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I know “odd British pronunciations” is a hoary old trope, and we’ve had posts about it before, but I was struck when looking something up in my trusty BBC Pronouncing Dictionary of British Names by the density of names with unpredictable pronunciations on the spread pp. 70-71. Many of them, of course, are easy enough, e.g. Heriot [ˈherɪət] (hérriot), but around half seemed worth reproducing here:

Helwick Shoals and lightship [ˈhelɪk] (héllick)
Hely, f.n. [ˈhilɪ] (heeli)
Helyer, f.n. [ˈhelɪər] (hélli-er)
Heman, f.n. [ˈhimən] (heeman)
Heming, f.n. [ˈhemɪŋ] (hémming)
Hemingbrough [ˈhemɪŋbrʌf] (hémming-bruff)
Hemmerde, f.n. [ˈhemərdɪ] (hémmerdi)
Hene [ˈhinɪ] (heeni)
Heneage, f.n. [ˈhenɪdʒ] (hénnij) Appropriate also for the Barony of ~.
Henebery [ˈhenɪbərɪ] (hénneberi)
Heneghan, f.n. [ˈhenɪgən] (hénnegan)
Heneglwys [henˈegluɪs] (henégloo-iss)
Heneker, fm. [ˈhenɪkər] (hénneker)
Henig, f.n. [ˈhenɪg] (hénnig)
Henlere, f.n. [ˈhenlɪər] (hénleer)
Henriques, f.n. (henˈrikɪz] (henreekez)
Hepburn, f.n. [ˈheb3rn] (hébburn); [ˈhebərn] (hébbŭrn)
Hepburn [ˈheb3rn] (hébbŭrn)
Heppell, f.n. [ˈhepl] (heppl)
Hereford [ˈherɪfərd] (hérreferd) Appropriate also for Viscount ~.
Hergest Ridge [ˈhargɪst] (haargest)
Herklots, f.n. [ˈh3rklɒts] (hérklots)
Herkness, f.n. [ˈharknɪs] (haarkness)
Hermges, f.n. [ˈh3rmdʒiz] (hérmjeez)
Herries, Baron [ˈherɪs] (hérriss)
Herstmonceux, also spelt Hurstmonceux, Hurstmonceaux [ˌh3rstmənˈsju] (herstmo6n-séw); [ˌh3rstmənˈsu] (herst-mon-soo)
Hertford [ˈharfərd] (haarford) Appropriate also for the Marquess of ~.
Hertingfordbury [ˈhartɪŋfərdberɪ] (haartingfordberri)
Hervey, f.n. [ˈharvɪ] (haarvi)
Herwald, f.n. [ˈh3rwəld] (hérwald)
Heseltine, f.n. [ˈhesltain] (héssltin) Also the pronunciation of Peter Warlock, composer, for his nom-de-plume of Philip ~.
