formed he says:[137] 'The idea of each color had originally entire
concreteness given to it by an object possessing the color; as some
of the unmodified names, such as orange and violet, show us. The
dissociation of each color from the object specially associated with
it in thought at the outset, went on as fast as the color came to be
associated in thought with objects unlike the first, and unlike one
another. The idea of orange was conceived in the abstract more fully in
proportion as the various orange-colored objects remembered, cancelled
one another's diverse attributes, and left outstanding their common
attribute. So it is if we ascend a stage, and note how there arises the
abstract idea of color, apart from particular colors.'
[137] _Data of Ethics_, p. 124.
Now this is all untrue. Such names as orange and violet are some of the
latest names of color. They presuppose such late, nay exotic, concepts,
as _orange_ and _violet_. The question why an orange was called an
orange, and a violet a violet remains unasked and unanswered. In the
old names for _black_, _white_, _red_, _green_, and _blue_, there is
not a trace of ink, or snow, or blood, or sea, or sky. They are all
derived, so far as we can analyse them at all, from roots meaning to
shine, to grow, to beat black and blue, and not from oranges, roses, or
violets.
Again, what can be the meaning of such a sentence as:[138] 'Words
referring to quantity furnish cases of more marked dissociation of
abstract from concrete. Grouping various things as small in comparison
either with those of their kind or with those of other kinds; and
similarly grouping some objects as comparatively great, we get the
opposite abstract notions of smallness and greatness.' Does Mr. Spencer
really believe that we can call things small and great, that our
language can possess two adjectives expressive of these qualities,
and that yet at the same time we are without an abstract notion of
smallness and greatness? Mr. H. Spencer constantly calls on the
facts of language, to confirm his views, but his facts are hardly
ever correct. For instance: after having explained that, according
to his ideas, greater coherence among its component motions broadly
distinguishes the conduct we call moral from the conduct we call
immoral, he appeals to the word _dissolute_, when meaning immoral, as
proving this theory. But _dissolutus_ in Latin meant originally no
more than negligent, remiss. _Dissolutio_ meant languor, weakness,
effeminacy, and then only licentiousness and immorality. Language,
therefore, in no way confirms Mr. H. Spencer's speculations, still less
does experience, for no man is so coherent in his acts, so calculating,
so self-restrained, as the confirmed criminal; no one is often so
careless, so little shrewd, so easily duped as the thoroughly moral and
therefore trustful and confiding man.
[138] L. c., p. 125.
But to return to the history of the word for matter. The process
by which _materies_, wood, came to mean matter, is intelligible
enough, whether we call it generalisation, or abstraction. But how
came _materies_ to mean wood? That is the question which has to be
solved, and in solving it, we shall find that while in the second
period of thought-language the progress is from the particular to
the general, the progress in the first period is the reverse, namely
from the general to the particular. In the case of _materes_ this is
very clear. No one can doubt that in _materies_ the radical element
is _mâ_, the derivatives _ter_ and _ies_. The radical element _mâ_ is
found in Sanskrit _mâ-tram_, measure, _mâ-nam_, measuring, _mâ-na-s_,
a building; in Greek μέ-τρον, measure; in Latin _me-tare_, to measure.
We can hardly doubt that the oldest Aryan name for mother also, namely
_mâtar_, Greek μήτηρ, Latin _mater_, English _mother_, is derived from
that root, though it is doubtful in what sense. It may have meant
originally no more than maker or fashioner, and it is important to
observe that in the Veda the same word _mâtar_, occurs as a masculine
and means maker, and actually governs an accusative. But it may also
have meant arranger, controller, and mistress of all household affairs.
Whatever its original intension was, _mâtar_ soon became a mere name.
Its etymological keynote was no longer audible, and _mâtar_ meant
mother and all that was implied in that name when used by children and
others.
If we compare all the words which contain this _mâ_ as their common
element, we can see that it meant originally to put two or more things
together. This led to two applications. What we call measuring is
really putting two things together, one by the side of another, to see
how far they agree and how far they differ. Thus _mâ_ took the special
meaning of measuring, in such words as Greek μέτρον and Sanskrit
_mâtram_. But to put together could also be used in the sense of
joining, carpentering, building, and making, and this meaning we find
in such words as (Sanskrit) _mânas_, a building, _mâti_, he measures,
he makes, and likewise _materies_, what has been fashioned, what can
be used for building a hut, timber, wood, building material, then any
kind of material, and at last matter, substance in its most general
acceptation.
You can see here very clearly the twofold process in the formation
of words, first, from the general to the particular,—from measuring
to wood, and then from the particular to the general, from timber to
matter.
