The terms linguistics and philology refer to different but overlapping areas of the Humanities. An opposition between them does not predate the triumph of structuralism. Structuralist linguistics devoted itself mainly to synchrony and theory, with lexicology and lexicography ending up in no-man’s land. A detailed look at dictionary definitions of linguistics and philology for more than three centuries offers a picture of the goals of both disciplines and of the ways the public understood language studies. Before the twentieth century, the focus of philology was the interpretation of old texts and word origins. The treatment of special terminology (including the terminology of linguistics) in dictionaries shows that despite all the differences a clear line between linguistics and philology cannot and need not be drawn, just as such a line cannot always be drawn between a dictionary and an encyclopedia. In the context of the present study, the use of etymology and phonetic transcription in various dictionaries illuminates the difference between and the unity of philology and linguistics.

This chapter explores the topics and didactic strategies involved in teaching grammar through poetry in twelfth-century Byzantium by taking the prolific grammarian John Tzetzes and his Homerizing Carmina Iliaca as its case study. Tzetzes furnished his poem with numerous explanatory scholia, which give us a glimpse into Tzetzes’ teaching practice and illustrate how works of poetry served as model texts in the classroom of a grammarian. The chapter studies Tzetzes’ scholia against the background of the Art of Grammar by Dionysius Thrax, which was central to the Byzantine study of grammar and as such provides a relevant framework for analysing the grammatical material in Tzetzes’ scholia. By considering Tzetzes’ grammar lessons in the context of the various technical resources at his disposal and placing his scholia into dialogue with the scholarly and didactic works of his contemporaries Eustathios of Thessalonike and Gregory of Corinth, the chapter augments our understanding of Byzantine linguistic and literary thought.

A bitch, as most people already know, is a female dog. As a trendy word we hear (and say) all the time, it might be tempting to guess that it isn’t very old. But if we look up its etymology, that is, the origins of the word, we discover that bitch meaning “a female dog” has a far longer pedigree that goes back over one thousand years. Over the course of a millennium, bitch became stigmatized by its association with social taboos such as prostitution, promiscuity, “bad” women, and “unmanly” men. This led to its offensive senses pushing out the inoffensive one. Bitch – which was once just the literal word for a female dog – eventually became what it is today, arguably one of the most insulting words in the English language. But on the other hand, bitch has developed positive uses in slang and has even been reclaimed in some ways.

This chapter considers how English dictionaries made sense of sexuality beyond modern English society. It begins with the early modern assumption that a nation’s character was commensurate with its language, and that the moderate nature of England’s language and culture entailed that any ‘excess’ found in either must be the result of foreign influence. The chapter examines how sodomy and buggery, along with the semantic field of pederasty, were positioned by etymological, general, and hard-word dictionaries as ethically and ethnically remote, vices practised in the Mediterranean by ancient heathens or modern heretics. These xenophobic associations remained in dictionaries into the nineteenth century. Conversely, lexicographers’ retellings of classical myths of same-sex love—male and female—reveal sites of tension between the moderns’ veneration of Greek and Roman literature and their rejection of its pagan sensuality. The life of Sappho in particular provoked sharp disagreements over what her moral character had been, and what could or should be said about it, in a range of dictionary genres: hard-word, general, classical, and biographical.

This chapter explores the intersections between work by literary scholars with that done in synchronic and diachronic Latin linguistics. As an example of the different approaches and different toolkits employed by the linguist and the literary scholar, I discuss the way linguists have explained the phrase Veneres Cupidinesque in Catullus 3.1, contrasted with interpretations given in commentaries on Catullus and in Latin dictionaries. In the linguists’ account, the phrase is an archaism which continues an earlier Indo-European pattern used to refer to pairs, finding its closest parallels in Sanskrit texts. I then compare literary Latin to other registers and dialects, and discuss the difficulties involved in the term ‘Vulgar Latin’. The chapter also examines other areas in which linguistic scholarship might be usefully consulted by readers of Latin literature: word accent, vowel-length and metre; etymology, semantics and the lexicography; grammars and monographs on morphology, syntax and discourse analysis, including in particular recent approaches using sociolinguistics. Passages from Catullus are discussed throughout.

Borrowings in informal American English come from various languages. Unsurprisingly, Spanish has contributed the most expressions, accounting for almost half of the entire database. Borrowings from Yiddish are the second most frequent group, followed by a few other key language donors and numerous lesser donors. Interestingly, some expressions are a result of borrowing from two donor languages; still others are the result of pseudo-borrowing, a playful imitation of a foreign language. In general, findings corroborate the common perception that the top contributor of borrowings in informal American is Spanish, but they also reveal a few unexpected contributors whose whose impact on informal American English is pronounced.

