned a whole lot of not much.

draconian

Some people’s attitudes towards minor transgressions of grammar, spelling, punctuation, or similar niceties can be a bit drastic. Dramatic. One might even say… draconian. Prescribing cruel punishments for misplaced apostrophes. Breathing fire on those who would use a word inappropriately.

Such as using a word that’s a legal allusion for non-legal matters, perhaps?

I may be reaching a bit here, but I can’t help but think that the “decimated means reduced by ten percent, you vulgar barbarian” crowd might feel that since draconian originates in a particularly severe legal code – one that prescribed the death penalty even for some kinds of theft, and enslavement for failing to pay debts to one’s social superiors – the broader use of draconian, as in (to cite a few common examples) “draconian security measures,” “draconian environmental measures,” “draconian austerity measures,” “draconian spending cuts,” and “draconian budgetary policies” might be worthy of censure. Or whips, chains, forced servitude, gruesome death, that manner of thing.*

To be sure, draconian is still used in the strictly legal sense too. I’m editing a book on the Qin Empire in China, which was spectacularly expansive and spectacularly short-lived (221–206 BC), and the author has much to say about its “draconian principle” in law, whereby if a judge had several options for punishing a misdeed, the most severe was always to be chosen. Not only that, if a judge was more lenient, he could himself be subject to the punishment he was supposed to have given.

Great way to preserve social order, eh? As long as people are afraid of punishment, they’ll be good. 

Well, either that, or they’ll lie a lot. All the time. 

In the Qin Empire, couriers for priority government communications could be fined severely for being even a little late, so they often faked arrival records. But never mind that – breach of filial piety (e.g., being rude to your parents) could be punishable by death, and the onus was on the parents, as the offended parties, to report the transgression. You can see that many parents might decide to let a bit of youthful insolence be dealt with at home rather than see their child (however nasty) be executed. Oh, but if someone found out that a child had breached filial piety and the parents had not reported it, the parents would be punished! Not by death, but severely nonetheless. 

So if you wanted a decent kind of social order where impulsive progeny were not regularly slaughtered wholesale, it relied on a whole web of deception, the weak point of which was anyone who was too inhuman, too intimidated by authority, or both.

But while those who lack mercy may be rewarded with fear, they get little respect, and people will take opportunities to displace them. Cruelty eventually has to eat what it has planted. Which was one factor in the demise of the Qin Empire (not the only one, mind you; when you expand your empire too quickly, you tend to lack the resources and logistics to sustain its periphery; to make up for a lack of public servants in the peripheries, the Qin commuted many penal sentences to forced servitude in government postings in remote locations, which turned out about as well as you may guess).

So now think of the more draconian prescriptivists of English. The teachers who brook no “barbarisms.” The authors of rigid and intolerant guides to English, people who gleefully enfranchise frank rudeness in social contexts (unsolicited corrections of others’ speech) and even vandalism (“correcting” public signage). Sure, people carry corrections in the backs of their heads, and may even be “on their best behaviour” linguistically when there is any threat of censure, but no one enjoys this except the people issuing the corrections – and, if we can be honest, they don’t seem happy about it either. The most gleeful and joyous use of the language is often in the infractions! And nuts to the old dragons.

Speaking of which. Draconian can be defined as ‘of, like, or resembling a dragon’. So is this term related to the laws lain down by dragons of lore, cruel and inflexible and breathing fire? No – the use we make of it is based not on a dragon but on a person named after one: the Athenian lawmaker named Drákōn Δράκων, rendered in Latin as Draco. He was the one who, around 600 BC, set down the Athenian legal code, the one I spoke of up in my third paragraph, which could have you killed for filching a cabbage.

Well, I speak of Draco as a person in good faith, but the lore may be in bad faith; it’s possible he was a mythical creation, a fictitious person to whom was attributed the works of unknown real persons. At any rate, though, his name was a proper noun, and so draconian is an eponym. And, for those who wish to be fussy, the distinction between ‘dragon-like’ and ‘harsh in punishment’ is a distinction between draconian and Draconian.

