The Word Detective

by John Simpson

  There’s nothing wrong with reading diocesan records, though it’s not a pastime I’ve ever toyed with. In fact, I positively encouraged lexicographers to consult non-traditional, non-print records. But I was suspicious about this one. Here it is—see if it strikes you as odd:

  Wheare have you been all this day, pall? . . . Why, pall, what would you have mee to doe? (Hereford Diocesan Register: Depositions (1682), 29 January, p. 51)

  There’s nothing obviously wrong with this example (pal might easily be recorded with two ells at that time), but to me the conversation just didn’t sound right. There was an edge of formality about what the First Edition of the dictionary had analysed as a conversation between thieves.

  Based on my hunch, I decided to pursue it. I was due a day out of the office, so one morning I drove off in the direction of Hereford. I had taken the precaution of ascertaining beforehand that the manuscript registers that I wanted to consult were no longer at the cathedral, but were now held for safekeeping and ease of research at the local County Record Office.

  I arrived at the Herefordshire Record Office just before lunch and outlined my problem to the archivist. He was both puzzled and courteous. I explained that I wanted to find the relevant deposition and to confirm from the context that the meaning of pal used in the 1682 example was the meaning (= “accomplice,” or maybe “friend”) assumed for it by the OED back in 1904.

  He wandered back to his store cupboard and came back with a collection of books and boxes that were not what I was looking for. Obviously, the archive shelf reference had changed at the time when the Record Office had accepted all of these diocesan depositions from the cathedral, and there was no known finding-list which would tell us where this particular text was now located. After much head-scratching on my part, and continued puzzlement on behalf of the kindly archivist, I eventually found a reference to a document that I thought might be the holy grail. After another wander back to the store-room, the archivist returned with a further dusty offering. I sat down and turned to page 51, as directed by the OED, and (eureka) found the reference. (For those of you eager to get on your bikes and read it for yourselves, the archive reference in Hereford is HD4/4/3, and the depositions are filed under the heading “Hereford Consistory Court Records.”)

  You would hope that that would be the end of this story, but it simmers on for a while longer. I transcribed the whole deposition and drove back to Oxford to give it my full concentration. I showed it to Ed Weiner, and we worked out the problem: this was a statement addressed to one Mary Ashmoore, who was accused of some hanky-panky (not the term used in the deposition) with a male friend. This male friend was recounting for the church court a conversation he had had with Mary. The context was not that of one shady type talking to his “pal,” but of a man recalling a snatch of familiar conversation with a woman with whom he was having a relationship. He wouldn’t have called her his “pal” or his “mate.” But we knew that Poll was an informal variety of the name Mary, and that Pall is a regional by-form of Poll. (You get from Mary to Poll through Molly and Polly.) So the gallant swain was not calling Mary his “pal,” but simply using a nickname that he might have used of anyone called Mary. Case solved, and that quotation had to go out of the OED.

  That was a problem for us. We left a little note explaining what had happened in the pal entry, in case anyone was confused by the disappearance of what might seem an acceptable example. And then we set about validating the remaining evidence, to see what was now the earliest reference we had for pal in the sense of “accomplice” or “mate.” We had to jump forward in time as far as 1770, to a “choice collection of songs” published under the name of The Humourist: “Let your Pal that follows behind, / Tip your Bulk pretty soon.” But this was the right sense (“accomplice”); a bulk is another type of accomplice, in the same pickpocketing scam. Although the exploded 1682 example would have been acceptable chronologically (Romany words did enter English as early as that), the meaning and context there were wrong. By 1770 we had found our new first example, in the correct meaning.

  We couldn’t go on field trips every day, but this one is a reminder of the value of paper-based research, conducted in conversation with an expert who can guide you through an archive. It is also a salutary reminder that even something in the OED may have been misinterpreted—that lexicographers should never accept anything at face value. Beware of relying simply on yourself or on the Internet.

  One unexpected side effect of the publicity surrounding the OED going online was that rumours of our existence somehow reached Europe. From the point of view of language, Britain (or the United Kingdom, as we are invariably called in Europe) is an anomaly. The Europeans just couldn’t understand why the British government didn’t take a controlling interest in the OED, given the apparent economic value of the English language throughout the world. Furthermore, if the British government had taken a lively interest in the dictionary, then the various European governments could have easily found someone official to bombard with letters of complaint about the expansion of English into their languages.

  But the British government cleverly observed language from the sidelines. Whereas in Europe, language was the prerogative of every Department of Culture between Lisbon and Warsaw, in Britain language issues straddled various departments (Education, Health, Culture, etc.), without overall responsibility for the language settling anywhere. To us in Britain, there are Orwellian overtones to language planning, and we dismiss the model developed by some European countries of having state-authorised spelling lists and embargoes on incoming foreign words (regarded as stunting their language, as homegrown alternatives are unable to establish themselves). But we are oblivious to the wider language issues in Europe stemming from the widespread use of English, because these issues do not affect Britain: most graduate programmes in the sciences in European universities are nowadays taught in English, and theses are predominantly written in English; major international companies in some countries—Germany, for example—use English as their internal company language. There are two sides to every question, as the old proverb wisely says.

