a measure of length. As with all such ancient measures, not well-standardised. The English ell was equivalent to 45 inches, the Scottish to 37.2 inches, the Flemish to 27 inches. The same “el” as in “elbow” and “ulna”, because the word derives from words for arm, the measure being notionally the length of an arm, or some portion of it.
an uncle. Recorded earlier than “uncle”, but not since the 19th century
variant of EVEN as in “evening” (poetic)
South African word for ‘a garden plot, usually containing about half-an-acre’ (plural ERVEN). From a Dutch root meaning “inheritance”, as found in “orphan”, not a eye-dialect spelling of “earth”
an aircraftsman. 1920s-1940s. A 1944 quote derives it: “a shortened pronunciation of the italicised letters in air mechanic (perhaps in the form of ‘air mech’)… Some airmen less convincingly maintain that it comes from ‘lower-deck hand’.”. However, there is an earlier citation from 1925: “Erk, a rating. (Navy). Lower deck colloquialism for any ‘rank’ not that of an officer”. Although military jargon is the most productive way acronyms become words, it’s still less common than supposed. I would be unsurprised if this originated as a variant of OIK.
An alternative philosophy and technique (Erhard Seminars Training, run in the 1970s-1980s) intended to raise self-awareness and ‘human potential’, involving philosophical and psychological means, including motivational theories from the business world. More fossilised woo. Woo hoo.
Scots and northern English dialect. To itch. Also YUKE, YOUK
Australian slang for evening. Comes after AVO
Australian slang for excellent. Not “executive officer”, does not take an S.
Back to some stand-out nonsense here. Editors, please remove:
EST – an acronym and obsolete
ECH, EIK, EUK, EWK – words from before the invention of spelling
ERK maybe gets a pass for another couple of decades, but we need some statute of limitations of temporally-localised slang like this, and “lifetime of speakers for whom this is idiomatic” seems like a reasonable one. I can imagine EMO and EEW being scorned as fossils within a few decades too, and letting things rotate out seems preferable to a lexicon forever increasing in density of obsolete slang.
to drizzle or sprinkle with water (e.g. to water plants). Yorkshire/Lancashire dialect.
a loved one. Yorkshire dialect. Possible from “joy”, making it similar to Scots JO?
stupid, from Afrikaans. See also doublet DOWF, which is also a noun where DOF is not. Beloved of the writers on School of Comedy.
from Hindi, the mail-post relay system formerly used in India. Also DAWK
from Hindi, lentils and the dish made of them. Also DAAL, DAHL, and DHAL
from Hindi, a god. Also DEVA. Or possibly from Farsi, an evil spirit. Also DIV, DEEV. Also a contraction of “developer” or “development”.
from Farsi, an evil spirit. Also DEV, DEEV. Also the mathematical function.
from Hindi, a method of cooking food with steam.
from Turkish via French. A former North African ruler, from Turkish dai, maternal uncle. The titular appellation of the commanding officer of the Janissaries of Algiers, who, after having for some time shared the supreme power with the pasha or Turkish civil governor, in 1710 deposed the latter, and became sole ruler. Until themselves deposed and replaced by BEYs again, around 1830.
= ZO. From Tibetan. A cross between a yak (presumably a domestic yak, B. grunniens, rather than a wild yak B. mutus) and a cow, also ZHO and DZHO (for the infertile males of the breed- Haldane’s rule strikes again), and JOMO, and ZHOMO (for the fertile females). Also known as a YAKOW.
The clotted tufts of wool around a sheep’s bum, and the act of removing them. More familiar in the derived Australian sense of an unfashionable or uncool person, of which I was delighted to learn the etymological root.
To dawn. Lately (since 1600 or so) in Scots only. Is it still current, who knows?
DAP DOP# DIB
All seem related to DIP, particularly in the sense of fishing by allowing the bait to dip onto the water. None of them current. Note that using a DIBBER is to DIBBLE not to DIB.
To make the top or head of (anything) blunt, rounded, or bare; hence, to clip or poll the hair of (a person); to deprive (an animal) of its horns; to poll or lop (a tree), etc.; also figurative to behead. Although if the OED citations can be trusted, most recently used to mean… DAG. And of course by “most recently” I don’t mean in the last 150 years.
To mock, befool, confound. Last citation 1675, well before the QUIZ era. Also DORR
To do well, thrive, or prosper. Last citation 1855. Last citation not from a dictionary of dialect words, 1758. Also DOCHT or DOUGHT, but conjugates only as DOWED, DOWING, DOWS. Is this related to as in DOUGHTY?
To open (a door or gate). Seems to be a contraction of “do up (the portcullis)” in the same way as doff, don, etc.
An operator in differential calculus. ∇. Also NABLA. For a brief period during my studies, I knew all about how to use the del operator. But that period did not extend as far as the exams, let alone until today, so I direct interested parties to the wikipedia page.
In 1940, James D. Hardy, Harold G. Wolff and Helen Goodell of Cornell University introduced the first dolorimeter as a method for evaluating the effectiveness of analgesic medications… They developed a pain scale, called the “Hardy-Wolff-Goodell” scale, with 10 gradations, or 10 levels, [named] “dols”. Other researchers were not able to reproduce the results… and the device and the approach were abandoned.
Collins highlights the sense: the best academic performer in a school class. Supposedly used in Scotland, but all the recent uses I see online are from Liberia. Other senses relate to dukes, leaders, and in music the leading voice in a fugue or canon.
Much higher nonsense-density here than with B or C. Let’s keep DAG, DEL, and DUX, and cast the rest of these last 13 into the void.
CWM is somewhat well-known as one of the few English words where W is a vowel. Cognate with the more ordinary-looking “coombe“, now mostly found in place names, and also meaning some kind of valley. The Landreader Project says that in North Wales, a cwm is more like a cirque, whereas in South Wales, more loosely a valley.
Less Obviously Words
The letter C
A kind of edible mushroom. These days perhaps better known as porcino.
