Tee many martoonies.

Dear Word Detective:  Whenever I drink alcohol, which has become all too often as of late, my nose always becomes “stopped up” for lack of a better term.  One night I told my husband that I know where the term “snoot full” came from because my nose was congested (I found a better term after all).  I was just joking at the time but then began to ponder where the term actually did originate.  Can you help? — Sally.

I’ll sure try.  But I’m operating at a disability, I realized when I read your question, because I’ve done it again.  First I forgot to get into sports, then I forgot to watch TV to the extent I’m supposed to (129 hours a week, I gather), and now I realize that somewhere along the way I forgot to take up drinking.  It sounds like fun.  So, if you’ll bear with me, I’m going to pop out to the truckstop and pick up some joy juice.

I’m back.  Hey, this “gin” stuff ain’t bad.  But is the room supposed to tilt like this?  My feet feel funny.  Why is the cat looking at me that way?  You got a problem, cat?

Just kidding, of course.  I have something better than booze, namely a brand new book by the always entertaining and awesomely erudite Paul Dickson.  In “Drunk: The Definitive Drinker’s Dictionary” (Melville House, 2009), Mr. Dickson notes that English has more synonyms for “drunk” than for any other word, and then proceeds to list more than 3,000 of them, complete with fascinating annotations and admirably strange little illustrations.  It’s impossible to pick a favorite from such a range, but “full of loud mouth soup” strikes me as true genius.  I’m also glad to see that Mr. Dickson includes “tired and emotional,” a euphemism invented by Spy magazine to describe, within the bounds of Britain’s strict libel laws, politicians discovered in a state of public intoxication.  Mr. Dickson notes that the US media similarly employs the terms “outgoing” for a happy drunk and “ruddy-faced” for a completely marinated public figure.  Now we know, eh kids?

“Snoot full” is here as well, while the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) prefers the spelling “snootful.”  The term “snoot,” meaning the human nose, is actually just a very old dialectical variation of the word “snout,” which comes from the same Germanic root that gave us “snot.”  Interestingly, the first recorded written use of “snout’ in English, from around 1220, uses the term  to refer to the trunk of an elephant.

The earliest citation for “snootful” in print in the OED is surprisingly recent, from 1918, but the term is almost certainly several centuries older than that.  There doesn’t seem to be any connection between “snootful” or “snoot full” and nasal congestion.  “Having a snoot full” is simply one of a number of terms for “drunk” that conjure up an image of the drinker’s body as being literally either partially or completely filled with alcohol (“had a skinful,” “drunk to the gills,” “full to the brim,” etc.).  The popularity of “snootful” may also be due to the fact that consumption of alcohol, in some people, can cause a reddening of the face, especially the nose, thus making the “snoot” a highly visible barometer of inebriation.

Gloom and doom r us.

Dear Word Detective:  My friends and I were wondering, morbid as it may be, where  the word “pallbearer” came from.  I remember being eight at my first funeral and thinking they’d misspelled the word “pole,” though I’m sure this is not correct.  My friends have never seen the Word Detective at work before, so don’t fail me — I know you can do it! — Sarah.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.  But you do realize that I, uh, get to pick the questions I answer, right?  Shocking, I know.  But the alternative is far worse.  Back when I was young and masochistic, I used to occasionally appear on radio call-in shows where the host would invite listeners to ask about any word that wandered into their addled little heads.  There are approximately 600,000 words in English, and that’s not even counting phrases and idioms.  Guess how many origins of those words and phrases I happen to know off the top of my own addled little head, especially while I’m talking to a drive-time shock-jock in Des Moines at 7 am.  Right.  Welcome to Mortification City.

Speaking of mortification, that is a pretty morbid question you’ve come up with, but an interesting one as well.  The “pallbearers” at a funeral, of course, are the people, often friends and family of the deceased, who carry the casket (or, in some cases, just walk alongside it).  One might assume that the “pall” in “pallbearer” is some archaic word for “casket,” or, as you noted, perhaps a form of “pole.”  But “pallbearer,” which first appeared in print in 1707, is actually just one of the uses to which the very interesting word “pall” has been put.

The root of “pall” is the Latin word “pallium,” which means “cloak,” and in Ancient Greece and Rome “pallium” referred to a fairly simple garment, more humble than the Roman toga, for instance.  When “pall” first appeared in Old English, however, it was used to mean fine fabric or a robe or cloak made from fine fabric, often the sort of robe a monarch or high religious official would wear.  In such cases the “pall” was frequently made of purple velvet.

During the same period, “pall” was also used to mean a piece of fine cloth used as a covering or ornament, especially a covering for the altar in a Christian church.  By about 1400, “pall” was being used to mean the cloth, again often purple velvet, placed over a casket at a funeral.  During a funeral procession at that time, it was customary for one group of people (the “casket-bearers”) to carry the coffin itself, and another group, the “pallbearers,” to hold the pall over the coffin.  The tradition of having separate “pallbearers” eventually largely faded away, and the term was thereafter applied to the group actually carrying the coffin, or, in cases where the coffin rides on a carriage or cart, to whoever accompanies the coffin in the procession.

“Pall” had also been used in the 15th century in a neutral figurative sense to mean something that covers or conceals as a cloak or drape would.  But the use of “pall” to mean “coffin covering” led to the metaphorical use of “pall” to mean “an atmosphere of gloom,” a sense we use today when we say that something “casts a pall” (“Bob’s arrest for aggravated mopery cast a pall over his election as Senator”).

Incidentally, while we’re on the subject of cloth, “pall” has another interesting relative — “tarpaulin.”  The humble “tarp” we know today as a heavy plastic sheet used to protect damaged roofs, etc., was originally made from heavy cloth impregnated with tar to make it waterproof.  The “paul” in “tarpaulin” is simply a variant of “pall.”