THE LAWS OF SPECIAL SIGNIFICANCE, OR THE CREATION OF ROOTS.
“Nommer par la mimologie, s’enrichir par la comparaison, les
langues n’ont pas d’autre moyen: elles ne sortent pas de
là.”--Nodier, p. 39.
From the general question as to the manner in which sounds acquired
significance as _words_, we proceed to the longer and wider inquiry
as to the causes which led to the choice of special sounds in
special significations; or, in other words, we shall consider the
origin of roots.[85]
When in the first chapter we proved that language was neither
innate nor revealed, we proved implicitly that no words could be
_purely_ arbitrary.[86] The historic character of language,--the
fact that in innumerable cases we can distinctly trace the laws
which presided at the genesis of any particular word,--strongly
confirms our _à priori_ conclusion. The inference to be deduced
from the labours of all the best philologists, is that of Ihre,
“Non ut fungi nascuntur Vocabula.” We have no reason to believe
that any elements of language were deduced from roots which of
themselves had no significance; and the more rigorous and extensive
the analysis to which even inflections are subjected, the more
clear is the proof that they arise from the agglutination of
separate and significant words. “We believe,” says one of the
ablest of modern[87] inquirers, “that in language _ex nihilo nihil
fit_; and we are at a loss to conceive how elements originally
destitute of signification can determine the sense of anything
with precision. To assume that they have _no_ meaning, because we
cannot always satisfactorily explain it, is only an _argumentum ad
ignorantiam_.”
Nor must it be forgotten, that in endeavouring to prove that in
language _nothing is arbitrary_, we are under a great disadvantage,
because no existing language has come to us in its primitive form.
Every language, even those which are most ancient, and have long
since ceased to be spoken, bears in its records the traces of a
more primitive condition. Words, of which the composition was
originally clear, are worn and rubbed by the use of ages, like the
pebbles which are fretted and rounded into shape and smoothness by
the sea waves on a shingly beach; or to use the more appropriate
image suggested by Goethe, their meaning is often worn away
like the image and superscription of a coin. This process is so
continuous, that it is quite hopeless to recover the original form
of many words, or even to make a probable[88] guess at their origin.
Language always tends to become mechanical (_i.e._ unmeaning of
_itself_) by corruption;[89] and to such an extent is this the
case, that it is rather a matter of astonishment when, after the
lapse of centuries, a word still retains the _obvious_ traces of
its original form. And yet in spite of this we can by induction
discover from words themselves the _main_ laws which influenced the
formation of primitive speech.
The violent dislike which we instinctively feel to the use of a
word entirely new to us, and of which we do not understand the
source, is a matter of daily experience; and the tendency to _give_
a meaning to adopted words by so changing them as to remove their
seemingly _arbitrary_ character has exercised a permanent and
appreciable influence on every language. An instance or two will
perhaps pave the way for a more ready acceptance of our subsequent
remarks.
When we go into a ship or factory, and inquire the technical name
of various parts of the machinery, we are either unable to use the
names from not catching the pronunciation, or, in attempting to
pronounce them we substitute for them other words of similar sound
and more significance.
It often happens that gardeners become acquainted with new
plants, or new species of old plants, that are brought to them
under a foreign name; not understanding this name, they corrupt
it into some word which sounds like it, and with which they are
already familiar. To this source of corruption we owe such words
as dandylion[90] (_dent de lion_), rosemary (_ros marinus_),
gilly-flower (_girofle_), quarter sessions rose (_des quatre
saisons_), Jerusalem artichoke (_giresol_) &c. For the same reason
(the dislike of terms with which they are unacquainted) sailors
corrupt Bellerophon into Billy Ruffian: and we have heard of a
groom, who, having the charge of two horses called Othello and
Desdemona, christened them respectively Old Fellow and Thursday
Morning. Lamprocles, the name of a horse of Lord Eglintoun’s, was
converted by the ring into “Lamb and Pickles.” The same principle
may be seen at work among servants; we have heard a servant
systematically use the word “cravat” for “carafe,” and astonish a
gentleman by calmly asking him at luncheon, “If she should fill
his _cravat_ with water?”
