We have certain proof that the series of changes which resulted in the

formation of High German took place subsequently to the overthrow of the

Roman Empire. Latin words for instance like (_via_) _strata_ or _campus_,

adopted by the Teutons during the era of their wars with Rome, are found

in both Low and High German in the very forms which the application of

Grimm’s law would require them to have were they native words. Thus

_strata_, Low German _strata_, our _street_, becomes _straza_ in Old High

German, _campus_, our _camp_, similarly becomes _kamph_, _kampf_. The

Hessians were called Catti in Roman times, and though now High Germans,

had the same ancestors as the Batavi, from whom the modern Dutch draw

their descent, while the Malbergian glosses show the language of the

Franks to have been Low German, although the Franconians of to-day,

who are descended from the same stock as the Suabians and Ripuarians,

speak High German. Here, at any rate, we have an instance of a series of

varieties finally resulting in a new language in historical times.

It must not be supposed that all the changes of pronunciation that

serve to distinguish one branch of the Aryan stock from another took

place simultaneously. On the contrary, they were slow and gradual; first

one and then another new fashion in sounding words sprang up and became

general: when once the new pronunciation had, from any cause, taken a

firm hold of the community, analogy caused every word to be submitted to

its influence, unless special reasons, such as accent, stood in the way,

until in course of time the process of shifting the sounds was completed.

An instructive illustration of this shifting of sounds has lately been

going on almost under our eyes. In the Samoan Islands of the Pacific

only fifteen years ago _k_ was an unknown sound except in one small

island of the group, where it replaced _t_. Since then it has practically

disappeared from all of them, and _t_ has taken its place. What makes the

rapidity of the change the more extraordinary is that the speakers of the

language live on separate islands, and that intercourse between them is

less intimate now, according to Mr. Whitmee, than it was in the days of

heathenism. And yet in spite of books and schools, in spite of education

and every effort to check it, the change has come about. The natives

will ridicule the foreigner who pronounces in the new fashion, they will

themselves take pains to sound the _k_ when reading aloud or making a

set speech, but in conversation it has ceased to be heard. The tendency

to put _k_ for _t_ seems to be irresistible; it is in the air, like an

epidemic, and the spelling, so recently introduced, no longer represents

the common pronunciation of the people.[192]

We must be on our guard against thinking that the sounds represented

by the same letter of the alphabet in different languages are really

identical. We have seen of what numberless variations each sound that

we utter is capable, and it does not follow that because the Sanskrit

_cha_ and the English _church_ are written with the same palatal _ch_,

that therefore they are to be pronounced alike. And what is true of the

consonants is still more true of the vowels. There is much to show that

the European scale of three short vowels—_ă_, _ĕ_, _ŏ_—is more primitive

than the Indic single vowel _ă_, in which three distinct vowel-sounds

of the parent-speech have coalesced, but we cannot infer from this that

the three vowel-sounds of the parent-speech were actually _ă_, _ĕ_, and

_ŏ_. Indeed, when we remember that the Greek ἕκατον (for ἕν-καντον)

corresponds to the Latin _centum_, while _ferentis_ is represented by

φέροντος, it is quite clear that the Latin _ĕ_ must have developed out

of one or more sounds which were distinct from it. In dealing with the

hypothetical Parent-Aryan it is best, with Brugman, to symbolize these

three primitive vowels as _a_¹, _a_², and _a_³.[193] It is possible that

some at least of the earlier sounds out of which more than one articulate

sound have afterwards developed, were of a vague indeterminate character,

not properly-formed vowel utterances. Professor Max Müller[194] quotes

authorities to prove that in the Sandwich Islands _k_ and _t_ are

undistinguished, and that “it takes months of patient labour to teach a

Hawaian youth the difference between _k_ and _t_, _g_ and _d_, _l_ and

_r_.”[195] The confusion between _k_ and _t_, however, has already been

explained by the similar fact observed in Samoan where the sound has

actually changed within the last fifteen years, a distinctly-articulated

_k_ becoming an equally distinctly-articulated _t_. But even in English

we find people saying _a cleast_ instead of _at least_, while at Paris

and elsewhere the lower classes say _amikié_ for _amitié_, _charkier_

for _charretier_, _crapu_ for _trapu_.[196] So in the old Paris argot

_j’équions_ stood for _j’étais_, and in Canada the uneducated part

of the population says _mékier_ for _métier_, _moikié_ for _moitié_.

Bleek, again, writes of the Setshuana dialects: “One is justified to

consider _r_ in these dialects as a sort of floating letter, and rather

intermediate between _l_ and _r_, than a decided _r_ sound.”[197] To

these instances of confusion between two consonants which Professor Max

Müller believes to be “a characteristic of the lower stages of human

speech,” may be added the fluctuation between two forms of the same sound

in the North German dialects, where no distinction is made between surd

and sonant _mediæ_, as well as in many of the Armenian dialects.[198] But

we must bear in mind that this childlike inability to distinguish between

sounds may be due to two very different causes. It may be a result either

of the sound being formed at the neutral point, as it were, intermediate

between two distinct sounds, or of the ear being unable to discriminate

between different articulations. The latter cause is analogous to

colour-blindness, and has most to do with the imperfections of childish

utterance or the substitution of _r_ for _l_ so often heard; the other

cause is of a purely phonetic character, and takes us back to the time

when man was gradually fashioning the elements of articulate speech.

This infantile state of language had probably been long left behind by

the cultivated speakers of the Parent-Aryan; indeed, the very existence

of the three vowels marked _a_₁, _a_₂, and _a_₃, would imply that such

was the fact. If there was any confusion in the pronunciation of their

words it would have to be ascribed rather to sound-blindness than to

imperfection of utterance.

The regular action of Grimm’s law may be interfered with by the

influence of other laws, just as in physical science the regular action

of the law of attraction may be interfered with from time to time.

Foremost among these disturbing agencies is the accent. K. Verner has

shown[199] that the position of the accent has occasioned that apparent

disregard of Grimm’s law in the Teutonic languages which has produced

_mutter_ and _vater_ (O. H. G. _muotar_ and _fatar_) by the side of

_bruder_ (O. H. G. _brôpar_), _sieben_ (Goth. _sibun_) by the side of

_fünf_ (Anglo-Saxon _fîf_), _schwieger_ (O. H. G. _swigar_ = ἑκυρὰ,

_so-cru-s_) by the side of _heil_ (Greek καλός), or such a curious change

in the conjugation of the same verb as the Anglo-Saxon _lîðe_,“I sail,”

but _liden_, “sailed.” The same cause has brought about the varying

representation of an original _ſ_ now by _s_, and now by _z_ or _r_. In

the Veda, _bhrâtar_ is accented on the first syllable, like the Greek

φράτηρ, _mâtár_ and _pitár_ on the last, again like the Greek μητήρ and

πατήρ. _Sieben_ answers to the Vedic _saptán_, the Greek ἑπτά, whereas

_fünf_ is the Vedic _pánchan_ and Greek πέντε. _Schwieger_ similarly

goes back to the Vedic _´swa´srû´_, Greek ἑκυρά, just as the O. H. G.

_snura_ from _snuza_ goes back to the Vedic _snushâ´_, Greek νυός, in

contradistinction to _nase_, _nose_, the Vedic _nâ´sa_, the Lithuanian

_nósis_. If we turn to the verb, we find that in Anglo-Saxon, whereas the

present _lîðe_, “(I) sail,” corresponds with a Vedic _bhédâmi_, and the

singular of the past tense _lâð_ with a Vedic _bibhéda_, the plural of

the preterite _lidon_ corresponds with a Vedic _bibhidús_.[200]

There are other influences besides that of the accent which may

change and mar the face of words. Although every change takes place in

strict accordance with phonetic laws, and is consequently capable of

explanation, the occurrence of the changes is more or less sporadic and

arbitrary. That is to say, they may act upon one word and not upon its

neighbour. In _should_ or _would_, for instance, _l_ has been assimilated

to _d_, but in _fold_ and _cold_ it still maintains its existence.

Such changes may be either independent or dependent on the action of

surrounding sounds. The diversification of the Teutonic _a_ into _e_ and

_o_, or the transition of the Latin _ĭ_ and _ŭ_ into Romanic _e_ and

_o_ are instances of independent change. So, too, the modern English

pronunciation of the vowels with passive lips, and the consequent loss

of the intermediate vowels _ü_ and _ö_, is another example of the same

facts. Wherever, indeed, these intermediate vowel-sounds exist, we may

feel sure that the lips take an active part in articulation. In all these

cases the change happens in the formation of the sound, uninfluenced by

the neighbourhood of other sounds. The extension of a simple vowel into

a diphthong may also be brought under this head, though the presence of

the circumflex accent seems to have much to do with it. On the other

hand, changes in the dentals, the passage of _z_ into _r_ and _r_ into

_l_, or the transition from a guttural to a palatal and a dental, are all

examples of purely independent change. When we find an Aryan _kw_ (_k_²)

and _gw_ becoming _ch_ and _j_ in Sanskrit or τ in Greek, we merely see

the gradual forward movement of the tongue, which is moved with less

exertion towards its tip than towards its root. The change of Aryan _kw_

and _gw_ into _p_ and _b_ in Greek (as in πίσυρες and βίος[201]) is held

by Sievers to be due to a sudden “leap” in the articulation, _k_ and _g_

partially assimilating the second part of each compound into _p_ and _b_,

and then falling away altogether.

Most of the changes recorded in Grimm’s law may be brought under the head

of independent change. No doubt the transition of _g_, _d_, _b_, into

_k_, _t_, and _p_ in German is partially dependent upon the accent, but

the growth of an aspirate out of a _tenuis_, as exemplified in the Irish

pronunciation of English, is probably due to nothing but an increase in

the energy and duration with which our breath is expired. The want of the

stress accent brings about the shortening and loss of final vowels, the

tonic accent, on the other hand, tending to lengthen them.

The changes caused by the action of one sound upon another may be

divided into those which are due to assimilation, and those that are not.

In either case the time occupied in pronouncing the changed sound remains

the same as it was before; it is only in cases of independent change that

it may differ. Assimilation is effected in one of two ways. The relative

positions of the vocal organs needed for the pronunciation of two sounds

may be made to approximate, as in the reduction of _ai_ (_a_ + _i_) to

_e_, or the time that elapses between the pronunciation of two sounds may

be reduced or destroyed altogether, as when _supmus_ becomes _summus_.

Where the change is not due to assimilation, it will be found to depend

on an alteration in the time needed for the formation of two or more

sounds.

Assimilation may be regressive, progressive, or reciprocal. Regressive

assimilation is where a sound is assimilated to that which follows it,

as in ἕννυμι for ϝεσ-νυμι, from the root _vas_, or ποσσί, for ποδ-σι

(ποδ-σϝ-ι), and γράμμα for γράφ-μα(τ). Progressive assimilation is the

converse of this, as in στέλλω for στελ-yω, μᾶλλον for μαλ-ιον, _mellis_

for _melv-is_, or the Æolic ἔστελλα for ἔστελ-σα. Regressive assimilation

largely preponderates in our Aryan languages, progressive assimilation in

the Ural-Altaic ones; and it is very possible that Sievers is right[202]

in tracing this contrast to the difference of the accentuation, which

in Ural-Altaic falls upon the first syllable of the word, while in

the parent-Aryan it fell for the most part on the final syllable.

Böhtlingk[203] says, very appositely: “An Indo-Germanic word is a real

whole of such a kind that the speaker has uttered the whole word, as it

were, in spirit, as soon as he has pronounced the first syllable. Only

in this way can it be explained how a syllable (or sound) is modified in

order to assist the pronunciation of the syllable (or sound) that follows

it. A member of the Ural-Altaic race forces out the first syllable of a

word—that part of it, namely, which has the accent—little caring for the

fortune of the rest; on this he next strings in more or less rude fashion

a few more significant syllables, only thinking of a remedy at the moment

when he first feels the want of one.” As for reciprocal assimilation, an

example of it may be found in the reduction of _ai_ to _e_ quoted above,

where both sounds influence one another.

