Stupid Question ™
March 28, 2005
By John Ruch
© 2005
Q: What’s the origin of the word “bulldozer”?
—anonymous, from the Internet
A: Nobody really knows, which makes “bulldozer” one of those fascinating words whose meaning shifts depending on what people imagine its origin to be.
“Bulldozer” today most commonly refers to a kind of earthmoving tractor with a blade attached to the front. It can also mean a kind of bully or steamrolling force—a metaphorical meaning that, one would guess, came from the earthmover idea. In fact, the exact reverse is true.
Bulldozer and bulldoze (the verb) are US slang that first turned up in the late 1800s to mean something intimidating or bullying, either literally or metaphorically. In at least some uses, large-caliber handguns were called “bulldozers.”
The word first popped up in print in newspapers, where it was frequently used along with a self-conscious explanation of its meaning. These etymologies generally claimed it came from “bull-dose,” a supposed slave plantation term for a whipping so severe it was a “dose” of punishment that would harm even a bull.
This is fairly believable, especially presuming the influence of such terms as “bullwhip.” However, there are reasons to doubt it, especially since no one has found an independent prior usage of “bull-dose.” It is just as likely to be pop etymology that helped cement the intimidating tone of the word.
It’s significant that at the time, “bull” could be used as a prefix in slang to denote something large. So a “bull-dose” could simply be a large dose of anything. But then, it’s also unclear how “dose” shifted into “doze”—if that’s indeed what happened. Early citations varying in their spellings, making it unclear which came first.
The overall sense of these early newspaper definitions is of someone trying to definite and phonetically spell a slang term from the street. So I don’t put a lot of stock in either the meaning or the spelling, though they do agree on the word “dose” being the basis. Still, a corruption of “bulldogs” or even some playful term like “bull does” (as in “how a bull behaves”) seem as likely to me.
It’s worth noting that while somewhat synonymous with “bully,” “bulldoze” has no etymological relation to that word. But they certainly came to converge in meaning nonetheless. In part, that seems to be because people mistakenly assume “bully” stems from the word “bull,” which it doesn’t.
In that vein, it’s interesting to note that at the same time “bulldozer” was slang for a gun, so was “bulldog.”
Anyhow, it was about 1930 that the earthmover industry picked up the pushy-sounding “bulldozer” as a term for its tractor.
The metaphorical meaning of a bully or overwhelming force remains, of course. But today, virtually everybody presumes it comes from the earthmover term. So there is almost always now an implication of a pushing, thrusting, flattening force that was not present in earlier meanings of “bulldoze.”
Showing posts with label etymology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label etymology. Show all posts
March 29, 2008
Pine, Fur, Spruce
Stupid Question ™
Feb. 7, 2005
By John Ruch
© 2005
Q: What’s the difference between a pine, a fir and a spruce? Are they the same thing?
—Mike, Columbus, Ohio
A: This is one of those sad situations that arise when modern scientific classification attempts to embrace the common names that came before it.
Only such rational irrationalism could produce the modern distinction between “pines” and “true pines,” or insist that the Douglas fir is an imposter and actually a pine in disguise.
Let’s go back to a simpler time, when people just wanted to know, “Does that tree have pointy, evergreen leaves or not?”
The Old Teutonic answer, with typical brevity, was “fir.” (Well, “fir” is the Old English version of it, but you get the idea.) This meant pretty much anything pine-y.
Farther south, the Romans had need of similar words, and one of them was “pinus.” Those Old English speakers who were fancy-pants enough to be using Latin turned that into “pine.”
Over time, these dueling terms sorted out into specific meanings, often based on the quality of wood produced (pine wood generally being better for construction than fir). As a northern name, “fir” also became pegged to the rugged, northern kinds of conifers.
Naturally, people noticed various species of these trees, resulting in “white pine” and other specific terms.
“Spruce” began in the 1300s as one of these more specific terms: it’s short for “Spruce fir.” (The abbreviation was in use by the 1600s.)
“Spruce” was an alternative form of “Pruce,” which was a contemporary term for the region of modern Germany, Poland and Russia then known as Prussia. (Later a state, Prussia officially went away as part of the deal ending World War II.)
Among the products Prussia (a.k.a. Spruce) was known for at the time was quality fir wood. Naturally, it became known as Spruce fir. Possibly it referred to various types of fir wood collectively. The abbreviation to Spruce is fairly contemporary with the introduction of “spruce” (as in “spruce up”) in English, which is likely also a reference to Prussia (some speculate a basis in sharp-looking clothing made of then-famous Prussian leather).
Shortly thereafter came modern scientific classification, which did not improve on things very much.
All of the aforementioned trees are conifers (their seeds come in woody cones) with needle-like leaves and a resinous wood. Wisely, science lumps them all under the order of conifers. So far, so good!
However, all of these trees (along with larches, hemlocks and cedars) are put under the family of Pinaceae, or “pine-like,” trees. Pine is the natural preference since scientific classification is written in Latin.
Within the family is the genus Pinus—the “true pines.” Pretty much all this means is a tree with clustered needles that have a sort of cuticle or “sheath” at the base. Several trees that look like all the other pines are not considered “true pines.”
That includes the modern separation of the firs into the genus Abies. Basically it means any kind of northern, high-altitude conifer; the “scientific” distinction is noting the needles are flat, do not come in bunches and grow straight out of the branch without a stem.
Meanwhile, “spruce”—simply a type of fir—gets its own genus, Picea. The only scientific difference between a spruce and a fir is that spruces have rectangular needles. The scientific name for the famed Norway spruce admits as much: it’s Picea abies, or “spruce fir,” the original common term.
Granted, these genera do make reasonably worthwhile distinctions between trees that have evolved in somewhat different environments. There’s some biological credibility behind them.
But their distinctions are too sharp and literal to extrapolate from broadly defined common words. And by retaining the attachments to those common names, the scientific terms have branched out into confusion.
Arborists, landscapers and nature guides invariably refer to Picea trees as “spruces” and can go into the intricacies of identifying them. But a spruce is simply a fir from northeastern Europe, etymologically speaking.
Likewise, a fir is just a cold-weather pine, and they’re all pines in the end. Or all firs, if you’re feeling Teutonic. Scientific classification won’t tell you anything more than that—it’ll just make you count needles to do it.
Feb. 7, 2005
By John Ruch
© 2005
Q: What’s the difference between a pine, a fir and a spruce? Are they the same thing?
—Mike, Columbus, Ohio
A: This is one of those sad situations that arise when modern scientific classification attempts to embrace the common names that came before it.
Only such rational irrationalism could produce the modern distinction between “pines” and “true pines,” or insist that the Douglas fir is an imposter and actually a pine in disguise.
Let’s go back to a simpler time, when people just wanted to know, “Does that tree have pointy, evergreen leaves or not?”
The Old Teutonic answer, with typical brevity, was “fir.” (Well, “fir” is the Old English version of it, but you get the idea.) This meant pretty much anything pine-y.
Farther south, the Romans had need of similar words, and one of them was “pinus.” Those Old English speakers who were fancy-pants enough to be using Latin turned that into “pine.”
Over time, these dueling terms sorted out into specific meanings, often based on the quality of wood produced (pine wood generally being better for construction than fir). As a northern name, “fir” also became pegged to the rugged, northern kinds of conifers.
Naturally, people noticed various species of these trees, resulting in “white pine” and other specific terms.
“Spruce” began in the 1300s as one of these more specific terms: it’s short for “Spruce fir.” (The abbreviation was in use by the 1600s.)
“Spruce” was an alternative form of “Pruce,” which was a contemporary term for the region of modern Germany, Poland and Russia then known as Prussia. (Later a state, Prussia officially went away as part of the deal ending World War II.)
Among the products Prussia (a.k.a. Spruce) was known for at the time was quality fir wood. Naturally, it became known as Spruce fir. Possibly it referred to various types of fir wood collectively. The abbreviation to Spruce is fairly contemporary with the introduction of “spruce” (as in “spruce up”) in English, which is likely also a reference to Prussia (some speculate a basis in sharp-looking clothing made of then-famous Prussian leather).
Shortly thereafter came modern scientific classification, which did not improve on things very much.
All of the aforementioned trees are conifers (their seeds come in woody cones) with needle-like leaves and a resinous wood. Wisely, science lumps them all under the order of conifers. So far, so good!
However, all of these trees (along with larches, hemlocks and cedars) are put under the family of Pinaceae, or “pine-like,” trees. Pine is the natural preference since scientific classification is written in Latin.
Within the family is the genus Pinus—the “true pines.” Pretty much all this means is a tree with clustered needles that have a sort of cuticle or “sheath” at the base. Several trees that look like all the other pines are not considered “true pines.”
That includes the modern separation of the firs into the genus Abies. Basically it means any kind of northern, high-altitude conifer; the “scientific” distinction is noting the needles are flat, do not come in bunches and grow straight out of the branch without a stem.
Meanwhile, “spruce”—simply a type of fir—gets its own genus, Picea. The only scientific difference between a spruce and a fir is that spruces have rectangular needles. The scientific name for the famed Norway spruce admits as much: it’s Picea abies, or “spruce fir,” the original common term.
Granted, these genera do make reasonably worthwhile distinctions between trees that have evolved in somewhat different environments. There’s some biological credibility behind them.
But their distinctions are too sharp and literal to extrapolate from broadly defined common words. And by retaining the attachments to those common names, the scientific terms have branched out into confusion.
Arborists, landscapers and nature guides invariably refer to Picea trees as “spruces” and can go into the intricacies of identifying them. But a spruce is simply a fir from northeastern Europe, etymologically speaking.
Likewise, a fir is just a cold-weather pine, and they’re all pines in the end. Or all firs, if you’re feeling Teutonic. Scientific classification won’t tell you anything more than that—it’ll just make you count needles to do it.
"I Hate White Rabbits"
Stupid Question ™
Jan. 16, 2005
By John Ruch
© 2005
Q: What is the origin of saying, “I hate white rabbits” to ward off offending campfire smoke? I remember hearing this as a kid at summer camp.
—Matthew S. Schweitzer, Columbus, Ohio
A: You know, I’ve done a lot of goofy things in the name of “Stupid Question,” but this may top them all. “I hate white rabbits” is reputedly effective against tobacco smoke as well. So today I sat in a public park, lit up a big cigar, and held it up so the smoke blew in my face as I repeated the magic phrase.
It “worked”—the first time. But not on retries. And never when I positioned the cigar firmly between me and the prevailing wind. Meanwhile, by observing the cigar against a black backdrop, I could see the smoke changed direction regularly even without my magical influence. Wind changes frequently at ground level, and the heat of combustion generates its own currents as well.
So, unsurprisingly, this appears to be just a silly thing to say as a way of passing the time until the smoke shifts again. That’s right, smoke doesn’t understand English.
But then, do we? Why this particular phrase?
Research on this one is almost nonexistent. All I could find was a tiny sample of Internet reports too small to draw any significant conclusions. Most even lacked a clear geographical base; the identifiable ones were from the Midwest and Canada.
However, there is general agreement that the phrase is, “I hate white rabbits” (or just “White rabbit” two cases) and that it makes smoke blow away from the speaker. A couple reports mentioned learning it as a child. All reports seem to involve people no more than about 40 years old, though the Internet self-samples for such folks.
I did find one brief report that seems to suggest “white rabbit” is a phrase said when the campfire blows away from the speaker—marking the change rather than causing it. However, the report may just be poorly written.
Perhaps the phrase is deliberate nonsense, just the sort of thing to keep kids entertained around a campfire. Maybe there’s a dash of functionalism, the idea that just saying something will produce enough exhalation to push the smoke away.
I’ll note for the record that Jefferson Airplane’s 1967 hit song “White Rabbit,” an ode to drug use, includes mention of a “hookah-smoking caterpillar.” I can almost imagine anti-drug camp counselors of the 1970s teaching kids to say, “I hate white rabbits!” Almost.
Of course, rabbits figure in a variety of customs and bits of folklore, usually attributed to fertility symbolism (with “white” typically symbolizing magical beneficence). Think of the lucky rabbit’s foot. Which brings us to our most intriguing possibility.
