The Holy History of Precarious

Hello.

This week’s word is precarious, a word with a surprisingly holy history.

With my sense of balance, crossing these would be precarious indeed

My own most frequent use of precarious is related to either hiking or stacking. There are times on a trail when you need to cross a set of stepping stones and even if none of them are unsteady, or precarious, I will inevitably land in the water. It’s my only super-power and one which my hiking friends enjoy with much mirth.

As for a stack of books or papers, well, I blithely disregard the precarious nature of those too, with predictable results.

So when I found the following entry in “Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable”, it caught my attention – “From Latin precarius, obtained by prayer. Is applied to what depends on our prayers or requests. A precarious tenure is one that depends solely on the will of the owner to concede to our prayer, hence uncertain and not to be depended on”.

The example relating to legal tenure is apt. Apparently precarious joined the English dictionary as a legal word in the 1640s. It meant that something was “held through the favor of another” – something like a paid job, an estate, or permission to inhabit a home, for example.

Brewer was correct, it comes from Latin precarius (gained by asking or praying) thanks to the Latin word prex (prayer) and ultimately from the Proto Indo European root word – prek (to ask). Prek also gives us words like prayer, prithee, and deprecate.

By the end of the 1600s the idea of being dependent on the goodwill of another led precarious to gain a second meaning of something being risky (like me on those stepping stones) or uncertain. Samuel Johnson didn’t approve, saying precarious “is used for uncertain in all its senses; but it only means uncertain, as dependent on others”.

Like many a language fan in his time and since, Johnson was unable to stand against the tide of general usage and now precarious is much more likely to be used of a risky situation than in the specific legal sense.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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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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Hasty Angels and the Word History of Precipitation

Hello,

It’s a wet Monday here. The forecast is for rain all day long. The puddles are forming in my garden and my walking shoes are glaring at me, daring me to test their water-proof-ness.

Instead of sloshing through puddles, I’ll take a look at the word history of precipitation. My first association with the word is as an alternative term for rain, but of course it covers all types of atmospheric moisture deposited on the earth’s surface including snow, dew, frost, hail, etc.

This idea of precipitation being a form of water falling from the sky dates to the 1600s but the word itself is older. It joined English in the late 1400s and was originally spelled as precipitacioun. I love those old spellings, don’t you?

It arrived with two meanings. One was the casting down of rebellious angels from heaven. Lucifer was precipitated from heaven, for example. The other was used in alchemy where precipitation was the separation of a solid from a solution. My eldest is now studying chemistry at university and he would know all about that. I hope he does this in a slow careful manner rather than with undue haste.

Precipitation was borrowed into English from Old French and before that came from Latin praecipitationem (falling headlong or being hasty) from praeceps (steep, headlong, headfirst). Praeceps is formed by joining prae (before) with caput (head). Put the two together and you definitely get the idea of going head-first with some degree of speed, as an angel might when falling from a great height.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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The Puzzling History of the Dissectologists

Hello,

Did you know you can add a word to the dictionary? No, I don’t mean by using your pen to scribble it in the margins. I can’t condone such vandalism. You can submit a word for consideration by the lexicographers. All the major dictionaries are open to this notion. For example, you’ll find the lowdown on submitting a word to the Collins Dictionary here. You create an account, submit the word for consideration and they track usage and conduct research before possibly adding it to online and finally print editions of their book.

This week’s word, dissectologist, is such a thing. I found it in “Body of Truth” by Marie Cassidy, the former Irish State Pathologist who has taken up crime-writing in her retirement from autopsies. I imagine anybody who enjoys dissections would be charmed by the word, but it has nothing to do with cutting up bodies, thankfully.

Dissectologist was submitted to Collins Dictionary for consideration in 2022 and it’s currently being “monitored for evidence of usage” so I reckon we all have a chance to help this one into the dictionary. Tempted? Use it online, use it in print. Have some fun with it. Marie Cassidy is using it, let’s join her. The woman is handy with a scalpel, let’s not annoy her.

What is a dissectologist? It’s not somebody in a science lab or autopsy suite.

It’s a jigsaw puzzle enthusiast.

The Bard’s London, a literary jigsaw I completed recently

Dissectologist comes from the original name of jigsaw puzzles in the late 1700s. They were called dissected maps. They were wooden maps which could be broken up into sections to teach geography to students. Over time other pictures were used and the jigsaw we know today evolved.

The verb dissect entered English around 1600 to describe the action of cutting into pieces. It came from Latin dissectus where dis means apart and secare is the verb to cut. When it arrived in English it was all about science – cutting up plants or animals to study their structure and to diagnose diseases. The more figurative idea of dissecting an argument point by point arose a few decades later.

