Ode to the Thorn (not the “Yorn”, screw the yorn)
The yorn doesn’t exist, so sorry to inform everyone. It is with an unnecessarily heavy heart (I love a good old “ye” as much as the next person) and an uproarious love of vaguely obscure history that I now proclaim “all hail the thorn”. Toss those Y’s to the side and bask in the lovely “thhh” of linguistic correctness, may your front incisors carry you into a land of rectifying those rapscallions who dare to incorrectly imitate the blessed thorn. Burn down the ‘Ye Olde Candy Shoppes’ and ‘Ye Old Spaghetti Factories’ of the world, go well-educated child, go, let the flames of truþ guide you.
I guess before we move onto mass arson, I probably should explain what I’m talking about (we’ll get back to that, I promise).
The thorn, welcome. If you’ve spent any time reading old or middle english manuscripts (as I’m sure you have), you may have noticed this little guy “þ”, he looks like a depressed p, or a really drunk d. This, right here, is the thorn, a letter representing the “th” sound. You may have heard of it as a thuriaz (þuriaz from Proto-Germanic), or a thurs (þurs form Old Norse). It’s pronounced as both a voiced (ð) and voiceless (θ) dental fricative; a consonant sound created by restricting airflow through the space between the tongue and the teeth. Try saying “theta, think” and “thing”, the sound produced should be the voiceless variety, you’ll notice there’s no activity occurring in the vocal cords, that “th” is merely the product of airflow. The voiced variety can be observed in the words “father, mother”, and “there”. Try pronouncing “there” with and without the voiced component, it’ll sound markedly different. These categories vary in acceptability depending on the accent employed, you’ll notice quite a bit of voiceless fricative replacement with the transatlantic accent. For example - “father” (voiced), as opposed to the transatlantic “fahhthuh” (voiceless). The origin behind the exchange of these fricative modalities comes down to the English charm they bring to the American accent, while retaining other distinct American qualities, this replacement is synonymous with decreased harshness, creating the sense of upper class living that the transatlantic accent lends itself to.
So, we’ve established the thorn, explained how it sounds, and have gone on a couple of tangents in the process. But where did it come from? The thorn has been used liberally across much of Europe through the ages (literally ages - post-classical, the dark, high, and late middle ages, and even edging into the modern era, depending on what you credit as a legitimate usage). Since its conception, the thorn has branched into countless variations, which we’ll be back to review in a minute, but let’s start at the beginning. The thorn first came to be as a rune of Elder Fuþark, the oldest form of the runic alphabet. The date of origination is hotly debated, but many historians place it somewhere within the 1st and 2nd century CE. Elder Futhark’s major development and standardization happened during the “Migration Period” (c. 100 - 500 CE), which encompassed the fall of the Roman Empire and was marked by large-scale migration into Rome. This mass of varied individuals is what sparked the emanating usage of Elder Futhark, while simultaneously diversifying it.
So here we are, smack in the middle of the fall of the Roman Empire (lovely place to be); a thousand miles away from England and hundreds of years from the thorn’s replacement. So where do we go from here? The answer lies in Old English, or rather, how it came to be. Before we continue, I’d like to preface with the fact that henceforth, our story focuses on the English use of the thorn. Thorn usage was not explicit to English, nor was it utilized/replaced at a similar rate in other dialects. The thorn is still used today in Icelandic and has roots in much of Western Europe, each with their own history of usage and replacement. The English thorn, however, is the path we must take to get to that damned “ye”, you know, the one we’re collectively raising hell against. So, in order to effectively support my call to arson, we must trek down the path of the English.
Old English, or Anglo-Saxon, is the oldest recorded form of the English language. The tail end of the migration period includes the Angles and the Saxons arriving in Britain, their primarily proto-Germanic roots fatally intertwined with Romano-Brittonic culture and the Anglo-Saxon identity was born, creating Old English and bringing the thorn along for the ride. Latin integration can be charted back to key events such as the Roman Occupation, wherein exposure to Latin would’ve been inevitable; the same contact occurred through aristocrats, who held onto Latin as the language of upper-class communication. Latinisms would have been incorporated into speech, in a similar fashion to that of the modern day, albeit at a slightly increased rate. For example, the obvious “deus ex machina”, the less obvious “incognito”, and the completely unobtrusive “against”; all words derived and integrated into our language from Latin.
Old English transitioned to Middle English around the late 11th century. Edward the Confessor, king of England, died childless in 1066. The Anglo-Saxon throne, while not hereditary in law, had a set precedent of sons inheriting their father’s positions. Opinions regarding the true successor were numerous, each one rockier in validity than the last. Harold Godwinson, brother-in-law to Edward, was crowned the day of Edward’s deathy. Enter William, Duke of Normandy (and some other guy (Norwegian King Harald Hadrada, but he failed basically immediately, so we’re zooming right past him (sorry Harald, cool name, not so cool attempt at the English throne))).
William claimed that Edward had promised him the throne. Harold (the brother-in-law one, the less lame of the two Heralds/Harolds) claimed that, while Edward did indeed promise the throne to William, Edward’s deathbed promise to him overruled it. The Witenagemot, the Anglo-Saxon council, decided on Harold.
William, The Duke stormed the shores of Southern England with thousands of men. Harold’s army marched South to meet them, leaving a portion of the already crippled army in the North. The two met at the battle of Hastings, which concluded with a very happy William and a very dead Harold. This is where our lovely thorn begins to change.
William, now William the Conqueror, although possibly better named as William the Conqueror of Similarly Named Men, crowned himself as the King of England and began his cobbled reign (it was rocky as hell, and he also built an excessive number of castles).
This is where Old English is said to turn to Middle English. The switch is slow and unassuming for the average member of 11th century England, save the intense increase of castles and the new monarch (you know, super chill), but the contrast is rapid compared to other linguistic developments throughout history. William brought Norman French to the English Aristocracy, a change that was deliberately severe to solidify his new sovereignty. The thorn did not exist in the Norman, nor Latin, alphabet, and while adapted into Middle English through the remnants of Old English, this marked a strong transitional point.
The new nobles primarily spoke Norman French, with Latin serving as the base of the lingua franca between upper and middle classes. This linguistic upheaval was the beginning of the end for our beloved thorn. The thorn gradually became obsolete, replaced by the digraph "th" which we still use today. The process was neither immediate nor uniform, with the thorn continuing to appear in manuscripts well into the Middle English period. However, the tides of linguistic evolution, propelled by the convergence of Old English, Norman French, and Latin, ultimately eroded its presence.
The introduction of the printing press, originating in Germany in the late 15th century, was the final thorn to pierce our beloved thorn. The German alphabet does not utilize the thorn, thus it entails that the creators of the printing press wouldn’t produce the physical letterpress blocks to represent it. Forced to substitute, printers often used "y" due to its visual similarity, particularly in lowercase scripts. This typographical workaround gave rise to the infamous "ye," a misreading of "þe," which meant "the."So, as we march through the annals of history, torch in hand, ready to rectify the misappropriations of our linguistic heritage, let us remember the thorn. Let us honor its memory and correct those who perpetuate the "ye" myth. To all those "Ye Olde" establishments: your days are numbered. The era of the thorn's resurgence is upon us. Educate, enlighten, and eradicate the misconceptions. With each corrected "ye," we restore a piece of our linguistic past (and annoy the masses with one-liner fun facts).
So go forth, brave soul, armed with the knowledge of the thorn and the righteousness of historical accuracy. Let the fires of truþ light your way. The thorn, our mis-named hero, deserves no less.
