Long-dead Roses

I may be about to lose Zephalonius, one of my favourite ancestors.

Sometimes the tortuous trail of parish register deductions takes a wrong turn and it’s not until you emerge from the trees that you realise you’ve hacked through the wrong forest.

Whatever happens, Zeph will probably remain somewhere in the extended family, but he may no longer be ‘mine’. I’m surprised at quite how disappointed I feel – and how I have become attached to these centuries-dead people.

I’m not equally attached to all the ancestors I have – metaphorically – unearthed. Some I get attached to because I feel that I’m getting to know them. These are usually the ones who’ve left more of a paper trail than simply their baptism, marriage and burial entries.

In the 1841 census, one lady was down as living – presumably ‘in sin’ – with some foreign-sounding chap and was imprisoned for seven days for withholding information. With a strong base in Hempstead and its environs, I’m also collecting members of the infamous Essex Gang. But it’s amazing how much difference it makes simply knowing an ancestor’s occupation.

Zephalonius was a contemporary of William Shakespeare, coiner of those oft-quoted lines: ‘What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ But do I instantly ‘like’ certain ancestors more simply because they have distinctive names?

I have also come across a couple of rather unfortunate names during the course of my research.

I was unable to discover the forename of an ancestor’s sister’s husband. It was unfortunate that I had to note her down as marrying an ‘Unknown Pratt’.

Another gentleman’s wife – unfortunately not in my direct line – was born Fanny Cock. I like to imagine this prim Victorian lady introducing herself as she takes afternoon tea in the drawing room.

In the very next year, a neighbouring village spawned Goliath Cocks. The accompanying census capture is from when he was, ahem, ‘head’ of the household.

I now have a burning desire to write a story in which Goliath Julius Cocks – Victorian gentleman hero – takes the starring role…

Bring back þorn!

No, not porn – þat is alive and well – I mean the letter þorn.

Þorn was part of þe Old English alphabet and, unlike in Icelandic, could represent eiþer of our modern th sounds. Alþough two ‘special’ characters – eth and wynn – died out relatively quickly, þorn and long s survived: long s until Victorian times and þorn into þe Middle English period; even þough its use was þen largely restricted to short þ words and standard abbreviations.

All þose ‘Ye Olde Teashoppes’ are in fact using a late form of þorn, which became almost indistinguishable from y, alþough it was still pronounced þ.

Why bring back þorn?

First and foremost, þorn is just plain cool.

Most oþer European languages are livened up by a sprinkling of ticks, hats and swooshes. English has noþing. But we don’t need to be a plain jane – we can have þorn.

Þorn is also environmentally friendly.

Th is a common combination in þe English language, as it is used in so many common words, such as þe, þis, þat, þem and þen . Using t plus h takes up twice þe space of using þ.

A quick analysis of some English texts shows þat an average of 3–4 per cent of þe characters (including white spaces) are taken up by t and h in þe combination th.

Analysis of a random novel shows þat 3.9 per cent of its characters form part of a th combination. Replace þese wiþ þorn and þe total number of characters will be reduced by 2 per cent. In a 340-page novel, þis equates to a saving of about seven whole pages.

Þink of þe number of books published in þe English language every year and you will see þat þorn is the tree messiah.

I þink þat þis discovery now obligates me to run for parliament – or at least appear on Late Night Wiþ Conan O’Brien.