On August 26, 1664, the urban ancestor of the town in which I live changed its name. The English arrived, only four years after the restoration of their own monarchy, and threw out the Dutch. New York was born, sort of.
That was 350 years ago. On August 25th, the day before the anniversary, The New York Times reported this:
“Finally, on Sept. 8, the largely defenseless settlement tolerated a swift and bloodless regime change: New Amsterdam was immediately renamed New York. It would evolve into…
So I walk into the little dry cleaners near my office and these are the first words I hear:
“Where were you? In bed with your—Polack!”
For a split second I’m stopped in my tracks.
I listened for a moment to the voice coming from some unidentified space between the full-length mirror and the ironing board. The invisible speaker was a woman, a familiar one at that, and boy was she angry.
The voice didn’t belong to the tailor and store manager, a warm Korean woman who beamed as she always does whe…
How long will the meeting last? I asked the caller. We had a visiting group coming to campus. They had a busy schedule. The meeting would end by noon, I was told, because the group had a hard out.
For a moment, the line went dead. Seriously? A hard out? Was a hard out the equivalent of a really good excuse, like a sick aunt who needed to be driven to the clinic? (“So sorry I can’t make the company rolfing workshop, but Aunt Tilda couldn’t do a thing without me.”)
But no, a hard out is an imm…
Title page of Bullions
I’ve been browsing through 19th-century grammar books. Yes, on purpose.
On my desk is an 1846 copy of The Principles of English Grammar; Comprising the Substance of the Most Approved English Grammars Extant, With Copious Exercises in Parsing and Syntax; and an Appendix of Various and Useful Matter, a popular text by the Rev. Peter Bullions, D.D., professor of language in the Albany (New York) Academy.
I hope the reverend’s royalties had an escalator clause. The copy I’m ho…
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
So we’ve made it through commencement, many of us, anyway. I had two in May—the graduation of my son, Chris (with honors—hey, I am a parent), from Northeastern with a double major in computer science and video-game design, which means two fields too difficult for his father. A couple of weeks later I was at Cooper Union’s own graduation rites, where I get to sit on the stage and try not to fidget under hot lights. Janet Napolitano spoke at the Northe…
It’s such an American thing, an impartial observer might say: taking pride in an unclear ancestry. But as lovers of words know, etymology, like genealogy, gets mixed up in interesting ways.
Most words have traceable origins. Sometimes, though, we have nothing to go on, and so we get the dictionary’s best guesses:
• from Wolof (?)
• possibly related to Old French
• altered (?)
I’m particularly fond of dictionary entries that have “origins unknown” or “origins obscure,” or that exist in other stat…
The Shakespeare world has been abuzz recently with news of a 1580 copy of Baret’s Alvearie, a four-language dictionary, heavily annotated and, according to its owners, possibly by Shakespeare’s own hand. There has been much in the press, popular and professional, on the plausibility of the claim.
Jennifer Howard has covered the story in these pages. Adam Gopnik has used the event as the basis of his recent New Yorker meditation on the inexhaustible cult of Shakespeare.
Regarding the Alvearie, …
Image via Wikimedia Commons
My last post was about Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, a play that apparently isn’t done with me yet.
You will remember that the mystery of Jack Worthing’s birth is revealed in that play’s final moments—Jack turns out to be Ernest Moncrieff, Algy’s elder brother. Happy ending, three marriages, curtain. All the play’s puzzles have been solved.
Except for the matter of dung. We really do need to talk about the dung, Mr. Worthing.
The word worthing has a…
In the greatest English theatrical comedy of the 19th century, a peculiar series of events involving an infant and a handbag are the subject of an 11th-hour confession by one of my favorite literary inventions, a governess named Miss Prism.
There are many reasons to love Miss Prism, among them the fact that in her youth she wrote a three-volume novel. Like all of Oscar Wilde’s creations, she has more than a bit of the playwright in her (Miss Prism is given to saying things like “I speak hort…
Image via Wikimedia Commons
“My husband used to be the concierge,” announces the woman in the window, “but he’s dead. Now I’m the concierge.” Movie fans will recognize the moment in Mel Brooks’s The Producers when our hapless protagonists approach the residence of the furtive ex-Nazi and pigeon fancier Franz Liebkind, author of the soon-to-be immortal musical “Springtime for Hitler.”
Liebkind’s apartment building is nothing special. It doesn’t have anything as glamorous as a concierge, just an u…