There’s a British custom going back at least to 1920 of repeating either “white rabbit” or just “rabbit,” typically three times, on the first day of the month, or at the very least on New Year’s Day.
Remember that British-influenced Canada is one location for our campfire phrase—there’s a possible connection between the two there.
In some reports both new and old, the British phrase is part of a game with friends or family to see who remembers to say it first. Similar games of social tag, with equally nonsensical names and phrases (“Buffalo” is one I just read about) were common fads around 1900.
Nobody knows what the British charm-phrase means, either. But is not hard to imagine it being adapted for around-the-campfire use, especially in the form of a game in which it is said when the smoke changes direction, or something along those lines. Its transformation into an anti-smoke charm would not be surprising and would explain the addition of the negative, “I hate…” prefix.
But until someone conducts wide-ranging field studies on this phrase, we’re really just blowing smoke.
Jan. 16, 2005
By John Ruch
© 2005
Q: What is the origin of saying, “I hate white rabbits” to ward off offending campfire smoke? I remember hearing this as a kid at summer camp.
—Matthew S. Schweitzer, Columbus, Ohio
A: You know, I’ve done a lot of goofy things in the name of “Stupid Question,” but this may top them all. “I hate white rabbits” is reputedly effective against tobacco smoke as well. So today I sat in a public park, lit up a big cigar, and held it up so the smoke blew in my face as I repeated the magic phrase.
It “worked”—the first time. But not on retries. And never when I positioned the cigar firmly between me and the prevailing wind. Meanwhile, by observing the cigar against a black backdrop, I could see the smoke changed direction regularly even without my magical influence. Wind changes frequently at ground level, and the heat of combustion generates its own currents as well.
So, unsurprisingly, this appears to be just a silly thing to say as a way of passing the time until the smoke shifts again. That’s right, smoke doesn’t understand English.
But then, do we? Why this particular phrase?
Research on this one is almost nonexistent. All I could find was a tiny sample of Internet reports too small to draw any significant conclusions. Most even lacked a clear geographical base; the identifiable ones were from the Midwest and Canada.
However, there is general agreement that the phrase is, “I hate white rabbits” (or just “White rabbit” two cases) and that it makes smoke blow away from the speaker. A couple reports mentioned learning it as a child. All reports seem to involve people no more than about 40 years old, though the Internet self-samples for such folks.
I did find one brief report that seems to suggest “white rabbit” is a phrase said when the campfire blows away from the speaker—marking the change rather than causing it. However, the report may just be poorly written.
Perhaps the phrase is deliberate nonsense, just the sort of thing to keep kids entertained around a campfire. Maybe there’s a dash of functionalism, the idea that just saying something will produce enough exhalation to push the smoke away.
I’ll note for the record that Jefferson Airplane’s 1967 hit song “White Rabbit,” an ode to drug use, includes mention of a “hookah-smoking caterpillar.” I can almost imagine anti-drug camp counselors of the 1970s teaching kids to say, “I hate white rabbits!” Almost.
Of course, rabbits figure in a variety of customs and bits of folklore, usually attributed to fertility symbolism (with “white” typically symbolizing magical beneficence). Think of the lucky rabbit’s foot. Which brings us to our most intriguing possibility.
There’s a British custom going back at least to 1920 of repeating either “white rabbit” or just “rabbit,” typically three times, on the first day of the month, or at the very least on New Year’s Day.
Remember that British-influenced Canada is one location for our campfire phrase—there’s a possible connection between the two there.
In some reports both new and old, the British phrase is part of a game with friends or family to see who remembers to say it first. Similar games of social tag, with equally nonsensical names and phrases (“Buffalo” is one I just read about) were common fads around 1900.
Nobody knows what the British charm-phrase means, either. But is not hard to imagine it being adapted for around-the-campfire use, especially in the form of a game in which it is said when the smoke changes direction, or something along those lines. Its transformation into an anti-smoke charm would not be surprising and would explain the addition of the negative, “I hate…” prefix.
But until someone conducts wide-ranging field studies on this phrase, we’re really just blowing smoke.
"Jack"
Stupid Question ™
Aug. 2, 2004
By John Ruch
© 2004
Q: What is the deal with older men named John being referred to as “Jack”?
—anonymous, Chicago, Illinois
A: “Jack” has been a nickname for “John” since the days of Middle English around A.D. 1200.
It’s not only applied to older men, but in some areas may be dying out and retained only by relative old-timers. As a “John” myself, dating to the 1970s, I’ve never been called “Jack.” But President John Kennedy, for example, born in the 1920s, was famously known as Jack.
Originally written as “Jacke” (or any other similar spelling variants), it was initially pronounced something like “Jack-eh,” with two syllables, before settling into its snappy one-syllable modern form.
Where it came from is a matter of scholarly debate. The traditional assumption was that it came directly from the French name Jacques, itself a rendering of the Biblical Greek Jacob (or James, in English usage).
Very early on, “Jack” was used as a generic name to refer to any (usually male) peasant or commoner—just like “Jacques” was in France. (This sense is retained in the more recent US slang usage of “Jack” meaning a generic name to call a male stranger, and in generic workman terms like lumberjack and steeplejack. And, it must be said, in generic names for male animals, such as “jackass.”)
But in English, “John” was also used as a generic name in the same way. So “Jack” could just derive from that.
And indeed, there is a solid case for “Jack” being derived from “John.” In the earliest known uses of “Jack,” it is clearly being used as a nickname for “John.” (It’s worth noting that Jack and John sound much more similar in British pronunciations than they do in American; and that “Jan” was a common rendering of “John” in the era.)
Also, it is known for a fact that one diminutive endearment form of “John” around the same time was “Jackin” (also “Jankin” and other forms). By the same token, “Dickin” was a nickname for Richard and “Robin” a nickname for Robert. Those nicknames became shortened through time to “Dick” and “Rob.” It is logical to think “Jackin” followed the same course to “Jack.” (Though language is rarely logical.)
An interesting sidelight is the word “jacket,” which indeed came to us from French. It’s the diminutive form of “jaque,” meaning any kind of outerwear for the upper body. Similar terms existed in a variety of European languages, including the Germanic “jacke” and Dutch “jak.” The origin of the term is unknown, but the Oxford English Dictionary says the French term seems to have inspired the rest, and that it may have originated as a reference to some garment typically worn by “the Jacques,” the French peasantry.
This sheds little light on our discussion, however, because no one has found any direction connection between “Jack” and “jacket.” The nickname origin seems persuasive.
Whatever its source, “Jack” was widely used enough to be treated as a name in its own right as early as the late 1200s.
Aug. 2, 2004
By John Ruch
© 2004
Q: What is the deal with older men named John being referred to as “Jack”?
—anonymous, Chicago, Illinois
A: “Jack” has been a nickname for “John” since the days of Middle English around A.D. 1200.
It’s not only applied to older men, but in some areas may be dying out and retained only by relative old-timers. As a “John” myself, dating to the 1970s, I’ve never been called “Jack.” But President John Kennedy, for example, born in the 1920s, was famously known as Jack.
Originally written as “Jacke” (or any other similar spelling variants), it was initially pronounced something like “Jack-eh,” with two syllables, before settling into its snappy one-syllable modern form.
Where it came from is a matter of scholarly debate. The traditional assumption was that it came directly from the French name Jacques, itself a rendering of the Biblical Greek Jacob (or James, in English usage).
Very early on, “Jack” was used as a generic name to refer to any (usually male) peasant or commoner—just like “Jacques” was in France. (This sense is retained in the more recent US slang usage of “Jack” meaning a generic name to call a male stranger, and in generic workman terms like lumberjack and steeplejack. And, it must be said, in generic names for male animals, such as “jackass.”)
But in English, “John” was also used as a generic name in the same way. So “Jack” could just derive from that.
And indeed, there is a solid case for “Jack” being derived from “John.” In the earliest known uses of “Jack,” it is clearly being used as a nickname for “John.” (It’s worth noting that Jack and John sound much more similar in British pronunciations than they do in American; and that “Jan” was a common rendering of “John” in the era.)
Also, it is known for a fact that one diminutive endearment form of “John” around the same time was “Jackin” (also “Jankin” and other forms). By the same token, “Dickin” was a nickname for Richard and “Robin” a nickname for Robert. Those nicknames became shortened through time to “Dick” and “Rob.” It is logical to think “Jackin” followed the same course to “Jack.” (Though language is rarely logical.)
An interesting sidelight is the word “jacket,” which indeed came to us from French. It’s the diminutive form of “jaque,” meaning any kind of outerwear for the upper body. Similar terms existed in a variety of European languages, including the Germanic “jacke” and Dutch “jak.” The origin of the term is unknown, but the Oxford English Dictionary says the French term seems to have inspired the rest, and that it may have originated as a reference to some garment typically worn by “the Jacques,” the French peasantry.
This sheds little light on our discussion, however, because no one has found any direction connection between “Jack” and “jacket.” The nickname origin seems persuasive.
Whatever its source, “Jack” was widely used enough to be treated as a name in its own right as early as the late 1200s.
"Hail-Fellow-Well-Met"
Stupid Question ™
July 19, 2004
By John Ruch
© 2004
Q: What is the origin of the descriptive phrase “hail-fellow-well-met”?
—Ron Sumner, from the Internet
A: This pet name for the chronically friendly is a combination of two warm, and now obsolete, greetings—now mostly relegated to fine Renaissance fairs around the nation.
“Hail, fellow!” was a medieval greeting. “Hail” was a Scottish pronunciation of “heal” (which also produced “hale”). At the time, a noun form of “heal” was current, and meant the same thing as our modern “health.” So, essentially, “Hail, fellow!” means, “Health to you, buddy!”
In the 1500s, we start to see “Hail, fellow!” turn into “hail-fellow,” a term for a close friend—that is, one with whom you would exchange this type of very friendly greeting.
Then we see “well-met” getting tacked onto the phrase. “Well met!” was another greeting of the time. It is generally taken to mean, literally, “Good to meet you!” There was also a descriptive phrase “well-met,” which had (and still has) connotations of suitability and propriety. It’s based on a different meaning of “meet,” an adjectival/adverbial usage indicating something is literally or figuratively the right size for a given situation.
In any case, “well-met” was tacked onto “hail-fellow” to create what the Oxford English Dictionary calls a “fuller phrase.” Basically, it served as intensifier to indicate even more friendliness. If someone was your hail-fellow-well-met in the late 1500s, he was a close friend.
I could find nothing that clarifies whether “Hail, fellow!” and “Well met!” were used to together before the coining of the descriptive “hail-fellow-well-met.” My pure guess is the modern, deliberately archaic use of “Hail, fellow! Well met!” by medieval-style performers and the like is a back-formation from the descriptive phrase.
Today, the greetings have faded and the descriptive “hail-fellow-well-met” survives as a sort of deliberately archaic term. It is mostly used to describe someone (almost always a man due to the “fellow” bit) who is easily and readily friendly. It often has connotations of insincerity; the most fitting use of the phrase in that vein I found during an Internet troll was a reference to the actor Tom Cruise.
July 19, 2004
By John Ruch
© 2004
Q: What is the origin of the descriptive phrase “hail-fellow-well-met”?
—Ron Sumner, from the Internet
A: This pet name for the chronically friendly is a combination of two warm, and now obsolete, greetings—now mostly relegated to fine Renaissance fairs around the nation.
“Hail, fellow!” was a medieval greeting. “Hail” was a Scottish pronunciation of “heal” (which also produced “hale”). At the time, a noun form of “heal” was current, and meant the same thing as our modern “health.” So, essentially, “Hail, fellow!” means, “Health to you, buddy!”
In the 1500s, we start to see “Hail, fellow!” turn into “hail-fellow,” a term for a close friend—that is, one with whom you would exchange this type of very friendly greeting.
Then we see “well-met” getting tacked onto the phrase. “Well met!” was another greeting of the time. It is generally taken to mean, literally, “Good to meet you!” There was also a descriptive phrase “well-met,” which had (and still has) connotations of suitability and propriety. It’s based on a different meaning of “meet,” an adjectival/adverbial usage indicating something is literally or figuratively the right size for a given situation.