The jigsaw-loving dissectologists founded the wonderfully named Benevolent Confraternity of Dissectologists (BCD for short) in 1985 to celebrate their hobby and its history. The CBD are based in the UK but have members worldwide. I can only imagine how excited they will be if dissectologist gets the official dictionary stamp of approval one day.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.

Political Factions Come From Roman Chariot Races

Hello,

Nowadays if you look up the word faction in the dictionary (and yes, that’s faction, not fraction) you get “a small organized dissenting group within a larger one, especially in politics” but the its origins lie far from politics. Factions began in the arena, the chariot arena to be precise.

I wish I hadn’t misplaced my photos of a holiday we took in France many years ago. We visited a French theme park called Puy de Fou because it was literally the only place to visit in the region. The children were small and none of us had much interest in theme parks but it would be fine.

Readers, it was much more than fine. Besides the usual rides (most of which were too scary for our young children) they also had shows. There was the Viking ship which rose out of the water complete with live actors, an equestrian show which involved flooding the biggest stage I’ve ever seen, a Norman castle which moved around like a fortified Dalek shooting flames at the opposing army, and a full sized Roman hippodrome (arena for chariot races) with lions, ostriches, a flock of geese, and four teams of charioteers (each controlling four horses abreast) racing at full speed.

My French skills were pushed to their limits that day as all narration was in French only (as far as I could tell this theme park was France’s effort to push back against Disneyland Paris) but it was worth it. The children were stunned, and so were we.

I only wish I still had my snaps of the chariots, but if you click onto their website you’ll get video of the races. Since that day our family has visited several renowned theme parks and honestly nothing has come close to being as impressive.

What as all this to do with factions? Faction entered English around the year 1500 directly from French and before that from Latin factionem (a political party or group of people). The word itself comes from a root word relating to doing. However the word comes not from doing but from racing, chariot racing.

In Roman and Byzantine history the factiones were the companies into which the charioteers were divided, each factione having its special colour, originally white and red, to which green and blue were added when the number of chariots was increased. The colours helped spectators distinguish the team they wanted to support, much as soccer teams wear different colours on the pitch today.

The idea of a faction being a sub-group within a larger group was later adopted as a way to describe a sub-group of political opinion within a larger group and we quickly forgot the link to chariot racing. If we went back to those roots I suspect elections would be far more interesting.

I found today’s story, or the core of it, in “Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable”. It’s over 1200 pages in length and I’m still chipping away at it, but it contains some real gems.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Issue Two went out last week and offered readers a pre-publication peek at “Words Christmas Gave Us”.

p.p.s. It’s day 20 of NaNoWriMo 2023 today. I’m on 40,146 words and enjoying writing “The Librarian’s Secret Diary”.

The Religious Roots of Propaganda

Hello,

Until very recently if you had challenged me to provide the roots of the word propaganda I would have guessed it came from some war, possibly earlier than you might think, maybe in the 1600s. Military words are often older than you’d expect as sadly human beings have been fighting each other for a very, very long time indeed.

If you’d then smiled and said, “Guess again, the Pope”, I would have been shocked. Yet, that’s exactly the source of propaganda.

Vatican from Above – Photo by Aliona & Pasha on Pexels.com

A committee of cardinals was formed in 1622 by Pope Gregory XV for spreading or propagating, the Catholic faith worldwide. It was called the Congregation of the Propaganda of Faith (Congretatio de Propaganda Fide, in Italian).

The word joined English in 1718 to describe this cardinal grouping, who concentrated their efforts on Catholic missionary work around the world. Its linguistic roots lie with the Latin verb propagare – to extend, spread, or increase. You can see this root also in the term propagation as used by gardeners about growing seeds or taking soft or hardwood cuttings from plants to grow new plants. I’ve softwood lavender cuttings in pots on my windowsill right now as I’m hoping to propagate new plants from them.

By the late 1700s propaganda was any movement to propagate a practice or idea. By World War I the term was used, in a positive sense, to describe the spreading of information to promote a political viewpoint. Since that time it has gained the additional idea of the information being potentially biased or misleading.

Nowadays the term is used for any association, publication, or scheme for influencing public opinion in religious, social, and political matters.

Until next time, happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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Rivals at the River – a Word History

Hello,

There is a huge temptation in exploring the history of words to assume that words which are similar in spelling must be related. This is sometimes true, and sometimes not. Sometimes they have some overlap, word acquaintances if you will, but are not actual cousins. Two such words are river and rival.