The Greek letter, or the alternative transliteration of QI
The opposite of TRANS. But, like, in the context of the arrangement of atoms in complex molecules
A French vineyard or wine-producing region, or the grade of wine produced there.
casual. I don’t like when Z is used for the voiced palato-alveolar fricative, but English lacks much alternative. I recently discovered that Collins thinks there is a word spelled ZHOOSH, which is clearly incorrect, even for a word where all possible spellings will look incorrect.
citizen. Either as in civilian, non-military, or city-dweller; often disparagingly.
These can go, thanks.
Scots dialect for “call”
Devonshire dialect for “I”. Current 1500s-1700s
With reference to El Cid (es Sayd), a (military) leader.
To steal, or seize. Possibly cognate with “claw” via Dutch? Last used by Edward Bulwer-Lytton in the 1820s, dropping 17th century cant with an awkward clang, using phrases that look like they were taken directly from dictionaries. Seems to have been used mostly in set phrases anyway, e.g. “the ruffian cly thee” ~ “the devil take you”.
Another Hebrew letter. The second of the alphabet, also BETH (plural is BESES)
Africaans for an antelope, as in Springbok, Reebok. Like buck.
Words that were new to me
Baccalaureate, a university degree
A type of shoe, from “Balmoral”. Detailed shoe nerdery at this guide.
To hoax. Possibly from “bamboozle”. Current in the early 18th century. Also as a noun in the Scots sense.
The second tine of a deer’s horn. Not in the OED, but Google Books is convincing.
In various contexts, an alternative spelling of “boy”.
Good, adj. Literally French again, but part of multiple naturalized phrases. I’m sure I read somewhere that that qualified things for inclusion. I’m choosing to believe BONIER and BONIEST wouldn’t be valid if BONY wasn’t a word.
A form of address for a neighbour, formerly used in East Anglian dialect.
It’s not totally obvious that AH and AY can be pluralized, but the act of making the sound is a noun, so the plural plays.
More mouth sounds!
AAH and AHA are pretty standard, ACH is somewhere between ARGH and UGH and OCH, I suppose, ARF is a somewhat standard dog, AUE is from Māori, and I predict it will be the word from this list that I have the hardest time remembering.
Animals and Plants
A bird of the genus Crotophaga. Isn’t that helpful? See below for a picture of an ani I met in Belize.
A large tuna; esp. the bigeye tuna, Thunnus obesus, and the yellowfin tuna, T. albacares. From Hawaiian. I don’t have a picture of any of the fishes.
The yellow-eyed mullet, Aldrichetta forsteri, from Māori
A small fish, Plecoglossus altivelis, native to Japan and the surrounding areas. Also known as “sweetfish”, because it is ayummy thing to eat.
A small rubiaceous tree, Morinda citrifolia… wait a minute, it’s the Indian Mulberry again! As found in AL and ALS.
A South American chili pepper. From Taino via Spanish
A vine, Metrosideros scandens, found in New Zealand. Probably going to pretend to myself that this is the abbreviation for “also known as”, which is basically lexicalised at this point, right?
The potato. Also ALOO. From Hindi
Same as KAVA, i.e. An intoxicating beverage prepared from the macerated roots of the Polynesian shrub Piper methysticum. Also, this plant, or its root. But not the same as CAVA, which is a different intoxicating beverage.
Niche and antique words. How many did you know?
Originally the woof or weft in a web. Later also the warp in a web. What a yarn.
to pay the penalty [v ABOUGHT, ABYING, ABYS or ABIES]. Is that… Faerie Queene again? Yes, yes, everyone else in history spelled it ABYE. Thanks Eddy. File with NY and FY.
A small island, often a river island. Also EYOT. Relates to the I of ISLAND (into which, we recall, Francophiles inserted the S unnecessarily), but not directly to anything about ISLET. Probably. Don’t AIT me.
In biology, any flat winglike projection. The ala of the nose (ala nasi, “wing of the nose“; plural alae) is the lower lateral surface of the external nose, shaped by the alar cartilage and covered in dense connective tissue. Yes, ALAR and ALAE and ALAS, alas.
A white vestment reaching the feet and enveloping the entire body, worn by clergy, servers, and others taking part in church services. So-called because it was white.
Collins claims this is derogatory Australian slang for a uncultivated person, or yob. If so, it has fallen out of use – I can’t find an internet-era slang dictionary with this word. Possibly current during one or both of the world wars, and fossilised in some reference source I can’t access.
The octave directly above the treble staff. c.f. ALTO
A unit of mass. Specifically, the atomic mass unit. Hm. See also ECU.
A collection of reminiscences, sketches, information, etc, of or about a person or place (as in Americana?! ). I had no idea this was ever a standalone word. OED confirms: “Boswell’s Life of Johnson, which..for its intrinsic worth, is the Ana of all Anas.” – R. Southey, Doctor (1847) vol. VII. 347 🦆
A half-year’s salary, legally due to the executors of the will of a deceased minister of the Church of Scotland, paid in addition to any stipend owing at the time of the minister’s death; Contraction of ANNAT or ANNATES, but not ANNATE*. This is hilariously niche, well played both lexicons.
As in “ifs and ans”, things that might have happened, but which did not. Short for AND, obviously.
(allegedly) a type of protein (apolipoprotein). No entry in OED or Collins online, only as an adjective on Wiktionary. The road of allowing arbitrary chemistry prefixes leads to madness.
Contraction of ARBITRAGEUR (one who engages in arbitrage).
A primitive plough (possibly it was ‘arder to pull). Used in discussions of Norse archaeology.
Variant spelling of the already-obscure OUPHE, a changeling child supposedly left by fairies in exchange for one stolen.
A programming language and flat-out proper noun that slipped through because it’s usually written in lowercase.