In any case, “well-met” was tacked onto “hail-fellow” to create what the Oxford English Dictionary calls a “fuller phrase.” Basically, it served as intensifier to indicate even more friendliness. If someone was your hail-fellow-well-met in the late 1500s, he was a close friend.
I could find nothing that clarifies whether “Hail, fellow!” and “Well met!” were used to together before the coining of the descriptive “hail-fellow-well-met.” My pure guess is the modern, deliberately archaic use of “Hail, fellow! Well met!” by medieval-style performers and the like is a back-formation from the descriptive phrase.
Today, the greetings have faded and the descriptive “hail-fellow-well-met” survives as a sort of deliberately archaic term. It is mostly used to describe someone (almost always a man due to the “fellow” bit) who is easily and readily friendly. It often has connotations of insincerity; the most fitting use of the phrase in that vein I found during an Internet troll was a reference to the actor Tom Cruise.
"Herstory"
Stupid Question ™
April 5, 2004
By John Ruch
© 2004
Q: Is “history” really a sexist word, as the feminist alternative “herstory” suggests?
—Bob, Columbus, Ohio
A: No, “history” isn’t a gender-biased word—but that’s not what “herstory” suggests anyway.
Many a thinly-disguised sexist these days bashes the use of “herstory” as a bad case of folk etymology and political correctness gone amok. But it’s the people making this elaborate defense of “history” who get it all wrong.
“Herstory” was coined, and is regularly used by feminists, as a deliberate and quite witty pun indicating not that the word “history” is sexist, but that the subject “history” is sexist. Which it inarguably still is, though less so than in 1970, when feminist author Robin Morgan coined the term in “Sisterhood Is Powerful.”
Morgan was (and is) not some kind of etymological scold. A published poet and novelist, she regularly employed quips and puns to subvert language and thereby reveal a social truth, or at least make the reader think in a different way. (She was full of bumpersticker fodder such as, “I’m a person trapped inside a woman’s body.”)
Most critics also imply that the word was meant to replace “history,” which also isn’t quite true. Most feminist scholars use the word as it was intended—as a catchy inspiration, not as a replacement for “history.” Which is to say, it’s not used much at all, except in book titles and T-shirts.
Granted, there are undoubtedly some overeager feminists who themselves miss the point and claim that “history” is literally sexist. (I think I may have run into one myself back in college.) But such idiosyncratic cases are vastly overstated by the type of people who complain about “herstory.” My quick survey of books that use the term “herstory”—from serious scholarship to loopy New Age quackery—in all cases found it being used as a verbal mind-blower, not as a literal piece of etymological correction.
(It is worth noting that some multicultural feminists object to “herstory” as outdated and, even worse, based on an English pun that can’t be translated into less dominant languages.)
To be on the safe side, here’s the history of “history” as often pedantically repeated by those who, for whatever reason, live in terror of “herstory”:
“History” comes straight from the Latin historia, which meant essentially what we mean today. It got to us through French; another version of the same French word, just with the soft “h” sound at the beginning dropped off, gave us the word “story.”
The “his” in “history” has nothing to do with the gender-specific possessive pronoun, which has completely different Gothic and Germanic roots.
(Ironically, however, the word does have passively sexist root, which no one ever seems to notice. Latin got historia from a similar Greek term meaning essentially the same thing, which in turn came from the root form histor, which meant a “wise man” or “judge,” in the words of the Oxford English Dictionary. This indeed implies that history was always written by men—but not that it was only about men, which is the point of Morgan’s English-based pun.)
All that being said, it is the “herstory”-bashers who are usually more in need of a history (and etymology) lesson. Ridiculing “herstory”-users as ignoramuses is in most cases pretty sexist itself.
April 5, 2004
By John Ruch
© 2004
Q: Is “history” really a sexist word, as the feminist alternative “herstory” suggests?
—Bob, Columbus, Ohio
A: No, “history” isn’t a gender-biased word—but that’s not what “herstory” suggests anyway.
Many a thinly-disguised sexist these days bashes the use of “herstory” as a bad case of folk etymology and political correctness gone amok. But it’s the people making this elaborate defense of “history” who get it all wrong.
“Herstory” was coined, and is regularly used by feminists, as a deliberate and quite witty pun indicating not that the word “history” is sexist, but that the subject “history” is sexist. Which it inarguably still is, though less so than in 1970, when feminist author Robin Morgan coined the term in “Sisterhood Is Powerful.”
Morgan was (and is) not some kind of etymological scold. A published poet and novelist, she regularly employed quips and puns to subvert language and thereby reveal a social truth, or at least make the reader think in a different way. (She was full of bumpersticker fodder such as, “I’m a person trapped inside a woman’s body.”)
Most critics also imply that the word was meant to replace “history,” which also isn’t quite true. Most feminist scholars use the word as it was intended—as a catchy inspiration, not as a replacement for “history.” Which is to say, it’s not used much at all, except in book titles and T-shirts.
Granted, there are undoubtedly some overeager feminists who themselves miss the point and claim that “history” is literally sexist. (I think I may have run into one myself back in college.) But such idiosyncratic cases are vastly overstated by the type of people who complain about “herstory.” My quick survey of books that use the term “herstory”—from serious scholarship to loopy New Age quackery—in all cases found it being used as a verbal mind-blower, not as a literal piece of etymological correction.
(It is worth noting that some multicultural feminists object to “herstory” as outdated and, even worse, based on an English pun that can’t be translated into less dominant languages.)
To be on the safe side, here’s the history of “history” as often pedantically repeated by those who, for whatever reason, live in terror of “herstory”:
“History” comes straight from the Latin historia, which meant essentially what we mean today. It got to us through French; another version of the same French word, just with the soft “h” sound at the beginning dropped off, gave us the word “story.”
The “his” in “history” has nothing to do with the gender-specific possessive pronoun, which has completely different Gothic and Germanic roots.
(Ironically, however, the word does have passively sexist root, which no one ever seems to notice. Latin got historia from a similar Greek term meaning essentially the same thing, which in turn came from the root form histor, which meant a “wise man” or “judge,” in the words of the Oxford English Dictionary. This indeed implies that history was always written by men—but not that it was only about men, which is the point of Morgan’s English-based pun.)
All that being said, it is the “herstory”-bashers who are usually more in need of a history (and etymology) lesson. Ridiculing “herstory”-users as ignoramuses is in most cases pretty sexist itself.
March 28, 2008
"Peter Out"
Stupid Question ™
June 12, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: What’s the origin of the term “peter out”?
—Ron Summer
A: It is completely, utterly unknown why “petering out” means “fading away” or “dwindling” (or, in a more recent usage, “being squandered away”).
But I certainly have my own favorite theory.
We have a pretty good idea of where the phrase came from. It popped up in Californian mining slang in the 1840s and usually referred to a gold mine running out of the shiny stuff.
But tracing any origin is difficult because “peter” has a wild and bizarre variety of meanings, from an imitative bird cry to “penis” to the familiar Biblical name (the start of it all).
Speaking of “peter” and mines, you may recall that the Biblical Peter was actually called Simon. Jesus, in a typically symbolic mood, gave him the name “Petros” for reasons scholars still debate. “Petros” is the Greek translation of an Aramaic word meaning “stone” or “rock.”
There are, naturally, a couple of loony guesses about “peter out.” One is that it comes from the French peter, meaning “to break wind” (apparently from the sound made by so doing). This is just some goofball checking foreign dictionaries for similar words.
Another idea is that it has to do with the Biblical Peter’s denial of Christ. Methinks that didn’t come up too much in the mines.
Another meaning of “peter” is an abbreviation of “saltpeter” or potassium nitrate, a key ingredient of black powder used in firearms and blasting. Hence, the theory that “petered out” meant you had blasted every last bit of ore out of the mine.
That’s a pretty good idea. Especially because it’s the one I came up with before I looked up what everybody else thinks.
But there are two problems. As far as I can tell, neither “peter” nor “saltpeter” were common terms for the black powder itself, just for the specific ingredient.
Also, this explanation doesn’t address a prior usage of “peter” that throws this whole discussion into a tizzy.
Etymologists have dug up an oddball early-1800s reference to “peter” (by itself, without “out”) meaning “to stop abruptly.” Specifically, it was described as being used as an imperative command meaning to quit or shut up: “Peter that!”
This usage appears to have come before “peter out.” However, it’s a one-hit wonder that doesn’t seem to have gone anywhere. I see no reason to expect that it influenced “peter out.”
Besides, I have less tangible reasons for the hunch that “saltpeter” is right. Of nearly simultaneous origin was “fizzle out,” which came from the sound of fireworks failing to explode—which is to say, of gunpowder sputtering out.
June 12, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: What’s the origin of the term “peter out”?
—Ron Summer
A: It is completely, utterly unknown why “petering out” means “fading away” or “dwindling” (or, in a more recent usage, “being squandered away”).
But I certainly have my own favorite theory.
We have a pretty good idea of where the phrase came from. It popped up in Californian mining slang in the 1840s and usually referred to a gold mine running out of the shiny stuff.
But tracing any origin is difficult because “peter” has a wild and bizarre variety of meanings, from an imitative bird cry to “penis” to the familiar Biblical name (the start of it all).
Speaking of “peter” and mines, you may recall that the Biblical Peter was actually called Simon. Jesus, in a typically symbolic mood, gave him the name “Petros” for reasons scholars still debate. “Petros” is the Greek translation of an Aramaic word meaning “stone” or “rock.”
There are, naturally, a couple of loony guesses about “peter out.” One is that it comes from the French peter, meaning “to break wind” (apparently from the sound made by so doing). This is just some goofball checking foreign dictionaries for similar words.
Another idea is that it has to do with the Biblical Peter’s denial of Christ. Methinks that didn’t come up too much in the mines.
Another meaning of “peter” is an abbreviation of “saltpeter” or potassium nitrate, a key ingredient of black powder used in firearms and blasting. Hence, the theory that “petered out” meant you had blasted every last bit of ore out of the mine.
That’s a pretty good idea. Especially because it’s the one I came up with before I looked up what everybody else thinks.
But there are two problems. As far as I can tell, neither “peter” nor “saltpeter” were common terms for the black powder itself, just for the specific ingredient.
Also, this explanation doesn’t address a prior usage of “peter” that throws this whole discussion into a tizzy.
Etymologists have dug up an oddball early-1800s reference to “peter” (by itself, without “out”) meaning “to stop abruptly.” Specifically, it was described as being used as an imperative command meaning to quit or shut up: “Peter that!”
This usage appears to have come before “peter out.” However, it’s a one-hit wonder that doesn’t seem to have gone anywhere. I see no reason to expect that it influenced “peter out.”
Besides, I have less tangible reasons for the hunch that “saltpeter” is right. Of nearly simultaneous origin was “fizzle out,” which came from the sound of fireworks failing to explode—which is to say, of gunpowder sputtering out.
"Short Shrift"/"Tadaa!"
Stupid Question ™
June 5, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: I’ve been getting short shrift from my congressmen and congresswomen. So what the heck is “shrift”?
—Anonymous
A: From its start around AD 900, “shrift” meant, in Catholicism, a religious penance, usually one undertaken under a priest’s order after confession. A priest could “give shrift” to you.
Shrift (like the closely related “shrive”) later came to mean the confession itself, a meaning which naturally broadened into a more generic, secular definition of confession or otherwise letting the cat out of the bag.
It comes from Old English “scrift,” which corresponds to various Germanic derivations and roots. In its oldest Germanic forms, it referred to writing or written characters (see also, “scribe”).
The “Oxford English Dictionary” notes that the meanings of “penance” and “confession” developed only in the English and Scandinavian versions of the Germanic term. It is presumed the meaning came from a time when penances were written down.
A “short shrift,” therefore, is a brief confession—specifically, the one a condemned criminal was allowed to make prior to execution.
“Short shrift” was fairly quickly adapted to mean a short break or rest—though babbling apologies to delay one’s beheading doesn’t seem all that restful.
