Thursday 16 December 2021

'All you within this place'

Now to the Lord sing praises all you within this place
And if 'this place' is No. 10  each other now embrace...

A cheap shot, I know, but really though; what a shower. Boris could take lessons in leadership from Fred Karno.

I'm going to address omicron. But before you tune out with forebodings  of more bad news let me assure you that mine will be not a virological point of view; rather a linguistic one. The word has been mangled in all sorts of ways: I've heard omicrom, omnicron...

<parenthesis>
I've heard this latter at least twice on Newscast. The first time. the speaker was a Brit award-winner, and I raised a supercilious eyebrow...
<etymological_note>
(Incidentally, that's what supercilious means.)
</etymological_note>
...But the second was Dr Angelique Coetzee, discoverer of Omicron ...

 <meta_parenthesis>  
(originally dubbed nu [ν]  – in fact the 26 November edition of Newscast was the called The 'nu' variant.  But then someone realized that calling the old variant nu, after sigma is discovered [at some point in 2022, before they run out of Greek letters and have to adopt  the Only Connect method of using Egyptian hieroglyphs – I wonder who'll be first to catch the "Eye of Horus variant"...], might be confusing; they've also decided that xi [ξ] would be bad for relations with President Xi. 
</meta_parenthesis>

and darling of many a Tory ostrich. The slip occurs at 26'25" in this episode.  But I digress...

</parenthesis>

<autobiographical_note>
(and my Greek master had a talent for metathesis [see here for more about this sort of phoneme-swapping], so that he called this little o omricon; another of  his more common slips was referring to Mesopotamia as 'between the Tigris and the Euphatres')
</autobiographical_note>
....But a knowledge of etymology, as so often (except in Mr Towey's case...
<orthographical_note>
Another example is ancillary vs auxiliary. People who don't know the background aren't sure how many ls and how many is there are.

But an ancilla was a maidservant; (maybe there was a masculine, but ancilla is the only version I've met, inscribed on a ring unearthed (unashed) at Pompeii, and discussed here:
Ring found at Pompeii;
it is to be hoped that the wife of the dominus didn't find out.
<parenthesis>
(I was going to copy&paste the picture from that old post, but it's too heavily annotated there. Don't let me stop you from doing some background reading though; I think it's rather fun.)
</parenthesis>

And auxilium is help. So, armed with this information, you need never write anciliary again.
</orthographical_note>
...) should prevent this.  Ancient Greek had two sorts of o: o-mega and o-micron – 'big o' and 'little o': simples.

The little o, like any other god-fearing o, was tucked in between n and p (ν and π); (strictly speaking, ξ was there too; but let's not cause a diplomatic incident). But big o, o-mega, was in pride of place, right at the end of the alphabet. 
<silliness_warning>
I suppose the beginning would have been even more prestigious; but then it would be the omegabet
.</silliness_warning>
And 'the Alpha and Omega' is the bee's knees. In this early Christian word square...                                      
... the words tell the confused, arbitrary and multilingual story of sower. But the words weren't chosen at random. As this account says
The square reads the same up or down as well as forward or backward. However, the words do not collectively seem to mean anything. Individually, sator means "the sower", tenet "holdeth", opera "the works", rotas "the wheels [accusative case]". Arepo is not a Latin word; it is perhaps related to a Celtic root meaning "plough", an interpretation known in XIV Century Byzantium

...(though how a medieval Byzantine word found it's way to 1st century Rome beats me: a miracle , perhaps.) 

The same account observes that the letters in the square can be organized like this

A                P                O
 A
T
E
R
P A T E R N O S T E R
O
S
T
E
    O                R                A    

with the left-overs put in the corners. (as I said before in a post whose graphics have gone the way of much seven-year old html)

(My use of the term left-overs shouldn't be read as implying anything dismissive: 'I am the Alpha and Omega' has biblical resonance. Those letters even find their way into the Christmas Carol Unto Us is Born a Son

'O and A and A and O' 

Cum cantibus in coro...

And during the preparations for Easter Midnight Mass [in the Roman Catholic rite, of course{!}] the celebrant prepares the Paschal Candle with chips of incense [I think – I never got that close] inserted into the wax in the form of those two letters [repeated in the 'quadrants' defined by a crucifix]. Those two letters, repeated round about a crucifix, are by no means random 'left-overs'.)

 Duty calls.