The delicate spinous process, or ‘beard,’ that terminates the grain-sheath of barley, oats, and other grasses; extended in Botany to any similar bristly growth. Also seems to be an adjective (having awn) and a verb (to hand an awning), and hence AWN takes all the suffixes: -S -ED, -ING, -LESS, -ER, -Y, -IER, -IEST
More chemistry: of, consisting of, or containing the divalent group -N:N-
Loan words that have legit been adopted into English, in no particular order
The 16th Hebrew letter, which of course has another transliteration, AYIN.
A monetary unit in Laos, 1/100th of a kip. Now inflated away, no coins minted since 1980
Many atts, except using the single-T transliteration.
A monetary unit in Macao, 1/100th of a pataca. Not yet inflated away. From Portuguese fractions, cognate with the suffix in octavo.
a Syrian cloth, also as ABAYA
a Turkish military officer, also AGHA, as in the Agha Khan. Not the oven.
Same as AYAH, but not AYA*. A female domestic servant or nursemaid in south Asia
Unlike the story of its coinage, the word Quoz did not stick around for long. It appeared suddenly, was briefly but popularly used in songs, plays, and magazines, and then vanished. After 1800, it is occasionally referenced in print, but no longer ever used.
The citations listed in the OED are a good proportion of the uses of Quoz still in existence.
quoz, n. (and int.)
colloquial (depreciative). Now historical.
An odd or ridiculous person or thing; (with plural agreement) people or things of this kind. Also as int.: expressing incredulity or contempt. Cf. quizn. 1.
Etymology: Origin uncertain; perhaps a variant of quizn., although the reverse could also be the case, or the two words could be parallel developments from a common (unidentified) source.
Festival of Momus (new ed.)113 Small as well as great talk declares it a poz, That the tippy and the twaddle must give way to the quoz.
Bystander93 Mr. World [sc. a newspaper] might retort that Mr. Herald was a Quoz, and a low print.
J. Edwin in Muses Banquet68 Hum’d and then humbug’d, Twaddle, tippy, poz; All have had their day—but now must yield to Quoz.
F. BurneyCamillaIV. vii. xiii. 200 ‘The quoz of the present season are beyond what a man could have hoped to see!’ ‘Quoz! What’s Quoz, nephew?’..‘Sometimes we say quiz, my good sir.’
in Spirit of Public Jrnls.(1803) 6. 197 At length it was announced, that Pic-Nic, like Quoz, which was chalked some years ago on windows and doors, really meant nothing.
C. MackayMem. Pop. DelusionsI. 325 Many years ago the favourite phrase (for, though but a monosyllable, it was a phrase in itself) was Quoz.
Amer. Speech2 89/1 When mischievous urchins wished to annoy passersby, and incidentally create a little fun for their comrades, they would look the stranger in the face and cry out ‘Quoz!’
London Rev. Bks.22 Feb. 34/2 The short-lived, inscrutable, vaguely insulting expressions heard in the 19th-century streets included ‘Quoz’, ‘Walker!’, ‘What a shocking bad hat!’ and ‘Has your mother sold her mangle?’
The distribution of citations given by the dictionary are not always a good reflection of the pattern of usage across the years, but after many hours scouring Google Books and other full-text archives, I’m pretty sure the lexicographers at the OED didn’t miss much except for the articles in The World. Quoz was first used in a flurry from 1790 to the end of the 18th century, sparsely throughout the 19th (often as a pseudonym or satirical surname), and then almost all subsequent uses have been entirely lifted from Mackay – as in the American Speech paper, and in Peter Ackroyd’s London: The Biography, which is the book being reviewed by the LRB in the 2001 citation.
Nevertheless, for a brief glorious moment, Quoz was the meme of the moment, celebrated in song.
1790: Mr Edwin’s Quoz Song
The song “Quoz”, from The Muses Banquet, or Vocal Repository (1790) was published in a number of collections, as well as in newspapers in the UK and the USA. The songbooks credit the noted comic actor Mr. John Edwin, who died in 1790. His entry in the biographical dictionary of the London stage gives a thorough history of his career, and says that most of the songs credited to him were in fact written by the dramatist John O’Keefe, although Edwin definitely performed the Quoz song at least once, on August 27th, 1789, less than two weeks after the first chalkings. Less reliable, but more colourful, his authorised biography of 1791 provides a wealth of dubious details about his life, and includes (on pages 85-93) some pontifications (by another actor, a Mr Remington) on the subject of the fashions in slang, which aside from lacking all mention of Quoz bear a distinct resemblance to the lyrics below. The biography is not known for its verisimilitude, and it seems probable that the lyrics were worked into the biography rather than a borrowed monologue worked into the song.
Hey for buckish words, for phrases we’ve a passion
Immensely great, and little once; were all the fashion;
Hum’d and then humbug’d, Twaddle, tippy, poz;
All had their day—but now must yield to Quoz.
Walk about the town, each time you turn your head, Sir,
Pop staring in your phiz, is Q, U, O, and Z, Sir,
Cry’d Madam Dip to deary, it’s monstrous scandaloz,
To write on peoples shutters that shameful, nasty, Quoz,
Once it was the Barber, for ev’ry thing that’s right;
The Shaver knock’d the Barber down quickly out of sight,
Now we’ve got a new word, how invented ’twas,
If you ask, I’ll tell——, my answer, Sir, is Quoz.
The hobby-horse of late, we rode about with speed,
For drinking, wenching, gaming, ’twas the word, indeed;
Then Macaroni, Bore, and Rage, never sure the like was,
Yet all that sort of thing gave way to little cunning Quoz.
Tipsy, dizzy, muzzy, sucky, groggy, muddled,
Bosky, blind as Cloe; mops and brooms, and fuddled,
Florid, torrid, horrid, stayboz, hayboz, layboz
Words with terminations not so good as Quoz.
But when Quozzy came, Tippy, Bore, and Twaddle,
Bucks of blust’ring fame could not keep their saddle;
One attempts to rally—bully Quiz it was,
But by night Sally dubs him little Quoz!
There’s a jack to roast your meat, a jack to hold your liquor,
Jack upon the green to amuse the vicar;
Jacks of various sorts—Jack’s a quiz because
Jack gives way to Jill, and so does Quiz to Quoz.
