Oh Those Convivial Romans

Hello,

I’m reading “The Wordhord” by Hana Videen at the moment and given that it’s about Old English words, I really shouldn’t be writing about a Roman word in English, but she mentioned convivial in passing and it reminded me that I like the word but hadn’t explored its roots.

Convivial (meaning relating to a feast) has been with us since the 1660s and I suppose we’ve always needed words about parties, as Hana was talking about ge-bēor-scripe – which translates literally as a beer-ship, but is more like a formal meal taken in company, and not always with beer.

She explained that the Last Supper was a ge-bēor-scripe, as was the Pharoah’s birthday celebration according to Old English translators of the Bible and I can only imagine those events had very different vibes from a round of beers, or cocktails, in the pub.

But what about the convivial Romans? Did they break bread with a dozen close friends, toast with mead like the Vikings, or party like an Egyptian?

Convivial arrived in English from Latin convivialis (relating to a feast) thanks to convivium (a feast) and convivere (to carouse together or to live together). They are all formed by joining com (together) which we also find in words like community and vivere (to live) which French speakers will recognise as linked to vivre (to live). By the time the word reached the 1700s the idea of feasting wasn’t compulsory to its meaning. You could say somebody was convivial if they were sociable.

There were a few related words too. We still have convivially and conviviality, although they’re not used much now.

One I had never heard of was convive. It dates to the 1600s again and is the term for a boon companion, a convivial person. It has the same roots in Latin where it was a conviva – a guest or table-companion. By the 1850s it was still in English and was a term for a woman who lives in the same house with a number of others. I’d love to know the context of that. Was it a group of female-workers sharing lodgings? A matriarchal family group? We don’t have many records of women living without a male presence in that time period and I’m intrigued that it was common enough to have its own word. Can any of you shed any light on convive?

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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Varmints and Vermin

Hello,

This week’s words are varmints and vermin. I can’t say the word varmint without imagining a grizzled Wild West prospector, possibly missing a tooth, or two. I was curious, is varmint an uniquely American word for describing both animal pests and rascals of the two-legged variety?

Too friendly a mouse to be vermin

Sadly the pronunciation of varmint (available here) is not provided by that curmudgeonly character and varmint pre-dates the American frontier. It comes from Middle English, was used as early as 1539, and is a variant of vermin with what’s called a “parasitic t”. I don’t relish the notion of letters attaching themselves like leeches to other words, although it would explain the spelling of pneumonia.

Despite its source in Middle English varmint is now listed in both Oxford and Collins dictionaries as being informal North American slang. Its use for animal pests came first. The secondary meaning of a troublesome person arrived in the 1700s.

Rats made of shells in the French Vendee region

Vermin’s use for such trouble-makers has earlier roots. By the 1560s if you referred to the farmer next door as vermin, everybody would have understood. This isn’t surprising as vermin is the older word. The Latin for worm is vermis. This became the collective noun verminum in vulgar Latin and referred to all sorts of pests – insects and possibly reptiles included. Old French seized on it as vermin and referred to difficult creatures such as moths. worms, and mites. By 1300 the Normans had brought it with them to England in Anglo-French. Every language, it seems, requires a term for varmints.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling, hopefully without varmints,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)