World Wide Words -- 09 Nov 13

Michael Quinion wordseditor at WORLDWIDEWORDS.ORG
Fri Nov 8 16:26:01 UTC 2013


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WORLD WIDE WORDS          ISSUE 857         Saturday 9 November 2013
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Contents
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1. Feedback, Notes and Comments.
2. Anti-fogmatic.
3. Snippets.
4. Comprise.
5. Sic!
6. Subscriptions and other information.


1. Feedback, Notes and Comments
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RECUMBENTIBUS  I feared there might be something amiss when I wrote 
in this piece last week, "It's the ablative plural of recumbere, to 
recline or rest." I was right. Giles Watson was first to respond: 
"You've missed a bit. Verbs don't have ablatives, although verbal 
nouns and adjectives can. 'Recumbentibus' is in fact the ablative 
plural of the present participle of the verb."

Rita Beyers commented, "I never heard of 'a recumbentibus', but like 
it very much, especially because of the impossible combination of an 
article and the ablative plural of the present participle of a verb. 
That's the kind of wordplay one might expect from people who are 
familiar with the word, so that they come to use it in a completely 
different context." Other examples in English of the same ending are 
the everyday "omnibus" (http://bit.ly/1bOYvIS) and the fake Latin 
"circumbendibus" (http://bit.ly/1iElkBz). Rita Beyers doubts whether 
the word was ever used in Latin for a blow: "I cannot think of any 
comparable use in medieval Latin of such a form of a present 
participle as a noun. It simply would not work in Latin." 

There's often more to "recumbentibus" than merely reclining. It 
appears in St Mark's gospel in the Vulgate, the Latin bible that was 
compiled in the fourth century: "novissime recumbentibus illis 
undecim apparuit". This is rendered in the King James Bible as 
"Afterward he appeared unto the eleven as they sat at meat". More 
recent versions translate "recumbentibus" in the words "as they sat 
at table" or "as they were eating". Its sense here is explained by 
Romans liking to recline on couches to eat their meals.

PROUSTIAN  Tony Augarde wrote, "Some young people may not understand 
the clever double entendre in your heading 'Marcel wave' for the 
piece about Marcel Proust. It has an interesting but debatable 
history: http://bit.ly/17z5Rna and http://bit.ly/1bMimZg." Notably, 
all the messages about this were from readers who, rather than 
querying it for themselves, similarly wondered whether other readers 
would understand the reference.

HEY, RUBE!  Ron Davis wrote, "In the quotation from the Cincinnati 
Enquirer, the cited phrase is punctuated as 'Hey! Rube!', which 
makes the two words into separate ejaculations. This may just show a 
change of convention between then and now, but it could also mean 
that 'Rube!' is not an invocation of the intended recipient(s) of 
the message, but is rather a reference to the source of imminent 
trouble, reflecting circus people's opinion of their customers."

Ryan Kelley commented, "Your discussion of 'rube' to mean a fight 
led me to the term 'rhubarb', a somewhat antiquated Americanism 
related to a fight during a baseball game." This seems to have begun 
in New York in the early 1940s, originally as an loud argument, or 
what Baseball Magazine in 1943 called "Brooklynese for a heated 
verbal run-in, especially between players and umpires". I suspect 
that it comes from the same source as the older muttering of the 
word by extras or supporting actors to simulate the sound of a mob. 
Paul Dickson also cites this origin in his baseball dictionary.


2. Anti-fogmatic
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Two centuries ago, some Americans believed that an anti-fogmatic, a 
dose of spirituous liquor, would relieve the unhealthy effects of 
damp and rain. A dram before breakfast was said to counteract the 
figurative or literal fog of the early day, hence its name. It was 
even supposedly recommended by physicians:

    Its great utility in preserving the planters from the 
    effects of the damp and unwholsome air of the morning, has 
    given it the medical name of an Antifogmatick.
    [The Massachusetts Spy, or the Worcester Gazette, 12 
    Nov. 1789.]

The writer of a letter in 1812 to the delightfully named New York 
magazine, the Halcyon Luminary and Theological Repository, was 
critical of any possible medical advantages:

    Some of my neighbors were in the practice of taking a 
    morning dram, well known in the lower counties of 
    Virginia, by the term anti-fogmatic, but I perceived that 
    this did not charm away disease from their houses, though 
    its effect on their rationality was evidently 
    injurious.