If you ask, what is this syllable _mâ_ which has the general meaning of
measuring and making, I can only answer, We know, and we do not know.
We know as a fact that it is the common element in a number of words,
which are differentiated by a number of derivative elements, called
suffixes, prefixes, and infixes, but which can all be shown to share
in common the general meaning of making and measuring. These common
elements have been called roots. The question whether these roots
ever existed by themselves, and whether any language could ever have
consisted of these roots, is a foolish question. For as soon as a root
occurs in a sentence, it is either a subject or a predicate, a noun or
a verb, and it has ceased to be a mere root. But on the other hand, it
is quite true that in certain languages, as, for instance, in Chinese
there is no formal difference between a root and a word—there are no
suffixes or prefixes. But the strict rules of the collocation of words
in every sentence make it quite clear whether a word is to be taken as
a substantive, a verb, an adjective, an adverb, and all the rest.
By the same process by which we have reduced a number of words to the
root _mâ_, the whole dictionary of Sanskrit, and of English also, in
fact of all the Aryan and likewise of the Semitic languages, has been
reduced to a small number of roots. Given that small number of roots,
we undertake to account for the whole wealth of words in any language,
simply by means of derivation with suffixes and prefixes, and by means
of composition.
In all this we are dealing with fact, facts which are as well
ascertained as any facts in physical science.
Making allowance for a small margin of words which have as yet resisted
all attempts at etymological analysis, we can state that the vast
majority of words in Sanskrit has been reduced to about 800 roots. In
the progress of language whole families of words derived from some of
these roots become extinct while others continue prolific and take
their place. The consequence is that the number of roots in English has
dwindled down to 461, while the sum total of words has risen to about
250,000.
Every one of these roots has a general or conceptual meaning, such
as striking, pushing, rubbing, cutting, bearing, binding, measuring,
building, moving, going, falling, and all the rest.
It often happens, however, that two or more roots have the same or
nearly the same meaning, and this explains why, when we count the
fundamental concepts expressed by our 800 roots in Sanskrit, we find
that they amount to no more than 121.
I say again that in all this we are dealing with well ascertained facts.
The next step, however, leads us into the domain of theory. If we
are asked, how these roots came into existence, we may decline to
answer the question as outside the limits of science. A chemist would
probably do the same, if he were asked how the chemical elements came
into existence. In fact, the students of the Science of Language have
always taken their stand here and have treated roots as ultimate facts.
I ought to mention, however, two theories which, though they have long
been surrendered by students of the Science of Language still enjoy
a certain popularity, and commend themselves to many people by their
extreme simplicity and plausibility.
The first consists in ascribing the roots of all languages to a direct
communication from God. It is impossible to refute such an opinion;
all we can say is that such a communication, if we try to realise it
in imagination, would imply such a crude anthropomorphism that one
naturally shrinks from entering into details.
The second consists in looking upon roots as imitations of the
sounds of nature or as interjections. Here all we can say is that
the experiment has been tried again and again, and has failed. Every
language contains a number of such words which are imitations of the
sounds of nature or interjections. No one can doubt of the origin of
_bow wow_, a dog, or of _pooh-poohing_, in the sense of rejecting. But
the great stock of words, however, cannot be accounted for by this easy
process, and no serious scholar would think of resuscitating what many
years ago I described as the Bow-wow and Pooh-pooh theories.
But while the student of language seems to me to have a perfect right
to treat the roots of language as ultimate facts, it is difficult for
the philosopher not to look beyond. He cannot hope to do more than
to suggest an hypothesis, but if his hypothesis accounts for the few
facts he has to deal with, such an hypothesis is legitimate, though, no
doubt, it is very far from being an established truth.
The hypothesis which I suggested on the origin of roots, was suggested
to me by Professor Noiré's hypothesis as to the origin of concepts.
My late friend, Professor Noiré, was one of those who discovered
difficulties where no one else saw them. While most philosophers were
satisfied with the fact that man possessed the power of forming, not
only percepts, but concepts also, while no trace of conceptual thought
was found in animals, Noiré subjected this power of forming concepts
to a most minute psychological analysis, and thus was brought face to
face with the question, what was, from a psychogenetic point of view,
the real impulse to the formation of conceptual thought. Questions like
this, which to most people, seem perfectly superfluous, often mark the
real progress in the history of philosophy. Logicians see no difficulty
in explaining how, either by addition or subtraction, positively
or negatively, concepts are formed out of percepts. White, they
say, is either what snow, milk, and marble share in common, or what
remains if we drop from snow, milk, and marble all but their color.
