Did you know that squirrel means “shadow-tail” in Greek (skíouros), or that a companion originally meant someone you break bread (Latin pānis) together with? One of the delights of etymology, the study of word-origins, is the way it reveals the hidden, long-forgotten meanings of words.
And more than that: etymology also leads us into depths of meaning expressed by words. By pulling back the curtain on a word’s history, etymology unveils a richer dimension of meaning that has, all too often, faded with the wearing down of time.
For example, the word knight is cousin to the German word Knecht, “servant.” When we think of knights today, we think perhaps of a glorious warrior, fierce, elite, and admired—anything but a servant. But in the Middle Ages that was exactly the meaning of knight: servant. In Sir Thomas Malory’s epic Le Morte d’Arthur, King Arthur charges the members of the Round Table to “by no mean be cruel, but to give mercy unto him that asketh mercy...and always to do ladies, damosels and gentlewomen succour, upon pain of death.” The aim of knighthood is not glory but service.
Similarly, the “Knight” in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales has seen war in no fewer than ten cities during his career; and yet Chaucer goes so far as to describe the Knight as being “in his bearing as meek as a maiden” (of his port as meeke as is a mayde). This ideal—the knight as servant, somehow brave and bold yet meek and modest—is easily forgotten; but etymology brings it to light once more.
Etymology can also restore lost depths of meaning to words. Anyone who has ever felt the smothering, stifling pressure of real worry will not be surprised to learn that its Old English source, wyrgan, meant literally “to squeeze, choke, or strangle.” (The original meaning can again be seen in German: würgen means “to strangle” or “to choke.”) Later, Old English wyrgan became Middle English wirien, and afterwards began to be used metaphorically to describe feelings of anxiety; the metaphor has since been lost, but is recoverable by etymology.
Words often connect across time and history, and that is part of etymology’s fun. For instance, hippopotamus is Greek for “river-horse”: híppos “horse” + potamós “river.” Like squirrel meaning “shadow-tail,” this etymology is already delightful as it is; but hippopotamus is even more interesting when you know that it relates to both the ancient toponym Mesopotamia—the land “between” (meso) the rivers Tigris and Euphrates—and to the personal name Philip: Greek Phil-hippos meant “horse-lover.”
(And if your thoughts at this point are turning to the Hippocratic Oath, you’re right on target: the oath is attributed to the ancient Greek physician Hippokrátēs, whose name meant “horse-rule.”)
The paths of etymology are complex, winding, and illuminating; they connect past and present in unexpected ways; and they’re a lot of fun. In future posts in this series, I plan to walk you down some of those paths. So next time, I’ll tell you how etymology reveals what fiction has to do with baking bread. Such good stuff!