Much similarly sarcastic writing was directed at its ingestion, 
though a book of 1825 that claimed Bostonians habitually guarded 
against the New England fogs by taking an anti-fogmatic of half a 
pint of whisky before breakfast was spinning a tall tale. However, a 
travelogue of 1810, which recorded some splendid contemporary names 
for tipples, implied that an anti-fogmatic was a prescribed 
aperitif:

    Speaking of the Virginians, he gave us the following 
    specimen of their dram-drinking. A gum-tickler is a gill 
    of spirits, generally rum, taken fasting. A phlegm-cutter 
    is a double dose, just before breakfast. An antifogmatic 
    is a similar dram before dinner. A gall-breaker is about 
    half a pint of ardent spirits.
    [Travels Through Lower Canada, and the United States of 
    North America, by John Lambert, 1810.]

Lambert noted that anybody who had progressed to gall-breakers was 
regarded by his neighbours as a lost soul not expected to live 
another six months. No surprise in that.

In the first edition of The American Language in 1919, H L Mencken 
wrote that "anti-fogmatic" was by then extinct. Not utterly, though 
I can count its written usages in the period since on the fingers of 
one hand. Any appearance today is merely a mildly humorous hint of 
an earlier age, though opaque to most people. This is a recent case, 
the one that started me on this linguistic exploration:

    Whatever time of day or night you arrive at Hawksmoor, 
    there's always a drink to sort you out. In the morning, it 
    might be an "anti-fogmatic" such as their Marmalade 
    Cocktail: gin, Campari, lemon juice, orange bitters and 
    marmalade.
    [Observer, 20 Oct. 2013.]


3. Snippets
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APIAN INTRUDER  Last week's issue of New Scientist featured a photo 
of a cuckoo bee. The caption introduced me to "inquilinism", a word 
that sent me, fruitlessly, to the Oxford English Dictionary, though 
it does have "inquiline". More recently revised dictionaries such as 
Collins say that "inquilinism" is living in close association with 
another animal without harming it; it's from Latin "inquilinus", a 
sojourner (http://bit.ly/sjrner) or lodger. Unfortunately for New 
Scientist caption writers, the cuckoo bee, as its name suggests, is 
actually a parasite. It lays its eggs in the brood cells of a host 
bee; after its larvae have eaten the pollen provided by the host for 
its own larvae they then eat the larvae. That would make it the 
lodger from hell.

DUN DREARY  Richard Dawkins, the famous evolutionary biologist and 
professional atheist, tweeted on 3 November: "Bin Laden has won, in 
airports of the world every day. I had a little jar of honey, now 
thrown away by rule-bound dundridges." He tweeted in February that 
"dundridge" was "a coining I am trying to introduce into English. It 
means a petty, bossy, bureaucratic little rule-hound." We may feel 
that we have in that sentence almost all the words that we need to 
describe such types without Prof Dawkins adding to the language. He 
wrote in his memoir An Appetite for Wonder this year that he based 
the word on a character in Blott on the Landscape by Tom Sharpe. He 
pleaded with readers to use it as he is trying to get it into the 
OED, as he did with "meme", which he coined in The Selfish Gene in 
1976. It may not catch on because it's in the name of a number of 
places, including a hamlet in Hampshire, as well as being an English 
surname. So far as I know, neither place nor person has ever been 
named "jobsworth", so perhaps he could use that instead?

THE END IS NIGH?  The ending "-pocalypse" from "apocalypse" has 
become popular as a way to create neologisms that exaggeratedly 
imply a situation is of terminal seriousness: "oilpocalypse" (the BP 
oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico), "snowpocalypse" (severe winter 
storms in the US), "beepocalypse" (destruction of bee colonies by 
pesticides or disease), "Marmapocalypse" (a transient New Zealand 
term for the absence of Marmite after its factory was damaged in the 
Canterbury earthquake in 2011), "debt-pocalypse" (a consequence of 
the financial crisis), and even "non-pocalypse". The most recent is 
"airpocalypse" for the extensive damage to health being caused by 
air pollution in Chinese cities. The word appeared first in January 
this year as shorthand for a dense, yellow smog that cloaked Beijing 
for several days and reappeared last month for a similar episode in 
Harbin. 


4. Comprise
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Q. I teach a grammar course at Bennington College, and one of my 
hobby-horses is "comprise", which is misused more often than used 
correctly. Would you weigh in on this issue? [John Gould]

A. I shall, with some trepidation, because its correct application 
has become a shibboleth of good writing. Recently, arbiters have 
become more tolerant of it, which may sadden some readers.

The first issue is word order. The standard view is that "comprise" 
is used correctly if the writer precedes the verb with a group noun 
(one that refers to a set or collection), and follows the verb with 
a complete listing of the components of the set. Put simply, the 
whole comprises its parts. That sounds terribly abstract and some 
examples may help: 

    * A pack comprises 52 cards.
    * The evaluation will comprise a process study, an 
      impact study and an economic study.
    * Our fun-filled shows comprise comedy and music. 