Assimilation may be either complete or partial. There are sounds which

can never be thoroughly assimilated to each other, _bn_, for instance,

can never at once become _nn_, only _mn_. Partial regressive assimilation

meets us very frequently in the classical languages; _e.g._, λεκ-τός from

the root λεγε, ἤνυσμαι from ἀνυτ-, δόγμα from δοκ-; partial progressive

assimilation is rarer; e.g., πάσχω for πάσκω from παθ-σκω.

The changes dependent on the presence of a second sound, which are

not due to assimilation, are necessarily produced by varying the time

needed for pronunciation. Of these the most striking is metathesis.

Metathesis must be referred rather to a mental than to a phonetic origin.

Our thought and will outstrip our pronunciation, the result being that

the sound which ought to follow is made to precede, or else the vocal

organs are shaped prematurely for the formation of a sound which ought to

be heard later, the consequence being that the sound which should come

first has to come last. Metathesis, in fact, is similar to the rapidity,

or rather relaxation, of thought which leads us sometimes to write or

speak a word which belongs to a subsequent part of the sentence; and

it may be of two kinds: either the place of two sounds may be simply

inverted, or the second sound may be made to precede the first by two or

three syllables. How easily the first case can happen is shown by the

phonograph, where each syllable that has been uttered can be reproduced

backward by merely turning the handle of the machine the wrong way. _R_

and _l_ are the most subject to metathesis, then the nasals; the other

consonants vary according to their relationship to the vowels. More

regular than metathesis are the insertion and omission of consonants, as

in ἀν-δ-ρὸς, ἄ-μ-β-ροτος, τέτυφθε for τέτυφσθε, _rêmus_ for _resmus_.

Somewhat different are the insertion and omission of vowels, the first

of which goes under the technical name of _Swarabhakti_. This name

was imported from the Hindu grammarians by Johannes Schmidt,[204] to

mark the growth of a short or reduced vowel from a liquid or nasal,

when accompanied by another consonant. Thus _ănman_, “name,” became

_ănă-man_, and then, by the loss of the first vowel and the compensatory

lengthening of the second, _nômen_ and _nâmâ_. _Swarabhakti_ is, however,

incompatible with the acute accent. We may find examples of it in the

slow pronunciation which in English turns _umbrella_ into _umbĕrella_,

and _Henry_ into _Henĕry_.[205] Prosthesis, or prothesis, the insertion

of a short vowel at the beginning of a word before two consonants, is

another illustration of _Swarabhakti_. There are many nations which find

a difficulty in pronouncing two consonants at the beginning of a word.

Thus the Bengali calls the English _school_ _yschool_, the Arab says

_Iflatún_ for _Platon_, and the Ossete uses _a_ for the same purpose.

In other cases, one of the consonants is dropped altogether, as so

frequently by children and systematically by the natives of Polynesia.

In Latin inscriptions and MSS. later than the fourth century we find

forms like _istatuam_, _ispirito_, just as in the Romanic tongues we have

_estar_ and _espée_ (_épée_) for _stare_ and _spada_, or in Welsh _ysgol_

from _schola_, _yspryd_ from _spiritus_. According to Wentrup,[206] _a_

is often used as a prothetic vowel in Sicilian; Lithuanian has forms

like _iszkadà_, German “_schade_,” and Basque and Hungarian prefix a

similar aid to the pronunciation. No trace of a prothetic vowel can be

found in Latin; in Greek, however, such vowels are very plentiful. Thus

we have ἄσταχυς by the side of στάχυς, ἐχθές by the side of χθές, ἰγνύη

by the side of γόνυ, Ὀβριαρευς by the side of Βριαρεύς. In Greek, too,

as in other languages where prothesis occurs, the complementary vowel

may be inserted before a liquid, more especially _r_, as well as before

a strictly double consonant, _e.g._, ἀμύνω by the side of μύνη, ἐρυθρός

by the side of _ruber_, ὀρέγω by the side of _rego_. Even the digamma

may perhaps take the prefix as in the Homeric ἔεδνον. But it is probable

that no other single consonant does so, the apparent exceptions being

really explained by the loss of a consonant which once existed along with

the one that is left. Ὀκέλλω, for instance, presupposes ὀ-κϝέλλω (Latin

_pellere_), Ἀπόλλων presupposes Α-κϝολιων, “the son of the revolving

one” (Sanskrit _char_, Greek πέλομαι). In other cases we are dealing not

with a prothetic vowel, but with a part of the primitive root: ὄνομα,

for example, is shown by the Irish _aimn_ and Old Prussian _emnes_ to

be more original than the Sanskrit _nâmâ_ or the Latin _nomen_, and to

stand for an earlier _an-man_; and ὄνυξ, the Latin _unguis_, the Irish

_inga_, is earlier in form than the Sanskrit _nakha_ and the English

_nail_ (_nagel_)[207]. We may discover a tendency in Greek to adapt the

prothetic vowel to that of the root, though it is hardly so regular as

in Zend roots beginning with _r_, where we find _i-rith_ for _rith_, but

_u-rud_ for _rud_. Sanskrit, like Latin, shows an inclination rather to

drop initial vowels than to add them, but even in Sanskrit, Curtius has

pointed out[208] the Vedic _i-raj-yâmi_ from _raj_ (_rego_) and _i-radh_,

“to seek to obtain,” from _râdh_. As for the loss of a vowel, it is too

familiar to every one to need any illustration.

More akin to metathesis is epenthesis, which closely resembles the

Teutonic _umlaut_. Epenthesis is especially plentiful in Greek, where

κτέν-yω becomes κτείνω, χερ-ιων χείρων, λόγοσι λόγοις, ἐλαν-ϝω ἐλαύνω,

νερϝον νεῦρον. Probably λέγει for λεγειτ is to be explained as resulting

from the epenthesis of ι (λεγειτ for λεγετι), just as λέγεις stands

for an earlier λεγεσι. Epenthesis thus presupposes a mouillation or

labialization in which the articulation of the consonant is absorbed, as

it were, by that of the _i_ and _u_. The greater the participation of the

lips and tongue in the formation of these vowels, the greater will be the

tendency towards epenthesis.

Lastly, we have to consider the lengthening of vowels, either by way

of compensation or before certain consonants. By compensation is meant

the additional force with which a vowel is pronounced after the loss of

a consonant which followed or preceded it. Thus in Greek the loss of

the digamma in βασιλεϝ-ος produced the Ionic βασιλῆος on the one side

and the Attic βασίλεως on the other, just as the loss of the _yod_ in

πολιy-ος similarly produced πολῆος and πόλεως. So, too, πάνς became

πᾶς, δαιμονς δαίμων, ἐφαν-σα ἔφηνα, _rĕs-mus_ _rémus_, _pĕds_ _pês_,

_exăgmen_ _exâmen_, _măgior_ _mâjor_. In certain cases the vowel was

raised into a diphthong, as in φέρουσι for φεροντι, τιθείς for τιθενς,

ἔστειλα for έστελσα. But a vowel may also be lengthened before liquids,

nasals, and spirants when combined with another consonant. If the grave

or the circumflex accent fall upon the preceding vowel, the tendency is

to lengthen the vowel at the expense of the sonant or spirant following.

Hence it is, that whereas in our English _tint_, or _hilt_, where the

vowel has the acute, the nasal and liquid are long; in _kind_ and _mild_,

on the other hand, where the vowel is circumflexed, it is the vowel (or

rather the diphthong) that is long. The vowel, again, may be lengthened

to compensate for the loss of a double letter. Thus in Latin we find

_vīlicus_ by the side of _villicus_, from _villa_, and whereas the

grammarians lay down that when _ll_ is followed by _i_, single _l_ must

be written, we find _millia_ in the famous inscription of Ancyra. So,

too, the inscriptions vary between _Amulius_ and _Amullius_, _Polio_ and

_Pollio_, and good MSS. have _loquella_, _medella_, instead of _loquēla_,

_medēla_.

There is another fact to be remembered when we are looking for the

application of Grimm’s law—a fact which the law itself ought to bring to

our minds. Different languages have different phonetic tendencies; the

same sound is not equally affected by phonetic decay in two different

dialects or modified in the same way; each language has phonetic laws

and phænomena peculiar to itself. Thus, in Greek, σ between two vowels

is lost, in Latin it becomes _r_; in Greek a nasal preserves, or perhaps

introduces, the vowel _a_, in Latin it prefers the vowel _e_. Because τ

between vowels becomes σ in Greek, or _sr_ in Latin is changed into _br_

(as in _cerebrum_ for _ceresrum_, κέρας, _śiras_), we are not justified

in expecting similar changes in other tongues. In fact we have only to

look at the table of sound-changes, known as Grimm’s law, to see that it

is just because two languages do not follow the same course of phonetic

modification that a scientific philology is possible.

To speak of Grimm’s law being “suspended,” of “exceptions to Grimm’s

law,” and the like, is only to show an ignorance of the principles of

comparative philology. Grimm’s law is simply the statement of certain

observed phonetic facts, which happen invariably, _so far as we know_,

unless interfered with by other facts which, under given conditions,

equally happen invariably. The accidental has little place in phonology,

at all events in an illiterate and uncultivated age. Literature and

education are no doubt disturbing forces: a writer may borrow a word

without modifying its sound according to rule; and the word may be

adopted into the common speech through the agency of the schoolmaster;

but such words are mere aliens and strangers, never truly naturalized

in their new home, and the philologist must treat them as such. Native

words, as well as words which, though borrowed from abroad, have been

borrowed by the people and so given a native stamp, undergo, and must

undergo, all those changes and shiftings of sound which meet us in

Grimm’s law, in the phonetic laws peculiar to individual languages, or

in any other of the generalizations under which we sum up the phænomena

of spoken utterance. False analogy, it is true, may divert a word from

the path it would naturally have taken; one word may be assimilated to

another regardless of its real etymology, or words whose real origin

has been forgotten may be modified so as to convey a new meaning to the

speaker. But, in such cases, the worst that could happen would be the

loss of the true etymology; Grimm’s law would still hold good, and the

originals of the existing sounds would be those demanded by the regular

_Lautverschiebung_. So far as the present form of a word like _Shotover_

(for _château vert_) is concerned, it is to the mere phonologist, as to

the ordinary speaker, a compound of _shot_ and _over_, and in comparing

these two words with allied words in other languages the prescribed

letter-change holds good. It is only the comparative philologist, who

has to deal with the psychological as well as with the phonetic side

of language, that needs to know more, and to determine that _Shotover_

is not what it professes to be, but the product of a more or less

conscious imagination. In most cases of analogy we have to do with mental

as opposed to phonetic assimilation, and they fall, therefore, under

sematology, the science of meanings, rather than under phonology, the

science of sounds. No doubt we find instances of analogy, like the Greek

accusative βεβαῶτα, modelled after the nominative βεβαώς,[209] or the

Latin genitives _diei_, _dierum_, modelled after the accusative _diem_

for _diam_, but such instances fall under the laws and conditions of that

phonetic assimilation which has been already described. Let us hold fast

to the fact that the generalizations, the chief of which are summed up

in the formula known as Grimm’s law, are at once uniform and unvarying.

If an etymology is suggested, which violates these generalizations, that

etymology must be rejected, however plausible or attractive. It is upon

the fixed character of these generalizations that the whole fabric of

scientific philology rests.

Necessarily similar generalizations may be made in the case of other

languages which, like the Aryan, can be grouped into single families of

speech; nay, they must be made before we are justified in grouping them

together, or in comparing and explaining their grammar and vocabulary.