Chapter 14 opens by asking readers to produce several nouns to label an unusual object and then to describe their demonstration’s main activity in several ways. The chapter describes research with K-12 science classes showing learning boosts when concepts are taught before new terms for the concepts and that students are more interested when such terms are minimized. Jargon is the ultimate in new information, so spotting it is a critical first step toward clearer and more effective demonstrations. Strategies for jargon spotting are exemplified: words with Latin or Greek etymology (e.g., "pharyngeal"), acronyms (e.g., "SVO" for subject-verb-object), ambiguous words with both general and specialized meanings (e.g., "stress"). Many experts new to public engagement find it hard to avoid jargon. A demonstration on syntactic ambiguity shows that it can even be done with esoteric or abstract topics. Thus, while jargon is one of the tools of science, incomplete is not incorrect. The Worked Example discusses an online text editor’s markup of a draft sentence. This chapter’s Closing Worksheet asks readers to aim such an editor to the written support for their demonstration.

When Horace first published the Odes in 23 BCE, in an edition comprising the eighty-eight poems of books 1–3, Ode 3.30 stood as a self-reflexive epilogue in which the poet surveyed his work and announced the achievement of his own goals. Its clear and confident claims to poetic immortality resonate pointedly in form and tone with Horace’s earlier statements. The first two lines of the poem are particularly forceful, and feature one of the collection’s more memorable images and more durable phrases.

Historical toponomastics is the discipline that deals with the reconstruction of the roots of toponyms in the context of well-known languages/language families (e.g., Indo-European) and in the presence of available historical records. The analysis of the etymology and morphology of a place name occurs not just at the linguistic level, but also incorporates the assessment of the territory’s geology and hydro-geo-morphology. This chapter presents a step-by-step guide in historical toponomastics that involves both linguistic and extra-linguistic analyses. The authors apply this to two toponyms from the Indo-European language family, Sessame and Squaneto, both located in Piedmont, northwest Italy. This chapter also discusses the notion of ‘folk etymology’ and ‘toponymic paretymology’, often observed in the stories told by local speakers trying to explain the origins and meanings of their toponyms. These ‘explanations’ may not always be accurate. These, indeed, originate from the linguistic misinterpretations of place names, when the original morphology and/or meaning of toponyms are lost over time. This chapter explores two types of toponymic paretymologies – ‘bona fide paretymology’ and ‘scholarly paretymology’, with examples from both Indo-European and non-Indo-European contexts. The chapter also presents an in-depth discussion of contact etymology.

The opening chapter examines the forebears of Cicero’s notion of will in Greek thought and Roman usage in the period before his birth, with special attention given to the playwrights Plautus and Terence. There was no “will of the people” in classical Greece. The demos wielded power not by delegation but in active, autonomous decision. There is no special discourse of representation in classical Athens, because in classical democracy (unlike today) there is no permanent governing class. In the Republic, Plato proposes that reason and appetite reside in different parts of the soul; though we succumb to appetite despite “knowing better,” in a harmonious soul as in a just city, reason must rule. Plato’s star student is the first to propose a full theory of human action, but neither Aristotle’s boulesis (the desire for ends) nor his prohairesis (the choice of means) map onto the faculty that Latin speakers would call voluntas. It is the Stoics, and particularly Epictetus, who have been credited by some as inventors of the will due to their intense focus on regulating our inner responses to events and forming the correct intention.

This chapter proposes a brief lexical history of the English term ‘responsibility’, starting from the Latin ‘respondere’, through French and Anglo-Norman, up to the emergence of the abstract noun in modern languages. Seen from a purely semantic diachronic perspective, ‘responsibility’, as a legal term, expresses the idea that one may be called upon to answer for one’s activity (or inactivity) but does not itself denote the prerequisites of liability nor hints at the source or nature of any duty to do so. It looks at what is to be done in the future, not to the imputation of a duty by reference to what has gone before. If the meaning that history brings to light is quite neutral – and pivots around the ordinary, basic meaning of the verb ‘respondere’: ‘to say something in answer to a question’ – ‘responsibility’ appears nonetheless to be most appropriate to signify the distinctive feature of contemporary international law, namely that States ‘have to answer’ for their actions.