But it was only in the 1800s that “short shrift” really became a popular phrase, especially in the construction “to give short shrift to,” meaning to give a matter very little time (and by implication, attention). Many people get no “shrift” whatsoever from their elected officials. An unlucky few get “short shrift” in the old Elizabethan sense.
Q: Why do we sing “tadaa!”? Is it imitative of trumpeting? Is the same with “voila”?
—Sean Scheiderer
A: Voila! Here’s a true rarity—a word that, as far as I can tell, has gone completely unexamined. I can’t even give you a date range for the appearance of “tadaa!”
But I think you’re right. We do sing the word as if it’s an orchestral or horn section fanfare.
My crazed guess is it could be related to “ta-ta” (“goodbye”), which originated in British baby-talk from unknown sources. The “Oxford English Dictionary” claims it was first pronounced more like “tat-ah.” But it more likely comes from some ironic adaptation of a score, movie or TV show.
We certainly use it the same way we use “voila”—an exclamation meaning, “Here I am!” or, “There it is!”
But “voila” is not a fanfare. It’s straight French, from the imperative of voir (“to see”) and là (“there”)—literally, “See there!” It entered English in the early 1700s and was usually used in the commonplace way it was in French, meaning “there is.” For example, you could say, “If I go into my back yard, voila a tree and hammock.”
Only in the 1800s did our modern use as a dramatic exclamation become popular.
June 5, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: I’ve been getting short shrift from my congressmen and congresswomen. So what the heck is “shrift”?
—Anonymous
A: From its start around AD 900, “shrift” meant, in Catholicism, a religious penance, usually one undertaken under a priest’s order after confession. A priest could “give shrift” to you.
Shrift (like the closely related “shrive”) later came to mean the confession itself, a meaning which naturally broadened into a more generic, secular definition of confession or otherwise letting the cat out of the bag.
It comes from Old English “scrift,” which corresponds to various Germanic derivations and roots. In its oldest Germanic forms, it referred to writing or written characters (see also, “scribe”).
The “Oxford English Dictionary” notes that the meanings of “penance” and “confession” developed only in the English and Scandinavian versions of the Germanic term. It is presumed the meaning came from a time when penances were written down.
A “short shrift,” therefore, is a brief confession—specifically, the one a condemned criminal was allowed to make prior to execution.
“Short shrift” was fairly quickly adapted to mean a short break or rest—though babbling apologies to delay one’s beheading doesn’t seem all that restful.
But it was only in the 1800s that “short shrift” really became a popular phrase, especially in the construction “to give short shrift to,” meaning to give a matter very little time (and by implication, attention). Many people get no “shrift” whatsoever from their elected officials. An unlucky few get “short shrift” in the old Elizabethan sense.
Q: Why do we sing “tadaa!”? Is it imitative of trumpeting? Is the same with “voila”?
—Sean Scheiderer
A: Voila! Here’s a true rarity—a word that, as far as I can tell, has gone completely unexamined. I can’t even give you a date range for the appearance of “tadaa!”
But I think you’re right. We do sing the word as if it’s an orchestral or horn section fanfare.
My crazed guess is it could be related to “ta-ta” (“goodbye”), which originated in British baby-talk from unknown sources. The “Oxford English Dictionary” claims it was first pronounced more like “tat-ah.” But it more likely comes from some ironic adaptation of a score, movie or TV show.
We certainly use it the same way we use “voila”—an exclamation meaning, “Here I am!” or, “There it is!”
But “voila” is not a fanfare. It’s straight French, from the imperative of voir (“to see”) and là (“there”)—literally, “See there!” It entered English in the early 1700s and was usually used in the commonplace way it was in French, meaning “there is.” For example, you could say, “If I go into my back yard, voila a tree and hammock.”
Only in the 1800s did our modern use as a dramatic exclamation become popular.
"Dead/Lame Ducks"
Stupid Question ™
May 8, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: Why do ducks get such a bad rap—dead duck, lame duck, etc.?
—Matt
A: Hey, it’s not being a duck that’s bad—it’s being dead or lame that sucks.
But I must confess that “duck” does carry a lot of other negative connotations. Being called any sort of animal is, in general, not good.
Still, there was a golden era in England, starting in the early 1800s, in which “duck” meant something exemplary in quality. As in, “I say, that’s a duck of a cricket bat you’ve got there, old man.” Nobody knows why the English came up with this, or half the other crazy things they say, either.
Within 50 years, US slang had managed to twist “duck” into meaning a weirdo or idiot, for reasons that are also not clear, aside from typical American meanspiritedness. It later became generalized to simply mean “person” or “fellow,” as the “Oxford English Dictionary” likes to put it. So it’s a fairly neutral term these days (“lucky duck,” etc.).
But then there’s also “duck” meaning a ship or plane so screwed up it won’t move, and “duck” meaning a zero score in a cricket game (an allusion to the round shape of a duck’s egg, much as we say “goose egg” in the US).
My dictionary tells me “duck” also once meant “a British solider of the Bombay Presidency.” What does this mean? I don’t know, except that much of Britian is as crazy as Tony Blair’s wife.
“Dead duck” showed up in the 1830s, before all this vicious nonsense, and originally meant something closer to what “lame duck” means today—someone out of date or powerless. It came from political slang. The first know written use of it refers it back to a supposed pre-existing phrase: “Never waste powder on a dead duck.”
The modern meaning of someone doomed dates to the World War II era.
“Lame duck” is much older, from the mid-1700s, when it was originally business slang for someone who went bankrupt playing the stock market. Nobody really knows why, but something waddling and flapping about in pain seems like a pretty congruous image. Those old British stock market dudes had an obsession with animal terms—“lame duck” often showed up with the “bull” and “bear” expressions we still use today.
“Lame duck” eventually became a generic term for a deadbeat and became popular in US slang that way in the late 1800s.
Meanwhile, back in England, it developed a much more literal meaning of someone crippled, weak, aging or otherwise not at the top of their abilities. From there, in the early 1900s US, it developed its modern political meaning of an elected official left relatively powerless because they’ve lost an election or won’t be running again.
Duckness certainly isn’t all bad. It often refers to ease—“like a duck to water”—and is still a term of endearment (“ducky”). There’s also “duck soup,” meaning something extremely easy or sure to succeed—though even that eventually developed the meaning of someone who was an easy mark for a con.
May 8, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: Why do ducks get such a bad rap—dead duck, lame duck, etc.?
—Matt
A: Hey, it’s not being a duck that’s bad—it’s being dead or lame that sucks.
But I must confess that “duck” does carry a lot of other negative connotations. Being called any sort of animal is, in general, not good.
Still, there was a golden era in England, starting in the early 1800s, in which “duck” meant something exemplary in quality. As in, “I say, that’s a duck of a cricket bat you’ve got there, old man.” Nobody knows why the English came up with this, or half the other crazy things they say, either.
Within 50 years, US slang had managed to twist “duck” into meaning a weirdo or idiot, for reasons that are also not clear, aside from typical American meanspiritedness. It later became generalized to simply mean “person” or “fellow,” as the “Oxford English Dictionary” likes to put it. So it’s a fairly neutral term these days (“lucky duck,” etc.).
But then there’s also “duck” meaning a ship or plane so screwed up it won’t move, and “duck” meaning a zero score in a cricket game (an allusion to the round shape of a duck’s egg, much as we say “goose egg” in the US).
My dictionary tells me “duck” also once meant “a British solider of the Bombay Presidency.” What does this mean? I don’t know, except that much of Britian is as crazy as Tony Blair’s wife.
“Dead duck” showed up in the 1830s, before all this vicious nonsense, and originally meant something closer to what “lame duck” means today—someone out of date or powerless. It came from political slang. The first know written use of it refers it back to a supposed pre-existing phrase: “Never waste powder on a dead duck.”
The modern meaning of someone doomed dates to the World War II era.
“Lame duck” is much older, from the mid-1700s, when it was originally business slang for someone who went bankrupt playing the stock market. Nobody really knows why, but something waddling and flapping about in pain seems like a pretty congruous image. Those old British stock market dudes had an obsession with animal terms—“lame duck” often showed up with the “bull” and “bear” expressions we still use today.
“Lame duck” eventually became a generic term for a deadbeat and became popular in US slang that way in the late 1800s.
Meanwhile, back in England, it developed a much more literal meaning of someone crippled, weak, aging or otherwise not at the top of their abilities. From there, in the early 1900s US, it developed its modern political meaning of an elected official left relatively powerless because they’ve lost an election or won’t be running again.
Duckness certainly isn’t all bad. It often refers to ease—“like a duck to water”—and is still a term of endearment (“ducky”). There’s also “duck soup,” meaning something extremely easy or sure to succeed—though even that eventually developed the meaning of someone who was an easy mark for a con.
"Shindig"
Stupid Question ™
March 13, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: What is a “shindig”?
—Jason S.
A: You know that feeling you get when you haul out the Christmas tree lights and they’re hopelessly tangled and missing a bunch of bulbs?
That’s how etymologists feel when they look at “shindig.”
Even if you get its history lined up in some kind of order, there’s still too much missing for it all to light up with The Answer.
Funny thing is, we know exactly where “shindig,” in its first known meaning, came from. In Southern US slang of the 1850s, it literally meant a dig, or kick, in the shins.
About 20 years later, it took on its modern meaning of a lively dance or party, especially in the country. This is where the trouble begins.
What does getting kicked in the shins have to do with a dance? Maybe dancing is like digging the legs into the ground. Maybe because of a dance that involved kicking the feet up against the legs. Maybe just a colorful expression suggesting violent dancing.
Maybe. But it’s easier to imagine the violent “shindig” first coming to mean a fight, and then broadening further to mean a lively gathering.
And in fact, “shindig” did come to mean a fight—but only very recently, in the 1960s.
Meanwhile, most etymologists are convinced “shindig” had to be influenced by the similar-sounding word “shindy,” which did mean “a fight.” The phrase “kick up a shindy,” meaning to start a fight, was current at about the same time “shindig” (in the dance meaning) first appeared.
Like most slang words, “shindig” and “shindy” both leave use too few written citations to accurately trace their histories and relationships (if any) to each other.
At least one author suggests that “shindig” is simply a corruption of “shindy.” That ignores the original, literal meaning of “shindig,” but the dance meaning of “shindig” could actually be a freshly coined word, not an evolution from the original.
But if “shindig” came from “shindy,” why didn’t it first mean “a fight”? It may be that shindy—still current British slang—influenced only the recent “fight” meaning of “shindig,” and not its earlier meanings.
To complicate matters, “shindy” began in the 1820s as UK sailor slang for a lively party or dance. Yes, a shindig. But “shindy” was popularlized in US and Canadian slang in the meaning of “a fight.” Why this meaning shift happened, and happened so quickly, as the word entered common slang is unknown.
The origin of “shindy” is itself unknown, and the guesses are also tortuous. It possibly comes from “shinty,” which was another way of saying “shinny.”
Shinny, around the late 1600s, was a Scottish and North American game something like hockey, so called from the players’ practice of shouting out, “Shin ye!” or “Shin you!”
The meaning of this shout is obscure, but could be the obvious: “I’m going to crack you in the shins with this stick!” Or, you might say, a shindig.
March 13, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: What is a “shindig”?
—Jason S.
A: You know that feeling you get when you haul out the Christmas tree lights and they’re hopelessly tangled and missing a bunch of bulbs?
That’s how etymologists feel when they look at “shindig.”
Even if you get its history lined up in some kind of order, there’s still too much missing for it all to light up with The Answer.
Funny thing is, we know exactly where “shindig,” in its first known meaning, came from. In Southern US slang of the 1850s, it literally meant a dig, or kick, in the shins.
About 20 years later, it took on its modern meaning of a lively dance or party, especially in the country. This is where the trouble begins.
What does getting kicked in the shins have to do with a dance? Maybe dancing is like digging the legs into the ground. Maybe because of a dance that involved kicking the feet up against the legs. Maybe just a colorful expression suggesting violent dancing.
Maybe. But it’s easier to imagine the violent “shindig” first coming to mean a fight, and then broadening further to mean a lively gathering.
And in fact, “shindig” did come to mean a fight—but only very recently, in the 1960s.