It is not always, however, that the changes of sound are so marked and

violent as in the Indo-European. A group of allied languages may be as

closely related to one another as the modern Romanic dialects of Europe,

and various causes may have combined to give a stability and fixity to

their phonology which has made it change but slightly in the course of

centuries. This is the case with the Semitic dialects, whose laws of

sound-change are extremely simple. Practically the sound shiftings are

confined to the sibilants, where the equivalence of sounds is as follows:—

Assyrian. Hebrew. Ethiopic. Arabic. Aramaic.

_s_ (_sh_) _s_ (_sh_) _s_, _´s_ _sh_, _s_, _th_ _´s_, _s_, _th_

_´s_ _´s_ _s_, _´s_ _s_, _sh_ _´s_

_ts_ _ts_ _ts_ _ts_, _ds_, _dhs_ _ts_, _dh_, _’e_

_z_ _z_ _z_ _z_, _dh_ _z_, _d_[210]

One or two other general laws of phonetic change may be laid down for

special members of the Semitic group; thus, in Assyrian, _s_ before a

dental becomes _l_, and _kh_ is dropped when it answers to the Arabic and

Ethiopic weak _kh_. In the Babylonian dialect, again, _k_ took the place

of _g_, and the _n_ of the other dialects is sometimes replaced by _r_ in

Aramaic.

But the Semitic idioms are dialects rather than languages, so intimate

is the connection between them, so slight the differences by which they

are separated. It is quite otherwise if we turn to a group like the

Malayo-Polynesian, where the word _oran_, “man,” may be represented in

the different dialects by _rang_, _olan_, _lan_, _ala_, _la_, _na_,

_da_, and _ra_.[211] But here, too, the law of equivalence is fixed and

determinate: the Samoan _s_ is changed into _h_ in Tongan and Maori,

while the Maori _k_ is dropped in Samoan.

Equally extensive is the series of changes undergone by sounds in

the Ugro-Finnic tongues, and when the law of sound-shifting has been

determined not only for the Ugro-Finnic division of the Turanian

family, but for the whole Turanian family, comprising Turkish, Mongol,

and Mandshu, we may expect it to include a far larger number of

changes of sound than that summed up in Grimm’s law. So far as the

Ugro-Finnic dialects are concerned, M. de Ujfálvy, in continuance of the

investigations of Riedl,[212] has been able to lay down the following

rules for the phonetic permutations observable in these idioms: (1) The

Finnish and Bulgar _k_ becomes _kh_ in Ostiak, Vogul, and Old Magyár,

and _h_ in modern Magyár; (2) _k_ = _ts_; (3) _k_ or _g_ = _s_, _z_,

_ṣ_, _j_, _ts_, &c.; (4) Finnish _ks_ = Votiak _hs_ (earlier _ht_); (5)

Finnish _kl_, _pl_ = Lapp _vl_; (6) Medial Finnish _k_ and _h_ = Bulgar

and Ugrian _v_ and _f_; (7) Initial Finnish _h_ disappears in Livonian

and Lapp (in Lapp also becomes _v_ before a dental); (8) Finnish _h_ =

_s_, _ṣ_, _ts_, _sy_, _ts_ (_c_), _ẓ_, _tsy_, &c.; (9) Finnish and Bulgar

_k_, _g_, _h_ = Lapp and Ostiak _ng_, _n_ = Magyar _g_; (10) Medial

Finnish _nk_ = Lapp _gg_; (11) Finnish _nt_ = Lapp _dd_; (12) _gy_, _ny_

= _y_, _v_; (13) _t_ = _s_ (Finnish _t_ = _s_, _ṣ_, _sy_, _ts_, _z_,

_ẓ_, &c.); (14) Finnish _s_, _h_ = Ostiak and Vogul _t_; (15) Finnish

_p_ = Votiak _b_ = Magyar _b_, _f_; (16) Finnish _t_ = Magyar _s_, _z_,

_ts_; (17) Finnish _m_ = Lapp _bm_; (18) Lapp _dn_ = Finnish _nn_ or

_n_; (19) Finnish _mb_ = Lapp _bb_; (20) Finnish _kk_, _tt_, _pp_ =

Vêpse and Livonian _k_, _t_, _p_; (21) Finnish _k_, _t_, _p_ = Vêpse and

Livonian _g_, _d_, _b_. This list of phonetic equivalents will make it

clear that the original phonology of the Ugro-Finnic group is generally

best represented by Suomi or Finnish; in some cases, however, Vêpse (or

Tchude) is more archaic than Finnish, and in one case, that of the change

of _t_ into _s_, Ostiak and Vogul are more primitive than Suomi. Vêpse,

again, shows that the long vowels of Suomi are due to contraction. Within

Suomi itself _kk_, _tt_, and _pp_, after a liquid are softened into

simple _k_, _t_, and _p_. The diphthongal consonants of Magyár (_ly_,

_my_, _ty_, &c.), are the result of a contraction of a consonant and a

vowel or diphthong following. The changes undergone by sounds within the

Ugro-Finnic group may be summed up as a whole in the two formulæ: (1) The

Finnish hard explosives are represented by soft explosives in the other

languages of the group; (2) spirants, and the sounds derived from them,

answer in the allied dialects to the explosives of Finnish. As for the

Samoied idioms, similar phonetic permutations may be discovered in them

also. In the Yurak dialect _h_ = _s_, _ng_ = _nr_, and _k_ = _ts_; in

Tavghi _k_ and _t_ tend to become _g_ and _d_; in Yenissei _dd_ = _md_

(_nt_, _nd_, _ntt_, _ltt_), _gg_ = _rk_ (_rg_) or _nk_, and _tt_ = _bt_,

while in Ostiak-Samoied and Kamassinche the hard explosives pass into the

soft _g_, _d_, _b_.[213]

Quite as regular as the permutations of sounds in the Finnic group is the

law of sound-change discovered by Bleek to exist in the Bâ-ntu or Kafir

family. The following table gives it for the principal members of the

group:—

Kafir. Setshuana. Herero. Ki-suahili. Ki-nika. Mpongwe. Bunda.

_k_ _kh_, _h_ _k_ _k_, _g_ _k_, _g_ _k_, _g_ _k_

_ng_ _k_ _ng_ _ng_ _ng_ _ng_ _ng_

_t_ _r_, _s_ _t_ _t_ _h_ _r_, _ty_ _t_

_d_ _l_, _r_ _t_ _nd_ _nd_ _nd_, _l_ _nd_, _r_

_p_ _p_, _f_, _p_ _p_ _v_, _h_ _v_ _b_

_h_

_b_ _b_, _p_ _v_ _b_, _w_ _b_, ’ _v_ —

_s_ _ts_, _s_ _t_, _ty_ _s_, _k_ _s_, _dz_ _z_, _s_, _k_

_k_, ’

_z_ _ts_, _l_, _z_, _h_ _z_, _dz_ _z_, _ts_ _dz_, _g_, _sh_, _g_

_r_ _s_

_f_ _f_, _h_, _s_ _f_ _f_ _w_ _f_

_s_

_v_ _b_, _r_ _s_ _f_ _f_ — _f_

_l_ _l_, _r_ _r_ _l’_ _r_, _l_ _l_, _nl_ _l_

_n_ _n_ _n_ _n_ _n_ _n_ _n_

_m_ _m_ _m_ _m_ _m_ _m_ _m_

The Bâ-ntu law of sound-shifting has the advantage over its Aryan

analogue, that it deals with actually existing sounds which can still

be heard and noted by the scientifically trained ear, whereas many of

the Aryan languages and sounds recorded in Grimm’s law are now extinct.

The Aryan philologist, accordingly, has to assume that the spelling of

Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Gothic words is a fair approximation to

their pronunciation. It is upon this assumption that the whole fabric of

historical grammar is built; nay, comparative philology itself, which

began with the comparison of allied forms and words in the classical

languages of India and Europe, is also based upon it. The assumption

offers little difficulty to the Italian, whose spelling accurately

represents his pronunciation, or to the German, who writes pretty much

as he speaks; but it need not be pointed out how strange and unnatural

it seems to the Englishman. English spelling, under the guidance of the

printers, has become a mere system of marks and symbols, arranged upon no

principle, selected with no rational purpose, each of which by a separate

effort of the memory is associated with some sound or word.

For the scientific philologist, no less than for the practical teacher, a

return to the phonetic spelling of our English language is of the highest

importance. What the philologist wishes to know is not how words are

spelt, but how they are pronounced, and this end can be obtained only by

means of an alphabet in which all the chief sounds of the language are

represented, and each character represents but one sound. No doubt the

practical man does not want the alphabet required by the phonologist,

who must denote every shade of sound and have separate symbols for the

sounds heard not in English only, but in other languages as well, but the

alphabet of the practical man should be based on that of the phonologist.

The reformed alphabet should be one which would enable the child or the

foreigner to recognize at once the sound of the word he is reading, and

the philologist to determine the pronunciation of the writer.

Thanks to Messrs. Ellis, Pitman, and others, the question of reforming

our English spelling has not only been brought before the public, but

the conditions under which it is practicable have been discussed and

ascertained, and the merits of rival schemes put to the test. The sounds

of the English language have been analyzed, and the great work of Mr.

A. J. Ellis on the “History of English Pronunciation” has shown how our

absurd and anomalous spelling grew up. At the present time we have in the

field the phonology of Mr. Pitman—an alphabet of thirty-eight letters—a

large proportion of which have new forms; the palæotype and glossic of

Mr. Ellis, the former retaining the type now used by the printers, but

enlarging the alphabet by turning the letters, and similar devices,

the latter by its likeness to the present spelling intended to bridge

over the passage from the present or “Nomic” mode of spelling to the

reformed one; the narrow and the broad Romic of Mr. Sweet, the second an

adaptation of the first to practical use; the ingenious system of Mr. E.

Jones, which by the employment of optional letters for the same sound

contrives to introduce little _apparent_ difference in the spelling of

English words; and several other English and American systems that have

been proposed, more especially the reformed alphabet of the American

Philological Association, together with the transitional alphabet

intended to lead on to it. Some of these are true phonetic alphabets,

words spelt in them varying according to the pronunciation of the writer,

others are merely attempts to reform the present spelling of English

words by making it more consistent, and bringing it more into harmony

with their actual pronunciation. Such attempts would only substitute

a less objectionable mode of spelling for the existing one, a mode of

spelling, too, that would in course of time become as stereotyped and far

removed from the pronunciation of the day as is the present system. With

such attempts, therefore, the scientific philologist can have but little

sympathy; his efforts must rather be directed towards the establishment

of a phonetic alphabet, based on a thorough analysis of English sounds

and conformed to practical requirements.

The question of spelling reform is nothing new. Mr. Ellis has brought

to light a MS. written in 1551 by John Hart of Chester, and entitled

“The Opening of the unreasonable writing of our inglish toung: wherin is

shewed what necessarili is to be left, and what folowed for the perfect

writing therof.” This the author followed up by a published work in

1569, called “An Orthographie, conteyning the due order and reason, howe

to write or painte thimage of mannes voice, most like to the life or

nature.”[214] The object of this, he says, “is to vse as many letters

in our writing, as we doe voyces or breathes in our speaking, and no

more; and neuer to abuse one for another, and to write as we speake.”