  The British government leaves the English language largely to itself, at least on the face of it. Arguably, the language is so pervasive, with bases on almost every continent, and a worldwide presence as a second language, that it would be too difficult to control anyway. We could never achieve a universal agreement for even the smallest change from each of the main language varieties. It is confusing to many Europeans that the British government does not have any legal control of the English language: English is only a de facto official language in England, as it is in the United States at the federal level, Australia, and New Zealand. In other English-speaking regions the situation is different, and in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Canada, and South Africa (as well as in numerous US states), the status of English as an official language is confirmed by legislation.

  Europeans have been concerned about the aggressive advance of English into their languages. Le Weekend. O.K. Internet. Football. Eurostar. (Even if the last is not an English word, they probably assumed it was.) Different European countries take different views, and some are more liberal than others. So there is either consternation or resigned acceptance (and occasionally even satisfaction) that if three European citizens of different nationalities meet together, they will often converse in English as a lingua franca, as we say. Two, probably. You can see why it has been a worry in Continental Europe.

  Around the year 2000, a group of European language specialists decided to sit down and work out how to counter the emerging global threat of the spread of English. The best thing to do was apparently to have a meeting, followed by another meeting. Gradually they formed an organisation containing two members of every member state of the European Union except Britain (as we were the problem). But gradually, light dawned, and they realised that if we were the problem, then it couldn’t be resolved without involving us.

  Here was the difficulty agai
n. Britain didn’t have an official academy charged with maintaining, improving, monitoring, protecting, or in any way supervising the English language, and so it was hard for this new organisation to decide whom to invite to represent English. They decided that in the absence of a government representative they might as well email me on the OED, as we had been in the news recently and appeared to have some involvement with the English language. Faute de mieux, as we say when we are trying to get out of a tight spot and don’t want to involve the English language.

  They asked if I would consider representing Britain in what they hoped would become a new trans-European language organisation, soon named the European Federation of National Institutions for Language, or EFNIL. The organisation had several objectives: it was a network of linguists and language-planners who met to exchange ideas and to hear about the changing language situation across Europe; it was available for expert opinion on language should the European Commission require such information; and it was a major proponent of multilingualism and the maintenance of the national languages of Europe.

  I was initially extremely cautious about their offer to join. Insular Britain isn’t known for its multilingualism; we have no language-planners; we aren’t particularly concerned about the spread of English around Europe (though we didn’t think it would eradicate any other language). Since Anglo-Saxon times, after all, English had done nothing else except accept words from the European languages—or so we felt—and it didn’t seem to have done us much harm. So what was the worry? But I took the precaution of seeking advice from as close to the British government as my tentacles extended at the time, and was indeed encouraged to involve myself in the workings of the organisation, but to sit quietly in the corner, in true, diplomatic British fashion, and to observe, and be inactive.

  Naturally, each country (including Britain) had its own idiosyncrasies and played up to its own stereotypes. The old countries of Europe (except, notably, Italy) generally wanted to preserve their languages free of incursion from abroad (i.e., English); the newer East European countries were still at a stage where they felt that the best way to secure linguistic independence and equality for their citizens was through strict legislation; the Dutch and some of the Nordic countries had regular spelling reforms, and were unable to understand the English position where spelling has veered so far away from pronunciation, and perhaps too far to pull it back. Most countries realised that the dominance of English today has more to do with the economic dominance of America than with the United Kingdom itself (and so were on occasions prepared to let Britain off the hook). And they consoled themselves that Latin seemed to have had a similar position of dominance in the Middle Ages, and where is it now? etc. But even in my concern about each country “defending” its language, I was conscious of falling into a national isolationist stereotype. Other big European languages—such as French and German—are protective not only of their own language, but of the languages of other European countries, whereas the British do not usually think to consider how Slovakians (for example) feel about incursions into their own language from English (or German). This issue of survival is a live concern for the smaller Scandinavian languages and for some of the languages in the EU countries of Eastern Europe. Was Britain too isolationist? Or is it the opposite: Is the British interest in language wider than Europe—does it have global perspective? The whole experience was challenging and at the same time satisfying, inasmuch as the British point of view was clearly better appreciated the longer I remained involved, and I think I understood other European views better by regular discussion of them.