Meanwhile, most etymologists are convinced “shindig” had to be influenced by the similar-sounding word “shindy,” which did mean “a fight.” The phrase “kick up a shindy,” meaning to start a fight, was current at about the same time “shindig” (in the dance meaning) first appeared.
Like most slang words, “shindig” and “shindy” both leave use too few written citations to accurately trace their histories and relationships (if any) to each other.
At least one author suggests that “shindig” is simply a corruption of “shindy.” That ignores the original, literal meaning of “shindig,” but the dance meaning of “shindig” could actually be a freshly coined word, not an evolution from the original.
But if “shindig” came from “shindy,” why didn’t it first mean “a fight”? It may be that shindy—still current British slang—influenced only the recent “fight” meaning of “shindig,” and not its earlier meanings.
To complicate matters, “shindy” began in the 1820s as UK sailor slang for a lively party or dance. Yes, a shindig. But “shindy” was popularlized in US and Canadian slang in the meaning of “a fight.” Why this meaning shift happened, and happened so quickly, as the word entered common slang is unknown.
The origin of “shindy” is itself unknown, and the guesses are also tortuous. It possibly comes from “shinty,” which was another way of saying “shinny.”
Shinny, around the late 1600s, was a Scottish and North American game something like hockey, so called from the players’ practice of shouting out, “Shin ye!” or “Shin you!”
The meaning of this shout is obscure, but could be the obvious: “I’m going to crack you in the shins with this stick!” Or, you might say, a shindig.
"Hunky-Dory"
Stupid Question ™
March 6, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: Where does the word “hunky-dory” come from?
—Bob Flanagan
A: Thankfully now replaced by the less goofy-sounding “OK,” this term is US slang first known from 1866 (which means it’s probably at least a few years older than that).
“Hunky” was already a slang term, also meaning “OK,” and dating to about the same time period. “Hunky” was being used both as a term for the state of being OK (“Everything’s hunky”) and as an adjective (“A hunky boy,” in one of the earliest references).
“Hunky” came from “hunk,” which began as New York slang for home base in children’s games such as tag. This was an adoption of Dutch honk, which meant the same thing. Dutch picked it up from Frisian, where it meant “house” and by extension any safe place.
This meaning of “hunk” dates to the early 1800s. By the 1840s, it had already expanded into meaning “OK” and was even used in such colloquial phrases as “to get hunk with,” meaning to settle a dispute or account.
It should be noted that his “hunk” has no relation to US lingo’s other two “hunks”—the one that means “a large piece of something” and the one that means “someone of Eastern European descent.” Similarly, our other “hunky” (meaning “well-built” and thus attractive) comes from the “large piece” sense.
Why “dory” (or “dorey” or “doree”) was added to “hunky” and what it was supposed to mean are unknown. It’s probably just a nonsense sing-song attachment along the lines of “okey-dokey.”
“Dory” can, of course, be an actual word, with the most common meaning being a small boat. It’s conceivable that “hunky-dory” originally had some boat-oriented meaning among New York’s wharf-frequenting children, but that seems like a stretch.
In the early Dark Ages of popular etymology, it was often claimed that “hunky-dory” was Japanese, perhaps the name of a street of prostitutes frequented by foreign sailors. There is no evidence for this. The American linguist H.L. Mencken suggested the idea was popularized by a US tour of a Japanese acrobat whose English consisted entirely of “all right” and “hunky-dory.”
Another odd suggestion, and one with a spelling that might have suggested a Japanese origin, was a breath freshener called Hunkidori that apparently debuted in 1868.
At least one pop etymologist strong suggests Hunkidori as the origin of “hunky-dory,” in part by incorrectly saying it debuted the same year as the first known use of the phrase. The claim, which clearly confuses cause and effect, also ignores the prior use of “hunk” and “hunky.”
March 6, 2003
By John Ruch
© 2003
Q: Where does the word “hunky-dory” come from?
—Bob Flanagan
A: Thankfully now replaced by the less goofy-sounding “OK,” this term is US slang first known from 1866 (which means it’s probably at least a few years older than that).
“Hunky” was already a slang term, also meaning “OK,” and dating to about the same time period. “Hunky” was being used both as a term for the state of being OK (“Everything’s hunky”) and as an adjective (“A hunky boy,” in one of the earliest references).
“Hunky” came from “hunk,” which began as New York slang for home base in children’s games such as tag. This was an adoption of Dutch honk, which meant the same thing. Dutch picked it up from Frisian, where it meant “house” and by extension any safe place.
This meaning of “hunk” dates to the early 1800s. By the 1840s, it had already expanded into meaning “OK” and was even used in such colloquial phrases as “to get hunk with,” meaning to settle a dispute or account.
It should be noted that his “hunk” has no relation to US lingo’s other two “hunks”—the one that means “a large piece of something” and the one that means “someone of Eastern European descent.” Similarly, our other “hunky” (meaning “well-built” and thus attractive) comes from the “large piece” sense.
Why “dory” (or “dorey” or “doree”) was added to “hunky” and what it was supposed to mean are unknown. It’s probably just a nonsense sing-song attachment along the lines of “okey-dokey.”
“Dory” can, of course, be an actual word, with the most common meaning being a small boat. It’s conceivable that “hunky-dory” originally had some boat-oriented meaning among New York’s wharf-frequenting children, but that seems like a stretch.
In the early Dark Ages of popular etymology, it was often claimed that “hunky-dory” was Japanese, perhaps the name of a street of prostitutes frequented by foreign sailors. There is no evidence for this. The American linguist H.L. Mencken suggested the idea was popularized by a US tour of a Japanese acrobat whose English consisted entirely of “all right” and “hunky-dory.”
Another odd suggestion, and one with a spelling that might have suggested a Japanese origin, was a breath freshener called Hunkidori that apparently debuted in 1868.
At least one pop etymologist strong suggests Hunkidori as the origin of “hunky-dory,” in part by incorrectly saying it debuted the same year as the first known use of the phrase. The claim, which clearly confuses cause and effect, also ignores the prior use of “hunk” and “hunky.”
"Four-Flusher"
Stupid Question ™
Aug. 22, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: What is the meaning of the term “four-flusher” or “four-flushing”?
—Brenda Henson Pennell
A: A four-flusher originally was someone who bluffs or otherwise can’t back up his or her bragging. By extension, it has also come to mean a fake, phony or fraud.
The term comes from the game of poker, in which “four-flush” is an oxymoron.
A flush is five cards of the same suit; of the 10 basic hands you can be dealt in poker, it’s the fifth most valuable. If the cards in the flush are in numerical order (say, 2 through 6 of hearts), it’s a straight flush—the second-most valuable hand in the game. A straight flush made up of the five highest-face-value cards (ace, king, queen, jack and 10) is a royal flush, the most valuable hand in the game.
By comparison, a hand containing four cards of the same suit, and the fifth card of a different suit, with no pairs or other arrangements, is nearly valueless. A simple pair beats it.
Specifically, a four-flusher is someone who pretends to have a flush when he’s really one card short. More generally, it’s someone who’s good at bluffing while holding a worthless hand.
The term emerged in the mid-1800s as “four-flush” (both noun and verb), a specific poker term for holding and playing such a hand. It was not necessarily negative, since bluffing is an honored part of poker (and the origin of another classic piece of slang, “poker face”).
In the US, “four-flusher” quickly (by the 1880s) became a general slang term for any sort of bluffer or braggart.
By around 1900, the meaning had expanded further to cover cheaters. This can even extend to romantic infidelity, as not quite immortalized by the Doobie Brothers in their 1975 song “Double Dealin’ Four Flusher.”
Interestingly, the “cheater” definition is now starting to be adopted by poker and casino experts, bringing “four-flusher” full circle.
There’s a fine line between calculated bluffing and simply lying about your hand in the hope that other players will give up and leave the winnings to you. Poker pros are increasingly using “four-flusher” to refer to someone who does the latter.
Aug. 22, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: What is the meaning of the term “four-flusher” or “four-flushing”?
—Brenda Henson Pennell
A: A four-flusher originally was someone who bluffs or otherwise can’t back up his or her bragging. By extension, it has also come to mean a fake, phony or fraud.
The term comes from the game of poker, in which “four-flush” is an oxymoron.
A flush is five cards of the same suit; of the 10 basic hands you can be dealt in poker, it’s the fifth most valuable. If the cards in the flush are in numerical order (say, 2 through 6 of hearts), it’s a straight flush—the second-most valuable hand in the game. A straight flush made up of the five highest-face-value cards (ace, king, queen, jack and 10) is a royal flush, the most valuable hand in the game.
By comparison, a hand containing four cards of the same suit, and the fifth card of a different suit, with no pairs or other arrangements, is nearly valueless. A simple pair beats it.
Specifically, a four-flusher is someone who pretends to have a flush when he’s really one card short. More generally, it’s someone who’s good at bluffing while holding a worthless hand.
The term emerged in the mid-1800s as “four-flush” (both noun and verb), a specific poker term for holding and playing such a hand. It was not necessarily negative, since bluffing is an honored part of poker (and the origin of another classic piece of slang, “poker face”).
In the US, “four-flusher” quickly (by the 1880s) became a general slang term for any sort of bluffer or braggart.
By around 1900, the meaning had expanded further to cover cheaters. This can even extend to romantic infidelity, as not quite immortalized by the Doobie Brothers in their 1975 song “Double Dealin’ Four Flusher.”
Interestingly, the “cheater” definition is now starting to be adopted by poker and casino experts, bringing “four-flusher” full circle.
There’s a fine line between calculated bluffing and simply lying about your hand in the hope that other players will give up and leave the winnings to you. Poker pros are increasingly using “four-flusher” to refer to someone who does the latter.
"Editor-In-Chief"
Stupid Question ™
Aug. 15, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: Why is the head of a periodical often called the “editor-in-chief” instead of “chief editor”? Is “in-chief” used with any title other than “editor”?
—Sally
A: Surely the most famous “in-chief” is “Commander-in-Chief,” a military position granted to the president by the Constitution. It’s probably the model for “editor-in-chief,’ which is the only other major use of the formula.
The word “chief” ultimately goes right back to Latin caput or “head,” and by the late 1200s was applied figuratively to a leader of men. By the 1300s it was being used as a title (say, Chief Bottlewasher).
The phase “in chief” comes from the medieval feudal law of property rights and obligations. It reached us from medieval Latin in capite through French en chef, in both cases meaning “from the head.” It was mostly used in the form “tenant in chief”—a landholder who got land and power directly from the king rather than by cutting a deal with somebody lower down the food chain.
By 1600, “in chief” had become a generic phrase with its modern meaning of “mainly” or “principally.” But it also retained the titular formula of “tenant in chief.”
Early citations include: to “direct in chiefe” and someone who “commanded an army in chief.” In 1639, “Commander-in-Chief” became an actual title when Charles I appointed one for wartime. (Commander had already become a common term for a military officer.)
It remained a British, then American, military term thereafter. In past and present British colonies, the governor was/is the commander-in-chief. In 1775 the Continental Congress named George Washington “General and Commander-in-Chief” of the Army; later the Constitution named the president Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Navy and state militias.
The term was also applied to the leaders of specific detachments or expeditionary forces. Until earlier this summer, there were actually many “commanders-in-chief” in the US military—for example, “Commander-in-Chief, US Atlantic Fleet.” But Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld recently ordered that they be ranked only as “Commanders,” reserving the “in Chief” bit for the president.
Besides lower “commanders-in-chief,” the military has often had a welter of “colonels-in-chief,” “generals-in-chief” and so forth, so called if they were leading a special unit or detachment.
As for “editor,” it developed its modern titular meaning only around 1800. It took another 50 years for mastheads to become cluttered with all those “associate editors,” “managing editors” and similar mysterious titles. In the 1870s, “editor-in-chief” started appearing as a way to trump all the others. (“Editor” surely looked naked next to all the other lengthy titles.)
“Editor-in-chief” was probably used because in the post-Civil War period, “commander-in-chief” was a very familiar term, as were the “colonel-in-chief,” etc. variants. It sounds much more imperial and mirrors the military’s hierarchy.