Hart, however, it would seem, tried to amend the pronunciation as well

as the spelling of English. The year before (1568) Sir Thomas Smith,

Secretary of State in 1548, and successor of Burleigh, had published

at the famous press of Robert Stephens in Paris, a work, “De recta et

emendata linguæ anglicæ scriptione, dialogus.” In this he had suggested

a reformed alphabet of thirty-four characters, _c_ being used for _ch_,

ð for _th_ (in _then_), and θ for _th_ (in _think_), long vowels being

indicated by a diæresis. In 1580 came another book in black letter

on the same subject, by William Bullokar. His alphabet consisted of

thirty-seven letters, most of which have duplicate forms, and in which

_c’_, _g’_, and _v’_, represent _s_, _j_, and _v_. He composed a primer

and a short pamphlet in the orthography he advocated. In 1619, Dr. Gill,

head-master of St. Paul’s School, published his “Logonomia Anglica,”

which was quickly followed by a second edition in 1621. His alphabet

contained forty characters, and, as might be expected from his position,

his attempt to reform English spelling was a more scholarly one than

those of his predecessors. He found a rival in the Rev. Charles Butler,

an M.A. of Magdalen College, Oxford, who brought out at Oxford, in 1633,

“The English Grammar, or the Institution of Letters, Syllables, and Words

in the English Tongue.” He printed this phonetically, according to his

own system, as well as another book, “The Feminine Monarchy or History

of the Bees” (Oxford, 1634). “These,” says Mr. Ellis, “are the first

English books entirely printed phonetically, as only half of Hart’s was

so presented. But Meigret’s works were long anterior in French.” Butler

represents the final _e_ mute by ’. In 1668 Bishop Wilkins published

his great work, the “Essay towards a Real Character and a Philosophical

Language.” In this he has a good treatise on phonetics, in which he

probably made use of an important work on the physiological nature of

sounds, brought out by John Wallis, Savilian Professor of Geometry at

Oxford, in 1653;[215] and he has transcribed the Lord’s Prayer and Creed

in his phonetic alphabet of thirty-seven letters. After Bishop Wilkins

the matter rested for a while; but in 1711 the question of reforming

English spelling was once more raised, this time, however, in a practical

direction. Dean Swift appealed to the Prime Minister to appoint a

commission for “the Ascertaining, Correcting, and Improving of the

English Tongue.”[216] His appeal, however, was without effect; and the

next to apply himself to the subject was Benjamin Franklin, who, in 1768,

put forth “A Scheme for a New Alphabet and reformed mode of Spelling,

with Remarks and Examples concerning the same, and an Enquiry into its

Uses.” Franklin embodied his views in a letter to Miss Stephenson (dated

September 20th, 1768), written in his phonetic alphabet, and intended to

meet objections to the proposed reform. It is curious to find the wholly

mistaken objection already put forward that “all our etymologies would be

lost” by a reform of spelling.

But spelling reformers have not been confined to England. Ninety years

ago a reform of Dutch spelling was successfully carried out, though the

result was unsatisfactory, as might have been expected from the ignorance

of phonology that existed at the time. Spanish spelling has recently

undergone revision on the part of the Academy; and even German, which

seems to the Englishman so far advanced on the road towards perfection,

is in process of reformation. The work was begun by Schleicher, who not

only struck out the aphonic _h_ and other useless letters, but even

emulated the Emperor Claudius by inventing a new character. A committee

was lately appointed by the Minister of Education to decide upon such

changes of spelling as seemed to them desirable, and a thorough-going

system of reform, with a new alphabet, like that of Mr. Pitman, has been

inaugurated through the exertions of Dr. Frikke and others.[217]

Of scientific alphabets, also, the phonologist has now his choice.

Putting aside Melville Bell’s “Visible Speech,” in which each character

symbolizes by lines the action of the vocal organs in forming the sound

it represents, the best are the well-known “Standard” and “Missionary

Alphabets” of Lepsius and Max Müller, the alphabets of Ellis and Prince

L-L. Bonaparte, and the alphabet of Sweet. Max Müller’s alphabet is

founded on that of Sir W. Jones, and he brings with justice the charge

against Lepsius’s “Standard Alphabet” that its physiological analysis

is sometimes wrong, and that many of its characters have been found too

complicated for use. Sweet’s alphabet has the advantage of avoiding new

type, of having special signs for voice and whisper, for quantity and

stress, force, pitch, and glide, and of indicating by a full stop the

place of a “force-impulse.” Prince L-L. Bonaparte’s alphabet, however, as

edited by Ellis, is the most complete; indeed, out of his 385 characters,

there occur a few which have not been detected in any known language. The

two last alphabets will be found in the Appendix to the present chapter.

It is possible that the phonograph may hereafter assist us in

constructing a more perfect alphabet than is now possible. Just as

Melville Bell’s letters have a physiological origin, so the letters of

the alphabet of the future may be derived from the forms assumed by

sounds on the sensitive plate of the phonograph. The phonautograph had

already informed us that every sound we utter has a distinct shape and

pattern; it only remained to apply this fact practically by the invention

of the phonograph.

The phonautograph as constructed by Barlow, Léon Scott, and König, is

made to record the sounds of the human voice by the help either of a

pencil or of a gas-flame. The pencil is set in motion by a thin membrane,

against which sounds and words are spoken, and draws on a cylinder

covered with sand the curves which delineate the sounds uttered. When a

gas-flame is employed, the forms assumed by it take the place of those

drawn on the sand. In Edison’s phonograph the fact that the form of every

sound can thus be imprinted on a tangible substance has been utilized

for the reproduction of speech. A plate of tin-foil is folded round a

revolving cylinder indented from one end to the other with a spiral

groove. As the cylinder revolves the groove is kept constantly beneath a

needle, which is attached to a membrane or sounding-board, against which

the voice is impinged through a conical aperture: with each sound that is

uttered the needle presses the tin-foil into the furrow below, imprinting

upon it at the same time the form of the sound. By reversing the process

the needle is made to travel once more over the indented tin-foil,

and the sounding-board being thus set in motion reproduces the sounds

originally spoken. Before the tin-foil is thus reduced to its original

smoothness, a cast of it may be taken, and at any subsequent period

another piece of tin-foil may receive the impression of the cast, and so

reproduce the words which first caused the indentations. It is needless

to point out the assistance which the phonograph is likely to render

to phonology. It is still, of course, new and faulty, and unable, for

instance, to reproduce sibilants; but it cannot fail to be improved and

become almost as perfect a speaking-machine as the human throat itself.

Already it has contributed some facts of importance to phonetic science.

Thus we find that all sounds may be reproduced backwards by simply

beginning with the last forms indented on the tin-foil, _sociability_,

for example, becoming _ytilibaishos_. Diphthongs and double consonants

may be reversed with equal clearness and precision, so that _bite_, which

the phonograph pronounces _bâ-eet_, becomes _tee-âb_ In this way we have

learnt that the _ch_ of _cheque_ is really a double letter, the reversed

pronunciation of the word being _kesht_.

The problem of reproducing human speech has thus been approached

more successfully from the physical and acoustic side than from the

physiological side, where it was attacked by Faber, Kempelen, and others.

They attempted to construct instruments in which the vocal organs could

be represented with the greatest exactness attainable, the lungs being

replaced by a pair of bellows, the trachea by a hollow tube, and so

on. But though these instruments spoke, it was not in human speech, or

anything like it. The utmost they could do was to imitate the first

utterances of a child, or the imperfect and laboured syllables of one who

is learning a foreign tongue.

Nevertheless, it is not in the organs of the human voice any more than

in the mechanism of a lifeless instrument that we have to discover the

source and creator of speech. All that the vocal organs can do is to

supply the skeleton into which the mind breathes the breath of life.

Unmeaning sounds do not constitute language: until a signification has

been put into them, the sounds that have been described and analyzed are

no better than the singing of the birds, the stirring of the trees, or

even the dead utterances of a machine. Phonology, like anatomy, deals

only with the dry bones which have yet to be clothed upon with living

flesh.

But by its very nature a science of meanings, sematology, as it has

been named, can never have the same certitude, the same exactness, as

a science of sounds. The laws of sematology are far less distinct and

invariable; significant change cannot be reduced to the same set of fixed

rules as phonetic change. The phenomena with which sematology deals are

too complicated, too dependent on psychological conditions; the element

of chance or conscious exertion of will seems to enter into them, and it

is often left to the arbitrary choice of an individual to determine the

change of meaning to be undergone by a word. Still this meaning must be

accepted by the community before it can become part of language; unless

it is so accepted it will remain a mere literary curiosity in the pages

of a technical dictionary. And since its acceptance by the community

is due to general causes, influencing many minds alike, it is possible

to analyze and formulate these causes, in fact, to refer significant

change to certain definite principles, to bring it under certain definite

generalizations. Moreover, it must be remembered that the ideas suggested

by most words are what Locke calls “mixed modes.” A word like _just_

or _beauty_ is but a shorthand note suggesting a number of ideas more

or less associated with one another. But the ideas associated with it

in one mind cannot be exactly those associated with it in another; to

one man it suggests what it does not to another. So long as we move

in a society subjected to the same social influences and education as

ourselves we do not readily perceive the fact, since the leading ideas

called up by the word will be alike for all; but it is quite otherwise

when we come to deal with those whose education has been imperfect as

compared with our own. A young speaker often imagines that he makes

himself intelligible to an uneducated audience by using short and homely

words; unless he also suits his ideas to theirs, he will be no better

understood than if he spoke in the purest Johnsonese. If we are suddenly

brought into contact with experts in a subject we have not studied, or

dip into a book on an unfamiliar branch of knowledge, we seem to be

listening to the meaningless sounds of a foreign tongue. The words used

may not be technical words; but familiar words and expressions will bear

senses and suggest ideas to those who use them which they will not bear

to us. It is impossible to convey in a translation all that is meant by

the original writer. We may say that the French _juste_ answers to the

English _just_, and so it does in a rough way; but the train of thoughts

associated with _juste_ is not that associated with _just_, and the true

meaning of a passage may often depend more on the associated thoughts

than on the leading idea itself. Nearly every word, in fact, may be

described as a complex of ideas which is not the same in the minds of any

two individuals, its general meaning lying in the common ideas attached

to it by all the members of a particular society. The significations,

therefore, with which the comparative philologist has to concern himself,

are those unconsciously agreed upon by a body of men, or rather the

common group of ideas suggested by a word to all of them alike. Here,

again, some general causes must be at work which may yet be revealed

by a careful analysis. The comparative philologist has not to trouble

himself, like the classical philologist, with discovering the exact ideas

connected with a word by some individual author; it is the meaning of

words as they are used in current speech, not as they illustrate the

idiosyncrasies of a writer, which it is his province to investigate.

“The genealogies of words,” says Pott,[218] “are the genealogies of

concepts.” As in phonology we have the growth or decay of sounds, so in

sematology we have the growth or decay of ideas. The three principles

of linguistic change, imitation, emphasis and laziness, are incessantly

at work on the meanings as well as upon the sounds of words. Analogy

is ever lending them new senses, and the metaphorical senses may come

to be used to the utter forgetfulness of the original one. The Latin

who spoke of his “mind” or “soul” as _animus_ had altogether forgotten

that at the outset _animus_ was merely the “wind” or “breath.” Here

analogy or imitation is helped by laziness, which makes us forget a

little-used meaning. _Impertinent_ has almost lost its prior and proper

signification, and our children will have to seek it in the records of an

obsolescent literature. But a dead meaning may again rise to life; the

early meaning of a word, whether recovered from books or from the fresh

spring of a local dialect, may once more impress itself upon a community

anxious to emphasize and mark out an idea by an unfamiliar term.

Professor Whitney[219] has summed up significant change under the two

heads of specialization of general terms and generalization of special

terms, but a more thorough-going attempt to determine its laws and

distinguish its causes has been made by Pott.[220] First of all, he

points out, words may be more accurately defined either by widening

or by narrowing their signification. While in the Neo-Latin languages

_caballus_, “a nag,” has taken the wider meaning of “horse” in general,

under the form of _cavallo_ or _cheval_, the modern Greek ἄλογον is no

longer the “irrational beast,” but is narrowed into the specific sense

of “horse.” Like our _deer_, which once meant “wild animals” generally

(German _thier_), so _emere_ has narrowed its primary signification of

“taking” into the special one of “buying.” But, on the other hand, when

we speak of “going to town,” it is not “town” in general or any town

whatsoever that is meant, but London alone.

Then, secondly, there is metaphor, with its ceaseless play upon speech.