The working of this tendency is all the more curious from the
fact that very often the corrupted form of the word is wholly
_inappropriate_, although significant. There is no doubt that,
in most cases, we prefer a corruption, which is appropriate _as
well as_ significant, and we find instances[91] of this in such
words as worm-_wood_ (_wermuth_), cray-_fish_ (_écrévisse_),
lant_horn_ (_laterna_), _bel_fry (_beffroi_), rake_hell_
(_racaille_), _beef_eater (_buffetier_), verdi_grease_ (_verd de
gris_), sparrow-_grass_ (asparagus), &c. Where, however, this is
unattainable, we are well content with some significant corruption,
for which we can invent or imagine a meaning even if we are unaware
of the real explanation; as, for instance, in Charter House
(_Chartreuse_), “to a cow’s thumb” = exactly (_à la coutume_),
wiseacre (_weissager_), saltpetre (_salpetra_), &c. It is curious
to find that in the desire to understand, at any rate in _some_
degree, the words we use, the corrupted form often gives birth to
a totally false explanation. Thus Dr. Latham mentions[92] that the
corruption of _Château Vert_ into Shotover has led to the legend
that Little John _shot over_ the hill of that name near Oxford.
Similar instances are supplied by the legends of Veronica, and of
St. Ursula with her _eleven thousand_ virgins.
It may seem that we have, in the course of this chapter, made
statements somewhat contradictory; viz., that it is the tendency of
language to become mechanical (_i.e._, arbitrary and conventional)
by corruption, and yet that there is an instinctive dislike to the
use of new words which convey no intrinsic meaning to the mind of
the speaker. If we argued from the instances adduced in the last
pages, we _might_ infer that language was originally arbitrary,
and had been twisted into meaning by subsequent use. We must,
however, draw attention to the fact that this latter phenomenon
is only observable on the naturalisation of a word. A new word,
however bright and perfect in itself, is like a strange coin upon
which we look with suspicion, because we are unaccustomed to its
appearance. But when a word is accepted and generally understood,
when, in fact, it has _become current_, we are then indifferent
to the amount of wear on the surface or even to the complete
obliteration of its original significance; just in the same way as
we do not trouble ourselves to observe a coin which is in common
use, and pay no regard to the fact that its image is confused, and
its superscription undecipherable. We might, for instance, find
words which have passed through both processes. Let us suppose[93]
that, in course of time, the word _sherbet_ had become corrupted
first into _syrup_, then into _shrub_; in this case we should
have an exemplification of a word first appropriately corrupted
into a familiar form in the course of naturalisation, and then
re-corrupted into a purely mechanical[94] word, by the ordinary
progress of language. We are therefore fairly entitled to infer
from the dislike to the introduction of any sound as a word,
when the sound is to the speaker an arbitrary one, that the same
feeling must have operated at the dawning exercise of the faculty
of speech; while from the indifference which we exhibit to the
corruption of a word when it has once been currently received; we
may give a reason for our inability to explain the origin of _all_
primitive roots, even while we assume with confidence that every
root was originally significative.
Language may be regarded as the union of words and grammar, of
which words are analogous to matter, and grammar to form;[95]
regarded in its _form_ it was the expression of pure reason; in its
_matter_ it was only the reflex of sensuous life. The absence of
any definite grammar constitutes an _inorganic_ language like the
Chinese. Those who have derived language exclusively from sensation
are as much mistaken as those who have assigned to ideas a purely
material origin. Sensation furnished the variable and accidental
element, which might have been quite other than it is, (_i.e._,
the words); but the grammar of a language, (the rational form,
without which words could not have been a language), is its pure
and transcendental element which gives to the result its truly
human character. Words can no more form a language than sensations
can produce a man. That which originates language, like that
which originates thought, is the logical relation which the soul
establishes between external things.