Heselton, f.n. [ˈhesltən] (hésslton)
Hesilrige, f.n. [ˈhezɪlrɪdʒ] (hézzilrij)
Hesleden [ˈhesldən] (hésslden)
Hesmondhalgh, f.n. [ˈhezməndhælʃ] (hézmənd-halsh) ; [ˈhezməndhɔ] (hézmond-haw)
Hespe, f.n. [hesp] (hessp)
Hessé, f.n. [ˈhesɪ] (héssi)
Hessle [ˈhezl] (hezzl)
Hethel [ˈhiθl] (heethl) ; [ˈheθl] (hethl)
Heugh, f.n. [hju] (hew)
Heugh, Northumberland [hjuf] (hewf)
Hever [ˈhivər] (heever)
Hewardine, f.n. [ˈhjuərdin] (héw-ardeen)
Heyrod [ˈherəd] (hérred)
Heysham [ˈhiʃəm] (hee-sham)
Heyshott [ˈheɪʃɒt] (hay-shot)
Heythrop [ˈhiθrəp] (heethrop) Appropriate also for the ~ Hunt.
Hibaldstow [ˈhɪblstoʊ] (hibblsto)
High Legh [ˈhaɪ ˈli] (hi lee)
High Wych [ˈhaɪ ˈwaɪtʃ] (hi witch)
High Wycombe [ˈhaɪ ˈwɪkəm] (hi wickem)
Higham, f.n. [ˈhaɪəm] (hi-am)
Higham, East Suffolk, West Suffolk [ˈhaɪəm] (hi-em); [ˈhɪgəm] (higgam)
Higham, Yorks. [ˈhaɪəm] (hi-em); [ˈhɪkəm] (hickam)
Hinchingbrooke, Viscountcy of [ˈhɪnʃɪŋ-brʊk] (hinshing-brook)
Hindolveston, also spelt Hindolvestone [ˈhɪndlˈvestən] (hindlvéston); [ˈhilvistən]
(hilvéston)
Hindsley, f.n. [ˈhaɪndzlɪ] (hindzli)
Hinwick [ˈhɪnɪk] (hinnick)
Hiorns, f.n. [ˈhaɪərnz] (hi-ornz)
Hippisley, f.n. [ˈhɪpslɪ] (hipsli)
Hiron, f.n. [ˈhaɪərɒn] (hiron)
Hirwaun, also spelt Hirwain [ˈhɪərwaɪn] (heerwin); [ˈh3rwɪn] (hirwin)
Hoathly, East and West [hoʊθˈlaɪ] (hoth-li)
Hodder & Stoughton, publishers [ˈhɒdər ənd ˈstautən] (hodder and stowton)
Hodghton, f.n. [ˈhɒdʒtən] (hojton)
Hoenes, f.n. [ˈhoʊnes] (honess)
Hogarth, fm. [ˈhoʊgarθ] (hogaarth); [ˈhɒgərt] (hoggart) The first is traditional for William ~, painter and engraver. The second is usual in Cumberland and Westmorland.
Hoggan, f.n. [ˈhɒgən] (hoggan)
Hoggard, f.n. [ˈhɒgard] (hoggaard)
Hoggarth, f.n. [ˈhɒgərt] (hoggart)
Hogh, f.n. [hoʊ] (ho)
Hoghton, f.n. [ˈhɔtən] (hawton)