But the “in chief” formula has not spread much since then, probably because it looks so pompous. However, “referee-in-chief” seems to be gaining ground in hockey. You can also find a “surgeon-in-chief” at Yale, a “radiologist-in-chief” at Harvard, and even an “otolaryngologist-in-chief” at McGill.
Aug. 15, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: Why is the head of a periodical often called the “editor-in-chief” instead of “chief editor”? Is “in-chief” used with any title other than “editor”?
—Sally
A: Surely the most famous “in-chief” is “Commander-in-Chief,” a military position granted to the president by the Constitution. It’s probably the model for “editor-in-chief,’ which is the only other major use of the formula.
The word “chief” ultimately goes right back to Latin caput or “head,” and by the late 1200s was applied figuratively to a leader of men. By the 1300s it was being used as a title (say, Chief Bottlewasher).
The phase “in chief” comes from the medieval feudal law of property rights and obligations. It reached us from medieval Latin in capite through French en chef, in both cases meaning “from the head.” It was mostly used in the form “tenant in chief”—a landholder who got land and power directly from the king rather than by cutting a deal with somebody lower down the food chain.
By 1600, “in chief” had become a generic phrase with its modern meaning of “mainly” or “principally.” But it also retained the titular formula of “tenant in chief.”
Early citations include: to “direct in chiefe” and someone who “commanded an army in chief.” In 1639, “Commander-in-Chief” became an actual title when Charles I appointed one for wartime. (Commander had already become a common term for a military officer.)
It remained a British, then American, military term thereafter. In past and present British colonies, the governor was/is the commander-in-chief. In 1775 the Continental Congress named George Washington “General and Commander-in-Chief” of the Army; later the Constitution named the president Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Navy and state militias.
The term was also applied to the leaders of specific detachments or expeditionary forces. Until earlier this summer, there were actually many “commanders-in-chief” in the US military—for example, “Commander-in-Chief, US Atlantic Fleet.” But Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld recently ordered that they be ranked only as “Commanders,” reserving the “in Chief” bit for the president.
Besides lower “commanders-in-chief,” the military has often had a welter of “colonels-in-chief,” “generals-in-chief” and so forth, so called if they were leading a special unit or detachment.
As for “editor,” it developed its modern titular meaning only around 1800. It took another 50 years for mastheads to become cluttered with all those “associate editors,” “managing editors” and similar mysterious titles. In the 1870s, “editor-in-chief” started appearing as a way to trump all the others. (“Editor” surely looked naked next to all the other lengthy titles.)
“Editor-in-chief” was probably used because in the post-Civil War period, “commander-in-chief” was a very familiar term, as were the “colonel-in-chief,” etc. variants. It sounds much more imperial and mirrors the military’s hierarchy.
But the “in chief” formula has not spread much since then, probably because it looks so pompous. However, “referee-in-chief” seems to be gaining ground in hockey. You can also find a “surgeon-in-chief” at Yale, a “radiologist-in-chief” at Harvard, and even an “otolaryngologist-in-chief” at McGill.
"OK"
Stupid Question ™
May 30, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: Is it true that “OK” stands for a misspelled version of “all correct,” and originated in Ohio during a presidential race?
—Steven Miller
A: You’re half-right, which puts you in good company. “OK” has confused even the best etymologists.
OK indeed stands for a deliberate, joking misspelling of “all correct” (apparently “oll korrect” or “orl korrect”). It was coined around 1839, when people thought such abbreviated misspellings were hilarious. Others were “O.W.” (“oll wright”) and “K.G.” (“know go”).
The first known appearance of OK in print was in an article in the March 23, 1839 Boston Morning Post, which explained the term meant “all correct.” It appeared frequently in Boston newspapers that spring, and later in the year spread to New York City journalists.
In the 1960s, linguist Allan Walker Read found sources crediting a “frolicsome group” in Boston called the Anti-Bell-Ringing Society with coining the phrase. I don’t know what this group was; possibly, it had something to do with the mayor’s 1837 ruling that changed the city’s bell-tolling schedule.
In 1840, OK was adopted by New York Democrats as a campaign slogan for President Martin Van Buren, who was running against Ohio’s William Henry Harrison. Van Buren was from Kinderhook, New York, so Democrats pretended OK stood for “Old Kinderhook.” They even started an OK Club in New York City. The slogan helped popularize OK.
Simple enough. But confusion still reigns because the political twists on OK weren’t over. (Also confusing is that the first serious OK study, in 1941, traced it back only to “Old Kinderhook” and therefore declared the “oll korrect” explanation a lie.)
On March 30, 1840, the New York Morning Herald, a Democratic sympathizer, printed a fake origin of OK. It claimed that former Democratic President Andrew Jackson had once declared his postmaster general’s personnel file to be “O.K…Ole Kurrek.” This was a play on Jackson’s semi-literacy, which Democrats had turned into a symbol of his common man-ness (and by extension, Van Buren’s).
Later, it was claimed Jackson wrote “O.K.” on court documents as a lawyer, but the only such document ever produced actually said “O.R.” for the standard legalese “order recorded.”
To get even more confusing, Harrison’s campaign also used OK, in its correct “all correct” form. The aristocratic Harrison was spinning a lie about being a backwoods hero born in a log cabin, and his campaign copped a version of the Jacksonian illiteracy-as-desirable gambit.
A story still current in the 1930s said that OK originated at a Sept. 15, 1840 Harrison rally in Urbana, Ohio, which featured a supposedly homemade banner that read, “The People Is Oll Korrect.” But a Columbus newspaper, and even another Harrison float, used OK well before then.
People of the time, especially those outside the Northeast, must have been confused about what OK actually stood for. Hence, there’s been a deluge of increasingly inane folk etymologies ever since, ranging from Wolof and Surinamian phrases to the names of Indian chiefs, Haitian ports and Civil War cracker makers. They are all bunk.
Incidentally, Van Buren wasn’t OK; he lost the election. And neither was Harrison; he died after a month in office.
May 30, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: Is it true that “OK” stands for a misspelled version of “all correct,” and originated in Ohio during a presidential race?
—Steven Miller
A: You’re half-right, which puts you in good company. “OK” has confused even the best etymologists.
OK indeed stands for a deliberate, joking misspelling of “all correct” (apparently “oll korrect” or “orl korrect”). It was coined around 1839, when people thought such abbreviated misspellings were hilarious. Others were “O.W.” (“oll wright”) and “K.G.” (“know go”).
The first known appearance of OK in print was in an article in the March 23, 1839 Boston Morning Post, which explained the term meant “all correct.” It appeared frequently in Boston newspapers that spring, and later in the year spread to New York City journalists.
In the 1960s, linguist Allan Walker Read found sources crediting a “frolicsome group” in Boston called the Anti-Bell-Ringing Society with coining the phrase. I don’t know what this group was; possibly, it had something to do with the mayor’s 1837 ruling that changed the city’s bell-tolling schedule.
In 1840, OK was adopted by New York Democrats as a campaign slogan for President Martin Van Buren, who was running against Ohio’s William Henry Harrison. Van Buren was from Kinderhook, New York, so Democrats pretended OK stood for “Old Kinderhook.” They even started an OK Club in New York City. The slogan helped popularize OK.
Simple enough. But confusion still reigns because the political twists on OK weren’t over. (Also confusing is that the first serious OK study, in 1941, traced it back only to “Old Kinderhook” and therefore declared the “oll korrect” explanation a lie.)
On March 30, 1840, the New York Morning Herald, a Democratic sympathizer, printed a fake origin of OK. It claimed that former Democratic President Andrew Jackson had once declared his postmaster general’s personnel file to be “O.K…Ole Kurrek.” This was a play on Jackson’s semi-literacy, which Democrats had turned into a symbol of his common man-ness (and by extension, Van Buren’s).
Later, it was claimed Jackson wrote “O.K.” on court documents as a lawyer, but the only such document ever produced actually said “O.R.” for the standard legalese “order recorded.”
To get even more confusing, Harrison’s campaign also used OK, in its correct “all correct” form. The aristocratic Harrison was spinning a lie about being a backwoods hero born in a log cabin, and his campaign copped a version of the Jacksonian illiteracy-as-desirable gambit.
A story still current in the 1930s said that OK originated at a Sept. 15, 1840 Harrison rally in Urbana, Ohio, which featured a supposedly homemade banner that read, “The People Is Oll Korrect.” But a Columbus newspaper, and even another Harrison float, used OK well before then.
People of the time, especially those outside the Northeast, must have been confused about what OK actually stood for. Hence, there’s been a deluge of increasingly inane folk etymologies ever since, ranging from Wolof and Surinamian phrases to the names of Indian chiefs, Haitian ports and Civil War cracker makers. They are all bunk.
Incidentally, Van Buren wasn’t OK; he lost the election. And neither was Harrison; he died after a month in office.
"Flea Markets"
Stupid Question ™
Jan. 3, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: Why do they call them “flea markets”?
—Stacy Aichele
A: Flea markets, of course, are large, typically open-air markets of second-hand or cut-rate goods. The common explanation for the term is that second-hand items, especially clothing and furniture, were likely to be flea-ridden.
However, as the following story will suggest, I think it’s just as likely it was the sellers themselves who were considered flea-ridden. Nobody knows for sure, but it’s almost certain the term was a joking one.
The term appeared in British English in the early 1920s and is undoubtedly a direct translation of the French term marché aux puces—market of the fleas—applied to several open-air, used-good markets in Paris. This term itself is something of a pun on Paris’ more respectable markets, such as the marché aux poissons (fish market) or marché aux fleurs (flower market).
The marché aux puces started popping up in the late 1800s in what were then undeveloped suburbs of Paris, both because of massive center-city construction projects and because downtown open-air markets had been banned for fear of cholera epidemics.
These markets were started by extremely poor people who scavenged garbage and then offered rags, scrap metal and the like for sale. (Garbage peddling had of course existed for centuries, but it was only at this time that the “flea market” term became attached and these markets became something of an institution in Paris.)
It’s easy to see how middle- and upper-class people could start referring to these as “flea markets.” (Some English-speaking authors claim that the term actually started as “flee” market, because the amateur merchants were forced to flee the downtown area; but “flea” and “flee” are not homophones in French. Duh.)
The largest and most famous marché aux puces in Paris today is the one in the Porte de Clignancourt, in the St.-Ouen section of town. It has more than 2,000 sellers—plus cash machines and high-end antique dealers.
There is a completely different—and completely ridiculous—origin theory that is still propagated occasionally. This relies on the Fly Market, an open-air market in Manhattan that ran possibly from Dutch colonial times up to the early 1800s. The claim is that its name was originally Vallie Market, abbreviated to Vlie Market, then mutated into Fly Market, which with a Dutch accent sounded much like “Flea Market.”
Even if all of this is true (which I doubt), it’s clearly not the origin of the term “flea market.” Fly Market was never written as Flea Market; the term did not appear in print for more than 100 years after the Fly Market ceased; it first appeared in England, not America; and Paris clearly had markets called flea markets.
Jan. 3, 2002
By John Ruch
© 2002
Q: Why do they call them “flea markets”?
—Stacy Aichele
A: Flea markets, of course, are large, typically open-air markets of second-hand or cut-rate goods. The common explanation for the term is that second-hand items, especially clothing and furniture, were likely to be flea-ridden.
However, as the following story will suggest, I think it’s just as likely it was the sellers themselves who were considered flea-ridden. Nobody knows for sure, but it’s almost certain the term was a joking one.
The term appeared in British English in the early 1920s and is undoubtedly a direct translation of the French term marché aux puces—market of the fleas—applied to several open-air, used-good markets in Paris. This term itself is something of a pun on Paris’ more respectable markets, such as the marché aux poissons (fish market) or marché aux fleurs (flower market).
The marché aux puces started popping up in the late 1800s in what were then undeveloped suburbs of Paris, both because of massive center-city construction projects and because downtown open-air markets had been banned for fear of cholera epidemics.
These markets were started by extremely poor people who scavenged garbage and then offered rags, scrap metal and the like for sale. (Garbage peddling had of course existed for centuries, but it was only at this time that the “flea market” term became attached and these markets became something of an institution in Paris.)
