RELATION OF TONE AND GESTURE TO WORDS.
We have already seen that spoken language differs from the language
of tone and gesture in being, as a system of signs, more purely
conventional. This means that for semiotic purposes articulation is
a higher product of mental evolution than either gesticulation or
intonation. It also means that as an instrument of such evolution
articulate speech is more efficient. The latter point is an important
one, so I shall proceed to deal with it at some length.
As noticed in a previous chapter, our system of coinage, bank-notes,
and bills of sale is a more convenient system of signifying value of
labour or of property, than is the more primitive and less conventional
system of actually exchanging the labour or bartering the property;
and our system of arithmetic is similarly more convenient for the
purpose of calculation than is the more natural system of counting
on the fingers. But not only are these more conventional systems
more convenient; they are likewise conducive to a higher development
of business transactions on the one hand, and of calculation on the
other. In the absence of such an improved system of signs, it would
be impossible to conduct as many or such intricate transactions and
calculations as we do conduct. Similarly with speech as distinguished
from gesture. Words, like gestures, are signs of thoughts and feelings;
but in being more conventional they are more pure as signs, and so
admit of being wrought up into a much more convenient or efficient
system, while at the same time they become more constructive in their
influence upon ideation. The great superiority of words over gestures
in both these respects may most easily be shown by the use of a few
examples.
I open Colonel Mallery’s book at random, and find the following as the
sign for a barking dog:—
“Pass the arched hand forward from the lower part of the face, to
illustrate elongated nose and mouth; then, with both forefingers
extended, remaining fingers and thumbs closed, place them upon either
side of the lower jaw, pointing upwards, to show lower canines, at the
same time accompanying the gesture with an expression of withdrawing
the lips so as to show the teeth snarling; then, with the fingers of
the right hand extended and separated throw them quickly forward and
slightly upward (voice or talking).”
Here, be it observed, how elaborate is this pictorial method of
designating a dog barking as compared with the use of two words; and
after all it is not so efficient, for the signs were misunderstood
by the Indians to whom they were shown—the meaning assigned to them
being that of a growling bear. What a large expenditure of thought is
required for the devising and the interpretation of such ideograms!
and, when they are formed and understood, how cumbersome do they
appear if contrasted with words! Colonel Mallery, indeed, says of
gesture-language that, “when highly cultivated, its rapidity on
familiar subjects exceeds that of speech, and approaches to that of
thought itself;” but, besides the important limitation “on familiar
subjects,” he adds,—“at the same time it must be admitted that great
increase in rapidity is chiefly obtained by the system of preconcerted
abbreviations before explained, and by the adoption of arbitrary forms,
in which naturalness is sacrificed and conventionality established.”[89]
But besides being cumbersome, gesture-language labours under the
more serious defect of not being so precise, and the still more
serious defect of not being so serviceable as spoken language in
the development of abstraction. We have previously seen how words,
being more or less purely conventional as signs, are not tied down,
as it were, to material objects; although they have doubtless all
originated as expressive of sensuous perceptions, not being necessarily
ideographic, they may easily pass into signs of general ideas, and
end by becoming expressive of the highest abstractions. “Words are
thus the easily manipulated counters of thought,” and so, to change
the metaphor, are the progeny of generalization. But gestures, in
being always more or less ideographic, are much more closely chained
to sensuous perceptions; and, therefore, it is only when exercised on
“familiar subjects” that they can fairly be said to rival words as a
means of expression, while they can never soar into the thinner medium
of high abstraction. No sign-talker, with any amount of time at his
disposal, could translate into the language of gesture a page of Kant.
Let it be observed that I am here speaking of gesture-language as we
actually find it. What the latent capabilities of such language may be
is another question, and one with reference to which speculation is
scarcely calculated to prove profitable. Nevertheless, as the subject
is not altogether without importance in the present connection, I may
quote the following brief passage from a recent essay by Professor
Whitney. After remarking that “the voice has won to itself the chief
and almost exclusive part in communication,” he adds:—
“This is not in the least because of any closer connection of the
thinking apparatus with the muscles that act to produce audible
sounds than with those that act to produce visible motions; not
because there are natural uttered names for conceptions, any more
than natural gestured names. It is simply a case of ‘survival of the
fittest,’ or analogous to the process by which iron has become the
exclusive material of swords, and gold and silver for money: because,
namely, experience has shown this to be the material best adapted
to this special use. The advantages of the voice are numerous and
obvious. There is first its economy, as employing a mechanism that is
available for little else, and leaving free for other purposes those
indispensable instruments, the hands. Then there is its superior
perceptibleness; its nice differences impress themselves upon the sense
at a distance at which visible motions become indistinct; they are not
hidden by intervening objects; they allow the eyes of the listeners as
well as the hands of the speaker to be employed in other useful work;
they are as plain in the dark as in the light; and they are able to
catch and command the attention of one who is not to be reached in any
other way.”[90]
To these advantages we may add that words, in being as we have seen
less essentially ideographic than gestures, must always have been
more available for purposes of abstract expression. We must remember
how greatly gesture-language, as it now appears in its most elaborate
form, is indebted to the psychologically constructing influence of
spoken language; and, thus viewed, it is a significant fact that
even now gesture language is not able to convey ideas of any high
degree of abstraction. Still, I doubt not it would be possible to
construct a wholly conventional system of gestures which should answer
to, or correspond with, all the abstract words and inflections of
a spoken language; and that then the one sign-system might replace
the other—just as the sign-system of writing is able similarly to
replace that of speech. This, however, is a widely different thing from
supposing that such a perfect system of gesture-signs could have grown
by a process of natural development; and, looking to the essentially
ideographic character of such signs, I greatly question whether, even
under circumstances of the strongest necessity (such as would have
arisen if man, or his progenitors, had been unable to articulate), the
language of gesture could have been developed into anything approaching
a substitute for the language of words.