Boy, that was a lot more work than I expected — I think I’ve got the bracketed pronunciations right, but the respelled ones in parens are catch-as-catch-can: I haven’t tried to reproduce the breves and what have you. I trust you’ll get the idea.

The excellent Trevor Joyce, source of so many things both poetic and bloggic, alerted me to this amazing passage from The kings tovvre and triumphant arch of London. A sermon preached at Pauls Crosse, August. 5. 1622. By Samuel Purchas, Bacheler of Diuinitie, and parson of Saint Martins Ludgate, in London:

O London, which art rich at home, and needest none other World, then Brittaine, how hast thou extended thy Trade into all parts of Europe?

Coeli & soli bonis omnibus donata, thou hast twice, with thy long Armes, embraced the whole Globe; art made delicate with Russian Furres; fed, when need is, with Corne from Danske, and Poland; whom the Germanes present with rare Artifices; Italians, with Silks, Stuffes, Veluets; the French and Spaniard, with Wines and Oyle; the Belgians, with Wares for thy Peace, and Warres for thy superfluous bloud; the Mountaynes of Norway, descend that thy houses may ascend; Narue and the Easterlings are thy Calkers and Riggers for thy Ships; Iseland, New-foundland, and the North-seas furnish thee with Fish; Turkie, with Carpets; Barbarie and the Negroes, with Gold, and Creatures for thy pleasure: the Northwest hath opened her various passages to thee, and if Nature denyed not, would giue the thorow-fare: Greenland melteth her huge Whale-monsters, to doe thee seruice: the Ilands, which Nature had almost lost in the Ocean, are found out by thy Mariners: the Red Sea hath been awed, and the Turks afraid, lest thou shouldst stop vp that mouth of Mahomet: the Mogoll’s, Persian’s, Moscouite’s, large Dominions are thy thorow-fare, thy Staples: Thou hast strewed thy Factories alongst the East euen to Iapan, and sowen and reaped Wealth and Honour in the Ocean. How doe the most remote parts send in their Commodities both for thy profit and pleasure? while, by the way, Saldania, Saint Augustines, Saint Helena, and other places yeeld refreshing to thy Merchants and Mariners; Siam, sendeth the Lignum Aloes, Beniamin, rich Stones; Socodanna, Diamonds; China, Raw Silke, Porcellane, Taffata, Veluets, Damaske, Muske, Sewing-gold, Embroydered Hangings; Macassar, and Patania, Bezars; Baly, Slaues for thy Merchants Indian vses; Timore, White-sanders and Waxe, Banda, Nutmegs and Oyle; the Molucca’s, Cloues; Iapan, Dyes, Salt-peeter, Siluer; Guinnee, dying-wood, Oyster-trees, Guinny-pepper; Zocotora, Ciuet-cats, and Aloes; Arabian Red-Sea-Moha, Indian and Arabian Commodities; Cambaya, Cloth, Carpets, Quilts, Spikenard, Turbith, Cinnamon; Surat, Indicoe’s Callicoes, Pintadoe’s, Chado[r]s, Shashes, Girdles, Cannakens, Treckanees, Senabafs, Aleias, Patolla’s, Sellas, Greene-ginger, Lignum Aloes, Suckets, Opium, Sal-armoniacke, and abundance of Drugges; Balsora, Pearles; Zeilon, Cinnamon; Iambe, great grain’d Pepper; as Priaman, Passaman, best Pepper, and Gold; the East of Africa, Gold and Amber-greese. These, with many more, conspire to make thee Great. Thou hast not, as of old, visited the New-world, but hast made (not Ireland alone, but) Bermuda’s frequent and populous; Virginia, to multiply in Townes and Hundreths; besides, New-England, New-found-land, and other thy Plantations; O magnae spes altera Brittaniae. Virginia! I will repeat of thee, which I said before of thy Royall Godmother, which named thee Virginia, O quam te memorem virgo? thy louely cheekes, alas, lately blushed with Virginian-English bloud: but how soone? and thy blush being turned to indignation, thou shalt wash, hast washed thy feet in the bloud of those natiue vnnaturall Traytors, and now becommest a pure English Virgin; a new other Brittaine, in that new other World: and let all English say and pray, GOD BLESSE VIRGINIA.

How rich a piece of writing! how many exotic names of wares: Pintadoe’s, Chadois, Shashes, Cannakens, Treckanees, Senabafs, Aleias, Patolla’s, Sellas! And Place-names both familiar (China) or easily recognizable (Iapan, Zeilon) and mysterious (what or where is Saldania? or Iambe?), and the rhetorickal Turnes (“with Wares for thy Peace, and Warres for thy superfluous bloud”), and the wondrous Participles (sowen!); truly one could spend hours luxuriating in Purchas his Prose.

Continuing to look through Michael Weiss’s Elementary Lessons in Tocharian B (see yesterday’s post), I was struck by a word in this passage:

In Classical Tocharian B ä and a, on the one hand, and a and ā, on the other, are in an alternation governed by the position of the stress. These rules are not yet in place in the archaic texts. In general, disyllabic words have initial stress and tri- and more syllabic words have stress on the second syllable from the left edge of the word, so-called peninitial stress. In tonic position ä becomes a and in atonic position ā become[s] a.