Indeed, if you look at the Oxford English Dictionary (entry last updated 1897), the entry is capitalized: Draconian. But also, the OED doesn’t include the ‘dragon-like’ definition with that entry. On the other hand, it also doesn’t include the more common definition, either. Its definition of Draconian is simply “= Draconic adj. 1, 2.”

Yes, in the view of the OED, the preferred adjective is not draconian or Draconian but Draconic (or, I suppose, for the ‘dragon-like’ sense, draconic, though they don’t say so). Never mind that their own usage charts show draconian being used orders of magnitude more often than draconic; those charts have been updated recently, while the definitions have not.

But if you are the sort of person for whom “the old ways are the best ways,” you may well prefer to go with 1897. Or perhaps even 600 BC or 221 BC. But before you get too Draconic in your prescriptions and penalties, take note that Draco’s laws were repealed not long after his death – and those of the Qin Empire were also softened by the Han dynasty that replaced it. When punishment is not so much the means as the end, those who are mean will soon enough meet their ends.

* I once had someone say “I hope you die a horrible death” to me for my article suggesting we would be better off without apostrophes. I know that they were deliberately overstating the matter, but still…

demur

I was going to taste a different word, but I couldn’t find a way not to make it distractingly political (O tempora! O mores!). I have a longstanding moratorium on politics here, so I am demurring. That’s not to say I won’t get to it, but, when topics political come up, no matter how consequential they are, sooner or later one must give it a rest.

Which is what demurring is. We may think of “I demur” in Bartleby-the-Scrivener terms, “I prefer not to” meaning “not between now and the end of time,” but the point is it’s not a stop; it’s a delay, however indefinite. It’s for something you don’t deem urgent. Perhaps you’re being coy – may we say demure? – and it’s just a decoy. The matter at hand may yet find its redeemer. But probably not. Demur may be (to quote one definition) “to make scruples,” but sometimes it is done unscrupulously. It may be to let the subject mature – to the point of senescence or even obsolescence – but it may be to leave it in the mortuary. Which would be, as they say, a rum thing.

There’s little question of what demur meant in earlier times. It comes from the same origin as French demeurer, which means ‘remain, stay, stop, persist’. That origin is Latin demorari, which – pun notwithstanding – has nothing to do with Demerara (which comes from an Arawak name for a tree). But, like Demerara rum, it has to do with an alternative to stress: the heart of demorari is mora, which means ‘delay’ or ‘wait’ or ‘duration of time’ and has come into English as a unit of phonological weight, an alternative to the syllable. 

In English, we measure our words in syllables, and each word of more than one syllable has a stressed syllable. In a language such as Japanese, however, there are not syllables but morae, and there is not stress but pitch accent. It’s all sounds, of course, but it comes down to how you think about it (just like stress). The simple 5+7+5 addition of a haiku is made for morae – like in this one by Kobayashi Issa:

hatsu uri wo 
hittoramaete 
neta ko kana

Notice that hittoramaete is seven morae: hit-t-to-ra-ma-e-te. When you impose the haiku form on the bump and jump of syllables, as in this English translation of the above, it’s always a bit less or more, eh:

the first ripe melon
holding tightly close to her
my child rests asleep

This mora shows up elsewhere in our language, too: in moratorium. That may sound like a mortuary, but it’s not related. Demure is also not related; it’s from the same root as mature, and as the French word for ‘ripe’, mûr or mûre. French for ‘blackberry’ is also mûre, but the two are not related, even if the blackberries are ripe; the blackberry mûre is from Greek μόρον móron, which is not related to English moron, which is from μωρός mōrós (note the longer ω: in Classical Greek prosody, it has two morae, whereas ο has one), which is not related to morose, which is related to mores, as in  morals, those things that forbid murder, which is related only distantly (through Proto-Indo-European) to mortal and to mortuary – a place where mortal remains demur indefinitely.

What? You murmur “no more”? Then I’ll let it rest.