I made it through 1200 and got lost partway through 1100.
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- unfamiliar letters start showing up after that. i would imagine i’m pretty average (?) since this would allow me to still read Shakespeare but little beyond that.
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About 1300 for me. Though the narration was easier than the direct speech.
Reminds me of the Do You Speak KJV? quiz. What How Far Back doesn’t highlight is how vocab changes in such a way that you wouldn’t know a text is using a different sense than you. Unfamiliar words are easy: look them up. Familiar words with unfamiliar senses are worse because you have to distrust what you think you know.
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When I dropped out of English grad studies, one of my classes was Beowulf in Old English. I found it a difficult mind-shift for the reasons mentioned in the article.
There was a lot to keep track of, what with all the inflection going on. I felt quite clever when my translations were accurate (a sadly uncommon case).
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Oh I’m about to drop that “ye is actually the but printers were cheap” fun fact at every renn fair I go to for the rest of time.
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Fun exercise - I got like half the 1200, very little of the 1100 of 1000, but feeling good about that given that I’ve read pretty much nothing pre-Chaucer. I am reasonably well read from like 1500 on for a random layperson, and have a smattering of Latin, which definitely helped with the vocabulary before things got super Germanic, since I know what “ruth” means even if I’ve never seen that particular orthography before, e.g.!
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I was fine back till 1200. 1100 I could get a jist of, but very little of 1000. My English Language teachers would be ashamed (but it was 33 years ago).
A lot of the more recent stuff I’ve not just read but written, so that was fun 
(As was recognising the M. R. James delivery in the 1900 section).
I wonder why, in the 1000 version, it’s sƿa fuglas but swa fixas, since they are both ways of writing swa. An oversight or a grammar rule I don’t know?
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Same here. My native language is a Germanic one, though (even moreso than modern English, I mean), so in some ways it became more recognizable further back, but in other ways more alien too.
I did wonder at one statement:
eth (ð) means the same as thorn (þ) — both represent th
While that’s true even today in languages that still use those letters (like Icelandic), isn’t the former voiced (“that”) while the latter is unvoiced (“thing”)? Or was that not the case in Old English?
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My understanding: since the distinction between the voiced and unvoiced dental fricatives in English has always been a fairly marginal one, people have never been very good at distinguishing them in spelling. So þ and ð ended up becoming interchangeable pretty quickly, and then people realized having both of them was pointless and they dropped ð. You have to go back quite far for the distinction to be clear.
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I made it to 1300. I could kinda get 1200, but not the full meaning. And by 1100, it was hard to extract even a partial meaning.
Very cool!
That bit about the letter thorn, and “ye” in “ye olde” meaning “the,” was indeed particularly neat.
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At 1300, I understood 80%. At 1200, I understood 50%. At 1100, I understood 10%.
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A few of my favorite little tidbits:
iland (1600)
This is the original form of “island”; it comes from plain old “land”. But the Latin word for “island” is insula (as in “insulate”, when you make something an island by cutting off its connections to everything else), and English-speakers noticed that a lot of Latin words with S’s corresponded to French words with no S’s, so they stuck an extra silent S in “island” on the assumption that there used to be one there.
caas (1500)
When a silent E marks a “long vowel” in English, that used to actually be a long vowel: a vowel pronounced for twice as long as normal. So before the silent E thing caught on, they were often written with two vowel letters.
miȝt, þouȝte, douȝti, þouȝ (1400)
We still write a “gh” in “might”, “thought”, “doughty”, “though” because ȝ was too hard to use on a Eurocentric printing press, so “gh” took its place. Back then it was actually pronounced, so “right” and “rite” weren’t yet homophones.
a man þat haþ no rewþe in his herte (1300)
(That is, “a man that hath no ruth in his heart”.) English used to turn adjectives and verbs into nouns by putting “th” on the end. Then we stopped doing that. So now we have a bunch of “th” nouns that have slowly drifted away from their verbs: the connection between “heal” and “health” is still pretty clear, or “slow” and “sloth”, but “steal” and “stealth” less so (“steal” used to mean “sneak”, like when you steal away from a meeting), or “bear” and “birth” (as in “bear children”).
“Ruth” used to be a noun from “rue”, the verb meaning to regret or feel sad about something. But now it only appears in “ruthless”, when someone never feels any regret at all.
Hit is muchel to seggen all þat pinunge hie on me uuroȝten (1200)
(That is, “it is too much to say all the torture he worked on me”.)
“Wrought” used to be the past participle of “work”, but now it’s taken on its own separate meaning, only appearing in phrases like “wrought iron” (iron that’s been worked by a blacksmith). Since “wrought” has become so rare, the phrase “wrought havoc” is no longer seen as the past tense of “work havoc”, but of “wreak havoc”, by analogy with seek~sought.
“Seggen” shows that “say” used to have a G before it turned into a Y; that G still exists in German sagen.
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Here’s my best attempt from 1400 to 1100. By 1100 I’m missing lots of words and at 1000 I’m entirely lost.
Full translation
1400
Bot þe man wolde me nat abandone þer, ne suffre me to passen forþ.
But the man would not abandon me there, nor allow me to pass by.