Who was so-called peninitial stress so called by? Not me, I didn’t remember ever encountering the word (though it turns out it occurs in a passage quoted by DM here); while I can see the rationale for it (if stress on the next-to-last syllable is penultimate, why can’t stress on the syllable after the first be peninitial?), I don’t like the word — it looks too much like penitential. It’s not in the OED, but there’s a Wiktionary page which says it’s “(chiefly linguistics),” and a Google Books search confirmed that. But I was a grad student in linguistics; why didn’t I know the word? Judging from the Google Books hits, it seems to have gotten going in the 1980s, just after I had gotten gone from the field. Are Hatters familiar with it?

Nelson Goering in a Facebook post showed an image of a footnote from Kuśiññe Kantwo: Elementary Lessons in Tocharian B by Michael Weiss (p. xx fn. 31) that I couldn’t resist posting here:

Don Ringe related the following story, which he heard from Warren Cowgill: In the early course of the decipherment “Sieg could tell from the names in a Tocharian text he was working on that it was a Buddhist text, but he couldn’t figure out which. One night he dreamt that he got up, went to his library, took a particular book, opened it to a particular page, and there was the Sanskrit parallel. Upon waking he did exactly that and found the parallel.” The story may be apocryphal, but names have often played a key role in decipherment from Grotefend’s and Champollion’s day on.

(Cowgill was the director of my ill-fated dissertation half a century ago.) Weiss’s book looks useful and readable; the preface begins:

There are now many excellent resources for learning the structure and grammar of the Tocharian languages, but there are few resources for learning to read the languages. The natural person to write such an introductory textbook would be one of the great Tocharianists, but they have better things to do. So, on the principle “fools rush in, etc.,” I’ve put together twenty lessons that will introduce the basic grammar of Tocharian B — generally regarded as the more archaic and interesting of the two languages for Indo-European purposes — and a vocabulary of about 500 words. The first ten lessons present the rudiments of the synchronic phonology, morphology, and major syntactic topics. Lessons 11-20 cover some diachronic topics and continue the presentation of the syntax. My models are the bare-bones introductory texts of yesteryear (Perry, Quin, the original Wheelock) and the excellent Sanskrit samizdat of Craig Melchert.

And here’s what he has to say about the names of the languages:
[Read more…]

A couple of place names that have recently crossed my path:

1) I enjoyed the 1952 movie Macao and followed the action as best I could on a map I happen to have (there were a pleasing number of geographical references, including shots of street signs); a scene set at the A-Ma Temple led me to look it up and discover it is “one of the oldest in Macau and thought to be the settlement’s namesake,” and sure enough, the Etymology section of the Wikipedia Macau article says:

The first known written record of the name Macau, rendered as A Ma Gang (亞/阿-媽/馬-港), is found in a letter dated 20 November 1555. The local inhabitants believed that the sea goddess Matsu (alternatively called A-Ma) had blessed and protected the harbour and referred to the waters around A-Ma Temple by her name. When Portuguese explorers first arrived in the area and asked for the place name, the locals thought they were asking about the temple and told them it was Ma Kok (媽閣). The earliest Portuguese spelling for this was Amaquão. Multiple variations were used until Amacão / Amacao and Macão / Macao became common during the 17th century.

It has a whiff of folk etymology (people love those “the locals told them” stories), but it could certainly be true.

2) Ian Frazier’s latest New Yorker piece (archived) mentions Prudhoe Bay, and it occurred to me to wonder how that name is pronounced — I mentally said it /ˈprʌd-hoʊ/ (PRUD-ho) but had no confidence in that. So I went to Wikipedia and to my horror saw /ˈpruːdoʊ/ (PROO-doh). To get a second opinion I went to my old standby, Merriam Webster’s Geographical Dictionary, and sure enough it said the same thing. But above it was the name of the Northumberland town that (via Algernon Percy, Lord Prudhoe) gave the place in Alaska its name, and that had the pronunciation /ˈprʌd-(h)oʊ/ (PRUD-(h)o). Having learned distrust, I turned to the BBC Pronouncing Dictionary of British Names and found the same thing — but Wikipedia has /ˈprʌdə/ (PRUD-ə)! And I don’t know whether the change from /ˈprʌd-/ to /ˈpruːd-/ happened because of Algernon or Alaskans. It’s enough to drive a man to drink.