The psychologist who looks upon the human mind as the result of an
evolution, whether in the individual or in the race, asks, not _how_,
but _why_ such concepts should have been formed. Now Professor Noiré
showed, as I thought, with great sagacity, that the first inevitable
concepts arose from man's consciousness of his own repeated acts; that
nowhere in nature could we find a similar primitive and irresistible
impulse to conceptual thought, but that if the beginning had once been
made, there was no longer any difficulty in accounting for the further
development of conceptual thought in all directions.
I call this no more than an hypothesis, or, if you like, a guess, and
I do not see how in the regions in which we find ourselves, we can
expect anything more than an hypothesis. But when one hypothesis, like
that of Noiré's, harmonises with another hypothesis, that was formed
quite independently, we cannot help seeing that the two lend each other
powerful mutual support.
Let us remember then that a most careful psychological analysis had
led Noiré to the conclusion that the germs of all conceptual thought
were to be found in the consciousness of our own repeated acts. And
let us place by the side of this, the well-ascertained fact that the
germs of all conceptual language, what we call the roots, express with
few exceptions the repeated acts of men. Is not the conclusion almost
inevitable that these two processes were in reality but two sides of
one and the same process in the evolution of human thought and human
language? Professor Noiré did not know of the linguistic fact, when
he arrived at his psychological conclusions. I did not know of his
psychological conclusions, when I arrived at my linguistic facts. But
when I saw that by different roads we had both arrived at exactly the
same point, I thought that this could not be by an accident.
There remained, however, one more question to be answered, and that
question again could be answered hypothetically only. How can we
account for the sounds of the roots, which we have recognised as the
germs of conceptual thought and conceptual language? Why should, for
instance, the concept of rubbing be expressed by MAR, and that of
tearing by DAR? Here again Noiré and others before him have pointed
to the well-known fact that men, when engaged in common acts, find a
relief in emitting their breath in more or less musical modulation. It
has therefore been supposed that our roots are the remnants of sounds
which accompanied these acts, and which, being used, not by one man
only, but by men acting in common, were therefore intelligible to the
whole community.
No one would dream of representing this theory of the origin of our
conceptual roots as a well-ascertained historical fact. It is and can
only be an hypothesis. But, as such, it fulfils all the requirements of
a working hypothesis. It explains all that has to be explained, and it
does not run counter to any facts, or any well established theories.
It explains the sounds of our roots, not as mere interjections, which
would be the signs of momentary feelings, and not, what we want,
the signs of our consciousness of a number of repeated acts as one
action. Our roots are, if we may venture to say so, conceptual, not
interjectional sounds. They are, in fact, exactly what, according to
Noiré's philosophical system, the primary elements of language ought to
be.
I do not say that this theory is the only possible theory of the origin
of roots, and therefore of language. Let a better theory be started,
and I shall be delighted to accept it. But don't let us try to revive
exploded theories, unless there are new facts to support them. I can
only give you my own experience. For many years I was satisfied to look
upon roots as ultimate facts. But when Professor Noiré showed that the
fundamental concepts of our thought must be concepts expressive of our
own acts, and when thereupon I went carefully through the list of our
Aryan roots and found that with few exceptions, every one of them, as a
matter of fact, expressed the ordinary acts of men in a simple state of
civilisation, I was driven to the conclusion that the primitive roots
of Aryan speech may owe their origin to the sounds which naturally
accompany many acts performed in common by members of a family, a clan,
or a village. This would vindicate once more the conviction which I
have always held that language was from the beginning conceptual, and
confirm the well-known statement of Locke, that 'the having of general
ideas is that which puts a perfect distinction between man and brutes,
and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means
attain to.'
Allow me in conclusion to say a few words on what I can hardly call
a criticism, but rather a misrepresentation, or, I ought perhaps
to say, a complete misapprehension of this theory of the origin of
roots which appeared in a book lately published by Professor Romanes,
"Mental Evolution in Man," as a continuation of an earlier work of his,
called "Mental Evolution in Animals." My learned friend, Professor
Romanes, labors to show that there is an unbroken mental evolution from
the lowest animal to the highest man. But he sees very clearly and
confesses very honestly that the chief difficulty in this evolution is
language and all that language implies. He tries very hard to remove
that barrier between beast and man. For that purpose he devotes a whole
chapter, the thirteenth, to a consideration of the roots of language,
and yet he says at the end of the chapter, "I wish in conclusion to
make it clear that the matter—that is the question whether roots
are imitations of sound or interjections—is not one which seriously
affects the theory of evolution."
