Category Archives: Etymology

You say dressing, I say stuffing …

“Know your stuff, know what you are stuffing, then stuff it elegantly.“ — Lola May

Back in the middle ages in England, stuffing was known as farce, from the French farcir (derived from the Latin farcire), meaning “to stuff”. Farce also referred then to a brief and lighthearted dramatic interlude or play ‘stuffed’ for light relief between more serious religious presentations in order to hold an audience’s attention, and that meaning survives in a more comedic version today. As well as farce, forcemeat was another term used for the spiced meat mixture that was so called because of the way it was forced into the cavity of the bird for cooking.

Stuffing first began to be used in Tudor England during the reign of Henry VIII (the word was first seen in print in 1538). However, a few hundred years on, it was deemed too vulgar and descriptive a word for those in elegant Victorian high society, who began referring to stuffing as dressing — and this was the word that traveled across the Atlantic and is now used widely in North America, although it was subsequently dropped from the vernacular in England where its more hearty antecedent was preferred.

When the American company Stove Top introduced its own brand of dressing in a box in 1972 (after Ruth Siems, a home economist, invented the instant version of the product) and called it “stuffing”, the traditional English name found its way into Thanksgiving turkeys and households around the United States. Stuffing tends to be heard more in the South and East, while dressing is the accompaniment of choice in the Midwest.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Opera suds

“No good opera plot can be sensible. … People do not sing when they are feeling sensible.” — W.H. Auden, 1961

We all know what an opera is, and even if we’ve never seen a soap opera, we’ve all had the feeling at some point that our life feels like one. But how did these art forms get their names, and are they really related?

The word opera means “work” in Italian (it is the plural of the Latin word opus, meaning “work” or “labor”). Its usage as a noun describing a staged spectacle combining the arts of solo and choral singing, declamation, acting and dancing ( ie. a lot of hard work by many!) dates back to the late 16th and early 17th century. The earliest such composition recognized today as an opera — Dafne, by Jacopo Peri — was written in about 1597. (The score to Peri’s later opera Euridice, which he wrote in 1600, is the first opera score to have survived to the present day, and the earliest known opera that is still performed regularly today is Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo, composed for the court of Mantua in 1607.) In the mid-18th century, the word opera broadened its usage to describe a whole genre of dramatic and performing art, rather than just a single staged production.

So how did we go from the lofty art form of centuries past to the modern-day soap opera — a radio/TV serial typically broadcast during the day about a cast of recurring characters whose interwoven lives are usually beset by high drama, emotion, suspense, romance, conflict, and moral and sexual predicaments? Well, I think we’ve just described a typical opera plot, which is generally built on melodrama and demands a necessary suspension of disbelief from the audience: so we’re good on the opera front. But why the soap?

The word opera was already in use in a non-operatic context several years before soap operas came into being. Horse opera was a popular term in the 1920s referring to film, radio or TV westerns (ie. theatrical films or programs depicting adventures in the American Old West); another name for “horse opera” — adopted slightly later, in the ’30s — was “oat opera”, or “oater”.

Clara, Lu and Em was the first radio drama of its kind — not about cowboys and Indians in the Wild West, but about real humdrum people leading less than humdrum lives. Written and performed by a trio of sorority sisters from Northwestern University (and originally conceived as a theatrical sketch), the show followed the lives of three women living in a small-town duplex. Starting life in 1930 on Chicago’s WGN-AM just three evenings a week, it quickly gained in popularity, getting picked up by NBC’s “Blue” syndication network and moving to daily daytime hours, where it was sponsored by Colgate Palmolive. And so began a tradition of daytime radio dramas sponsored by soap manufacturers whose commercials targeted the house-proud launderers of the daytime hours: stay-at-home housewives tuned to a wireless world that magically transported them to lives and loves more dramatic than their own. The soap opera was born.

It’s 4:20: do you know where your teen is? Is he at low tea or high tea? Or just high?

“420”. Or more specifically: Four Twenty. What does that mean to you? For me, I’m transported back to a specific time every weekday afternoon at my boarding school in the English countryside when we would sip warm tea and dip our dry Rich Tea biscuits (and occasionally cake, if we were lucky) into our cups at the end of a long school day. Low tea was, for many, the high point of the day; long were the minutes spent waiting in class for the school bell to ring out, heralding the arrival of caffeine-and-sugar-time. In those days (and this will surely date me), 4.20 meant simply a number or time of day: tea-time! Its ‘higher’ connotations had yet to spread beyond the drug culture of Californian youth …

Let’s go 420, and explore the origin and history (and the truths and myths) of the term. And let’s also look at the origin and history (and widespread misunderstanding) of the terms “low tea” and “high tea”, and find out just what is eaten at what time on each occasion.