We may now state our belief that _almost all_ primitive roots were
obtained by _Onomatopœia_, _i.e._, by an imitation with the human
voice of the sounds of inanimate nature. Onomatopœia sufficed
to represent the vast majority of physical facts and external
phenomena; and nearly all the words requisite for the expression
of metaphysical and moral convictions were derived from these[96]
onomatopœic roots by _analogy_ and _metaphor_.
We have purposely modified our statement of these conclusions,
because there is too great a tendency to general assertions,
against which, as W. von Humboldt well remarked, science should be
always on its guard. It is a saying of Schlegel’s, that, so great
is the variety of procedure in different languages, that there is
scarcely one language which might not be chosen to illustrate some
particular hypothesis. For instance, the _sole_ similarity between
Chinese and Sanskrit rests in the fact that both aim at the same
end, viz., the expression of thought. Thus onomatopœia is far from
being found in all languages in the same degree, and it is much
more observable in the Semitic than in the Indo-European family, in
which, however ancient the word may be proved to be, it constantly
bears witness to those poetic and philosophic instincts of our race
which clearly prove that reason was not a slow and painful growth.
“Caprice has no influence in the formation of language.” Without
believing in any universal, necessary, intrinsic connection
between word and thing, we are forced to believe that there was,
in every case, a _subjective_ connection. The appropriateness of
the word resided, not in the object named, for in this case there
would have been a striking similarity in all the languages of the
human race, but in the mind of the name-giver, who, of necessity,
stamped the word with the impress of his own individuality. In
direct proportion to the delicacy of his perceptions, was the
fitness of the words he used; for those words expressed relations
capable of being viewed in widely different aspects, so that the
finer and more keen was the man’s power of perceiving analogies,
the greater was his capacity for the expression of facts. The true
formula is that “the connection between a word and its meaning is
never _necessary_, and never arbitrary, but always results from a
reasonable motive.”
But what the motives were, which in many cases led to the choice
of particular sounds, it is beyond our power to conjecture or
ascertain. The richness and delicacy of the appellative faculty
in the savage and the infant must necessarily have existed in the
primitive man, and, as it decayed with the decay of all necessity
for its exercise, we are unable to point out, with any certainty,
the tendencies by which it was actuated. There is no waste in the
economy of nature; a faculty ceases when it is no longer required,
just as the outer leaves which ensheathe the nascent germ wither
and drop off when the germ has acquired sufficient vitality for its
own preservation.
“Tecum habita” was not the motto of the early inhabitants of the
earth. They lived with the external world. The cataract “haunted
them like a passion,” and they heard voices in the dawning of the
sun and the murmur of the wind. The heavens declared the glory of
God, and the firmament showed his handiwork; day unto day uttered
speech, and night showed knowledge unto night. The soul of the
first man, to use the beautiful expression of Leibnitz, was a
concentric mirror of nature, in the midst of whose works he lived.
Language was the echo of nature in his individual consciousness.
The action of the mind produced language by a spontaneous
repercussion of the perceptions received.[97] It is the mind which
creates and forms; but this power of the mind is one reacting only
upon impressions received from the world without. The imitative
power of language consists in an artistic imitation, not of things,
but of the rational impression which an object produces by its
qualities.