Some may think it French, some may call it Latin;
Some give in this meaning, others will give that in;
Mean it what it will, or sense or non compos,
The meaning, I should think—the meaning must be——Quoz.
Suppose we say ’tis drinking—suppose it means a dinner——
Suppose a Methodist—suppose a wicked sinner;
To finish my suppose—suppose I make a pause,
I’ve hit it now, ’tis thank ye—and so, good people, Quoz.
As the song, and later citations note, it was always a puzzle as to what ‘Quoz’ meant. Even in the two citations that actually use the word Quoz, it is impossible to tell precisely what it means, except it is clearly an insult, and apparently interchangeable with Quiz. Mackay tells us it has no meaning, but a little digging will unearth a few contemporary uses, mostly in plays from the 1790s, and those authors must have had something in mind.
Of the surviving uses of Quoz from the 18th century, the passage from Camilla is my favourite. Please enjoy/forgive the long excerpt.
Lynmere ordered some shrimps.
There were none.
“There’s nothing to be had! ‘Tis a wretched county this!”
“You’ll get nice shrimps at Southampton, sir, by what hear,” said Mr. Dubster. “Tom Hicks says he has been sick with ’em many a day, he’s eat such a heap. They gets ’em by hundreds and hundreds, and hundreds at a time.”
“Pray, nephew, how long shall you stay? because of my nieces coming back at the same time.”
“A fortnight’s enough to tire me anywhere, sir. Pray what do you all do with yourselves here after breakfast? What’s your mode?”
“Mode, nephew? we’ve got no particular mode that ever I heard of. However, among so many of us, I think it’s a little hard, if you can find nothing to say to us; all, in a manner, your relations too.”
“We take no notice of relations now, sir; that’s out.”
“I’m sorry for it, nephew, for a relation’s a relation, whether you take notice of him or not. And there’s ne’er an ode in Virgil will tell you to the contrary, as I believe.”
A short silence now ensued, which was broken by a sigh from Sir Hugh, who ejaculated to himself, though aloud, “I can’t but think what my poor friend Westwyn will do, if his son’s come home in this manner! caring for nobody, but an oyster, or a shrimp; . . . unless it’s a newspaper!”
“And what should a man care for else, my good old friend, in a desert place such as this?”
“Good old friend!’ repeated the baronet; “to be sure, I’m not very young. . . . However, as to that . . . but you mean no harm, I know, for which reason I can’t be so ill-natured as to take it ill. However, if poor Westwyn is served in this . . . way. . . He’s my dearest friend that I’ve got, out of us all here, of my own kin, and he’s got only one son, and he sent him to foreign parts only for cheapness; and if he should happen to like nothing he can get at home, it won’t answer much in saving, to send out for things all day long.”
“O don’t be troubled, sir; Westwyn’s but a poor creature. He’ll take up with anything. He lived within his allowance the whole time. A mighty poor creature.”
“I’m glad of it! glad of it, indeed!” cried Sir Hugh, with involuntary eagerness; “I should have been sorry if my poor good old friend had had such disappointment.”
“Upon my honour,” cried Lymnere, piqued, “the quoz of the present season are beyond what a man could have hoped to see!”
“Quoz! what’s quoz, nephew?”
“Why, it’s a thing there’s no explaining to you sort of gentlemen; and sometimes we say quiz, my good old Sir.”
Sir Hugh, now, for almost the first time in his life, felt seriously affronted. His utmost lenity could not palliate the wilful disrespect of his language; and, with a look of grave displeasure, he answered, “Really, nephew, I can’t but say, I think you’ve got rather a particular odd way of speaking to persons. As to talking so much about people’s being old, you’d do well to consider that’s no fault in anybody; except one’s years, which is what we can’t be said to help.”
“You descant too much upon words, Sir; we have left off, now, using them with such prodigious precision. It’s quite over, Sir.”
“O, my dear Clermont!’ cried Sir Hugh, losing his short movement of anger in a more tender sensation of concern, “how it goes to my heart to see you turn out such a jackanapes!”
This passage comes from chapter thirteen of book seven (the novel is… quite long), but Sir Hugh is called “a quiz, … or a quoz, or some such word” in a couple of other places, never knowing the precise meaning, but taking it “rather unkind” nevertheless.
The only other cited use in a sentence is from The By-stander, or, Universal Weekly Expositor, a short-lived periodical published from August 1789 to February 1790, edited by dramatist and songwriter Charles Dibdin. Naturally the magazine had a strong focus on the theatre, and the section in which Quoz makes an appearance is in an imagined debate between the newspapers of the day who have taken the step of treating theatrical reviewing in the same way as politics.
Mr. Herald might complain, when he did not understand Mr. World‘s arguments—which indeed nobody ever can—that he was Suborned; and Mr. World might retort that Mr. Herald was a Quoz, and a low print. Mr. Times might enumerate how often Mr. Post had been bought over, and Mr. Post might pun and say, if the ravings of a certain paper were to be credited, it must be sad Times indeed.
So Quoz was coined, and maybe it meant Quiz, or maybe nothing at all, and then it was soon forgotten.
Quoz erat demonstrandum.
The history of usage of Quoz and Quiz follow quite different patterns. Quiz emerges slowly, with a tiny handful of uses between 1783 and 1790, out of collegial publications and into the papers and onto the stage and becomes acknowledged slang and so on. Quoz comes out of nowhere, literally no mentions at all prior to August 1789, and then a dozen before the end of the year (mostly as pseudonyms in letters to editors, or in comments about where the word came from). Its appearance was sudden and surprising, and widely commented upon. Perhaps the most respectable appearance Quoz ever got was in Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, although later editors inappropriately gloss it as ‘quiz’.
We can guess what happened afterwards. The Quoz meme (especially as a forced meme), never really stood a chance. After a literally overnight rise to fame, it was doomed to burn out just as rapidly. I can’t help wondering how Edwin’s song was received, two weeks later. Was it still in the ascendant, naturally part of the street joke, or already hopelessly dated?