“Let’s go 420, dude!”

You have to have been hiding under a rock for the last couple of decades if you don’t know what 420 means. But ask anyone why, and the haze of uncertainty about its etymology is about as thick as the mind of a ’70s Deadhead (which is actually where the term spent much of its infancy, probably also under a rock). “Isn’t or wasn’t 420 the police dispatch code for smoking pot?” No, it’s not the dispatch code for anything. “Hitler’s birthday was April 20.” So …? “4.20pm is tea-time for pot-smokers in Holland.” Yeah, and for everyone else in the world, including the Queen of England. “There are approximately 420 active chemicals in marijuana.” There are about 315 active chemicals in marijuana, but the actual number fluctuates depending on which plant you’re using. “April 20 is the date that Jim Morrison/Jimi Hendrix/Janis Joplin [pick one] died.” Nice try, but even though they were all strongly associated with drugs and drug-taking, not one of them died on April 20.

Steven Hager, editor of High Times, traced the term 420 back to a group of about a dozen pot-smoking high-school students in 60s/70s San Rafael, California, who called themselves the Waldos. The kids first used the term in fall 1971 as part of a plan to search for a cannabis crop that was rumored to have been abandoned in a nearby forest. For this particular marijuana hunt, which was repeated on several occasions (although that crop never was never to be found), the Waldos agreed to meet at 4.20pm near a statue on the school campus before heading into the woods. The meeting time for the hunt became a general meeting time for smoking pot, and so as not to let on to unsuspecting parents or teachers, 420 became their code-word for a time to get high. As it spread beyond the school grounds, referring more generally to the art and recreation of marijuana-taking, the term began to take root amongst the dope-smoking Californians of the day — notably the Deadheads (Grateful Dead fans and followers) who were local to and associated with San Rafael. And before long, 420 was understood and used (linguistically as well as literally) by an entire generation of potheads, who have in turn passed it along to their own issue — the word, the habit, and in some cases the wacky baccy itself. Here’s a flyer that was handed out by Deadheads in Oakland, CA before a Grateful Dead concert in 1990:

The term 420 is now ubiquitous in popular culture and in the common vernacular, often with tongue in cheek or as an oblique reference to Grandpa’s medicine. Most of the clocks in Pulp Fiction are set to 4:20. (There is one watch set to 9.00.) There’s both a record label and a band called 4:20. Atlanta’s Sweetwater Brewing Company sells 420 Pale Ale and opens at 4.20pm most weekdays. A New York-based travel company, 420 Tours, sells cheap packages to the Netherlands and Jamaica. California’s Senate Bill 420 regulates marijuana used for medical purposes. In 2001, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services’ Center for Substance Abuse Prevention published (on its web site) a document called: “It’s 4:20: do you know where your teen is?”

Nowadays, you’ll find “420-friendly” used commonly as an attribute — alongside height, education, hobbies and fetishes — by online romance-seekers in their web profiles. So if you’re looking to date a stoner, you’re in luck: just type 420 into the search-box …

Low tea and high tea

Low tea

High tea

That’s not a mistake: these are fair representations of the meals “low tea” and “high tea”, names that derive not from the tides, the time of day, nor the quality or class of food prepared, but from the height of the tables at which the meals were traditionally taken.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, “tea was generally consumed within a lady’s closet or bedchamber and for a mainly female gathering.” Ladies would receive callers with their morning tea, usually “abed and bare-breasted” (from “A Social History of Tea” by Jane Pettigrew). It is generally thought that the English afternoon tea tradition was established in the early 19th century by Anna Maria Russell, Duchess of Bedford, a lifelong friend of Queen Victoria whom she served for a time as a lady of the bedchamber. The Duchess, feeling the energy low that hits us all in the late afternoon, started asking for light sandwiches and tea to be brought to her to tide her and her rumbly-tummy over between the lunchtime and evening meals. Then she invited others to join her in this afternoon repast, and so the tradition of afternoon or “low” tea was born. Ladies of the fashionable upper classes would serve a ‘low’ or ‘afternoon’ tea around four o’clock, just before a promenade in the park.