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Thursday 9 December 2021

How much did the beloved worms cost you?

Silly me though: not le vermi but l'avermi. The words of a carol I'm singing on Saturday...

<plug>

</plug>


... are Quanto te costó l'avermi amato (=What did it cost you to love me?)

We'll also be singing, amongst other things, Ding dong merrily on high, which I pondered about here (on the occasion of our second-most-recent carol service, 3 years ago):

<pre_script>
The first thing that strikes me is its structure – which is pretty neat. The first verse is about something happening in Heaven. The second verse draws a conclusion (E'en so) about what should, as a result, happen down here: let steeple bells be swungen. And the third verse goes into specifics, specifying what should happen at Prime...

<brickbat_dodging>
I know, I know, this isn't a majority view. Still, it's what I think: Pray you Prime is a command about singing a particular office. An early editor, and ignoramus – a benighted heathen no doubt, who was not conversant with the format <utterance_word>+<office_name>, as in  for example "say Mass" – stuck a meaning-wrenching comma after you, making prime a ([n] improbable, it seems to me) verb. 
<inline_PPS> 
It just occurred to me that "chime Matins" fits the same pattern (although "chime" makes the format <utterance_word>+<office_name> a little over-specific [suggesting speech rather than just noise-making].)
</inline_PPS>
</brickbat_dodging>
... and at Matins; and then at the evetime song. In between. the praising etc. goes on, presumably.

But why sing io? There are people who sing /ɑɪ.əʊ/ (which led my correspondent [HD 2021: who had invited this speculation] to suspect a connection with Io). But the Oxford Book of Carols is insistent (to the extent of a footnote) that the pronunciation is "ee-oh"  (they don't trust readers with IPA symbols, but they must mean /i:.əʊ/).

Some years ago this question was raised in this forum,  As usual, comments should be weighed in the balance and some will be found wanting;  but they are fairly brief and not very numerous. There are many, often conflicting views:  
  1. "i-o" is a corruption of the Latin "in excelsis Deo"
  2. I-o is a contraction or corruption of "ideo," Latin for "therefore." The implied thought is "ideo... gloria in excelsis deo,".
  3. "io" is a Latin interjection (usually an exclamation of joy)
I imagine the truth is a mixture of the last two. (The first sounds to me like the distinctive blend of fanatically Christian sanctimoniousness and inventive improbability so familiar to survivors of a God-fearing education.) But monks in a scriptorium fought off RSI by abbreviating anything they could; and the pre-existing Latin interjection gave them an off-the-shelf solution.
</pre_script>

We'll also be singing a new arrangement (by our MD) of  The Seven Joys of Mary, which I wrote about (5 years ago) here:

<pre_script>
We will be singing several pieces new to the choir, among them Joys Seven – which is, in jazz terms, a paraphrase of The Lincolnshire poacher.

<digression>
That's something they don't seem  to do in  Primary Schools any more  – communal singing of  what were known as "Folk Songs" before the Revival of  the late '50s–early '60s.. I remember at St Gregory's RC Primary School singing with gusto
When me and my companions were
    setting of a snare

'Twas then we spied a gamekeeper
For him we did not care
For we can wrestle and fight,
    me boys,

And jump o'er anywhere...
A one-time colleague of mine, who already played the piano and the violin, during her teacher-training was required to learn the guitar so that she could maintain eye-contact with her pupils. As a consequence of this sort of thinking, today's schoolchildren can sing Kumbaya but not Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill.
</digression>

The interjection "me boys" in that extract are significant in a mistake I am always tempted to make in Joys Seven, because the two-word interjection at the equivalent place is "good man" – and I find it hard to avoid the less devout version.
.
.

And while we're on the subject of the words to Joys Seven, the sixth verse (which needs a rhyme for six) evokes in me another conditioned reflex from my old  St Gregory's days, provoked by the words "To see her own son Jesus Christ upon the crucifix".

A cross is a cross; an image of someone on one (there have been thousands of people tortured to death that way, if not  millions, but Christ is usually the one depicted) is a crucifix. I thought I'd better confirm this bit of pedantry, and it seems that dictionaries tend to agree:

Cambridge

Macmillan

Cobuild

Still, they needed a rhyme for six, and there aren't too many. Besides, the Collins English Dictonary is more forgiving:
</pre_script>

Words though (as I regularly say before a concert); they won't learn themselves. 

Do come!




 

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