It may tend to throw some light on this hypothetical question—which
is of some importance for us—if we consider briefly the psychological
_status_ of wholly uneducated deaf-mutes; for although it is true that
their case is not fairly parallel to that of a human race destitute
of the faculty of speech (seeing that the individual deaf-mute does
not find any elaborate system of signs prepared for him by the
exertions of dumb ancestors, as would doubtless have been the case
under the circumstances supposed), still, on the other hand, and as
a compensating consideration, we must remember that the individual
deaf-mute not only inherits a human brain, the structure of which has
been elaborated by the speech of his ancestors, but is also surrounded
by a society the whole structure of whose ideation is dependent upon
speech. So far, therefore, as the complex conditions of the question
admit of being disentangled, the case of uneducated deaf-mutes living
in a society of speaking persons affords the best criterion we can
obtain of the prospect which gesture-language would have had as a
means of thought-formation in the human race, supposing this race to
have been destitute of the faculty of speech. To show, therefore, the
psychological condition of an individual thus circumstanced, I will
quote a brief passage from a lecture of my own, which was given before
the British Association in 1878.
“It often happens that deaf and dumb children of poor parents are so
far neglected that they are never taught finger-language, or any other
system of signs, whereby to converse with their fellow-creatures. The
consequence, of course, is that these unfortunate children grow up
in a state of intellectual isolation, which is almost as complete as
that of any of the lower animals. Now, when such a child grows up and
falls into the hands of some competent teacher, it may of course be
educated, and is then in a position to record its experiences when in
its state of intellectual isolation. I have therefore obtained all the
evidence I can as to the mental condition of such persons, and I find
that their testimony is perfectly uniform. In the absence of language,
the mind is able to think in the logic of feelings; but can never
rise to any ideas of higher abstraction than those which the logic of
feelings supplies. The uneducated deaf-mutes have the same notions of
right and wrong, cause and effect, and so on, as we have already seen
that animals and idiots possess. They always think in the most concrete
forms, as shown by their telling us (when educated) that so long as
they were uneducated they always thought in pictures. Moreover, that
they cannot attain to ideas of even the lowest degree of abstraction,
is shown by the fact that in no one instance have I been able to find
evidence of a deaf-mute who, prior to education, had evolved for
himself any form of supernaturalism. And this, I think, is remarkable,
not only because we might fairly suppose that some rude form of
fetishism, or ghost-worship, would not be too abstract a system for the
unaided mind of a civilized man to elaborate; but also because the mind
in this case is _not_ wholly unaided. On the contrary, the friends of
the deaf-mute usually do their utmost to communicate to his mind some
idea of whatever form of religion they may happen to possess. Yet it is
uniformly found that, in the absence of language, no idea of this kind
can be communicated. For instance, the Rev. S. Smith tells me that one
of his pupils, previous to education, supposed the Bible to have been
printed by a printing-press in the sky, which was worked by printers
of enormous strength—this being the only interpretation the deaf-mute
could assign to the gestures whereby his parents had sought to make him
understand, that they believed the Bible to contain a revelation from
a God of power who lives in heaven. Similarly, Mr. Graham Bell informs
me of another, though similar case, in which the deaf-mute supposed the
object of going to church to be that of doing obeisance to the clergy.”
To the same effect Mr. Tylor says, in the passage already quoted,
that deaf-mutes cannot form ideas of any save the lowest degree of
abstraction, and further on he gives some interesting illustrations of
the fact. Thus, for instance, a deaf-mute who had been educated said
that before his instruction his fingers had taught him his numbers,
and that when the number was over ten, he made notches on a piece of
wood. Here we see the inherited capability of numerical computation
united with the crudest form of numerical notation, or symbolism. And
so in all other cases of deaf-mutes before instruction; they present
an inherited capacity of abstract ideation, and yet do not find their
sign-language of much service in assisting them to develop this
capacity: it is too essentially pictorial to go far beyond the region
of sensuous perception.