It’s easy to see how middle- and upper-class people could start referring to these as “flea markets.” (Some English-speaking authors claim that the term actually started as “flee” market, because the amateur merchants were forced to flee the downtown area; but “flea” and “flee” are not homophones in French. Duh.)
The largest and most famous marché aux puces in Paris today is the one in the Porte de Clignancourt, in the St.-Ouen section of town. It has more than 2,000 sellers—plus cash machines and high-end antique dealers.
There is a completely different—and completely ridiculous—origin theory that is still propagated occasionally. This relies on the Fly Market, an open-air market in Manhattan that ran possibly from Dutch colonial times up to the early 1800s. The claim is that its name was originally Vallie Market, abbreviated to Vlie Market, then mutated into Fly Market, which with a Dutch accent sounded much like “Flea Market.”
Even if all of this is true (which I doubt), it’s clearly not the origin of the term “flea market.” Fly Market was never written as Flea Market; the term did not appear in print for more than 100 years after the Fly Market ceased; it first appeared in England, not America; and Paris clearly had markets called flea markets.
"The Butler Did It"
Stupid Question ™
Nov. 29, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: What’s the origin of the cliché mystery line, “The butler did it”?
—G. T.
A: This phrase, which describes the supposed predictability of mystery novels, is a mystery within a mystery.
Apparently, no published etymologist has ever tried to track it down. The source is completely unknown, and nobody’s even collected examples.
This in turn prevents us from figuring out what the phrase really means—because, in fact, butlers have rarely been the criminals in murder-mystery history. More often, they’re among the victims.
They may have been the criminals often enough in early mysteries to inspire the joke. They were also commonly named as suspects, and the joke may originally have referred to that.
The classic English mysteries had aristocratic settings and were intensely classist, often treating servants as less than human and freely using them as creepy suspects, murder victims and villains while the upper-class folks stood around looking horrified. (The butler himself, as head servant, was semi-upper-class; it was much more common for a maid or secretary to be the killer.)
The butler was codified as a stock mystery character by the seminal mystery “The Moonstone” (1868), narrated in part by the (non-villainous) butler.
Criminal butlers appear in the 1893 Sherlock Holmes tales “The ‘Gloria Scott’” and “The Musgrave Ritual.” And butlers were prime suspects in such classics as Agatha Christie’s “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” (1926) and Ngaio Marsh’s “A Man Lay Dead” (1934).
The mystery quickly became conventionalized, and in 1928 writer S.S. Van Dine published his famous 20 rules for writing mysteries—which included a ban on using servants as criminals. The first specific reference to the butler as a cliché criminal was Damon Runyan’s 1934 mystery parody “What, No Butler?”
But none of these stories used the actual phrase, “The butler did it.” The earliest references I could find, interestingly, date to around 1956-1958. They include the titles to a Curtis Counce Group jazz song (circa 1957); one of P.G. Wodehouse’s clever-butler comedy novels (1957); and Walter and Peter Marks’ mystery-farce play (1956). All are pretty clearly self-conscious uses of a preexisting phrase.
Like any good mystery, there are red herrings. A correspondent of the BBC radio show “Quote...Unquote” claimed to have dated the phrase to 1938, but gave no citation.
I also found a couple claims that once-famous mystery writer Mary Roberts Rinehart coined the phrase in one of her books. Credible enough, since she actually employed weird butlers (one who suspected her of drugging him, and another who beat up a cop). But the phrase does not appear in two Rinehart biographies, her autobiography, and 20 of her novels—not even in “The Door” (1930), in which the butler did do it.
It seems likely that the phrase was coined by a critic or comedian, not a mystery novelist. I suggest that it won’t date earlier than 1930, because it literally answers the classic mystery question, “Whodunit?” And that clever term was coined by a book critic in 1930.
Nov. 29, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: What’s the origin of the cliché mystery line, “The butler did it”?
—G. T.
A: This phrase, which describes the supposed predictability of mystery novels, is a mystery within a mystery.
Apparently, no published etymologist has ever tried to track it down. The source is completely unknown, and nobody’s even collected examples.
This in turn prevents us from figuring out what the phrase really means—because, in fact, butlers have rarely been the criminals in murder-mystery history. More often, they’re among the victims.
They may have been the criminals often enough in early mysteries to inspire the joke. They were also commonly named as suspects, and the joke may originally have referred to that.
The classic English mysteries had aristocratic settings and were intensely classist, often treating servants as less than human and freely using them as creepy suspects, murder victims and villains while the upper-class folks stood around looking horrified. (The butler himself, as head servant, was semi-upper-class; it was much more common for a maid or secretary to be the killer.)
The butler was codified as a stock mystery character by the seminal mystery “The Moonstone” (1868), narrated in part by the (non-villainous) butler.
Criminal butlers appear in the 1893 Sherlock Holmes tales “The ‘Gloria Scott’” and “The Musgrave Ritual.” And butlers were prime suspects in such classics as Agatha Christie’s “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” (1926) and Ngaio Marsh’s “A Man Lay Dead” (1934).
The mystery quickly became conventionalized, and in 1928 writer S.S. Van Dine published his famous 20 rules for writing mysteries—which included a ban on using servants as criminals. The first specific reference to the butler as a cliché criminal was Damon Runyan’s 1934 mystery parody “What, No Butler?”
But none of these stories used the actual phrase, “The butler did it.” The earliest references I could find, interestingly, date to around 1956-1958. They include the titles to a Curtis Counce Group jazz song (circa 1957); one of P.G. Wodehouse’s clever-butler comedy novels (1957); and Walter and Peter Marks’ mystery-farce play (1956). All are pretty clearly self-conscious uses of a preexisting phrase.
Like any good mystery, there are red herrings. A correspondent of the BBC radio show “Quote...Unquote” claimed to have dated the phrase to 1938, but gave no citation.
I also found a couple claims that once-famous mystery writer Mary Roberts Rinehart coined the phrase in one of her books. Credible enough, since she actually employed weird butlers (one who suspected her of drugging him, and another who beat up a cop). But the phrase does not appear in two Rinehart biographies, her autobiography, and 20 of her novels—not even in “The Door” (1930), in which the butler did do it.
It seems likely that the phrase was coined by a critic or comedian, not a mystery novelist. I suggest that it won’t date earlier than 1930, because it literally answers the classic mystery question, “Whodunit?” And that clever term was coined by a book critic in 1930.
Last Names
Stupid Question ™
Sept. 13, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: When and where did last names come about?
—Tom McElvain
A: While most name books invent some myth-of-progress story about surnames, there is no single when and where. Secondary names have turned up whenever and wherever it’s become culturally necessary (or convenient) due to large populations with similar given names.
The Chinese have had hereditary family names (though not really “surnames” since they put the family name before the personal name) since about 300 BC. And a friend of mine notes that we’re again inventing additional names for ourselves in our e-mail addresses, since our regular names aren’t distinctive enough.
However, the surname—a name used by all members of a family and transferred to the next generation—is a distinct creation from the more widespread phenomenon of the byname (a non-hereditary nickname a specific person goes by), which is the most usual response to the name problem.
But even the surname has had its ups and downs in Western culture. The early Romans (or free-born males, anyhow) had two names: the highly personal praenomen, and the nomen, which was hereditary within a large family clan. The choice of names in both categories was highly limited, so pretty soon there were a lot of people with the same name, and lots of confusion.
So the noble families (and later everybody) started using a third name—the cognomen, a hereditary family surname, which was common practice by circa 100 BC. They usually developed from personal names, themselves developed from nicknames, like Tacitus (“silent”). Thus, male Roman citizens in the republic and empire had three names. For example, Gaius Julius Caesar, who was Gaius to his pals and Julius Caesar to the masses.
As the population grew, the praenomen and nomen went extinct. As the empire fell, many people stuck with their single “barbarian” names; many Romans went only by their cognomens (sometimes two of them). And the rising Christians often used just one name (the signum) taken from the Bible or their own imaginations.
So by the early medieval period, it was back to one name again. Especially under Christian influence, many people were given the same name, so bynames came into widespread use by the late 1000s. Simple descriptive nicknames, they weren’t always flattering: Drunkard and Shameless are known examples.
Nonetheless, aristocratic and urban families started fixing bynames into hereditary family surnames. This trickled down to regular folks and was common practice throughout Europe by the late 1500s (with the notable example of the Ashkenazi Jews, who were forced—sometimes cruelly—to take surnames in the 1800s so governments could keep track of them).
The convenience of personal bynames is obvious, but limited. They didn’t indicate family relationships; a person could even go by various bynames. Official surnames were for the convenience of the new legal and financial bureaucracies that sprang up in the medieval period. Fixed surnames made land transfers, taxation, wills and the like much easier to carry out.
Sept. 13, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: When and where did last names come about?
—Tom McElvain
A: While most name books invent some myth-of-progress story about surnames, there is no single when and where. Secondary names have turned up whenever and wherever it’s become culturally necessary (or convenient) due to large populations with similar given names.
The Chinese have had hereditary family names (though not really “surnames” since they put the family name before the personal name) since about 300 BC. And a friend of mine notes that we’re again inventing additional names for ourselves in our e-mail addresses, since our regular names aren’t distinctive enough.
However, the surname—a name used by all members of a family and transferred to the next generation—is a distinct creation from the more widespread phenomenon of the byname (a non-hereditary nickname a specific person goes by), which is the most usual response to the name problem.
But even the surname has had its ups and downs in Western culture. The early Romans (or free-born males, anyhow) had two names: the highly personal praenomen, and the nomen, which was hereditary within a large family clan. The choice of names in both categories was highly limited, so pretty soon there were a lot of people with the same name, and lots of confusion.
So the noble families (and later everybody) started using a third name—the cognomen, a hereditary family surname, which was common practice by circa 100 BC. They usually developed from personal names, themselves developed from nicknames, like Tacitus (“silent”). Thus, male Roman citizens in the republic and empire had three names. For example, Gaius Julius Caesar, who was Gaius to his pals and Julius Caesar to the masses.
As the population grew, the praenomen and nomen went extinct. As the empire fell, many people stuck with their single “barbarian” names; many Romans went only by their cognomens (sometimes two of them). And the rising Christians often used just one name (the signum) taken from the Bible or their own imaginations.
So by the early medieval period, it was back to one name again. Especially under Christian influence, many people were given the same name, so bynames came into widespread use by the late 1000s. Simple descriptive nicknames, they weren’t always flattering: Drunkard and Shameless are known examples.
Nonetheless, aristocratic and urban families started fixing bynames into hereditary family surnames. This trickled down to regular folks and was common practice throughout Europe by the late 1500s (with the notable example of the Ashkenazi Jews, who were forced—sometimes cruelly—to take surnames in the 1800s so governments could keep track of them).
The convenience of personal bynames is obvious, but limited. They didn’t indicate family relationships; a person could even go by various bynames. Official surnames were for the convenience of the new legal and financial bureaucracies that sprang up in the medieval period. Fixed surnames made land transfers, taxation, wills and the like much easier to carry out.
"Deadpan"
Stupid Question ™
Aug. 9, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: Why do we call straightfaced comedians “deadpan”?
—Artie Isaac
A: “Deadpan” is homegrown US slang for an expressionless face or look, especially one put on for effect. (By extension, it now also refers to any impassive, detached behavior or manner, not just to the face.)
The word apparently began as part of the jargon of Vaudeville, referring specifically to comedians who added to the humor of their jokes by delivering them with an apparently serious face. “Deadpan” was quickly adopted into general theatrical slang, and also picked up by the burgeoning movie industry.
The earliest known printed uses of the word are explanations of its meaning. The November 1927 “Vanity Fair” explained that both “poker-face” and “dead-pan” mean “a lifeless facial expression.” The March 11, 1928 New York Times defined “dead pan” as “playing a role with expressionless face.” (The verb form—“He deadpanned his lines”—didn’t appear until the 1940s.)
This was only in America, by the way. “Deadpan” didn’t enter British English until around 1944, via US soldiers in World War II.
“Deadpan” is a compound word in which “dead” obviously means “lifeless” or “unanimated.”