I miȝt nat flee, for hys companiouns, of whom þer were a gret nombre, beſet me aboute, and heelden me faſt þat I ne scholde nat ascapen.
I could not flee, for his companions, of which there were a great number, beset me on all sides, and held me fast so that I could not escape.
And þei weren stronge menn and wel douȝti, of grymme contenaunce and fiers, and armed wiþ swerdes and wiþ knyues, so þat it were gret foly for eny man to wiþstonden hem.
And they were strong men, and quite doughty, of grim countenance and fierce, and armed with swords and with knives, so that it would be great foolishness for any man to stand against them.
So þei bounden me hond and foot and ledden me to þe one þei callede Maiſter, of whom I hadde herd so muchel and knewe so litel.
So they bound me hand and foot and led me to the one they called “Master”, of whom I had heard so much, and knew so little.
Þe sayde Maiſter, what that hee apperid bifore me, was verely a Deuill, or so me þouȝte, for neuer in al my lyf hadde I beholden so foule a creature.
The aforementioned Master, when he appeared before me, was truly a devil, or so I thought, for never in all my life had I seen so foul a creature.
Hee bore a blak clok þat heng to þe grounde, and ſpake neuer a worde.
He had a black cloak that hung to the ground, and never spoke a word.
Bot his countenaunce was hidous and so dredful þat my blood wexed colde to loken on hym.
But his countenance was hideous, and so dreadful that my blood waxed cold looking at him.
For he hadde nat þe visage of a man bot of a beest, wiþ þe teeþ and ſnoute of a wulf, scharpe and crueel.
For he had not the face of a man, but of a beast, with the teeth and snout of a wolf, sharp and cruel.
And his eres weren longe eres, as of a wulf, and bihynde him þer heng a gret tayl, as wulf haþ.
And his eyes were long eyes, as of a wolf, and behind him there hung a great tail, as a wolf has.
And hys eyen schon in þe derknesse lyke brennyng coles.
And his eyes shone in the darkness like burning coals.
“What wolden ȝe wiþ mee, ȝe heþene?” aſked I, þouȝ myn voys quaked and I hadde litel hope of eny merci.
“What do you want with me, you heathens?” I asked, though my voice shook and I had little hope of any mercy.
Bot þei maden no answer, neyþer good ne yuel.
But they made no answer, neither good nor evil.
Þei weren stille as stoon, and stoden about me as men þat wayte on þeir lordes commandement.
They were still as stone, and stood around me like men waiting for their lord’s command.
1300
Þanne after muchel tyme spak þe Maiſter, and his wordes weren colde as wintres is.
Then after much time the Master spoke, and his words were as cold as winter.
His vois was as þe crying of rauenes, scharpe and schille, and al þat herde hym weren adrade and durst nat speken.
His voice was like the crying of ravens, sharp and shrill, and everyone who heard him was struck with dread, and dared not speak.
“I deme þe to þe deeþ, straunger. Here ſchaltou dyen, fer fram þi kynne and fer fram þine owen londe, and non ſchal knowen þi name, ne non schal þe biwepe.”
“I condemn you to your death, stranger. Here you shall die, far from your family and far from your own land, and none shall know your name, and none shall weep for you.”
And I sayde to hym, wiþ what boldenesse I miȝte gaderen, “Whi fareſt þou wiþ me þus? What treſpaas haue I wrouȝt ayeins þe, þat þou demeſt me so harde a dome?”
And I said to him, with whatever boldness I could gather, “Why do you treat me like this? What sin have I worked against you, that you condemn me to so awful a fate?”
“Swie!” quoþ he, and smot me wiþ his honde, so þat I fel to þe erþe. And þe blod ran doun from mi mouþe.
“Silence!” he said, and hit me with his hand, so that I fell to the earth. And the blood ran down from my mouth.
And I swied, for þe grete drede þat was icumen vpon mee was more þan I miȝte beren.
And I went silent, for the great dread that came over me was more than I could bear.
Mi herte bicam as stoon, and mi lymes weren heuy as leed, and I ne miȝte namore stonden ne spoken.
My heart became like stone, and my limbs were heavy as lead, and I couldn’t stand or speak any more.
Þe euele man louȝ, whan that he sawe my peine, and it was a crueel louȝter, wiþouten merci or pitee as of a man þat haþ no rewþe in his herte.
The evil man laughed when he saw my pain, and it was a cruel laughter, without mercy or pity, as of a man that has no gentleness in his heart.
Allas! I scholde neuer hauen icumen to þis toune of Wuluesfleete!
Alas! I should never have come to this town of Wulfleet!
Cursed be þe dai and cursed be þe houre þat I first sette foot þerinne!
Cursed be the day and cursed be the hour that I first set foot in there!
1200
Hit is muchel to seggen all þat pinunge hie on me uuroȝten, al þar sor and al þat sorȝe.
It is too much to say all the torture that they worked on me, all the pain and all the sorrow.
Ne scal ic nefre hit forȝeten, naht uuhiles ic libbe!
I shall never forget it, not while I live!
Ac þer com me gret sped, and þat was a uuif, strong and stiþ!