Quoz survived for a while in the nineteenth century as a pseudonym for those writing to newspapers, or the occasional poet. And then as the name of a character in Washington Irving’s satirical Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent.. Later, it was used in the USA as a mocking name for Dickens. Boz (a pen-name previously used by Dickens) became Quoz, and Charles Dickens became Quarles (“quarrels”) Quickens, thus cleverly implying both oddness and quarrelsomeness, traits for which Dickens had a reputation abroad.
After Mackay, reference to Quoz all but dried up. There are a few dictionaries, particularly those focussing on slang, which record it. I suspect a study of their genealogies would be mildly interesting. The context of the word however, was mostly lost, and recent dictionaries define it as something like: “a strange or absurd thing or person”. Something like the original definition of quiz, but with much of the insult lost.
I suppose that is the path which resulted in it coming to the attention of William Least Heat-Moon, who called his 2008 book “Roads to Quoz”. The opening chapter begins with a paean to words beginning with Q, and rhapsodises on Quoz in particular.
So that brings us to quoz: a noun, both singular and plural, referring to anything strange, incongruous, or peculiar; at its heart is the unknown, the mysterious. It rhymes with Oz. To a traveler, it’s often the highest quaesitum. For me, everything — whether object, person, or event — when seen clearly in the depths of its existence, in its quiddity, is quoz, and every road, every alley, the hall to your parlor, the course of a creek, the track of a comet, all are a route to quoz for any traveler, any querist willing to question, to go in quest, to ask the cosmic question of medieval church drama: Quem quaeritis? Whom do you seek, O pilgrim?
Quoz as an attractive curiosity was not the intention that the 18th century London public had when they called it out in the street. Quoz was queer and peculiar in a turn-the-nose-up kind of way that has been lost in the two century game of slang-dictionary telephone. A search for Quoz would be nonsensical to the 18th century theatre-goers who laughed along with John Edwin.
Heat-Moon has contributed to the story of Quoz in another respect though, by coining 250 derivations that might be of use in rehabilitating the quoz root alongside quiz. Excerpted here.
Though I like the nobler sentiment, I quite prefer Quoz the meme, the stupid nonsensical shout that exists only as a vector for derisive connotation. It’s a reminder that the internet meme factory is not a new phenomenon, and that there have always been words which there’s no explaining to you sort of gentlemen.
If the Quiz origin story in Gleanings and Reminiscences didn’t come from reality, where did it come from?
There’s a trail of that story in publications throughout the nineteenth century. Curio columns were the Reddit of the day, with crumbs of factoids dug up and reposted over and over, to fill the column inches. In 1862, Frank Porter wrote up the story for Duffy’s Hibernian Magazine, but an abbreviated version had appeared in the same publication less than two years earlier. Before that it had appeared in Sharpe’s Magazine (1846), Walker’s Dictionary (1836), the Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction (1835)…
But there is an earlier and even slimmer form of the story, published in the English digest paper The Kaleidoscope in 1830, still dating it to ~1790, but now locating the event in ‘the metropolis’, i.e. London, and making no mention of Richard Daly.
The term Quiz, for instance, was first introduced about 40 years ago, by being, in consequence of a wager, chalked in the course of one night, on the shop-shutters, in most of the principal streets of the metropolis.
The Kaleidoscope; or, Literary and scientific mirror, 11:535 (Sept. 28 1830) p.103
Surely if this is a real event there are contemporary accounts? Nothing, as far as I can see, in the Dublin papers, but there’s this snippet from the London paper The World:
This queer word originated, we understand, in a bet. Two gentlemen betted a dinner, to be given by the loser, at the London Tavern, that one of them should fix upon any odd absurd expression, which should, in a given time, become the Town Talk. The other laid he did not.
Quoz was the word chosen; and the bet has been acknowledged to be lost.
The Winner began by writing, with chalk, the word Quoz, upon various doors.
The World, Issue 816 (Aug 15, 1789) p.2
As Charles Mackay documented, half a century later, Quoz was a Thing.
London is peculiarly fertile in this sort of phrases, which spring up suddenly, no one knows exactly in what spot, and pervade the whole population in a few hours, no one knows how. Many years ago the favourite phrase (for, though but a monosyllable, it was a phrase in itself) was Quoz. This odd word took the fancy of the multitude in an extraordinary degree, and very soon acquired an almost boundless meaning. When vulgar wit wished to mark its incredulity, and raise a laugh at the same time, there was no resource so sure as this popular piece of slang. When a man was asked a favour which he did not choose to grant, he marked his sense of the suitor’s unparalleled presumption by exclaiming Quoz! When a mischievous urchin wished to annoy a passenger, and create mirth for his comrades, he looked him in the face, and cried out Quoz! and the exclamation never failed in its object. When a disputant was desirous of throwing a doubt upon the veracity of his opponent, and getting summarily rid of an argument which he could not overturn, he uttered the word Quoz, with a contemptuous curl of his lip, and an impatient shrug of his shoulders. The universal monosyllable conveyed all his meaning, and not only told his opponent that he lied, but that he erred egregiously if he thought that any one was such a nincompoop as to believe him. Every alehouse resounded with Quoz; every street-corner was noisy with it, and every wall for miles around was chalked with it.
But, like all other earthly things, Quoz had its season, and passed away as suddenly as it arose, never again to be the pet and the idol of the populace. A new claimant drove it from its place, and held undisputed sway till, in its turn, it was hurled from its pre-eminence, and a successor appointed in its stead.
Amazingly, The World documented the Quoz phenomenon in several columns, and thanks to their dedication to such metropolitan trivialities, we have the rare treat of being able to pinpoint the exact day, two hundred years ago, that a new word appeared.
Tuesday, August 11th, 1789
Putting this strange word upon the doors of various people, seems to the the joke of the moment. The following oddities were found on Sunday morning on the doors that follow:
Lord Loughborough‘s—The Lord with the dark eyebrows will do your business; so take care—Quoz !