If it were so, why should Professor Romanes have devoted a whole
chapter to it? But it is not my intention to argue this question with
Professor Romanes, but rather to show how difficult it is for any
one, not acquainted with the Science of Language, even to apprehend
the problems that have to be solved. Professor Romanes is, I believe,
a most eminent biologist, and the mantle of Darwin is said to have
fallen on his shoulders. Far be it from me to venture to criticise his
biological facts. But we see in his case how dangerous it is for a
man who can claim to speak with authority on his own special subject,
to venture to speak authoritatively on subjects not his own. Professor
Romanes has, no doubt, read several books on philology and philosophy,
but he is not sufficiently master of his subject to have the slightest
right to speak of men like Noiré, Huxley, Herbert Spencer, to say
nothing of Hobbes, with an air of superiority. That is entirely out of
place. When he points out differences of opinion between philologists,
he does not even understand how they have arisen, and he ought to know
better than anybody else that mere difference of opinion between two
competent scholars does not prove that both are wrong and can never be
used to throw discredit on the whole science.
But as I said just now, I am not going to argue with Professor Romanes
because, as he says himself (p. 276), if I were right, his whole theory
would collapse. I hope this is not the case, but I feel sure that,
if it were, Professor Romanes would only rejoice at it. Anyhow why
introduce so much of the _meum_ and _tuum_ into these discussions? If
it could be proved that the Aryas came from Europe, then, no doubt,
the other theory that they came from Asia, would collapse. But among
serious students every such collapse would be greeted with gratitude,
and would be looked upon simply as a step in advance. We are all fellow
workers, we all care for one thing only, the discovery of truth. It is
in this spirit, and without a thought of any collapse, that I venture
to point out a number of clear mistakes which occur on almost every
page when Mr. Romanes touches linguistic questions, and which fully
account for his not perceiving the true character of the evidence
placed before us by the Science of Language.
On page 267 he says that I profess, as a result of more recent
researches, to have reduced the number of Sanskrit roots to 121.
I wish I had. But the number of roots in Sanskrit stands as yet at
about 800; the number 121, of which he speaks, is the number of
concepts expressed by these roots, many of them conveying the same, or
nearly the same idea. A root is one thing, a concept quite another. To
confuse the two is like confusing thought and expression.
I thought I had made it quite clear, that these 121 concepts, conveyed
by about 800 roots, are simply and solely the residue of a careful
analysis of Sanskrit, and of Sanskrit only. I took particular care to
make this clear. 'They constitute the stock in trade,' I said, 'with
which every thought that has ever passed through the mind of India, so
far as it is known to us in its literature, has been expressed.' What
can be clearer? Still Professor Romanes thinks it necessary to remark
that 'these concepts do not represent the ideation of primitive man!'
I never said they did. I never pretended to be acquainted with the
ideation of primitive man. All I maintained was that, making allowance
for obscure words, every thought, that of the lowest savage as well as
that of the most minute philosopher, can be expressed with these 800
roots, and traced back to these 121 concepts. I even hinted that the
number of these concepts might be considerably reduced. The question
is not whether forms of activity, such as _to yawn_, _to spew_,
_to vomit_, _to sweat_, were of vital importance to the needs of a
primitive community, but whether they were known and therefore named,
in the early vocabulary of India. If on the other hand some of these
concepts, such as _to cook_, _to roast_, _to measure_, _to dig_, _to
plat_, _to milk_, betoken an advanced condition of life, all we can say
is that they would probably not occur in the dictionary of primeval
savages, wherever such a being can be found, and that they do not
profess to be the first utterances of the _Homo alalus_, whoever that
may be.
Immediately after this, Professor Romanes dwells on what he calls
the interesting feature of all roots being verbs. This is simply
a contradiction in terms. In giving the meaning of roots scholars
generally employ the infinitive or the participle, to go, or going,
but they have stated again and again that a root ceases to be a root
as soon as it is used in a sentence, either as a subject or as a
predicate, either as a noun or a verb. All his arguments therefore
that archaic words, expressive of actions, would have stood a better
chance of surviving as roots than those which may have been expressive
of objects, are simply out of place. The question whether verbs came
first or nouns, may be argued _ad infinitum_, quite as much as the
question whether the egg came first or the chicken. Every sentence
requires a subject as well as a predicate. If Professor Romanes
approves of my saying that roots stood for any part of speech, just as
the monosyllabic expressions of children do, I can only say that if I
ever said so, I expressed myself incorrectly. A root never stands for
any part of speech, because as soon as it is a part of speech, it is no
longer a root.