And “pan” is just a slightly earlier US slang term for “face” (first known from 1923). This word in turn probably ultimately derives from an older meaning of the word “pan”—“the skull,” a now-obsolete usage coined in the early 1300s. (It survives in the word “brainpan.”)
In addition, “pan” meaning “face” may have been influenced by the colloquialism “to shut one’s pan,” meaning to hold one’s tongue or keep quiet, which is known from the 1830s. This phrase apparently derives from yet another obsolete meaning of “pan”—the part of old flintlock guns that held the priming gunpowder necessary for firing the weapon (the same place we get the term “flash in the pan”).
No etymology would be complete without a red herring, and “deadpan” has one of the most bizarre I’ve ever come across.
Apparently, some literary type once deadpanned the explanation that “deadpan” was linked to “The Dead Pan,” a poem written in 1844 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The titular Pan was the pagan god of shepherds, nature and creation in general.
The poem was inspired by a strange supposed tradition that at the moment of Jesus’ crucifixion, voices could be heard shouting, “The Great Pan is dead!” and that thereafter the pagan oracles could no longer predict the future.
Needless to say, there’s no evidence this poem has anything to do with the Vaudeville expression of nearly 80 years later.
Aug. 9, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: Why do we call straightfaced comedians “deadpan”?
—Artie Isaac
A: “Deadpan” is homegrown US slang for an expressionless face or look, especially one put on for effect. (By extension, it now also refers to any impassive, detached behavior or manner, not just to the face.)
The word apparently began as part of the jargon of Vaudeville, referring specifically to comedians who added to the humor of their jokes by delivering them with an apparently serious face. “Deadpan” was quickly adopted into general theatrical slang, and also picked up by the burgeoning movie industry.
The earliest known printed uses of the word are explanations of its meaning. The November 1927 “Vanity Fair” explained that both “poker-face” and “dead-pan” mean “a lifeless facial expression.” The March 11, 1928 New York Times defined “dead pan” as “playing a role with expressionless face.” (The verb form—“He deadpanned his lines”—didn’t appear until the 1940s.)
This was only in America, by the way. “Deadpan” didn’t enter British English until around 1944, via US soldiers in World War II.
“Deadpan” is a compound word in which “dead” obviously means “lifeless” or “unanimated.”
And “pan” is just a slightly earlier US slang term for “face” (first known from 1923). This word in turn probably ultimately derives from an older meaning of the word “pan”—“the skull,” a now-obsolete usage coined in the early 1300s. (It survives in the word “brainpan.”)
In addition, “pan” meaning “face” may have been influenced by the colloquialism “to shut one’s pan,” meaning to hold one’s tongue or keep quiet, which is known from the 1830s. This phrase apparently derives from yet another obsolete meaning of “pan”—the part of old flintlock guns that held the priming gunpowder necessary for firing the weapon (the same place we get the term “flash in the pan”).
No etymology would be complete without a red herring, and “deadpan” has one of the most bizarre I’ve ever come across.
Apparently, some literary type once deadpanned the explanation that “deadpan” was linked to “The Dead Pan,” a poem written in 1844 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The titular Pan was the pagan god of shepherds, nature and creation in general.
The poem was inspired by a strange supposed tradition that at the moment of Jesus’ crucifixion, voices could be heard shouting, “The Great Pan is dead!” and that thereafter the pagan oracles could no longer predict the future.
Needless to say, there’s no evidence this poem has anything to do with the Vaudeville expression of nearly 80 years later.
March 27, 2008
"Book" And "Tome"
Stupid Question ™
May 24, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: Which word is older, “book” or “tome”—and why do we have these two words for the same object?
—J.M.
A: “Book” was a word invented to signify any written document. It has narrowed to mean certain portable, published collections of writings.
“Tome,” on the other hand, was invented to signify a particular type of book, and today has broadened to mean nearly all books.
“Book” is a very old word, at least 800 years older than “tome.”
The roots of “book” go directly back to Old Teutonic, which inspired similar words in languages ranging from German to Icelandic.
It’s likely that the word is related to the Old English and Old Norse words for the beech tree (“boc,” “bece” or “bok”), the idea being that beech slabs and bark were used as writing material. Etymologists haven’t been able to connect all the dots on this, but book words do ten to be related to trees—think of “leaf” or “codex” (the latter from Latin for “trunk of a tree,” slabs of which were used for law tablets).
The word appeared in Old English by 725 as “boc” (the modern spelling dates to around 1375). The Teutonic root word apparently meant a tablet or sheet used for writing; by the time the word entered English, it referred to any written document, especially a land deed.
The modern meaning of any portable collection of written, usually sequential, pages is slightly more recent, dating to around AD 900.
“Tome” originally meant any one of the separate volumes comprising a single, multi-volume book (or sometimes, a significant section in any single volume). An artifact of the burgeoning publishing industry, the word was coined in the early 1500s or late 1400s. (The first printed use dates to 1519.)
The word entered English directly from French (where it meant the same thing), which got it from Latin (where it meant the same thing), which got it from Greek (where it meant the same thing). It ultimately goes back to a Greek root-verb meaning “to cut”—the same place we get words with “-tomy” endings such as “anatomy.”
By the late 1500s, the meaning of “tome” had generalized to include all books, though this usage (like most books of the era) was primarily academic.
While “tome” is fundamentally synonymous with “book” today, its usage remains typically poetic or academic, and suggests a large, old and scholarly book.
We originally had the separate words “book” and “tome” because they had very individualized meanings. While the centuries have brought them closer together in meaning, “book” still remains more generic and “tome” more specific.
Today, as in 1519, all tomes are books, but not all books are tomes.
May 24, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: Which word is older, “book” or “tome”—and why do we have these two words for the same object?
—J.M.
A: “Book” was a word invented to signify any written document. It has narrowed to mean certain portable, published collections of writings.
“Tome,” on the other hand, was invented to signify a particular type of book, and today has broadened to mean nearly all books.
“Book” is a very old word, at least 800 years older than “tome.”
The roots of “book” go directly back to Old Teutonic, which inspired similar words in languages ranging from German to Icelandic.
It’s likely that the word is related to the Old English and Old Norse words for the beech tree (“boc,” “bece” or “bok”), the idea being that beech slabs and bark were used as writing material. Etymologists haven’t been able to connect all the dots on this, but book words do ten to be related to trees—think of “leaf” or “codex” (the latter from Latin for “trunk of a tree,” slabs of which were used for law tablets).
The word appeared in Old English by 725 as “boc” (the modern spelling dates to around 1375). The Teutonic root word apparently meant a tablet or sheet used for writing; by the time the word entered English, it referred to any written document, especially a land deed.
The modern meaning of any portable collection of written, usually sequential, pages is slightly more recent, dating to around AD 900.
“Tome” originally meant any one of the separate volumes comprising a single, multi-volume book (or sometimes, a significant section in any single volume). An artifact of the burgeoning publishing industry, the word was coined in the early 1500s or late 1400s. (The first printed use dates to 1519.)
The word entered English directly from French (where it meant the same thing), which got it from Latin (where it meant the same thing), which got it from Greek (where it meant the same thing). It ultimately goes back to a Greek root-verb meaning “to cut”—the same place we get words with “-tomy” endings such as “anatomy.”
By the late 1500s, the meaning of “tome” had generalized to include all books, though this usage (like most books of the era) was primarily academic.
While “tome” is fundamentally synonymous with “book” today, its usage remains typically poetic or academic, and suggests a large, old and scholarly book.
We originally had the separate words “book” and “tome” because they had very individualized meanings. While the centuries have brought them closer together in meaning, “book” still remains more generic and “tome” more specific.
Today, as in 1519, all tomes are books, but not all books are tomes.
"Cold"
Stupid Question ™
May 10, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: Why is a cold called a cold?
—Mark Hill
A: Prepare yourself for a very humorous explanation.
Western medicine from the Late Greek era until the Renaissance was dominated by a group of medical writings attributed to Hippocrates, the “father of medicine.”
Though sometimes contradictory and clearly written by several different authors, these writings together put forth the “humors” theory of physiology.
The humors were four supposed bodily fluids (in the mature theory, blood, phlegm, choler and melancholy) essential to life. A balanced quantity of these fluids made for good health; imbalance caused disease. (Imbalances were typically treated by getting rid of the excess humors through sweating, purging, bleeding and similar unpleasantries.)
These humors were considered holistically linked to other natural phenomena that also seemed to come in groups of four: the four elements (earth, fire, water and air), the four seasons and, notably, the four “qualities,” which were dry, moist, hot and cold.
Thus, hanging around a moist, hot swamp in the summer could pump up your choler levels (since choler was linked to heat), resulting in “hot” diseases such as fever or diarrhea. Not a particularly accurate theory by modern medical standards, but enough to keep you away from malaria-infested mosquitoes all the same.
Likewise, cold was notoriously linked with phlegm. The idea was that exposure to cold (especially moist cold) increased phlegm production, which in turn caused a variety of diseases. Even back in the original Hippocratic writings, phlegm was singled out as a real pain for causing the “winter diseases.”
While this idea permeated Western thought for the entire history of the English language, it had to wait quite a while to become embodied in our modern terminology. The word “cold” as we know it today is a product of Middle English, c. 1200, and it competed with the Old English Kentish/Saxon dialect version “cheald” until around 1300.
However, once settled in, “cold” quickly cut out the phlegmatic middle man and became a term for any disease “caused” by coldness. Physicians referred to “colde diseases” and diagnosed sicknesses as being caused by “taking cold.”
Eventually, “cold” became a proper noun specifically applied to the family of upper-respiratory diseases we continue to call the “common cold.”
Modern medicine attributes the cause of the cold to a group of viruses. Colds are more common in winter, but it probably has nothing to do with temperature; a more likely explanation is that we spend much more time indoors breathing each other’s exhaled viruses.
However, the power of a name is a strong thing. Nearly 200 years after the death of the humoral theory, many people still consider colds to be caused by cold.
May 10, 2001
By John Ruch
© 2001
Q: Why is a cold called a cold?
—Mark Hill
A: Prepare yourself for a very humorous explanation.
Western medicine from the Late Greek era until the Renaissance was dominated by a group of medical writings attributed to Hippocrates, the “father of medicine.”
Though sometimes contradictory and clearly written by several different authors, these writings together put forth the “humors” theory of physiology.
The humors were four supposed bodily fluids (in the mature theory, blood, phlegm, choler and melancholy) essential to life. A balanced quantity of these fluids made for good health; imbalance caused disease. (Imbalances were typically treated by getting rid of the excess humors through sweating, purging, bleeding and similar unpleasantries.)
These humors were considered holistically linked to other natural phenomena that also seemed to come in groups of four: the four elements (earth, fire, water and air), the four seasons and, notably, the four “qualities,” which were dry, moist, hot and cold.
Thus, hanging around a moist, hot swamp in the summer could pump up your choler levels (since choler was linked to heat), resulting in “hot” diseases such as fever or diarrhea. Not a particularly accurate theory by modern medical standards, but enough to keep you away from malaria-infested mosquitoes all the same.
Likewise, cold was notoriously linked with phlegm. The idea was that exposure to cold (especially moist cold) increased phlegm production, which in turn caused a variety of diseases. Even back in the original Hippocratic writings, phlegm was singled out as a real pain for causing the “winter diseases.”
While this idea permeated Western thought for the entire history of the English language, it had to wait quite a while to become embodied in our modern terminology. The word “cold” as we know it today is a product of Middle English, c. 1200, and it competed with the Old English Kentish/Saxon dialect version “cheald” until around 1300.
However, once settled in, “cold” quickly cut out the phlegmatic middle man and became a term for any disease “caused” by coldness. Physicians referred to “colde diseases” and diagnosed sicknesses as being caused by “taking cold.”
Eventually, “cold” became a proper noun specifically applied to the family of upper-respiratory diseases we continue to call the “common cold.”
Modern medicine attributes the cause of the cold to a group of viruses. Colds are more common in winter, but it probably has nothing to do with temperature; a more likely explanation is that we spend much more time indoors breathing each other’s exhaled viruses.
However, the power of a name is a strong thing. Nearly 200 years after the death of the humoral theory, many people still consider colds to be caused by cold.