Thus, on the whole, although I deem it profitless to speculate on what
the language of gestures might have become in the absence of speech,
I think it is highly questionable whether it would have reached any
considerable level of excellence; and I think it is not improbable
that, in the absence of articulation, the human race would not have
made much psychological advance upon the anthropoid apes. For we must
never forget the important fact that thought is quite as much the
effect as it is the cause of language, whether of speech or of gesture;
and seeing how inferior gesture is to speech as a system of language,
especially in regard to precision and abstraction, I do not think it
probable that, in the absence of speech, gesture alone would have
supplied the exact and delicate conditions which are essential to the
growth of any highly elaborate ideation.
The next point which I desire to consider is that, although gesture
language is not in my opinion so efficient a means of developing
abstract ideation as is spoken language, it must nevertheless have been
of much service in assisting the growth of the latter, and so must
have been of much service in laying the foundation of the whole mental
fabric which has been constructed by the faculty of speech. Whether we
look to young children, to savages, or in a lesser degree to idiots, we
find that gesture plays an important part in assisting speech; and in
all cases where a vocabulary is scanty or imperfect, gesture is sure to
be employed as the natural means of supplementing speech. Therefore,
supposing speech to have had a natural mode of genesis, it is, in my
opinion, perfectly certain that its origin and development must have
been greatly assisted by gesture. In subsequent chapters I will adduce
direct evidence upon this head. At present I wish to draw attention
to another point. This is, that although gesture psychologically
precedes speech, when once articulate sounds have been devised for the
expression of ideas, the faculty of using these articulate sounds as
signs of their corresponding ideas does not involve the presence of a
higher psychological development than does the faculty of using tones
and gestures for the conveyance of similar ideas.
As already shown, it is a matter of observable fact that the only
animals which are able to articulate are able to employ nouns,
adjectives, and verbs, as expressive of concrete ideas; while animals
which are not able to articulate similarly employ tones, and in many
cases are able to understand words. Therefore, it is a matter of
observable fact that the psychological level required for using tones
as vocal gestures, understanding words as expressive of simple ideas,
and even uttering words with a correct appreciation of their meaning,
is a level not higher than that which obtains in some existing animals.
If we turn from animals to man, we find the same truth exemplified.
For in the descending grade of human intelligence as exhibited by
idiots, we see that while the use of simple gestures as signs occurs
in idiots somewhat too low in the scale to utter any articulate words,
nevertheless the interval between such an idiot and one capable
of uttering the simplest words is a short interval. Again, in the
ascending grade of human intelligence, as exhibited by the growing
child, we find the same observation to apply; although, on account
of some children requiring a longer time than others to develop the
_mechanique_ of articulation, we might by considering their cases alone
over-estimate the psychological interval which separates gesticulation
from speech.[91]
Thus all the evidence at our disposal goes to show that, while the
language of tone and gesture is distinctive, in its least-developed
form, of a comparatively low grade of mental evolution, in all but
its least-developed form it is not thus distinctive; for as soon as
the language of gesture becomes in the smallest degree conventional,
so soon is the psychological level sufficiently high to admit of the
use of articulate sounds, vocal gestures, or words expressive of
concrete ideas—always supposing that these are already supplied by the
psychological environment. Whether or not articulate sounds are then
actually made depends, of course, on conditions of a purely anatomical
kind.
And here it may be as well to remember the point previously mentioned,
namely, that although no existing quadrumanous animal has shown itself
able to articulate, we may be quite sure that this fact depends on
anatomical as distinguished from psychological conditions; for not
only are the higher monkeys much more intelligent than talking birds,
but they are likewise much more imitative of human gestures; and for
both these reasons they are the animals which, more than any others,
would be psychologically apt to learn the use of words from man, were
it not for some accident of anatomy which stands in the way of their
uttering them. And in this connection it is worth while to bear in mind
the remark of Professor Huxley, that an imperceptibly small difference
of innervation, or other anatomical character of the parts concerned,
might determine or prevent the faculty of making articulate sounds.
* * * * *
Looking to the direction in which my argument is tending, this appears
to be the most convenient place to dispose of a criticism that is
not unlikely to arise. It may be suggested, by way of objection to my
views, that if all the foregoing discussion is accepted as paving the
way to the conclusion that human intelligence has been developed from
animal intelligence, the discussion itself is proving too much. For, if
animals possess in so conspicuous a degree the germ of the sign-making
faculty, why, it may be asked, has this germ been developed only in the
case of our own ancestors?