Language is the treasure-house of worn-out similes, a living testimony

to the instinct of man to find likeness and resemblance in all he sees.

The Tasmanians, who had no general terms, had yet the power of seeing

resemblances between things: though they could not form the concept

“round,” they said “like the moon” or some other round object. All

the words which have a spiritual or moral meaning go back to a purely

sensuous origin: _Divus_, _Deus_, _Dieu_ was once “the bright sky;”

_soul_ was nothing but the “heaving” sea. It is only by likening such

ideas to the objects of sense that we can imagine them at all, or convey

a hint of our meaning to others. The vocabulary of a language on its

significant side grows by metaphor and analogy. We have only to take a

word like _post_, once the Latin _positum_, “what is fixed” or “placed,”

and trace it through its many derived meanings of “stake,” “position,”

“office,” “station,” “public medium of correspondence,” and “receptacle

for letters,” to see how endless are the shades of colour which a single

word may catch from those with which it is associated. To know the idioms

of a language and the conditions under which its speakers live, is often

to know the history of the changes in signification undergone by its

vocabulary. The mere expression “send to the post” gave to the word

_post_ its last meaning of a building in which letters are deposited and

sorted, and the conditions of schoolboy life are a clue to many of the

metaphorical uses of words which bear quite another meaning in school

life from what they do in ordinary language. Where else but in a country

of examinations could “pass” signify to go through an examination with

success? Each craft, each industry has its own store of technical words,

many of which are merely words in common use employed in particular

senses intelligible only to those who belong to it.

Words, thirdly, will vary in meaning according to their application

to persons or things, to what is good or bad, great or small. What a

difference there is, for instance, between a “beautiful woman” and a

“beautiful picture,” “a fine day” and “a fine fellow.” _Silly_, again,

is simply the German _selig_, “blessed,” and such is still its meaning

in Spenser’s “silly sheep;” but in modern English it has long lost its

favourable sense, and is used only in an unfavourable one. Diminutives,

originally the symbols of affection, have in many cases become the

symbols of contempt, while “childishness” is as much a compliment when

applied to a child as it is the reverse when applied to a man.

In the fourth place, words change their signification according to their

use as active or passive, as subjects or as objects. “The sight of a

thing” has a very different meaning from “the enjoyment of a sight,” as

different, in fact, as is the meaning of _venerandus_ when applied to

the object of veneration or to his admirer. The passive has been evolved

from the middle τύπτομαι, “I beat myself” passing gradually into “I am

beaten.” In English we may say indifferently “a matter is reflected,” or

“a matter reflects itself,” after the usage of French. Similarly a neuter

verb may be regarded as an active followed by the reflective pronoun; our

“to be silent,” or “to walk,” for example, are the French “se taire,” “se

promener.”

Fifthly, an idea may be expressed either by a compound or periphrasis,

or by a single word. The Latin _nepos_ is the French _petit fils_, our

“ninety” the French _quatre-vingt-dix_. The Taic languages of Further

India preserve the primitive habit of denoting a new idea by comparing it

with some other to which it stands in the relation of species to genus.

Thus in Siamese “a heifer” is _lúk nghoa_, “child (of a) bull;” “a lamb”

is _lúk-ké_, “child (of a) sheep,” much as in English _inkstand_ is “a

stand for ink.” It is only by comparison that an object can be known,

its limits marked and determined; it is equally only by comparison that

an idea can be defined and made intelligible. But when this has once

been done, there is no longer any need of setting genus and species side

by side in speech and thought; to do so is but a survival of the early

machinery of language. The fact that the derivatives of the Aryan speaker

are replaced by compounds, or rather antithetic words, in Taic, shows

not only the mental superiority of the former, but also the fundamental

contrast that exists between the two modes of thought. Collectives imply

no small power of abstraction, and the collectives formed by antithesis

in Taic are as much a proof of it as the existence of our “contentment”

by the side of the Siamese _arói chái_, literally “pleasant heart.”

In the sixth place, we must always keep steadily in view the relativity

of ideas and of the words which denote them. The same word may be applied

in a variety of senses, the particular sense which it bears being

determined by the context. The manifold shades of meaning of which each

word is capable, the different associations of ideas which it may excite,

give rise to varieties of signification which in course of time develop

into distinct species. Hence come the idioms that form the characteristic

feature of a dialect or language, and make exact translation into another

language so impossible. Hence, too, that diversification of synonyms

which causes words like _womanly_ and _feminine_ gradually to assume

different meanings, and prevent us from saying “I am very obliged,” or “I

am much tired.”

Seventhly and lastly, change of signification may follow in the wake

of change of pronunciation or the introduction of new words. Phonetic

decay may cause the old form of a word to be forgotten, and so allow it

to assume the new meaning which has gradually been evolved out of its

earlier one. This is the history of most of those inflections which can

be traced back to independent words, such as the sign of the past tense

in English, once the reduplicated perfect of _do_. The signification of

_jeopardy_ has travelled far from that of _jeu parti_, but preparation

had first been made by the change of pronunciation. There are many myths

and mythological beings which owe their existence to the same cause. It

was not till Promêtheus had lost all resemblance in outward name to the

_pramanthas_ or “fire-machine” of India that he borrowed his attributes

from προμήδομαι, and became the wise benefactor of mankind, the gifted

seer of the future, whose brother was Epimêtheus, or “Afterthought.” It

is the same with the legends that group themselves round the distorted

name of a locality. The nose of brass or gilt which adorns Brasenose

College at Oxford could never have come into existence until the old

_Brasinghouse_ or “Brewery” had been transformed, and the phœnix that

stands in the centre of the Phœnix Park at Dublin, would have been

impossible without the assistance of Saxon lips, which turned the Irish

_fion uisg_ or “fine water” into _phœnix_. But change of pronunciation

is especially serviceable in increasing the wealth of a language by

producing two co-ordinate forms out of a single original one. In course

of time the two forms assume different meanings, due to the different

contexts in which they may be used, and when once all memory of the

original identity has perished, the distinction of meaning becomes fixed

and permanent, and tends to grow continually sharper. In the second

century B.C. a Latin writer could still use _prior_ as a neuter, _prios_

or _prius_ as a masculine; but a time soon came when _prior_ was classed

exclusively with other masculine nouns in -_or_ or -_tor_, _prius_

with neuter nouns like _genus_. So, again, the Latin infinitive active

_amare_ and the infinitive passive _amari_ were at the outset one and

the same—the dative singular of a verbal noun in -_s_ (_amas_-), and

one verb, _fio_, the Greek φυ(ι)ω, continued to the last to preserve a

recollection of the fact by the length of the final syllable in _fieri_

or _fiesei_, “to become.” But the shortening of final syllables which

characterizes Latin was early at work, and out of the dative _amasei_

soon originated the two co-existing forms _amase_ (_amare_) and _amasi_

(_amari_). For a while they were used indifferently, but when the

distinction that exists between the German _waren zu haben_ and the

English “were to be had” came to make itself felt, one form remained

the property of the active, while the other was appropriated to the

passive. But a consciousness of the origin of _amari_ seems to have

long survived in the language, since there was a tendency to associate

it more closely with the other forms of the passive voice by affixing

to it the characteristic of the passive, _r_ (_amarier_). What is here

effected by the diversification of the same word, may also be effected by

the diversification of two synonyms, one of which has come from abroad.

Sometimes both may come from abroad, but at different times, the result

being that whereas one of them has been naturalized in the language, the

other is but the nurseling of a learned age. _Priest_ and _presbyter_,

for instance, have both descended from the same source, and were once

identical in meaning. But not only may the old words of a dialect be thus

affected by new comers, the foreign words may even succeed in destroying

the native ones altogether. The same natural selection which has wellnigh

extirpated many of the native plants of Central America in the presence

of the imported cardoon, is also at work in language. Our Old English

_sicker_ has had to give way before _sure_, the Old French _sëur_,

Provençal _segur_, Latin _securus_, and the Latin _equus_ has been

replaced in the Romanic dialects by _caballus_, “a nag.” _Caballus_ is at

once an example of the way in which the meaning of a word may be widened,

and of the operation of natural selection in the field of speech.

The etymologist must keep before him the laws both of phonology and

of sematology before he can venture to group words together and refer

them to a common root. For the etymologist is not merely a historian,

or student of historical grammar; above and beyond the words which

can be traced back, step by step, to their early forms, by the help

of contemporaneous records, there are many more, the derivation of

which has to be constructed much in the same way that a palæontologist

reconstructs a fossil animal by the help of a single bone. The task is

often a difficult and a delicate one, and the best trained scholars

may sometimes fail. The result of false analogy may be regarded as an

organic form, or a foreign word, conformed possibly to the genius of

the language which has borrowed it, may be mistaken for a native. The

præ-Aryan populations of Greece or of Britain must have left some remains

of their languages in the vocabulary of Greek and Keltic, and Greek and

Keltic words which have been counted as Aryan may, after all, be but

aliens. Apart from these dangers, there is further the double one of

assuming a connection between ideas which have nothing to do with one

another, and of separating ideas which start from a common source. On

the one hand, we are apt to judge of primitive man by ourselves, and to

fancy that the ideas which we associate together were equally associated

together by him. On the other hand, we have only to turn to the Ugrian

idioms, with their greater transparency and openness to analysis to see

the passage of one signification in a root into another of a wholly

different kind, accompanied by a modification of the vowel. Thus _karyan_

is “to ring,” and “to lighten;” _kar-yun_ and _kir-yun_, “to cry,” but

_kir-on_, “to curse;” _kah-isen_, _koh-isen_, _kuh-isen_, “to hit,”

“stamp;” _käh-isen_, _köh-isen_, “to roar;” _keh-isen_, _kih-isen_, “to

boil.”[221] We have here the same symbolization of a change of meaning

by a change of vowel as in the Greek perfect δέδωκα by the side of the

present δίδωμι.

The four facts to be remembered in etymology are thus summarized by

Professor Max Müller.[222] (1.) The same word takes different forms in

different languages. Each language or dialect has its peculiar phonetic

laws and tendencies; because a particular interchange of sounds takes

place in one language it does not follow that it does so in another.

In Greek, for instance, _s_ between two vowels is lost, in Latin it

becomes _r_. Our English _two_ is the same word, so far as origin is

concerned, as the German _zwei_, the Latin and Greek _duo_, the Sanskrit

_dwi_; the English _silly_ is the German _selig_, “blessed.” As words

are carried down the stream of time, they change in both outward form

and inward meaning, and this change is in harmony with the physiological

and psychological peculiarities of the particular people that uses

them. (2.) The same word, again, takes different forms in one and the

same language. _Brisk_, _frisky_, and _fresh_ all come from the same

fountain-head, and _bank_ and _bench_ are the differentiated forms of

which _banquet_ is the Romanized equivalent. So, too, in French _noël_

and _natal_ are but forms of the same word of different ages, like _naïf_

and _native_, _chétif_ and _captif_. Then (3) different words take

the same form in different languages. The Greek καλέω and the English

_call_ have as little connection as the Latin _sanguis_ and the Mongol

_sengui_, “blood,” or the modern Greek _mati_ for ὀμμάτιον, and the

Polynesian _mata_, “an eye.” To compare words of different languages

together because they agree in sound is to contravene all the principles

of scientific philology; agreement of sound is the best possible proof

of their want of connection, since each language has its own phonology

and consequently modifies the forms of words in a different fashion. The

comparison even of roots is a dangerous process, not to be indulged in

unless the grammar of the languages to which they belong has been shown

to be of common origin. What we call roots are only the hypothetical

types to which we can reduce the words of a certain group of tongues;