The word river comes from the Latin word ripa which means bank or shore. Rival does not come from ripa, but does have a river-based story.

Rival entered English in the 1570s to describe somebody who is in pursuit of the same object as another. It came from the Latin word rivalis (river-man, rival, adversary in love, neighbour). This was originally used for somebody from the same brook, thanks to the Latin word rivus (brook) and the Proto Indo European root word rei (to run or to flow).

This leaves us with river from ripa (bank, shore) and rival from rivus (brook). You must admit those are different roots, but certainly with some overlap.

Perhaps adding stepping stones, like these in Glendalough, would stop rivalry?

The idea of the rival being a river-man or neighbour is the original concept. The idea is that you have two neighbours using the same stream, perhaps from opposite banks. They both need the same resources for their families and livestock. That can lead to conflict. Now think about how rivers have often been boundaries down through the centuries. We’re unlikely to squabble badly with our county neighbours in my local village (except perhaps over Gaelic football) but sure enough the boundary between Dublin and Meath in these parts is a small river. It’s a natural divide and handy for cartographers.

Rivalry over rivers evolved quickly in English (and French) to become romantic rivalry. By the early 1600s Shakespeare was using it in this sense and of course we have “The Rivals” by 1775, the excellent romantic comedy play by Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

Rival also developed a later variation of meaning – an equal or peer – for example “a chef without rival“.

Hopefully you won’t encounter any rivals today, but if you do perhaps the Romans would advise you to shove them in the river?

As previously mentioned I’ve finally taken the plunge and created my own newsletter. “Wordfoolery Whispers” will be launching this month (one email per month because anything more is frankly annoying to me and you). It will give you the inside scoop on all of my writing, reading, and history adventures. Sneak peaks of new books, contests, quizzes, and more. You can subscribe now at subscribepage.io/wordfoolerywhispers. I hope some of you will join me there for a roundup of all my writing (which is much more than just this blog), but don’t worry the Wordfoolery Blog is going to continue as it is – my weekly exploration of the stories behind English words.

Until next time, happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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The Zigzag Path to Prevarication

Hello,

This week I’m looking askance at prevaricators in dictionaries. Don’t worry, the lexicographers aren’t lying to us but the history of prevarication is a crooked tale.

Pirate Captain Grace often prevaricated about her share of the booty

Prevarication arrived in English in the late 1300s, although presumably we had liars long before that date. It was originally spelled prevaricacioun and it described any divergence from the right course, any breaking of a law or commandment which, in the scale of things, appears worse than a little fib.

Prevarication was borrowed by English from Old French prevaricacion (breaking God’s laws) and before that from Latin praevaricationem (duplicity, not following duty or good behaviour). It’s Latin roots are fascinating. It comes from praevaricari (to make a false accusation or literally to walk crookedly) and in Church Latin it was used as a verb meaning to transgress.

The Latin word is compounded from prae (before) which is a prefix used in words like, for example, prefix. This is joined to varicare (to straddle) which is connected to varus (bowlegged) which gives the word its crooked sense. This brings a whole new level to the use of crooked or crook to describe somebody as being untrustworthy.

Prevarication, while it may have started in transgressions against church rules, by the 1600s was describing any form of evasion, quibbling, or dishonesty, just as it does today.

“Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable” adds a little more to the story of prevarication. He repeats that the Latin roots relate to straddling and going crooked or zigzag but explains that Pliny (Roman author, naturalist, and naval commander whose descriptions of mythical beasts are a little embellished to say the least) claimed the Latin term was originally applied to farmers who ploughed a crooked ridge in their fields. Then later prevarication was used to describe the actions of men who gave crooked answers in the law courts or lied and deviated from the straight line of the truth.

It’s amazing to me that 2,000 years later we still ask people to be straight with us, accuse them of prevarication, or simply of being crooked, all thanks to Roman farmers.

Until next time, happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

Why Do We Say They Came Plum Last?

Hello,

I was watching the Singapore F1 race highlights yesterday when David Coulthard (former race winner and now commentator) used the expression plum last and then immediately wondered aloud why we say that.

Challenge accepted, David!

My usual phrase origin sources failed me on this one, but a combination of English StackExchange and Etymology Online came to my rescue.

First, let’s define the phrase. If somebody comes plum last it means they came last. Typically it means they came last in a definitive fashion, like the poor runner who arrives at the finish line of a marathon three days after the race started. But what has this to do with a delicious fruit? I’ve a damson plum tree in my garden and it’s far from the last item to be harvested. That honour usually goes to my hazelnuts or the eating apples I pick around Halloween time.