Sir John Aubrey‘s—Think of Buckinghamshire! very soon you will be—out of—Quoz !
OldQ‘s—Keep the eye you have—fixed on your present side! if you should think of again changing no Party would receive a—Quoz !
My Lord of Landaff—You are a good man: In chemistry, divinity, you have a good name: but as to your politics they are all—Quoz !
The World, Issue 812 (Aug 11, 1789) p.2
Hard to imagine this happening to the doors of members of the Privy Council these days. Hard to imagine any graffiti these days using such punctuation.
Saturday, August 15th, 1789
This queer word originated, we understand, in a bet. Two gentlemen betted a dinner, to be given by the loser, at the London Tavern, that one of them should fix upon any odd absurd expression, which should, in a given time, become the Town Talk. The other laid he did not.
Quoz was the word chosen; and the bet has been acknowledged to be lost.
The Winner began by writing, with chalk, the word Quoz, upon various doors.
Future wits and more ingenious heads, improved on the idea, and added various other strokes of humour to the originalQuoz.
The following doors have had additional hits, since our last publication.
Mrs. Abingdon‘s Lodgings—Belinda, Arabella, Araminta, and youth that is immortal, is all—Quoz.
Lady A──r‘s—A man with two faces was once called Janus. What shall we call a Lady?—Quoz.
Counsellor Garrow‘s—Give you a bad cause and a cross-examination, and nobody does more than—Quoz.
Hon. Mr Erskine‘s—When you get your true John for a Juryman, he believes you are serious and in earnest. But if you lay hold of a line a little beyond that—why then—Quiz finds out—Quoz.
The World, Issue 816 (Aug 15, 1789) p.2
So there was a wager! But it seems unlikely that any record survives of who made it.
There does remain a slight possibility that the London Quozzing of 1789 provided inspiration for Daly to attempt a repeat performance in Dublin, using ‘Quiz’ instead — indeed, it’s not completely impossible that Daly did it first in Dublin and inspired the Londoners. Certainly he’d have thought it a splendid way to win a bet, for someone with a dozen stage-hands at his beck and call. But the decades-long gap in the chain of anecdote, and a lack of contemporary Irish accounts make me sceptical of the possibility. More likely that mangled and embellished memories of the Quoz event were reconstructed around a more memorable character and a more familiar word.
Saturday, August 29th, 1789
Quoz, has found its way to the doors of Margate—On Hastings‘s was written—D—n the Charges, and the Bow Begums—Quoz
The World, Issue 828 (Aug 15, 1789) p.3
Right from the start, people offered various explanations of where this new word had come from.
Friday, September 11, 1789
Origin of the present Word Quoz ——
Shortly after the destruction of the Bastille, the most valorous men of France fled from their country, like so many lions from the crowing of one solitary cock.
Arriving in the Downs, on board some of the Dieppe fishing-boats, they made signals for the Dover pilots to come off; when these people (who are justly titled sharks)
came on board the French vessels, they saw by appearances that the passengers were none of the common sort of men; they asked very extravagant prices for brining them
and their baggage on shore; upon which the Frenchmen shrugged up their shoulders, and fore and aft went the general cry of “Quoi—Quoi—Quoi;”
(in English, What, What, What). The pilots immediately cried out, “ Damn your Quoz, Quoz, Quoz—speak that we may understand you, and don’t bore us with your
parly Vouse and Quoz”
Public Advertiser, Issue 17208 (Sept 11, 1789)
Tuesday, September 15, 1789
The origin of Quoz (to judge from its general application) may be referred to Tony Lumpkin‘s song,
Their quaes, their quos, and their quods,
They’re all but a parcel of Pigeons
Oracle Bell’s New World; Issue 92 (Sept 15, 1789)
Wednesday, September 16, 1789
THE ORIGIN OF QUOZ
The lettering of the 4th volume of Chamber’s Cyclopædia, edited by Dr. Rees, containing Q—Z, the first and last alphabeticals of its content, led one date in Egerton‘s shop to this whimsical word.
Morning Star, Issue 185 (Sept 16, 1789)
None of these derivations are particularly plausible. More likely the Big Dictionary is right, that Quoz was an adaptation of Quiz, already used in certain circles, but not widespread, and ripe for piggy-backing. It seems unlikely that two such similar words would arise wholly independently in the same decade. Note that in the account given in The World, there was no requirement for it to be a new or nonsense word, only an “absurd expression”. That might well have allowed for the reuse of an existing but strange phrase. What better choice to mock the whole of London with, in 1789, than ‘Quiz’? Oh, very well, if it must be a wholly invented word, my good sir, let us say ‘Quoz’! But we’ll never know for sure why “Quoz” was chosen as the “odd absurd expression” to force. And I don’t suppose we will ever know who was responsible.
There is an untrue story about the origin of the word ‘quiz’. The next few paragraphs are all about that story, and about the early uses of the word quiz which undermine it, because I did the research years ago and want to make it worthwhile, but many people beat me to publication. By a lot. New information, such as it is, is in the next post.
The story goes that a Dublin theatre proprietor by the name of Richard Daly made a bet that he could, within forty-eight hours, make a nonsense word known throughout the city, and that the public would supply a meaning for it. After a performance one evening, he gave his staff cards with the word ‘quiz’ written on them, and told them to write the word on walls around the city. The next day the strange word was the talk of the town, and within a short time it had become part of the language.
The most detailed account of this supposed exploit (in F. T. Porter’s Gleanings and Reminiscences, 1875) gives its date as 1791.
F. T. Porter’s Gleanings and Reminiscences (1875) is an autobiography, interspersed with anecdotes and stories picked up over a lifetime of Porter’s work as police officer in Dublin. The story of ‘quiz’ is one of them, supposedly passed on from multiple witnesses to the event. Porter had previously published a retelling of the story in Duffy’s Hibernian Magazine (Nov 1862).