The fact, therefore, that the imitation is _artistic_, and
is influenced by subjective considerations, would prevent us
from being surprised or disappointed, if we do not always see
the working of this principle, in cases where we should have
expected it. In such words as the Hebrew _Khâtzatz_ (קָצַץ),
and _Schephifoun_ (שְׁפִיפוֹן) we seem to hear the shearing off
of the cut material, and the lithe rustle of the horned snake
through the withered leaves. But words so remarkably suggestive
are comparatively rare, and in most cases the imitation is more
concealed. Nothing, however, more powerfully proves the tendency
of language, in this respect, than the fact that words of a
harsh meaning usually assume a rough, harsh form, and words that
imply something sweet and tender seem to breathe the sensation
they describe. The German word (entsetzen) “terror,” means,
etymologically, a mere “displacement,” yet who does not see that it
has caught an instinctive echo from the thing which it describes,
which, in no degree, depends on association;--that, independently
of imagination it betrays something harsh by its mere form. That
there is a consonance between external sounds and the processes
of the mind, is decisively shown by the fact that whole languages
have thus caught the impress of the associations by which they
have been evolved. In the soft and vowelled undersong of modern
Italian, who does not recognise the result of climate and natural
character? The Doric seems to recall to us the sound of martial
flutes, while the Hebrew, in its stern and solemn pomp, tells like
one vast onomatopœia, of the mighty mission which it was destined
to accomplish; every single word of it seems to shine with that
mysterious light which lent strange lustre to the letters of it on
the gems of the sacerdotal robe. “When,” says M. Vinet, “you hear
the vast word haschâmaïm, which names the heavens, unfold itself
like a vast pavilion, your intelligence--before knowing what the
word signifies--expects something magnificent; no mean object could
have been named thus; it is better than an onomatopœia, although it
is not one.”[98]
The exuberance and uncontrolled variety which characterises the
primitive languages is a proof of the extraordinarily developed
resources of the power of interpretation, or the faculty of
converting sounds into signs, so long as the exercise of that
faculty continued to be necessary. The richest idioms are always
the most spontaneous and unconscious. It is obviously impossible
for us, with our intellectual refinements and blunted senses, to
rediscover the ancient harmony which existed between thought and
sensation, between nature and man. As we are no longer obliged to
create language, we have entirely lost a crowd of processes which
tended to its elaboration. But among the early races there was a
delicate tact, enabling them to seize on those attributes which
were capable of supplying them with appellatives, the exquisite
subtlety of which we are unable any longer to conceive.[99] They
saw a thousand things at once, and indeed their language-creating
faculty mainly consisted in a power of seizing upon relations.
Our very civilisation has robbed us of this happy and audacious
power. Nature spoke more to them than to us, or rather they found
in themselves a secret echo which answered to all external voices,
and returned them in articulations--in _words_. Hence those
swift interchanges of meaning which we, with our less flashing
intelligence, are almost unable to follow.[100] ‘Who can seize
again those fugitive impressions of the naïfs creators of language
in words which have undergone so many changes, and which are so far
from their original acceptation? Who can rediscover the capricious
paths which the imagination followed, and the associations of ideas
which guided it, in that spontaneous work, wherein sometimes man,
sometimes nature, reunited the broken thread of analogies, and wove
their reciprocal actions into an indissoluble unity?’
Wherever the faculty of creating appellations is still required,
we still find a capacity for its exercise. For instance, it has
been asserted that “the day after an army has encamped in an
unknown country all the important or characteristic places have
their names without any convention having intervened.” We find an
analogous case in the fact that the French and English, by common
consent, called the Turks Bono Johnny; the exact reasons for such a
nomenclature would be perhaps difficult to determine, and who shall
say who first used or invented the term? yet it became current in a
day or two. It is equally difficult to trace the history and origin
of various popular phrases which every now and then have a brief
run in ordinary phraseology.
A still more remarkable exemplification that the faculty of the
original name-giver is not wholly lost to mankind may be seen in
the secret, subtle, almost imperceptible, and sometimes quite
unconscious analogies which give currency to a common nickname. At
schools I have often known boys whose sobriquet was a vocable, in
itself apparently meaningless and incapable of any circumstantial
explanation, which was yet universally adopted, and was adopted
_because_ it presented some unintelligible appropriateness.[101]
A modern prince is called Plomb-plomb, and known quite commonly
by that designation: yet there is no such word as Plomb-plomb in
the French language, and the very origin of the term is unknown to
the majority of the Prince’s contemporaries. We may be quite sure,
however, that the name involves either a lively onomatopœia or a
striking allusion.[102]