I’m not a great fan of the opera Carmen, but Larry Wolff’s NYRB review (February 22, 2024; archived) of a recent Met production has some material of Hattic interest:

In Carmen, first performed in Paris in 1875, Georges Bizet created a Mediterranean musical world in elegant French style. Spanish song and dance fascinated nineteenth-century Paris […]. The Metropolitan Opera’s new production, directed by Carrie Cracknell and premiered on New Year’s Eve, sets the opera in contemporary America, possibly in the vicinity of the Mexican border, where Latin rhythms would not be out of place.

Carmen is an entertainer. This is clear from her very first appearance, singing the erotically descending phrases of the “Habanera” and then the sinuous “Seguidilla” later in the first act. For Bizet, Carmen’s artistry is closely tied to her Andalusian origins and Roma identity. The “Habanera,” named for Havana, borrows its Afro-Cuban inflections from a piece by the Spanish Basque composer Sebastián Yradier, who had visited Cuba. […]

Bizet set the second act in the inn of Lillas Pastia in Seville, where Carmen and her two best friends give a cabaret performance; the lyrics celebrate the “strange music” of the Roma—“ardent, crazy, fevered”—and reference Basque tambours and frenzied guitars. At the Met there is no Andalusian inn; the act takes place inside the trailer of the hijacked truck racing along the highway. It is a spectacular update, a cabaret in motion, and the twenty-seven-year-old mezzo-soprano Aigul Akhmetshina, dancing in denim short-shorts and shiny blue cowboy boots, handled every sensual ornamentation in Carmen’s vocal lines with youthful agility. Akhmetshina played Carmen not as the more usual worldly femme fatale but as a teenage rebel without a cause, which gave a different sense to the character’s recklessness, volatile sexuality, risky romances, and impulsive confrontations. […]

[Read more…]

We’ve discussed Ryan Starkey before, but I recently took a look at his website, Starkey Comics (“Colourful images about culture and language”), and was astonished at the breadth of his coverage. Check out Etymologies of Endonyms and Exonyms, which currently includes The etymologies of Georgia, Georgia, and Sakartvelo; The Etymology of Croatia and Hrvatska; The Etymology of Myanmar and Burma; and The Etymology of Japan and Nippon — I’m sure holes can be picked in details here and there, but it’s so nice to see etymologies laid out in such pleasing graphic form, and his discussion of Burma/Myanmar is exemplary:

Burma was the earlier exonym for this southeast Asian nation in English, and is derived from the informal, spoken form of the endonym “Bama”.
“Bama” evolved from the more formal/literary form of the endonym, “Mranma”.
In 1989 the official English name of the country changed to “Myanmar”, a Latinised form of Mranma”, although “Burma” remains in use in many places, including the adjective form and name of the main language (Burmese).
Both “Burma” and “Myanmar” contain the letter “r”, despite being borrowed from Burmese words without an “r” in those positions. This is because Burma was a British colony, and majority of the accents of England are non-rhotic: the letter “r” is always silent when not before a vowel, and is simply there to modify the preceding vowel.
So an “r” was added to the spelling of both simply to show that the preceding vowel was long, not because it was ever intended to be pronounced.

There’s Austronesian words for ‘two’, Indo-European Words for Ten, The Etymology of Every Toki Pona Word, and much, much more. Enjoy!