As others have pointed out, it seems very unlikely that the story is truly the origin of the word. We have evidence of the word ‘quiz’ in use for years before 1791, the earliest reference in connection with Daly is from 1835 (see below), and there seems to be no contemporary account. Rather, the wealth of full-text digital archives have made it possible to figure out the true origins of ‘quiz’ in the public school and university slang of the late eighteenth century. The OED revised their entries (noun, verb) a little while ago, and added a couple of excellent early citations.
Pray read with attention this bagatelle o’er,
And learn, what you wanted, the meaning of Bore.
Ah! John, since I left you with farmer’s fat daughters,
To play at hot-cockles, and guess at their garters,
I have seen a new world, and of which I dare say
You have no more idea than I of good hay;
Our language, my lad, you would scarce understand,
And I’ll give you a specimen clean out of hand.
T’other morning I threw off my chains with my gown,
Took a place in the Dilly and dangled to town;
(You must know ’twas a Scheme, as we knowing ones say,
‘Tis a bore to be there in a d—‘d modest way)
When I found myself place’d ‘twixt a chandler’s fat wife,
And a fellow who (damme) knew nothing of life.
Methinks ’tis a pleasantish day, says the dame,
To which I assented, the Quiz did the same:
She wish’d that these outlandish troubles would clear,
For this ‘Merikin war made the candles so dear.—
Our Quiz, with a head plaister’d o’er like twelfth-cake,
And a large sausage curl just above a black neck,
Had a ditto sky-blue on, except that his breeches
Were pink, and his boot-tops were work’d with white stitches;
And so we are introduced to phrases like Knock’d me down, Letch, Spunk, dangled, Scheme, and of course, the Quiz— a fellow who knew nothing of life, and dressed in a ridiculous fashion.
1783: Advice to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge
More details are offered in a 1783 work, Advice to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Here the anonymous author dispenses some uninvited advice to various persons about the universities, beginning with the Vice Chancellor, then the Proctors, Fellows, etc., and then to the Under Graduates, according to their tribe. I should say, the reviews of this were no kinder than those of Wittol: “A most impotent attempt at wit.”
To the Under Graduates
As the characters and dispositions of Under Graduates are various, some quite contrary to others; I shall be better understood by each, if I divide them into different classes, as they are respectively denominated in the university, and give my advice separately; that all may know how to keep up to their particular characters. They may be included under the general denomination of Quiz, Raph, or Buck. I shall begin first with the Quiz.
To the Quiz.
A Quiz, in the most common acceptation of the word, signifies one who thinks, speaks, or acts differently from the rest of the world in general. But as manners and opinions are as various as mankind, it will be difficult to say, who shall be termed a Quiz, and who shall not; each person indiscriminately applying the name of Quiz to every one who differs from himself; not to lose myself therefore in the labyrinth of opinions, suffice it to say, that those to whom the term has most commonly been applied, have held it in a good sense, and by the skilful alteration of a letter, produced the opinion of Horace in their favour; “Vir bonus est quis.”——Others by the contrary rule, have held it in an opposite sense.
The idea that everyone is someone else’s quiz reoccurred nine years later in the lyrics of the Quiz Song, written by Charles Dibdin in 1792, as the word gained a wider currency. “Those to whom the term has most commonly been applied” do seem to be a well-defined sort of person:
1782: Essays, moral and literary
In Essays, Moral and Literary, writer and schoolmaster Vicesimus Knox (not a pseudonym) describes the specific species of otherness that identifies the ‘Quiz’, in the course of throwing some shade on the business of academia as a whole.
Even doctors, professors, tutors, and lecturers, industriously avoid all topics connected with the species of
learning and science which they profess, and most agreeably condescend to expatiate, in the common and combination room, on dogs, horses, and all the refined amusements of Granta and Rhedycina. Not but that there are a few who take a pleasure in conversing on letters; but they are solitary mortals, and themselves are stigmatized, in the cant language of the place, with the name of Quizzes, and their conversation, with that of an insufferable Bore.
If our ingenious youth should be transplanted from the nursery of a school into the army, he will find the conversation, in almost every respect, similar to that of the university. There will, indeed, be this difference, that as letters are not the particular business of a military life, they will sometimes be the topic of conversation among military men; whereas, in the university, they are entirely laid aside, lest they should subject the academic to the imputation of pedantry; an imputation deemed infinitely more disgraceful, than that of genteel ignorance and fashionable debauchery.
One of the more charming early sources that uses ‘quiz’, rather than mentioning or describing it — and which for a long time was the OED’s earliest citation — is the 1889 edition of The early diary of Frances Burney, 1768-1778 vol. 2. The usage comes from a journal fragment written by Frances’s sister Charlotte, in 1782, proving how quickly the word moved beyond university jargon to a wider currency.
Thursday, June 24th, Quarter day.
The Percys have been in town and I and my father and Fanny have been and spent an evening with them, where we met Dr. Lort, whose nose I am sure has never grown since he was six years old, nipped in the bud ; but he’s a droll quiz, and I rather like him.
A satirical piece in an edition of the Eton paper Microcosm puts it at Eton College in 1787 (I find, most unfortunately for myself, that I come under the denomination of a quiz. — do read the full text), and also mentions the connection to vir bonus est quis.. Although by 1798, it seems the Etonians had moved on. George Colman’s 1798 play Heir at Law has it at Westminster School (A gig? Umph! that’s an Eton phrase—the Westminster call it Quiz).
In 1785, a “Quis” with an S, appears in the play The Spanish Rivals (spoken by a Spaniard, if that’s relevant?). Here it is used to agree with the sentiment that a gentleman is “a queer stick to make a thivel of”, which presumably needs no further explanation.
We’ll never know whether the ‘Vir Bonus’ etymology is at all true. It seems possible? These early citations all support the idea of an origin in Latinate college slang, rather than a brand new invention of London or Dublin gamblers. The use of a z at the end of a word is a common feature of 18th century slang (as in phiz and poz), also suggesting the corruption of an existing word rather than a new coinage, and the Latin root quis seems to be a good candidate, maybe influenced by the English soundalike inquisitive.