they are, therefore, merely the expression of the phonetic laws common to

all the members of the group. But it does not follow that the selected

phonetic laws which all the members of a certain group of tongues have in

common are the same as the phonetic laws of another language or another

group. Roots, moreover, owing to their shortness, their vagueness, and

their consequent simplicity, are necessarily limited in number, while the

ideas they convey are so wide and general as to cover an almost infinite

series of derived meanings; to say nothing of the probability that many

of them are to be traced to imitations of natural sounds. (4.) Different

words, in the fourth place, may take the same form in one and the same

language. The French _feu_, “fire,” is the Latin _focus_; _feu_, “late,”

the Low Latin _fuitus_ (from _fui_). So too the English _page_, in the

sense of a servant, comes ultimately from the Greek παίδιον, _page_, in

the sense of a leaf of a book, from the Latin _pagina_. An arbitrary and

antiquated spelling may often keep up a distinction between such words in

writing when in speaking all distinction has long since disappeared. The

French _sang_, _cent_, _sans_, _sent_, _s’en_, the English _sow_, _sew_,

_so_, are respectively pronounced in the same way. That no inconvenience

would be caused by writing them in the same way is shown not only by

the fact that many words of similar sound but varying sense, such as

_sound_, _box_, or _lie_, are not distinguished in writing, but also by

the ease with which we can distinguish between them in conversation,

although in conversation we are unable to dwell upon a word or view it

by the light of the completed sentence, as is the case in reading. The

scientific etymologist would welcome the accurate representation of

sounds by symbols, his object is to know what sounds pass into others in

the course of centuries, and this he can only ascertain when the spelling

represents the pronunciation; the amateur etymologist had better leave

the subject alone. Etymology is not a plaything for the amusement of the

ignorant and untrained; it is a serious and difficult study, not to be

attempted without much preparation and previous research. The etymologist

must be thoroughly trained in the principles of scientific philology, he

must have mastered both phonology and sematology, and he must be well

acquainted with more than one of the languages with which he deals. Then

and then only can his labours be fruitful; then, and then only will his

work be a gain and not a hindrance. False etymologies stand in the way of

true ones, and the charlatans who have brought the name of etymology into

contempt have discredited the labours of better men. There is much in

etymology which must always defy analysis, there is much which will have

to be corrected hereafter, but this will matter little if we have once

learnt the lesson that change of sound and meaning can only take place

in accordance with fixed and invariable law. Etymology is but a means to

an end, and that end is partly the history of the development of thought

and civilization as reflected in the fossil records of speech, partly

the discovery and illustration of the laws which govern the shifting and

decay of sounds and the modifications of sense.

APPENDIX I. TO CHAPTER IV.

THE VOCAL ORGANS OF ANIMALS.

Comparative anatomy is the foundation of modern physiology: to

understand the human organism we must compare it with the organisms of

the lower animals. This is as true of the organs of speech as of the

organs of locomotion or sensation, and we shall find that, in spite of

varying degrees of development, the vocal organs of both man and beast

present a general resemblance to each other. Some of the quadrumana have

large sacs between the thyroid cartilage and the _os hyoideum_, which

have much to do with modifying and increasing the resonance of the voice.

The laryngeal sacs possessed by some of the monkeys of Africa cause the

acuteness of tone and hoarseness of cry that characterize them. The great

intensity of the voice in the American “howlers” is due to the size

of the epiglottis and the existence of large cavities in the thyroid

cartilage and _os hyoideum_ which communicate with the ventricles of the

larynx and the laryngo-pharyngeal sacs. The bray of the ass has been

traced to two large sacs existing between the vocal chords and the inner

surface of the thyroid cartilage. Some of the marsupials, such as the

kangaroo, have membranous vocal chords which stretch upon themselves and

so cannot be stretched by the arytenoid muscles. A few of the mammalia,

_e.g._ the giraffe, the porcupine, and the armadillo, have no vocal

chords, and are therefore mute. This is also the case with the cetacea,

the bellowing of the whale being produced by the expulsion of water

through the nostrils during the act of exspiration.

Birds possess a superior larynx which differs considerably from that of

the mammalia, and has nothing to do with the production of sound. Below

this is the inferior larynx at the lower end of the trachea, just before

it bifurcates into the two bronchi. This is the organ of voice, and

differs a good deal, both in form and structure, in the several species

of birds. It is double, except in the parrot and a few other birds, and

is almost always symmetrical. It is composed of the lower rings of the

trachea united so as to form a tube, at the lower end of which are two

protuberances, one in front of the other, and joined together in most

birds by a thin rod of bone (the _os transversale_). To the upper edge of

this bone is attached a delicate membrane (the _membrana semilunaris_),

which is turned upwards, and to the lower edge another membrane (the

_membrana tympaniformis_), formed of the membranous wall of the bronchus.

The latter membrane is highly developed in singing birds, and still more

so in speaking birds, and it can render the first-mentioned membrane

(with which it is connected) tense when made to vibrate. In some birds

the inferior larynx has as many as five muscles, in others none. It is

wanting altogether in vultures. It will be seen that the two membranes

correspond to the vocal chords in the mammalia, sounds being produced by

the vibration of their margins. The various notes are caused by changes

in the degree of tension of the membranes, by differences in the force of

the air-current, and by changes in the length and degree of tension of

the trachea and other parts. The range of the voice in birds is usually

within an octave, but may be much greater.

Serpents have no vocal chords, and their hiss is the result of breath

being forcibly driven through a soft glottis. Frogs have no trachea, so

that their larynx opens into the bronchial tubes; but the loudness of the

croaking of male frogs is due to the distension of two membranous sacs at

the sides of the neck. Some frogs have membranous vocal chords: others

two reed-like bodies, the anterior ends of which are fixed, while the

posterior ends looking into the bronchi are free.

We must wait for the microphone to confute or confirm the statement of

M. Langlois, of Freiburg, that ants communicate with one another by means

of audible sounds. The recent observations of Sir John Lubbock seem to

show the contrary. At all events, the sounds produced by most insects are

produced externally and not internally. The stridulation of the cricket

or grasshopper is made by rubbing certain file-like organs against the

edges of membranous drums on the wings. The pitch of the sounds produced

by the cricket is high, consisting of 4,096 vibrations per second. The

shriek of the death’s-head moth is produced by the friction of parts

connected with the mouth and proboscis, the buzzing of flies and gnats by

the rapid vibration of two rudimentary posterior wings called _halteres_.

The humming of humble-bees, beetles, and the like is due to the passage

of the air through the spiracles.

Fish, with few exceptions, have no special sonorous apparatus. The

noise they make when taken out of the water is caused by the sucking or

flapping movements of their mouth or gill coverings. It is possible that

the air-bladder opening into the pharynx which is possessed by some fish,

may enable them to emit sounds.

[Illustration: PLATE I.

_Fig. 1._ VIEW OF THE TRACHEA AND LARYNX.]

[Illustration: PLATE II.

_Fig. 2._ VIEW OF THE LARYNX FROM ABOVE. 1, Crico-arytenoid ligaments;

2, thyroid cartilage; 3, cricoid cartilage; 4, arytenoid cartilages;

5, chordæ vocales; 6, the right thyro-arytenoideus lateralis; 7,

the left crico-arytenoideus lateralis (the right being removed); 8,

crico-arytenoid ligaments; 9, arytenoideus transversus (connecting the

arytenoids); 10, rima glottidis.

_Fig. 3._ 1, Soft palate (velum pendulum palati); 2, uvula; 3, tongue;

4, hyoid bone; 5, thyroid cartilage; 6, epiglottis; 7, glottis; 8,

trachea; 9, cricoid cartilage; 10, pharynx; 11, superior opening of

larynx; 12, œsophagus; 13, orifice of Eustachian tube.]

[Illustration: PLATE III.

_Fig. 4._ Position for _a_. _Fig. 5._ Position for _e_ (in _hay_).

_Fig. 6._ Position for _i_ (in _he_). _Fig. 7._ Position for _u_.

_Fig. 8._ Position for _k_, _g_, _ng_. _Fig. 9._ Position for _m_.]

[Illustration: PLATE IV.

_Fig. 10._ Position for _r_. _Fig. 11._ Position for _t_, _d_, _n_.

_Fig. 12._ Position for _y_. _Fig. 13._ Position for _s_, _z_. _Fig.

14._ Position for _th_. _Fig. 15._ Position for _f_, _v_. _Fig. 16._

Position for _p_.]

[Illustration: PLATE V.

DIAGRAM SHOWING THE RANGE OF THE HUMAN VOICE.

(From McKendrick’s “Outlines of Physiology,” p. 642.)

Pitch of the vowels, according to Helmholtz.

Pitch of the vowels, according to König.]

APPENDIX II. TO CHAPTER IV.

THE ALPHABETS OF PRINCE L-L. BONAPARTE (MR. A. J. ELLIS) AND MR. H. SWEET.

Prince L-L. Bonaparte’s Alphabet, as edited (and amplified) by Mr. A. J.

Ellis in palæotype (“Early English Pronunciation,” pp. 1293-1307, and

1352-1357).

THE VOWELS

(_as heard in European languages only_).

1. a (in _fAther_).

2. a⸲ (in Gaelic _math_, “good”).

3. aʌ (in Fr. _dent_, Port. _lã_).

4. Ǝ (in Eng. _thE book_).

5. `a⸲ (in Dan. _mand_, “man”).

6. ah (in Eng. _ass_).

7. ə (in Eng. _charActer_).

8. æ (in Eng. _man_).

9. aʌ (in Port. _cAma_).

10. ɐ (in Eng. _pOllute_).

11. _œ_ (in Gael. _laogh_ “calf”).

12. _œ_⸲ (in Gael. _mAOdal_, “tripe”).

13. ᴔ (in Eng. _bird_).

14. ɹ (in Eng. _ear_)

15. _ɹ_ (not found)

16. ’h (in Eng. _opEN_, Germ. _muttER_).

17. ‘’h (not found).

18. ‘h (in Dan. _hat’_, Eng. _bit’_).

19. əh (not found)

20. _ɑ_ (in Fr. _diAble_).

21. Œ (in Roumanian _tatĂ_, “father.”)

22. E₁ (not found)

23. E (in Finnic _pää_, “the head”).

24. e₁ (not found)

25. _e_₁ (in Fr. _père_, Germ. _fett_).

26. _e_₁⸲ (in Gael. _freumh_, “root”).

27. _e_₁ʌ (in Fr. _vin_).

28. e (in Eng. _bed_).

29. _e_ (in Fr. _dé_, Germ. _Ehre_).

30. _e_ʌ (in Port. _sENha_, “sign”).

31. e¹ (in Port. _cEar_, “to sup”).

32. _e_¹ (in Dan. _een_, “one”).

33. _y_ (in Welsh _dyn_, “man”).

34. Y₂ (in Polish _bYli_, “they have been”).

35. _i_ (in Eng. _milk_).

36. _i_¹ (in Eng. _fill_).

37. i (in Eng. _bee_).

38. i⸲ (in Gael. _sINNsreadh_, “ancestors”).

39. iʌ (in Port. _sim_, “yes”).

40. ’j (in Eng. _gate_).

41. ɔ (in Eng. _God_).

42. ɔh (not found)

43. A (in Eng. _all_).

44. _a_h (not found).

45. o₁ (not found).

46. _o_₁ (in Germ. _Gott_).

47. _o_₁⸲ (in Gael. _didOmhnaich_, “Sunday”).

48. _o_₁ʌ (in Fr. _bon_).

49. o (in Eng. _more_).

50. oh (in Esthonian _wõlg_, “debt”).

51. _o_ (in Eng. _Omit_).

52. _o_ʌ (in Port. _sOnho_, “dream”).

53. _o_h (not found).

54. _u_h (in Port. _o_, “the”).

55. _o_¹ (in Dan. _stor_, “great”).

56. u₁ (in Finnish _Suomi_).

57. _u_ (in Eng. _book_).

58. u (in Eng. _pool_).

59. u⸲ (in Gael. _déanADH_, “doing”).

60. uʌ (in Port. _um_, “one”).

61. ’_w_ (in Eng. _home_).