Our nightly reading these days is Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet, which I first read three decades ago and have very much been wanting to revisit; at close to 2,000 pages, it should occupy our bedtimes well into next year. The first novel, The Jewel in the Crown (also the title of the superb television serial made from it), is online at archive.org for anyone who wants to sample it; I thought I’d post this passage for its linguistic interest:

The teacher at the Chillianwallah Bazaar school, whose pupils were all Indian, was a middle-aged, tall, thin, dark-skinned Madrassi Christian, Mr F. Narayan: the F for Francis, after St Francis of Assisi. In his spare time, of which he had a great deal, and to augment his income, of which he had little, Mr Narayan wrote what he called Topics for the local English language weekly newspaper, The Mayapore Gazette. In addition, his services were available as a letter-writer, and these were services used by both his Hindu and Muslim neighbours. He could converse fluendy in Urdu and Hindi and the local vernacular, and wrote an excellent Urdu and Hindi script, as well as his native Tamil and acquired Roman-English.

“Roman-English” doesn’t convey anything to me; I’m guessing it might mean English written in the Roman alphabet, but how else would it be written? All suggestions welcome.

Also, just because it was preying on me and I’m pleased to have solved the puzzle: I’m enjoying my new Blu-ray of Béla Tarr’s Sátántangó, notorious for its 439-minute running time (I’m following my brother’s advice and taking it in chunks, easy to do since it’s divided into twelve parts), and today I watched the sixth part, “A pók dolga II (Ördögcsecs, sátántangó) [The Job of the Spider II (The Devil’s Tit, Satan’s Tango)],” which takes place in a bar where everyone is getting increasingly drunk. One character, Kelemen, keeps repeating the same phrases over and over until you want to slug him, and the most frequently repeated was subtitled “I was plodding and plodding” (it’s the first thing you hear in this YouTube clip). Of course I wanted to know what the Hungarian was, and I think I’ve finally figured out it’s vágtattam (see the conjugation here), which means ‘I galloped.’ I don’t know why the translator went with “plodding,” but it seems misleading.

Update. It would appear rather to be baktattam, from baktat ‘plod, trudge, walk slowly’; see Xerîb’s comment below.

My wife and I were talking about sukiyaki (which her mother had enjoyed in a NYC Japanese restaurant sometime in the 1930s-’40s) and I wondered how far back it went in English; the OED, in a 1986 entry, takes it back to 1920 (“Another name by which this dish [sc. nabe] is usually known outside of Tokyo, is suki-yaki. This is derived from suki, which means a spade, and yaki, to cook”), but I figured that could be easily antedated using Google Books, and sure enough I quickly found a hit from 1915 1912 [thanks, ktschwarz!] (something about a “sukiyaki room” in a new Japanese social club in NYC). The most entertaining find, though, was Takeo Oha’s NY Times piece from July 6, 1919 (which you can read without the OCR errors in the Herald of Asia reprint at Google Books); it starts:

Now that the Atlantic has been crossed in the short span of sixteen hours by airplanes, the world has become a very small place indeed. Already aviators are turning their eyes to the Pacific. Soon we may expect to see the United States of America and Japan drawn much closer together by quick aerial transportation and with the shrinking of the ocean may the mutual understanding and friendship of our two nations become the greater. But New Yorkers need not wait for quick aerial transportation to visit Japan. Japan has come to New York.

The part of LH interest comes a few paragraphs later:

There are two vernacular newspapers, one weekly and the other semi-weekly. Doubtless any subscriber to any other New York newspaper could dispense with these without serious danger of backwardness in news. In consequence their readers hover in the neighborhood of the unlucrative two thousands. The parlor game, commonly christened “ta-maya” among my compatriots, has practically become one of the standard features of Coney Island and other New York Summer resorts. From a mercenary point of view the business is good and forms the best Summer side line. Really you need not be an infallible shot in order to turn a cigarette package target into your coveted prize at 50 cents or win a 5-cent doll by rolling away dollars at the Japanese ball game. Business is business, the Japanese has learned.