Then someone came at me with great speed. It was a woman, strong and swift!
Heo com in among þe yuele men and me nerede fram heore honden.
She came in between the evil men and freed me from their hands.
Heo sloȝ þe heþene men þat me pyneden, sloȝ hem and fælde hem to þe grunde.
She slew the heathen men that tortured me, slew them and felled them to the ground.
Þer was blod and bale inouȝ And hie feollen leien stille, for hie ne miȝten namore stonden.
There was blood and woe enough, and the fallen laid still, for they could no longer stand.
Ac þe Maister, þe uuraþþe Maister, he flaȝ awei in þe deorcnesse and was iseon namore.
But the Master, the furious Master, he flew away in the darkness and was seen no more.
Ic seide hire, “Ic þanke þe, leoue uuif, for þu hauest me ineredd from dæðe and from alle mine ifoan!”
I said to her, “I thank you, lovely woman, for you have freed me from death and from all my [???]!”
1100
Þæt ƿif me andsƿarode and cƿæð, “Ic eom Ælfgifu gehaten.
That woman spoke to me and said, "I am named Elfgift.
Þu scalt me to ƿife nimen, þeah þe þu hit ne ƿite gyt, for hit is
You shall take me as wife, ???
sƿa gedon þæt nan man ne nan ƿif ne mote heonon faren buten þurh þone dæð þæs Hlafordes.”
so that no man or woman can go from here until the death of the Lord."
“Ac þær is gyt mare to donne her, forþi ƿe nabbaþ þone Hlaford ofslagenne.
"But there is ??? to do here, ??? Lord is slain.
He is strong and sƿiðe yfel, and manige gode men he hæfð fordone on þisse stoƿe.”
He is strong and extremely evil, and has killed many good men in this town."
“Is þæt soð?” cƿæþ ic, forþon þe ic naht ne ƿiste.
“Is that so?” I said, ??? I that night ??? not.
“Ic ƿende þæt ic mihte heonon faren sƿa ic com.”
“I want to ??? go ??? so I come.”
“Gea la,” cƿæð heo. “Hit is eall soð, and ƿyrse þonne þu ƿenst.”
“???”, she said. “It is ???, and ??? you want.”
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Something I noticed is between 1500 and 2000, the language changes very little. A lot of it is just spelling, but the words themselves are pretty clear, and the word order is maybe “poetic” by modern standards but also not particularly strange.
Then 1300 to 1400 seem to be like a transition period. Anything older than 1200 seems to be an entirely different language.
Is there a reason why there’s something partially-recognizable, then 200 years of change, followed by 500 years of a seemingly-stable state?
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The stability comes from a lot of things, but the most important are standardisation of spelling (due to the creation of dictionaries) and standardisation of orthography due to printing. In many ways it was ease of printing that did away with the variant letters (especially things like the initial long s, which persisted for a while but then was done away with) — or so they taught me in my printing course (a long time ago).
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Ohhh and the printing press (according to a quick Wikipedia search) was invented in 1440. That tracks.
Yep! The way I teach it in my “Language, Technology, and Society” course, all writing systems are heavily optimized. They’re just optimized for different things. English writing is so difficult to learn that we’ve turned learning to read and write into a sport with national televised competitions, so we’re clearly not optimizing for that. What are we optimizing for?
We typically debate it for a while, and the conclusion I try to push the students toward is: we’ve optimized our spelling for consistency and continuity. It’s very important to us (“us” being the global English-speaking population) that we be able to understand each other in writing, no matter how much our dialects have diverged in pronunciation, and also very important that we be able to read historical texts without (much) editing.
And the big impetus for this particular set of priorities developing was, primarily, the printing press and everything that came with it. Consistency between dialects only really matters once written materials and literacy are widespread. If only the clergy ever learn to read and write (because a single page of text is one person-day of labor), why bother using English at all?
Chinese writing was, historically, pretty similar to that. Until the whole simplification thing, their highest priorities were consistency of spelling across widely-varying dialects, and continuity with centuries of past history.
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I’ve tried to add what you had missing in the last lines:
1100 final lines
“Is þæt soð?” cƿæþ ic, forþon þe ic naht ne ƿiste.
“Is that so?” I said, for I knew nothing.
(technically “for though I nothing know” I think? forþon þe is because)
(wiste as in wise, if I remember rightly)
“Ic ƿende þæt ic mihte heonon faren sƿa ic com.”
“I want to ??? go ??? so I come.”
I hoped that I might go on from here like I came
(wende is from “wen” — expectation/hope)
“Gea la,” cƿæð heo. “Hit is eall soð, and ƿyrse þonne þu ƿenst.”
“???”, she said. “It is ???, and ??? you want.”
“Yes!” she said. “It is all true, and worse than you hoped.”
(gea la seems to mean “yea indeed!”, where la is just an interjection. So “Yes indeed” or “Yes, yes!” or “yes, lo!” or just “Yes!”)
(soð as in sooth, as in “soothsay”. ƿenst, is again from “wen”)
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Much appreciated! Now we just need someone who can figure out 1000…
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That’s for tomorrow I’ve got some of the gist (and of course the end of the article gives a very rough summary) but not the details.
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