  In the end I played a more active role in EFNIL than I expected. In the early 2000s, I would regularly set off with my passport, a map, and a pocketful of Euros to innumerable meetings about stabilising and promoting the languages of Europe. Almost my first act was to insist that we talk not about “defending” one language from another—which was for me quite the wrong rhetoric—but monitoring language change and promoting linguistic diversity. The British are in general bad at learning foreign languages and the general concept of linguistic diversity, but I agreed with the multilingual objective that EFNIL and the European Commission promoted: that state educational systems should promote the knowledge of two languages as well as the country’s native tongue. It’s just that dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s on a European document doesn’t mean the British will play the game and sign on for language evening classes.

  After several years of shadow-boxing, and under the benevolent chairmanship of a German colleague from the Institute of the German Language (they don’t, apparently, give it an English name yet), we started to make progress, or at least to understand each other’s positions much better. The organisation is an excellent example of European specialists working very well together in an area (language) where they have traditionally been isolated from and suspicious of each other. That, at least, is a good start.

  Although I was on the executive committee, it appeared that my main job was to represent the acceptable face of English. After years of practice in this earlier in my career, I found that I was entirely able to sit through long meetings in which Britain was (in the early years) implicitly criticised for allowing its language to creep like a vine throughout Europe, and yet at the end to propose a collaborative course of action to which others often assented. In due course, the undercurrent of linguistic antipathy towards English evaporated, and so my slow-burning efforts at collaboration and consolidation appeared to have worked. To add to the advantages, I made some close friends, and their advice on aspects of the OED and the English language over the years has been very valuable. Knowing many of the language planners in Europe has enormous benefits (well, obviously not to everybody).

  The language issues in my family were of a quite different order than those I encountered at work or in Europe. Hilary had always regarded the dictionary with some amusement: if a request for funding a historical dictionary had come before her, as adviser to Oxfordshire County Council’s chief executive, the amusement would probably have turned to an outright laugh. Kate was at university by now, at Bath, studying French and Italian, and with a preference for translation. Ellie was still at home with us, languageless and approaching the end of her years at the special school, and we were beginning to think once again about her future and how to provide the best for her.

  We were used to Ellie being different by now, and we recognised over the years that she was regarded as one of the most profoundly disabled students at her school. The school at that time only took pupils up to the age of sixteen, and so, after considerable difficulties of the sort that all parents of disabled children regularly encounter—we managed to find a suitable placement for her in the special-needs department of a local sixth-form college (equivalent to the final two years of high school). The downside was that the college was a forty-five-minute drive away from our home, and we needed the local authority to provide transportation for her (for which we had to argue vociferously).

  Ellie still had a developmental age of about eighteen months, even though she was sixteen and looked like a normal, pretty teenager. In the end, she stayed at Henley College for three years and had a wonderful time. We didn’t receive written reports of her progress, but her tutor—Mark—used to sing them to us and to Ellie on his guitar at her termly review meetings.

  Ellie continued to live at home until she was nineteen. Every evening we’d welcome her back from college, feed her, play with her, change her as and when required, bathe her, and put her to bed. Sometimes I think neither of us could concentrate quite as much on our work as we might have, because we had to champion Ellie first and foremost and manage the rest around that. Sometimes we felt isolated; evenings out involved booking a specialist sitter, and holidays were always a challenge. Whenever we went on a self-catering holiday we had to photograph every room where we were staying and then remove any furniture that Ellie could knock over or climb on, and any knickknacks (including wall clocks and
pictures) that she might accidentally dislodge, throw, and destroy. The photos allowed us to reconstruct the layout when we left, without the owner knowing that anything unusual had happened. There were plenty of other precautions we had to take after that, too.

  Despite the difficulties, Ellie travelled with us all over Europe. Mainly she liked the sun, which has always delighted her. Brightness communicates itself to Ellie, and she becomes much more smiley. Chartres Cathedral would leave her cold, in numerous senses. A busy street with bustle and colour would lift her, as we pushed her around in her wheelchair, or let her walk short distances, firmly attached to us. And the French, for example, would show great affection for her—much more than the English.

  Our greatest fear, of course, was about the future. Ellie was not developing, and she would be quite unable to look after herself, or even keep herself safe. She would need round-the-clock care. Hilary and I were attuned to this by now: I think of it as acquired wisdom, not resignation on our part. Someone has to fight for her. Ellie was not going to change, and we would need to find a way to create and manage the environment in which she lived.

  It would be nice to report that once the dictionary had gone online we could relax into automatic pilot, allowing the steady pendulum of progress to take the OED on its stately route through the alphabet. When we went online we were committed to updating and publishing at least 1,000 entries a quarter, but we wanted to get that up to 2,000 or 3,000 a quarter as quickly as possible. We had to maintain some speed through the remaining letters of the alphabet, which would not, it would seem, edit themselves. We wondered about asking external editors to try updating our Victorian material, but you can’t find world experts on every little word in the language. And, in fact, we were those experts. So we decided it was more efficient to do it ourselves.