Low tea can consist of any combination of biscuits, sandwiches (cucumber please), scones with clotted cream and jam, and, most importantly, tea. It’s not so much a meal as a light and indulgent afternoon snack. (Although who would call scones with clotted cream and jam ‘light’?) “Low tea” got its name from the furniture and setting of those partaking of the late afternoon fare: in living or drawing rooms in low armchairs, with low side-tables pulled alongside them on which could be placed cups and saucers, doilies and side-plates.

High tea, on the other hand, was served at the dining table. High tea is a more substantial evening meal, usually consisting of “meat and two veg” (or a similar combination); it was the main meal put on the table at around 6 pm for the working man of the family to return home to. However, high tea wasn’t a meal just of the working class. The middle and upper classes would sometimes take a high tea in the early evening – at five or six o’clock – replacing the later evening dinner, especially if there were evening entertainments planned (much like our modern pre-theater meal) or not enough staff on duty to cook or serve the dinner feast.

For inexplicable reasons, “high tea” has persisted in modern English usage – especially in America – and is often used erroneously instead of “low tea”, which is now moreorless obsolete, to describe the traditional afternoon fare. When an American hotel or tea-house offers a “high tea” service, you can be sure you’ll be eating the equivalent – at least linguistically – of tea at the Waldorf, and not the fish and chips and mushy peas that characterized the high teas of yore.

* * * * *

Thanks to Snopes.com, High Times and the Huffington Post for the dope on 420; and Afternoon Tea and Afternoon to Remember for lessons in the history and etiquette of afternoon tea.

http://hightimes.com/entertainment/ht_admin/834

http://www.snopes.com/language/stories/420.asp#DQK60F3kSb7mEd6o.99

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/20/what-420-means-the-true-s_n_188320.html

http://www.afternoontea.co.uk

http://www.afternoontoremember.com

To premiere or not to premiere

Premier was adopted by the English language in the 18th century; its sister, premiere, with its added feminine ‘e’ (and sometimes dressed up with her French accent – première), entered the English lexicon fashionably later than her male counterpart, probably in the late 19th century. Premier, derived from the French word meaning ‘first’, means first minister, prime minister or other head of government when used as a noun. When strutting its stuff as an adjective, it means first in status or importance, order or time (earliest). Premiere is a noun — and at least when she made her debut in the English language she was only a noun — describing a first public presentation of a play, film, opera or other performance. There’s little or no dispute about any of these definitions (except for Fowler frowning on the use of premier as an adjective; see below*).

It’s the female form that’s had a harder time adjusting fully to life in English society. Whether and to what extent premiere should be used as a verb is what usage experts tend to grapple with, even though the word has been in use as a verb since the 1930s. The OED does give it an official second definition as a transitive verb, “to give a premiere of”, but it stops short by not giving the verb an intransitive form, eg. “the symphony premiered in August”.

Merriam-Webster‘s Dictionary of English Usage (3rd ed.) outlines the unfolding of this verb-that’s-really-a-noun, and points out the fascinating possibility that its origins in the world of show business (where it is ubiquitous and to which its usage is still largely confined) have contributed to its lack of credibility and acceptance as a legitimate verb:

“The verb premiere is resoundingly rejected by the major usage panels, although most commentators take no notice of it and dictionaries treat it as standard. The panelists tend to regard it as jargon, in part because of its derivation from the noun premiere, which, in their opinion, makes it a noun misused as a verb, and in part because of its origins in the world of show business. It is also a fairly new word, although not as new as some might suppose. We first encountered it in 1933, and by the 1940s it had established itself in regular use as both a transitive and intransitive verb:

” … the Paris Opera plans to premiere an old work of Jean Cocteau and Arthur Honneger” — Modern Music, November-December 1942

“The latter two houses première foreign films.” – Parker Tyler, Tomorrow, March 1945

“The night Crosby premiered” — Newsweek, 28 Oct. 1946

“….the new show premièred on June 26” — Newsweek, 2 Aug. 1948

Its use continues to be common today:

“Trollope will premiere on television in the midst of the latest squall in Anglo-American relations” — Karl E. Meyer, Saturday Rev., 22 Jan. 1977

“… when the play was premièred in 1889” — Ronald Hayman, Times Literary Supp., 28 Jan. 1983