This metropolis may boast of no less than a dozen Japanese restaurants. Your casual visit will introduce you to fresh sliced fish taken raw, seasoned bamboo shoots, and lotus root and pickled radish served on the same table with “sukiyaki,” palatable at least to the Japanese. “Sukiyaki,” a compound word still unauthorized in any standard English dictionary, is the Japanese “quick lunch,” eaten while being cooked on a small charcoal table stove. Beef, onions, cabbage, beancurd, and other vegetable additions, not forgetting Japanese soy, sugar, and a little sake, are ready to be prepared in a shallow pan á la japonaise on the fire. The rest devolves upon you and your company, ladies not honorably excluded! A great time saving it is for the proprietor, this having his guests prepare their own meals! Though a fairly comprehensive menu is obtainable, Geisha girl entertainment, the Japanese equivalent to New York’s cabarets, is still unobtainable. Rice cakes have risen to a conspicuous place lately and have usurped a position in the bill of fare of chop suey restaurants. Their taste is the same as in Tokyo, but their price is different, as any sen-beiya-san (Japan rice-cake man) in New York City can tell you.

Note the use of “the Japanese” for a single Japanese person, a phenomenon we’ve discussed somewhere, and the Orientalizing “honorably”; what interests us, however, is the mention of “sukiyaki” as not occurring in any standard English dictionary, which of course makes sense at that early date. But I’m also curious about the parlor game called here “ta-maya”; does anybody know what that might be referring to? Google has been of no help to me; I’ve only found 霊屋 tamaya ‘mausoleum; (temporary) resting place of a corpse.’

This is one of those situations where I idly wonder about where a common word — in this case, abandon — comes from, and fall down a rabbit hole. The OED has revised its entry relatively recently (2011); it says the verb is from Anglo-Norman and Middle French (h)abandoner, “apparently either < abandon abandon n.¹ or directly < the phrase a bandon (see abandon adv.),” so let’s check those out. The noun:

< Anglo-Norman abandun, abaundun abandonment, surrender (first half of the 13th cent. or earlier) and Middle French abandon power, jurisdiction, discretion (12th cent. in Old French (see phrases below); French abandon; also in sense ‘freedom from constraint’ (1607 in en abandon without constraint)) < a bandon (see abandon adv.).

OK, let’s see abandon adv:

< Anglo-Norman a bandun, a baundoun, a baundun, Anglo-Norman and Old French, Middle French a bandon under (one’s) jurisdiction or control (c1176 in mettre a bandon: see note), freely, willingly (c1230 or earlier), in abundance (c1230 or earlier), unrestrainedly (late 12th cent. or earlier), completely (c1235 or earlier) < a at, to (see a- prefix⁵) + bandon bandon n. Compare to be at a person’s bandon at bandon n. 1.

Notes
With sense 1 [‘Under control or authority; at one’s disposal’] compare Anglo-Norman aver a bandun, to have in one’s jurisdiction, under one’s control (first half of the 14th cent. or earlier), Anglo-Norman and Middle French mettre a bandon, mettre a son bandon to put under one’s jurisdiction, leave to one’s mercy (c1176), to entrust (second half of the 12th cent. or earlier). With sense 2 [‘At one’s own will or discretion, without interference or restraint’] compare Middle French a son bandon at his pleasure. Compare also the phrases cited at abandon n.¹

The entry for bandon n. ‘Jurisdiction, authority, dominion, control’ hasn’t been revised since 1885, so let’s check Merriam-Webster’s verb etymology for the rest of the story:

Middle English abandounen, borrowed from Anglo-French abanduner, derivative of abandun “surrender, abandonment,” from the phrase a bandun “in one’s power, at one’s disposal,” from a “at, to” (going back to Latin ad “to”) + bandun “jurisdiction,” going back to a Gallo-Romance derivative of Old Low Franconian *bann- “summons, command” (with -d- probably from outcomes of Germanic *bandwō “sign”) — more at at entry 1, ban entry 1, banner entry 1

I confess I did not go down those final rabbit holes; I abandoned the quest, as you might say. But there’s plenty there to chew on.