62. _u_¹ (in Swed. _skuld_, “cause”).

63. u¹ (in Lap. _jUkkim_, “I parted”).

64. U (in Swed. _hus_, “house”).

65. y (in Fr. _lune_, Germ. _brÜder_).

66. yʌ (in Basque _sü̃ hĩa_, “son-in-law”; Albanian _hü̃ni_, “he entered”).

67. I (in Dan. _nYde_, “to enjoy”).

68. æh (in Lap. _buÖrre_, “good”).

69. _ə_h (in Fr. _veuf_).

70. _ə_hʌ (in Fr. _un_).

71. œ (in Germ. _böcke_).

72. _ə_ (in Fr. _feu_).

73. _ə_ʌ (not found).

74. œ¹ (in Gael. _keayn_, “sea”).

75. _ə_¹ (in Swed. _sYster_).

76. ’l (in Bohemian _vlk_, “wolf”).

77. ’r (in Bohemian _prst_, “finger”).

CONSONANTS.

_Labials._

_He._[223]

78. p[224] (in Eng. _pea_).

79. pȷ (in Kasikumuk _p’orun_, “glass”).

80. pp (in Italian coppa).

81. pꞁh (in Bav. Germ. _pfard_).

82. ⌊pꞁh (in Thush _p`e_, “side”).

83. wh (in Eng. _which_).

84. pj (in Pol. _gap_, “lounger”).

85. p_w_ (in Fr. _pois_).

86. p_w_j (in Fr. _puits_).

_Se._[225]

87. b (in Eng. _bee_).

88. bȷ (in Kasikumuk _b’ar_, “pond”).

89. bb (in Ital. _gobba_).

90. ‘p (in Saxon Germ.).

91. w (in Eng. _wine_).

92. bj (in Pol. _jedwaB_, “silk”).

93. b_w_ (in Fr. _bois_).

94. b_w_j (in Fr. _buis_).

_Ne._[226]

95. m (in Eng. _me_).

96. mh (in Eng. _tempt_).

97. mm (in Ital. _fiamma_).

98. mȷ (in Kas. _’maq_, “thirst”).

99. b⸲ (in Westmoreland _sebm_, “seven”).

100. w⸲ (in Erse _saṀrad_, “summer”).

101. mj (in Polish _karM_, “feeding”).

102. m_w_ (in Fr. _moi_).

103. m_w_j (in Fr. _muid_).

_Hc._[227]

104. ph (whispered bh; ? in Greek φ).

_Sc._[228]

105. bh (in Spanish _haba_).

106. bh_w_ (Dutch _w_).

_Ht._[229]

107. prh (whispered brh).

_St._[230]

108. brh (made by children with the lips).

109. ɯ (in Eng. _veRy_).

110. ɹ_w_ (in Eng. _our_ occ.).

_Labio-Dentals._

_He._

111. P (not found).

_Se._

112. B (lower lip against the teeth).

_Hc._

113. f (in Eng. _foe_).

114. ff (in Ital. _schiaffo_).

115. _f_ (not found).

116. ·fh (not found).

117. fj (in Guernsey _fyaïz_, “flee ye”).

118. f_w_ (in Fr. _foie_).

119. f_w_j (in Fr. _fuite_).

_Sc._

120. v (in Eng. _vine_).

121. vȷ (in Kas. _‘warta_, “plate”).

122. vv (in Ital. _avventura_).

123. ⌊v (in Dan. _KjöBenhavn_).

124. _v_ (not found).

125. ‘v (Dutch _v_).

126. vH (not found).

127. vj (in Pol. _paW_, “peacock”).

128. v_w_ (in Fr. _voix_).

_Nc._[231]

129. v⸲ (in Erse _feiṀ_,“mild”).

_Labio-Linguals._

_He._

130. ˎp (in Abasian _aTà_, “hay”).

131. ˎpˎp (in Ab. _yTa_, “sit down”).

_Se._

132. ˎb (in Ab. _aDỳ_, “field”).

_Sl._[232]

133. ˎlw (in Gaelic _Lamh_, “hand”).

_Dentals._

_He._

134. ˎˎt (in Erse _Talain_, “earth”).

135. ˎˎtj (in Erse _tirm_, “dry”).

_Se._

136. ˎˎd (in Erse _donn_, “brown”).

137. ˎˎdj (in Erse _dia_, “God”).

_Hc._

138. th (in Eng. _thin_).

139. c (not found).

_Sc._

140. dh (in Eng. _then_).

141. _c_ (not found).

_Hl._[233]

142. Ʇh (not found).

143. Ʇ (in Manx _ooyL_, “apple”).

_Alveolo-Dentals._

_Hc._

144. c (in West Nyland Finnish _metsä_, “forest”).

145. ⸲th (in Ital. _viZio_).

_Sc._

146. _c_ (in Albanian _Zot_, “lord”).

147. ⸲dh (in Span. _liD_).

_Double Alveolars._

_Hc._

148. ˎs (in Ital. _lo Zio_).

149. ˎsˎs (in Ital. _pazzo_).

150. .ˎs (in Ab. _aca_, “granary”).

151. ɾ̣ɾ̣ (in Ab. _aC´abyrg_, “truth”).

152. .ɾ̣ (in Ab. _ácá_, “wild cherry”).

153. .ɾ̣ȷ (in Kas. _čabre_, “much”).

154. ˎsj (in Pol. _siaC´_, “to sow”).

155. ˎs_w_ (in Abasian _aC´a_, “apple”).

156. .ˎsw (in Ab. _ac`_, “ox”).

_Sc._

157. ˎz (in Ital. _lo zelo_).

158. ˎzˎz (in Ital. _rozzo_).

159. ˎzj (in Pol. _jedz´_, “go”).

160. ˎz_w_ (in Ab. _az´y_, “some one”).

_Alveolars._

_He._

161. ˎt (in Fr. _tas_).

162. ˎtȷᴶ (in Kas. _t’ai_, “colt”).

163. ˎtˎt (in Ital. _matto_).

164. tꞁh (in Dan. _til_, “to”).

165. tȷꞁh (in Kas. _ja’t‘olṣa_, “red”).

166. ⌊tꞁh (in Thush _t‘uix_, “salt”).

167. ˎtj (in Russ. _poot’_, “way”).

168. ˎt_w_ (in Fr. _toi_).

169. ˎt_w_j (in Fr. _étui_).

_Se._

170. ˎd (in Fr. _doux_).

171. ˎdȷ (in Kas. _d’oxlu_, “freshness”).

172. ˎdˎd (in Ital. _Iddio_).

173. ‘d (in Saxon).

174. ˎdj (in Russ. _loshad’_, “horse”).

175. ˎd_w_ (in Fr. _doigt_).

176. ˎd_w_j (in Fr. _conduire_).

_Ne._

177. ˎn (in Fr. _nain_).

178. ˎnȷ (in Kas. _n’ak_, “blue”).

179. ˎnˎn (in Ital. _canna_, “reed”).

180. d⸲ (in Irish _bean_, “woman”).

181. ˎnj (in Russ. _lên’_, “tench”).

182. ˎn_w_ (in Fr. _noix_).

183. ˎn_w_j (in Fr. _nuit_).

_Hc._

184. s (in Eng. _so_).

185. ss (in Ital. _cassa_).

186. sȷsȷ (in Kas. _ṣ’ât_, “hour”).

187. sH (= the Arab. ص).

188. sj (in Pol. _koś_,“mow”).

189. s_w_ (in Fr. _soie_).

190. s_w_j (in Fr. _suie_).

_Sc._

191. z (in Eng. _zeal_).

192. zz (in Hungarian _azzal_, “with the”).

193. .z (in Ab. _zaqa_, “how much”).

194. zj (in Pol. _leź_, “go up”).

195. z_w_ (in Fr. _rasoir_).

196. z_w_j (in Fr. _dix-huit_).

_Nc._

197. zh⸲ (not found).

_Hl._

198. l_w_h (not found).

_Sl._

199. ˎl (in Fr. _lait_).

200. lȷ (in Kas. _l’ap_, “shine”).

201. ˎlˎl (in Ital. _stella_).

202. ˎlj (in Russ. _korol’_, “king”).

203. ˎl_w_ (in Fr. _loi_).

204. ˎl_w_j (in Fr. _lui_).

_St._

205. ˎr (in Span. _rey_).

_Whishes (Chuintantes)._

_Hc._

206. sh (in Eng. _she_).

207. shȷ (in Kas. _š’arabuču_ [_š’_], “fellow-countryman”).

208. shsh (in Ital. _pesce_).

209. shȷshȷ (in Kas. _ṣ̆’oldi_, “green”).

210. .sh (in Ab. _aša_, “rope”).

211. shj (in Russ. _vosh’_, “louse”).

212. sh_w_ (in Fr. _choix_).

213. sh_w_j (in Fr. _chuinter_).

214. sh_w_sh_w_ (in Ab. _aṣ̌`_, “plane-tree”).

215. .sh_w_ (in Ab. _aš`_, “door”).

_Sc._

216. zh (in Eng. _pleasure_).

217. zhzh (in Hung. _a’zseb_, “the pocket”).

218. .zh (in Ab. _aža_, “hare”).

219. zhj (in Basque [Soule] _jin_, “come”).

220. zh_w_ (in Fr. _joie_).

221. zh_w_zh_w_ (in Ab. _aẓ̌`_, “cow”).

222. .zh_w_ (in Ab. _ž`aba_, “ten”).

223. zh_w_j (in Fr. _juin_).

_Ht._

224. rsh (in Polish _przez_, “through”).

_St._

225. rzh (not found).

_Palatal Whishes._

_Hc._

226. ˎsh (in Ital. _pece_).

227. ˎshˎsh (in Ital. _caccia_).

228. .ˎsh (in Ab. _ača_, “quail”).

229. ɾ̣hɾ̣h (in Ab. _ač̣´y_, “mouth”).

230. .ɾ̣h (in Ab. _ač`y_, “horse”).

231. .ɾ̣hȷ (in Kas. _č’an_, “early”).

232. ˎshj (in Russ. _noch’_, “night”).

233. ˎsh_w_ (in Louisiana Creole _choui_, “to cook”).

234. ˎsh_w_j (in Trinidad Creole _chouite_, “to cook”).

_Sc._

235. ˎzh (in Ital. _regio_).

236. ˎzhˎzh (in Ital. _maggio_).

237. ˎzhj (in Basque [Soule] _espundja_, “sponge”).

238. ˎzh_w_j (in Louisiana Creole _néjuî_, “needle”).

_Double Palatals._

_Hc._

239. ʇs (in Basque _otso_, “wolf”).

_Palatals._

_Hc._

240. t (in Eng. _tea_).

241. ⌊t (in Dan. _huset_, “the house”).

242. Jh (in Eng. _hue_).

243. tj (in Hung. _tyúk_, “hen”).

244. tjtj (in Hung. _a’ tyúk_, “the hen”).

_Se._

245. d (in Eng. _do_).

246. dd (in Sardinian _beddu_, “beautiful”).

247. ⌊d (in Span. _lado_).

248. ⌊d⌊d (in Jutland _Gud_, “God”).

249. J (in Eng. _yet_).

250. JJ (in Hung. _ejjel_, “night”).

251. dj (in Hung. _gyöngy_, “pearl”).

252. djdj (in Hung. _a’ gyöngy_, “the pearl”).

_Ne._

253. n (in Eng. _no_).

254. nh (in Eng. _tent_).

255. J⸲ (in Basque [Roncal] _azkoỹa_, “badger”).

256. nj (in Fr. _digne_).

257. njnj (in Hung. _a’ nyul_, “the hare”).

258. njh (not found).

_Hc._

259. ˏs (in Sp. Basque _su_, “fire”).

_Sc._

260. ˏz (in Port. _zagal_, “young shepherd”).

_Hl._

261. lh (in Eng. _felt_).