Anyone determined to avoid it will find it has no exact synonym. Open can sometimes be used in place of the intransitive premiere, but it less strongly denotes a “first ever”[**] public performance than does the longer word, and in many cases it is simply unidiomatic. A television program or musical composition, for example, could not be said to “open.” Open is also unidiomatic in transitive use — you could not say “The Paris Opera plans to open an old work. . . .” Of course, one may always replace premiere with a phrase, as in “… the new show was first performed on June 26” or “… Crosby performed for the first time on television…,” but the necessity of such revision seems dubious. The verb premiere may have deserved to be called “jargon” fifty years ago, but in current English it is just another available verb, and we recommend that you regard it as such.” So says Merriam-Webster.

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed. Houghton Mifflin, 2006) confirms the slow and grudging acceptance of this new verb, and also notes that it has been unable to break out from its confines in the entertainment world, where its reputation still remains murky:

“In entertainment contexts, the verb premiere has become the standard way of saying ‘to introduce to the public,’ or ‘to be introduced to the public.’ Since it seems always to imply newness, premiere is frequently used in advertising. Thus a movie can premiere in selected theaters, and a year later it can ‘premiere’ to a different audience on television. The verb first came out in the 1930s and acceptance of it in general usage has been slow. In 1969, only 14 percent of the Usage Panel accepted it. Nineteen years later, however, when asked to judge the example The Philharmonic will premiere works by two young Americans, 51 percent of the Panelists accepted this usage. But only 10 percent of the Panelists in the 1988 survey accepted the extension of the verb to contexts outside of the entertainment industry, as in Last fall the school premiered new degree programs.”

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*In the first edition of his Modern English Usage (and left unrevised in his second edition), Fowler turned his nose up at the word premier used as an adjective, claiming it “is now suggestive of tawdry ornament, though it was formerly not avoided by good writers and has shown signs of coming back into favour in the wake of the now popular première. The ELEGANT-VARIATIONIST finds it useful …, but would do better to find some other way out. It is wise to confine it now to such traditional phrases as the Duke of Norfolk is premier duke and earl of the U.K.”

* * see Glossophilia https://glossophilia.org/?p=1052

He can’t drive home: he’s Brahms and Liszt!

[Warning: obscenities ahead …]

Marking Glossophilia’s 100th post, we’re celebrating the wonderful world of Cockney rhyming slang.

This clever and often amusing form of speech started in the East End of London, probably in the mid-19th century (although there are references to a specific Cockney dialect dating back to the 17th century, when regional folk traditions first began to be recorded). The OED‘s first recorded use of Cockney language is dated 1776. It’s difficult to establish exactly how, when and why it originated – partly because it was spoken by street-traders, costermongers and working-class Londoners, but not written and recorded by scholars and academics. The slightly convoluted ‘code’ or system of the rhyming slang, which is explained below, makes the lingo difficult to understand by non-users, and there are various interesting theories about whether it evolved by accident or design, and from whom its originators sought to keep their communications secret. Some suggest that it was a language of thieves; others that it was used by traders to talk and collude with each other without customers or eavesdroppers being privy to their conversations. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere between the two: it could have been a way for shady tradesmen to conduct their dodgy businesses without the “Old Bill” cottoning on (London’s police force was established in 1829, at roughly the same time Cockney slang began to take root; the timing might not have been coincidental). Or the local slang might have had more innocent beginnings as fun market banter that helped maintain a sense of community.

Here’s how it works: A common word (usually a noun) is replaced with a phrase of two or three words that rhymes with it, and then the rhyming part of that phrase is (usually) taken away, leaving the non-rhyming word to serve as the slang. The omission of the rhyming word is what makes this Cockney slang so hard for outsiders to decipher. Let’s take an example that’s still in common usage: butchers is slang for look. The phrase “butcher’s hook” rhymes with look, then hook is removed. Hence a Londoner will say “I’ll take a butchers” when he’s going to take a look. Another popular one is trouble, slang for wife (“trouble and strife”...).