Many of the early usages of the word in print are explicitly concerned with explaining the usage and providing an etymology. The word is novel, true, but this is a period when new words were being introduced into English quite regularly, with international trade bringing new foodstuffs, plant and animal species, and developments in science and engineering labelling things in new ways: not many of them got introduced in lengthy comic poems, songs, and satires. What we see with quiz is authors writing to explain and legitimise a new-identified concept. A concept which looks a lot like an 18th century analog of ‘nerd’.
So we see the word’s meaning shift and expand from meaning an odd person, to the act of taunting someone for being an odd person, to taunting in general, by asking endless impertinent questions, and so on to the current style of questioning. Anyway, that’s all documented in plentiful detail elsewhere. I have other questions.
One of my favourite genres of book is that of the really old foreign-language phrasebook. They’re a thin but illuminating window into so many things: who is travelling, and why; who they are talking to, and why; what expectations they have. If there isn’t a PhD-thesis-turned-monograph on the subject, there certainly should be. My fondness is much shallower: the de-contextualised expectations of the historical traveller can be extremely funny.
From the perspective of having a jolly good laugh, older phrasebooks are to be preferred. We aren’t interested in the modern phrasebooks for the modern city-breaker, or the hippies’ guides to Asia, or even the WW2/occupation-era phrasebooks for military personnel moving about the world. On the other hand, too far back, and the only people travelling are traders and diplomats, whose phrasebooks are too pragmatic for much comedy. No, for best results, we want phrasebooks from the height of (the British) empire, the early twentieth century.
I recently acquired a perfect specimen: Marlborough’s Danish, Self-Taught, by W. F. Harvey, M.A. Undated, but the third edition of the “Self-Taught” series seems to have been published in the early 1930s.
Some of the words chosen for inclusion in the vocabulary section are… quite different to those of modern phrasebooks. For example, there is a long section on “Fruit, Trees, Flowers, and Vegetables”, including such everyday examples as vegetable-marrow, myrtle, lily-of-the-valley. There is a page for “Minerals and Metals”, in case one needs to discuss agate, gravel, or the carbuncle. The page for “Mankind; Relations”, includes, as well as the expected familial relation words, translations for “a dwarf”, “a hunchback”, “a giant”. Let’s assume these are for translating fairy-tales.
The choice of phrases to include in each section reveals the intended audience to be the more well-heeled traveller. Some selections:
I want a first-class ticket to …
Jeg ⌀nsker en f⌀rste Klasses Billet til …
yey eun’sker en feur’ster klahs’ses billet’ til …
Please give him my card
Vær saa god at give ham mit Kort
vayr soh goh aht gee(ver) ham mit kort
Which is the best hotel?
Hvilket er det bedste Hotel?
vil’ket air day bester hohtel’?
Can I obtain the exclusive right over the shooting?
Kan jeg faa Eneret paa Jagten her?
kah(n) ih foh ee’ner-ret poh yahk’ten hair?
In fact, the entire “Shooting” section is pretty great. What kind of shooting can I get here? Any Capercailzie? Let me have a shoot with your gun. How many dogs can you let me have? HOW MANY DOGS? Are the dogs properly trained?? Keep the dogs back! HOL HOON’NENER TIL’-BAHGHER!!
Getting the worst of the upper-class entitlement are the domestic staff. The book has sections for conversations with The Dressmaker, The Shoemaker, and The Laundress. Albeit there are more different ways for these experiences to go badly than to go well, but the book has no suggestions for “good job with that dress”, or “here is a gratuity, my good man”. Instead there are a diverse collection of ways to complain about the service received.
Don’t disappoint me
Nar mig ikke
nar’ mih ik’ker
They hurt my toes
De klemmer mig over Tæerne
de klem’mer mih ee hay-len ow’er tay’-er-ner ee vrist’en
This is too limp
Dette er ikke stift nok
det’ter air ik’ker stift nok
See how badly that is done
Se hvor daarligt det er gjort
se vor dor’lee day air gheyohrt’
You must take it back
Da maa tage det tilbage
dee moh tah day tilbah’gher
This is not my handkerchief
Dette er ikke mit Lommet⌀rklæde
det’ter air ik’ker mit lom’mer-tuer’klay-ther
You have torn my dress
De har revet denne Kjole itu
dee har ray’vet den’ner keyohl’-er eetoo’
It is also important to be able to express complaints more generally. The section on “Expressions of Surprise, Sorrow, Joy and Anger, &c” has got you covered.
R⌀r det ikke
reur day ik’ker
I am quite vexed about it
Det plager mig en Del
day plah’gher mih en dehl’
I am in a bad temper
Jeg er i daarligt Hum⌀r
yey air ee dor’lee hoomeur’
Hold your tongue
You are very wrong
De har fuldstændig Uret
dee har foolsten’dee oo’ret
How could you do so?
Hvorledes kunde De g⌀re det?
vor lairth’es koon’ner dee gheu’rer day?
I am ashamed of you
Jeg skammer mig over Dem
yey skam’mer mih ow’er dem
You are very much to blame
De er meget at dadle
dee air mih’et aht dahth’ler
If you would like your own copy, so that you too can learn to speak Danish like an entitled Britisher from 90 years ago, there is currently a copy available on Etsy.
The two-letter word viewer has been updated to include three new two-letter words for 2019. Both the North America (TWL) and International (CSW) lexicons will now include OK and EW. From players, the general reaction to EW was “ok”, and to OK was “ew”. The International lexicon update also includes ZE, the gender-neutral third person singular subjective pronoun. I wonder if the categorisation system needs (or will need) a category of words that are unfamiliar not because they are old but because they are young.
Ruminations on language evolution, the editorial decision-making of lexicon compilation, lawn-defence, etc., are left as an exercise for the reader.