262. ljh (in Saintongeais _glas_, “knell”).

_Sl._

263. l (in Eng. _low_).

264. lj (in Ital. _figlio_).

265. ljlj (in Hung. _melly_, “which”).

_Ht._

266. ↋ʰ (not found).

267. _h_ (= Arab. ح).

268. _h_ȷ (in Kas. _ḥ’olu_, “orphan”).

269. _h_ȷ_h_ȷ (in Kas. _ḥ´i_, “pigeon”).

270. rH (in Kas. _ḥ˘aba_, “fish”).

_St._

271. r (in Eng. “_ray_”).

272. rr (in Ital. _terra_).

273. ↋ (= Arab. ع).

274. rj (in Lusatian _wuhor´_, “eel”).

275. r_w_ (in Fr. _roi_).

276. r_w_j (in Fr. _bruit_).

_Ultra-Palatals._

The whole of this set of letters comes originally from Lepsius’s

Alphabet, and “must be considered, therefore, very doubtful.”

_He._

277. T (in Sansk.).

_Se._

278. D (in Sansk.).

_Ne._

279. N (in Sansk.).

280. Nh (in Dravidian).

_Hc._

281. _s_h (in Sansk.).

282. Thh (in Drav.).

_Sc._

283. _z_h (theoretical).

284. Dhh (in Drav.).

_Hl._

285. Lh (in Drav.).

_Sl._

286. L (in Sansk.).

_Ht._

287. Rh (theoretical).

_St._

288. R (in Sansk.).

289. Rhh (in Drav.).

_Gutturo-Labials._

_He._

290. _p_ (in Peruvian).

291. wjh (in Ab. _ih´y_, “speak”).

_Se._

292. _b_ (not found).

293. wj (in Fr. _huile_).

_Hc._

294. fh (not found).

_Sc._

295. vh (not found).

_Gutturo-Dentals._

_Hc._

296. _t_h (in Surgut Ostiak _kat’_, “day”).

297. _t_h_t_h (in S. Ost. _wat’t’ak_, “without”).

298. _t_hj (in Low S. Ost. _sit̄’a_, “gunpowder”).

299. _t_hj_t_hj (not found).

_Sc._

300. _d_h (in S. Ost. _âd’an_, “morning”).

301. _d_h_d_h (in S. Ost. _wad’d’ax_, “without”).

302. _d_hj (in High S. Ost. _sid̄’a_, “gunpowder”).

303. _d_hj_d_hj (not found).

_Guttural Whishes._

_Hc._

304. ˏˏsh (in Tempiese Sardinian _la chjai_, “the key”).

305. ˏˏshˏˏsh (in Temp. Sard. _vecchju_, “old”).

306. ˏˏsh_w_j (in Picard _kyuir_, “leather”).

_Sc._

307. ˏˏzh_w_j (in Temp. Sard. _la ghjesgia_, “the church”).

308. ˏˏzh_w_jˏˏzh_w_j (in Temp. Sard. _ogghji_, “to-day”).

_Gutturo-Palatals._

_He._

309. _t_ (= Arab. ط).

310. tj (in Basque [Labourd] _ttorttoil_, “turtle-dove”).

_Se._

311. _d_ (= Arab. ض).

312. _d_j (in Basque [Labourd] _yaun_, “lord”).

_Ne._

313. _n_ (not found).

_Hc._

314. ˏ_s_ (not found).

315. _s_ (in Basque [Labourd] _su_, “fire”).

_Sc._

316. ˏ_z_ (not found).

317. _z_ (in Basque [Labourd] _Jesus_).

_Double Guttural._

_Hc._

318. ˏkh (in Gaelic _mac_, “son”).

_Gutturals._

_He._

319. k (in Eng. _key_).

320. kȷ (in Kas. _k’orn_, “nest”).

321. kk (in Ital. _bocca_).

322. kꞁh (in Upper Germ. _komm_).

323. kȷꞁh (in Kas. _k‘’ala_, “white”).

324. ⌊kꞁh (in Thush _k’ok_, “foot”).

325. Hh (in Germ. _hand_).

326. HhHh (in Hung. _ahhoz_, “thereto”).

327. H (in Eng. _hand_).

328. ; (= Arab. _hemza_).

329. kj (in Ital. _la chiave_).

330. kjkj (in Ital. _occhio_).

331. Hhj (in Florentine Ital. _la chiave_).

332. k_w_ (in Fr. _quoi_).

333. H_w_h (an ordinary whistle).

334. H_w_ (a voiced whistle).

335. k_w_j (in Fr. _biscuit_).

_Se._

336. g (in Eng. _go_).

337. gg (in Ital. _veggo_).

338. ‘g (in Ostiak _argem_, “I sing”).

339. H’_w_ (in Span. _huevo_).

340. gj (in Ital. _la ghianda_).

341. gjgj (in Ital. _ragghiare_).

342. g_w_ (in Fr. _goître_).

343. g_w_j (in Fr. _aiguille_).

_Ne._

344. q (in Eng. _singer_).

345. qh (in Eng. _sink_).

346. H‘h⸲ (in Scutari Albanian _halk_, “multitude”).

347. qj or qɈ (in Sanskr.)

_Hc._

348. kh (in Germ. _dach_).

349. x (existence doubtful).

350. khkh (in Sassarese Sard. _palchi_, “because”).

351. khȷkhȷ (in Kas. _x´’ot_, “shade”).

352. khH (not found).

353. kjh (in Germ. _milch_).

354. k_w_h (in Scotch _loch_).

_Sc._

355. gh (in Germ. _tage_).

356. _x_ (existence doubtful).

357. ghgh (in Sass. Sard. _olganu_, “organ”).

358. .gh (existence doubtful).

359. gjh (in Germ. _selig_).

360. g_w_h (in Germ. _auge_).

_Nc._

361. gh⸲h (in Avar _ẋonkodize_ [ẋ] “to snore”).

_Hl._

362. _l_h (not found).

363. lhh (in Welsh _llaw_, “hand”).

364. lhhj (not found).

365. _lw_h (not found).

_Sl._

366. _l_ (in Pol. _łamac_, “to break”).

367. _l_hh (theoretical voiced Welsh _ll_).

368. _l_hhj (not found).

369. _lw_ (not found).

_Hl._

370. krh (= Arab. خ).

371. ._r_h (not found).

_Sl._

372. grh (= Arab. غ).

373. .r (= Newcastle “burr”).

374. ⌊_r_ (in Jutland _var_, “was”).

375. _r_ (in Parisian _Paris_).

376. _rr_ (in Parisian _irregulier_).

_Ultra-Gutturals._

_He._

377. K (= Arab. ق).

378. Kȷ (in Kas. _q’apa_, “hat”).

_Sc._

379. G (not found).

380. G_w_ (not found).

_Ne._

381. Q (not found).

_Hc._

382. _k_h (in Dutch _nacht_).

383. _k_hȷ (in Kas. _x̣’ort_, “pear”).

384. ._k_h (in Kas. _x̣’ata_, “house”).

385. K_w_h (not found).

_Sc._

386. Gh (in Dutch _God_).

387. G_w_h (not found).

_Ht._

388. Ꞁh (not found).

_St._ 389.

Ꞁ (in Dan. _ret_, “right”).

390. ȴꞀ (in Dan. _var_, “was”).

J denotes palatalized or _mouillées_ characters, _w_ labialized or

_veloutées_ characters, _w_j labio-palatalized or _mixtes_ characters,

⌊ a weakened consonant, a doubled letter or group of letters an

emphasized consonant, a prefixed . a semi-emphasized consonant, prefixed

ˎ an alveolarized or dentalized or “advanced” consonant, a prefixed

ˏ a “retracted” consonant, and ȷ a semi-palatalized or semi-mouillée

consonant.[234]

MR. SWEET’S NARROW ROMIC ALPHABET AND LIST OF SYMBOLS.[235]

1. a (in _father_).

2. ɐ (in _bat_).

3. _ɑ_ (broad a).

4. _ɒ_ (broad ɐ).

5. A }

Ɐ } (varieties of ɐ).

6. æ (in _men_).

7. _əe_ (in _man_).

8. æh (in _turn_).

9. _əe_h (in _opener_).

10. b (in _bee_).

11. bh (German w).

12. bh_j_ (palatalized bh).

13. d (in _day_).

14. dh (in _then_).

15. dh_j_ (palatalized dh).

16. D (palatal d).

17. e (close e).

18. ə (French close eu).

19. _e_ (variety of open e).

20. _ə_ (variety of French open eu).

21. eh }

_e_h } (German unaccented e).

22. f (in _fee_).

23. g (in _go_).

24. gh (voiced kh).

25. gh_r_ (trilled gh).

26. gh_w_ (labialized gh).

27. g_j_ }

G } (palatalized g).

28. h (general diacritic).

29. H (aspirate).

30. Hh (open glottis).

31. i (narrow i).

32. _i_ (wide i).

33. ih (Welsh u).

34. _i_h (wide ih).

35. j (in _you_).

36. jh (voiceless j).

37. jh_w_ (labialized jh).

38. kh (Scotch ch).

39. kh_r_ (trilled kh).

40. kh_w_ (labialized kh).

41. kH (aspirated k).

42. k_j_ }

K } (palatalized k).

43. l (in _lee_).

44. lh (voiceless l).

45. L (palatal l).

46. Ꞁ (guttural l).

47. m (in _may_).

48. mh (voiceless m).

49. n (in _now_).

50. nh (voiceless n).

51. _n_ (nasality).

52. N (palatal n).

53. o (close o).

54. _o_ (open o).

55. oh (between o and ə).

56. _o_h (between _o_ and _ə_).

57. ɔ (open o in _all_).

58. ɔh (between ɔ and œ).

59. _ɔ_ (open o in _not_).

60. _ɔ_h (between _ɔ_ and _œ_).

61. œ (open French eu).

62. _œ_ (wide œ).

63. p (in _pay_).

64. ph (voiceless bh).

65. ph_j_ (palatalized ph).

66. pH (aspirated p).

67. q (in _sing_).

68. qh (voiceless q).

69. _q_ (French nasality).

70. r (in _red_).

71. _r_ (trilled letter).

72. r_r_ (trilled r).

73. rh (voiceless r).

74. rh_r_ (trilled rh).

75. r_j_ (palatalized r).

76. R (laryngal r).

77. Rh (voiceless R).

78. s (in _say_).

79. s_j_ (palatalized s).

80. sh (in _fish_).

81. sh_j_ (palatalized sh).

82. sh_w_ (labialized sh).

83. t (in _tea_).

84. th (in _thing_).

85. th_j_ (palatalized th).

86. tH (aspirated t).

87. T (palatal t).

88. u (narrow u).

89. uh (Swedish u).

90. _u_ (English u).

91. _u_h (wide uh).

92. v (in _vie_).

93. ʌ (denotes voice).

94. ʌh }

‘Ʌ } (whisper).

95. w (in _we_).

96. wh (in _why_).

97. _w_ (labialization).

98. x (glottal catch).

99. y (French u).

100. _y_ (wide y).

101. z (in _zeal_).

102. zh (in _rouge_).

103. (a)I (denotes length).

104. a II (extra length).

105. a· (stress or force).

106. a¨ (extra stress).

107. a: (half stress).

108. a̿ (level force).

109. a᷾ (increasing force).

110. a͐ (diminishing force).

111. — (level tone).

112. / (rising tone).

113. \ (falling tone).

114. ∨ (falling and rising tone).

115. ∧ (rising and falling tone).

116. [i] (glide).

117. ‘z (whispered s).

118. aˏ (inner or away from the teeth).

119. aˎ (outer).

120. r† (protruded).

121. r⸸ (inverted or cerebral).

122. * (denotes simultaneity of two sounds it comes between).

123. eˡ (raised tongue).

124. oˡ (narrowed lip-opening).

125. — (beginning of sound-group on weak stress).