Cockney rhyming slang is alive and well today. Fans of British TV will hear it in many programs set in London – eg. Steptoe and Son, Mind Your Language, The Sweeney, Minder, Citizen Smith, and Only Fools and Horses. And it’s rife in EastEnders, a soap opera following the lives of people who live and work in Albert Square, a fictional market square in London’s East End. Cockney slang continues to evolve – often incorporating words and names that are relevant to the time, including contemporary celebrities and personalities. For example, “Tony Blairs” is the modern rhyming slang for “flares” (as in wide-bottomed pants or trousers), but it used to be “Lionel Blairs” (Lionel Blair was a well-known actor/TV presenter in the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s). A few words and phrases have been absorbed into more widespread English usage. To scarper (to flee, go, or run away) is understood widely as a British colloquialism; it comes from Scapa Flow = Go (Scapa Flow is a body of water in the Scottish Orkney Islands). As Wikipedia explains: “The use of rhyming slang has spread beyond the purely dialectal and some examples are to be found in the mainstream British English lexicon and internationally, although many users may be unaware of the origin of those words. One example is “berk”, a mild pejorative widely used across the UK and not usually considered particularly offensive, although the origin lies in a contraction of “Berkeley Hunt”, as the rhyme for the significantly more offensive “cunt”. ”

Listen to three Londoners slinging some Cockney rhyming slang around in this colorful video shot in a London pub:

Cockney Rhyming Slang

Thanks to Fun-With-Words.com for this list of some of the most common – and amusing – examples of rhyming slang still in popular usage today.

Apples and Pairs – Stairs – “I’m too old for those apples”

Army and Navy – Gravy – “Pass the army, will you?”

Bacon and Eggs – Legs – “She has such long bacons.”

Barnet Fair – Hair – “I’m going to have my barnet cut.”

Brahms and Liszt – Pissed (BrE, as in drunk)

Bees and Honey – Money – “Hand over the bees.”

Biscuits and Cheese – Knees – “Ooh! What knobbly biscuits!”

Bull and Cow – Row (as in argument) – “We don’t have to have a bull about it.”

Butcher’s Hook – Look – “I had a butchers at it through the window.”

Cobbler’s Awls – Balls – “You’re talking cobblers!”

Crust of Bread – Head – “Use your crust, lad.”

Daffadown Dilly – Silly – “She’s a bit daffy.”

Hampton Wick – Prick – “You’re getting on my wick!”

Khyber Pass – Arse – “Stick that up your Khyber.”

Loaf of Bread – Head – “Think about it; use your loaf.”

Mince Pies – Eyes – “What beautiful minces.”

Oxford Scholar – Dollar – “Could you lend me an Oxford?”

Pen and Ink – Stink – “Pooh! It pens a bit in here.”

Rabbit and Pork – Talk – “I don’t know what she’s rabbiting about.”

Raspberry Tart – Fart – “I can smell a raspberry.”

Scarpa Flow – Go – “Scarpa! The police are coming!”

Trouble and Strife – Wife – “The trouble’s been shopping again.”

Uncle Bert – Shirt – “I’m ironing my Uncle.”

Weasel and Stoat – Coat – “Where’s my weasel?”

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Finally, here are some gems picked especially for Glossophilia readers:

Dicky bird – Word – “I didn’t say a dicky bird!”

Porkies / Pork pies – Lies – “Have you been telling porkies again?”

and finally …

Septic tank – American (Yank) – “Last I heard, she took up with a septic.”

* and in case you’re wondering about the title of this post: Brahms and Liszt = Pissed (BrE, as in drunk)

***

Currying favor

Have you ever wondered where the expression to “curry favor (or favour)” comes from? It means to seek favor or to ingratiate oneself by fawning, flattery or sycophancy. And it has nothing to do with the exotic flavor of Indian curry.

To understand its origins we need to look at each word separately.

“Curry” in this case dates back to an Old French verb conraier meaning ‘to prepare’ or ‘to put in order’. In Middle English this translated to currayen, leading to the modern verb “to curry”: to clean, rub down, groom or dress the coat of a horse, often using a curry-comb. Another expression using this verb “curry” in its equestrian sense is “a short horse is soon curried”. Poor little horse.

Favor is an Anglicized/bastardized version of the old word favel, meaning yellow, fallow, or dun – or a horse of one of these brownish hues. Related to the word fallow, its meaning was also entangled with that of a similar-sounding old French word favele, meaning “lying” or “deception”. How this evolved into the “favor” of our expression dates back to a famous poem, Roman de Fauvel (“The Romance of Fauvel”), written in the 1300s by a Frenchman named Gervais du Bus. (The poem is probably best known for its musical setting by Philippe de Virty in the Ars Nova style.) It tells the story of Fauvel (whose letters are all initials of cardinal sins), a “favel” or fallow donkey or horse, which in medieval times was a symbol of duplicity, greed or deceit. In Du Bus’s morality tale, which served in its time as a satirical social commentary on the corruption of 14th-century Church and State, those in the higher echelons of wealth and power would stroke and groom this conniving beast, engaging in an insincere form of flattery by “currying Fauvel”.