The experts say it's wrong to use it the other way round, to list 
the parts first and then the whole, as in 

    * Governors, mayors and tribal leaders comprise the 
      task force.
    * Fourteen categories comprise the field of 
    competition.
    * Scissors, thread and sewing cards comprise the 
    kit.

These rules seem to have arisen only during the twentieth century. 
Before then, grammarians made no mention of this second version as 
wrong. It is ancient: as long ago as 1579, Thomas North translated a 
sentence in Plutarch's Lives as "There were but one and thirty 
cities comprised in the league." The rise in condemnation parallels 
its rise in use; until the twentieth century it was more frequent in 
technical prose. In the second edition of Fowler's Modern English 
Usage in 1965, Sir Ernest Gowers objected strongly to it:

    This lamentably common use of comprise as a synonym of 
    compose or constitute is a wanton and indefensible 
    weakening of our vocabulary.

However, disquiet over it has been dying back. Thirty years later, 
in 1996, R W Burchfield commented in the third edition of Fowler: 
"It cannot be denied that the sheer frequency of this construction 
seems likely to take it out of the disputed area before long." 
Merriam-Webster's Dictionary of English Usage goes so far as to say 
"This active construction ... is flourishing and can be found in 
quite a wide range of writing." Popular usage is returning this item 
of English to the acceptable state it was in before writers such as 
H W Fowler began to decry it a century ago.

By the way, if you use "comprise" in its accepted active role, what 
follows must be a complete list of the parts that make up the whole. 
If it doesn't, you should use a word such as "include", since that 
signals that the list is of examples, not of the whole set.

The other disputed form is the passive construction "is comprised 
of". Style writers take an even dimmer view of this than of the 
other one. Bill Bryson wrote in his Dictionary of Troublesome Words 
of 1984, "If you remember nothing else from this book, remember at 
least that 'comprised of' is always wrong." Bryan Garner concurred 
in his Modern American Usage of 2003, "This phrase is always wrong 
and should be replaced by some other, more accurate phrase." I have 
to confess to disliking it with an almost visceral emotion, in part 
because I don't like the passive (I also object, though less 
violently, to "is composed of"), but mainly because I was taught 
decades ago that it was utterly wrong. 

However, opposition is weakening here, too: the American Heritage 
Guide to Contemporary Usage and Style notes that in 1996 63% of its 
advisory panel approved of "is comprised of" against only 47% in 
1965. It's easy to find examples in print; these are all from 
newspapers of October 2013:

    The new exhibition at the Wallace Collection is 
    comprised of nothing but drawings of naked men (Daily 
    Telegraph);
    The Kenya Lake System is comprised of three inter-
    linked shallow lakes (The Australian);
    Home prices changes for the national index, which is 
    comprised of 20 cities, peaked in April (Chicago Tribune); 
    
This passive construction has been in use for nearly two centuries. 
(The earliest I've so far found is in The Jamaica Planter's Guide of 
1823 by Thomas Roughley: "The great gang is comprised of the most 
powerful field-negroes.") The complaints against it may be thought 
illogical, because the passive construction puts the whole before 
its parts in the way that's approved for the active form.

However, having noted that the times they are a-changing, I have to 
say that it would be wise for a serious writer who values their 
reputation to be careful of the "is comprised of" form. It will 
still attract criticism.


5. Sic!
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We really ought not to mock poor English in foreign signs, but they 
are often too good not to. Gordon Caruana-Dingli photographed this 
one at Seville airport: "Drinking water only in lavatory".

Hazel Flynn wrote, "Lou Reed's life was well chronicled, but after 
he died the Sydney Morning Herald had a scoop on his little-known 
Australian years: 'As a young Canberra punk, Lou Reed had an 
enormous impact on Rhys Muldoon.'"

A headline on the website of the Boston Globe over a story dated 1 
November was spotted by Dave Kearns: "Royal Bank of Scotland to sell 
off Citizens".

"If only it were that easy" was the subject line of Ellen Sheffer's 
email about a notice on Facebook: "Find out how Women for Women 
International helps women rebuild their lives after war and conflict 
by signing up for email alerts."

Paul K Davis found this caption to a video clip dated 31 October on 
townhall.com about Cory Booker becoming a US senator and resigning 
as mayor of Newark: "The Newark City Council is scheduled to hold an 
emergency meeting to decide his predecessor."

Heidi Brubaker found an item listed for sale on Amazon, a plastic 
flavour injector. That explains a lot.


6. Subscriptions and other information
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