Hedgerow jam – damson & blackberry

The confusion stems from similar spellings. Plum is a fruit but plumb is related to the metal lead. If we’re being totally accurate the unfortunate marathon runner came plumb last. However most dictionaries list plum last as correct also.

In case you’re curious, plum (the name of the fruit) has been with us since ploume in Middle English and plume in Old English. These arrived via Old High German pfluma, Latin prunum, Greek prounon, and possibly before that from Antaloia (now Turkey) which is also the origin of the tree itself. We use plum to mean the “best bit” of something since the 1700s – a plum role for actor or plum seats at a play. As plum-eating fan, I totally agree with this use.

If plumb last is the real expression then what does a metal have to do with coming last? Is our marathon runner wearing lead boots?

Plumb entered the English language in the early 1300s to describe a piece of lead hung on a string to show the vertical line. This is important in various construction jobs and although modern builders will sometimes use a laser level tool instead, but you can still buy plumb lines from major DIY shops (I checked).

The word plumb came from Old French plombe. A plombe was a sounding lead – used by mariners to determine the depth of water beneath their ship and hence avoid running aground. This is what gives us the phrase swinging the lead. Plombe came to French directly from Latin plumbum (lead). Plumbum is why lead is presented as Pb on the Periodic Table of Elements. Often such Latin words have roots in Greek but not this time. There are theories around extinct languages and loan words but honestly, we’re not sure.

To get from lead to last takes one more step. Plumb can be used as an adjective in English from the mid 1400s to describe something as being vertical according to the plumb line. You can imagine a Tudor builder being happy that his new wall is plumb. It was already an adverb in a similar fashion by this time. This idea of exact measurement led the language by the late 1700s to use plumb (or plump, plum, or even plunk) to describe something as completely. Hence you were totally, undeniably last in the race if you finished plumb last, or plunk last I guess.

A related use of plumb as an adjective intensifier is the American English expression for somebody being plumb crazy which appears there during the 1800s and is less used in British English. I’m fairly sure I’ve never heard it used in Ireland outside of American TV shows, but I’m open to correction.

One fun contribution on Stack Exchange wondered if perhaps the contrast was between a person being level-headed (sane) versus plumb crazy (not straight or level like a plumb line). There’s no way to prove this, but it’s a fun notion. In the meantime I’m off to enjoy this year’s plum jam.

Until next time, happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

The Word History of Social with Help from the Romans

Social is such an everyday word. We use it to describe people as being friendly and open to mixing with others. We use it as a noun to identify group events. It describes a variety of activities. Its roots, however, were less than friendly which is something I only stumbled across recently.

The adjective social entered English in the early 1400s to describe somebody or something as being connected to home life, so originally in English it was more about staying at home rather than going out and being a party animal. By the 1560s it acquired the idea of living with others, as an import from the French use of the word. This was probably closer to its roots as it came from Latin socialis (of companionship, allies, marriage, living with others).

Socialis came from socius, also in Latin, which means companion or ally, from a root word sekw (to folllow). This links to Old English secg and Old Norse seggr (companion).

With the passage of time social gained more uses, many of which are still active today. Social club arrived in the late 1700s – “persons coming together for friendly intercourse” (no sniggering down the back please). Social drinking was from the 1800s, as was a social butterfly (flitting from one event to another). In the 1900s we added social network and in 2008 we got social media.

There are more serious uses of social too – the social contract (1763 from Rousseau), social science (1785), and many uses around specific political theories. Ones which stuck out for me were social climbers trying to advance socially (1893), social security (state support for needy citizens in the USA since 1935), and you might recall social distancing as a virus transmission reduction concept during the recent pandemic but it started in 1924 with an entirely different meaning around psychological distance within societies.

None of this gives us much of a clue about the origin of the word social, however, except for the Latin word socius meaning companion or ally.

Social originates with a war. A war between socii (allies) to be precise. It took place from 90 to 87 B.C. between the Roman Republic and several of its allies and is known as the Social War. You can get the basics on Wikipedia, or a good Roman history textbook. As far as I can tell the allied states wanted to gain Roman citizenship and rights and the main body of Romans were not keen to share. The allies lost.

There is something contrary about a war being fought between allies and there’s something even more contrary about a word we use now for the joining together of people getting started by people fighting each other. There’s probably a sarcastic comment available here about social media, but I’ll let you find it yourself.

Until next time, happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)