Hence, from the Old French correier fauvel, to the Middle English currayen favel, the expression to “curry a fallow-colored horse” and ultimately to “curry favor” has evolved. It’s understood to have entered the English language at the turn of the 15th century as “curry favel”, and only in the 1500s did it assume its current form. The OED cites two early instances (with slight spelling variations) from the 16th century:

c1510 Barclay Mirr. Gd. Manners (1570) Fvj, Flatter not as do some, With none curry fauour.

1557 N. T. (Genev.) Matt. viii. 20 note, He thoght by this meanes to courry fauour with the worlde.

And now for something somewhat different …

This morning on one of American Public Media’s radio news shows I heard a commentator say the following: “It’s somewhat of an exaggeration.” Would I ever hear those words said on BBC Radio 4, I thought? Probably not. But why not?

Something of and somewhat have similar meanings in different forms of speech: somewhat is an adverb used to qualify an adjective (“he is somewhat rude”) and something of qualifies a noun instead (“he is something of a jerk”) – although I’m not entirely sure what grammatical form something of is. (If you know, please let us know in the comments section: is it a prenominal adjective, or perhaps a prenominal noun, or simply a noun and pronoun?) Many would argue that somewhat of is an error, in which the two uses are wrongly confused and combined. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, somewhat used as a noun/pronoun instead of something is archaic. But I believe this usage has become standard – if still somewhat colloquial – in American English, more or less supplanting something of in everyday speech, if not in writing. However, I think it’s jarring to most British ears.

And this isn’t to say that there aren’t BrE colloquialisms involving the word something that strain the American ear. “My back hurts something awful!”: You would be unlikely to hear that in an American gym. But now let’s take a look at British regional dialects and accents, and we might get closer to understanding why something and somewhat have become somewhat interchangeable, at least on American shores. In Yorkshire, and perhaps in the West country (or in Hardy’s Wessex), you’d be likely to hear that sentence pronounced somewhat differently: “Me back ‘urts summat awful!” Summat is the northern dialect version of the word something, and of course it sounds much closer to somewhat (and some would argue that it’s actually derived from somewhat, rather than something). Perhaps it lingers from the Old English use of somewhat in place of something – and it’s not unusual to find American words and pronunciations more closely resembling Old English rather than modern English.

Now let’s take somewhat, which in BrE is now considered rather formal, stuffy, or archaic. Unless they’re in the House of Lords, Brits tend to work with other words and expressions when they want to downplay or ‘de-emphasize’ the adjective that follows: “She’s a little shocked by the discovery,” or “he was relatively new to the industry”. Rather and quite are other modifying adverbs that can take the sting out of an extreme adjective, but rather confusingly, they are both often used to add rather than take away emphasis. See this earlier post on Glossophilia: https://glossophilia.org/?p=77

Fowler was forthright (and somewhat scathing) in his derision of the word somewhat and other ‘shock-absorbers’ like it: “Somewhat has for the inferior journalist what he would be likely to describe as ‘a somewhat amazing fascination’. …What first moves people to experiment in the somewhat style is partly timidity – they are frightened by the coming strong word and would fain take precautions against shock – and partly the notion that an air of studious understatement is superior and impressive; and so in our newspapers ‘the intemperate orgy of moderation is renewed every morning’. Cf. the similar use of comparatively and relatively as shock-absorbers.”

I wonder if Fowler’s description is more about the English mind-set than its lingo: “timidity”, “studious understatement” and “intemperate orgies of moderation” sound somewhat British to me …

Mysteries of the vernacular, animated

A trip to the cinema (specifically, the IFC Center in NYC) introduced me to a charming web site / film company that researches and then produces short animated films about the origins of words. You’ll need to go and see a movie at the IFC to catch any of the shorts, but it’s worth the price of a movie-ticket (especially if you enjoy the main feature) for any word-detectives out there.

I discovered the origin of the word “bewilder”: a more complex and interesting etymology than you might think.

http://www.mysteriesofvernacular.com/