In answer to this question I must begin by reminding the reader,
that during the course of the present chapter I have endeavoured to
make good the following positions. First, that in the absence of
articulation, or of the power of forming verbal signs, the faculty of
language is not likely to have made much advance in the animal kingdom.
Second, seeing that words are essentially less ideographic, as well
as more precise than gestures—and, therefore, more available for the
purpose both of expressing and constructing abstract ideas,—I do not
think it is probable that in the absence of articulation the human
race would have made much psychological advance upon the anthropoid
apes. Third, that although gesture language is not so efficient a
means of developing abstract ideation as is articulate language, it
must nevertheless have been of much service in assisting the growth
of the latter; so that where the power of articulation was present,
both systems of sign-making would have co-operated in the development
of abstract thought: in the presence of articulation, gestures would
themselves gain additional influence in this respect.
From these data there follows the important consequence that only from
some species of ape which possessed the requisite anatomical conditions
could the human mind have taken its origin. In other words, the above
considerations are adduced to show the futility of arguing that, if
the human mind has been developed in virtue of the sign-making faculty
as this is exemplified in speech, we might therefore have expected
that from the same starting-point (namely, the anthropoid apes)
some comparably well-elaborated mind should have been developed in
virtue of the sign-making faculty as this is exemplified in gesture.
I maintain that we can see very good reason why (even if we suppose
all the other conditions parallel) the branch of the Primates which
presented the power—or the potentiality—of articulation should have
been able to rise in the psychological scale, as we evolutionists
believe that it has risen; while all the companion branches, being
restricted in their language to gesture, should have remained in their
original condition.
To this it may be answered that the talking birds might be looked to
as the possible—or even probable—rivals of articulating mammals in
respect of potential intelligence; and, therefore, that according to
the views which I am advocating, it might have been expected that there
should now be existing upon the earth some race of bird-like creatures
ready to dispute the supremacy of man.
This, however, would be a very shallow criticism. The veriest tyro in
natural science is aware that, if there is any truth at all in the
general theory of descent, we are everywhere compelled to see that
the conditions which determine the development of a species in any
direction are always of a complex character. Why one species should
remain constant through inconceivably enormous lapses of geological
time, while others pass through a rich and varied history of upward
change—why this should be so in any case we cannot say. We can only
say, in general terms, that the conditions which in any case determine
upward growth or stationary type are too numerous and complex to admit
of our unravelling them in detail. Now, if this is the case even as
between the structures of allied types—where there may be nothing
to indicate the difference of the conditions which have led to the
difference of results,—much more must it be the case between animals
so unlike as a parrot and an ape. I think he would be a bold man who
would affirm that even if the orang-outang had been able to articulate,
this ape would necessarily, or probably, have become the progenitor of
another human race. Absurd, then, it is to argue that, if the human
race sprang from some other species of man-like creature, and became
human in virtue of the power of articulation _plus_ all the other
conditions external and internal, therefore the talking birds ought
to have developed some similar progeny, merely because they happen to
satisfy one of these conditions.
Take a fair analogy. Flying is no doubt a very useful faculty to all
animals which present it, and it is shown to be mechanically possible
in animals so unlike one another as Insects, Reptiles, Birds, and
Mammals. We might therefore suppose that, from the fact of bats being
able to fly, many other mammals should have acquired the art. But, as
they have not done so, we can only say that the reason is because the
complex conditions leading to the growth of this faculty have been
satisfied in the bats alone. Similarly “the flight of thought” is a
most useful faculty, and it has only been developed in man. One of the
conditions required for its development—power of articulation—occurs
also in a few birds. But to argue from this that these birds ought to
have developed the faculty of thought, would be just as unwarrantable
as to argue that some other mammals ought to have developed the faculty
of flight, seeing that they all present the most important of the
needful conditions—to wit, bones and muscles actuated by nerves.
Indeed, the argument would be even more unwarranted than this; for we
can see plainly enough that the most important conditions required
for the development of thought are of a psychological and social
kind—those which are merely anatomical being but of secondary value,
even though, as I have endeavoured to indicate, they are none the less
indispensable.
In short, I am not endeavouring to argue that the influence of
articulation on the development of thought is in any way _magical_.
Therefore, the mere fact that certain birds are able to make articulate
sounds in itself furnishes no more difficulty to my argument than the
fact that they are able to imitate a variety of other sounds. For the
_psychological_ use of articulate sounds can only be developed in the
presence of many other and highly complex conditions, few if any of
which can be shown to obtain among birds. If any existing species
of anthropoid ape had proved itself capable of imitating articulate
sounds, there might have been a little more force in the apparent
difficulty; though even in that case the argument would not have been
so strong as in the above parallel with regard to the great exception
furnished by bats in the matter of flight.
So far, then, as we have yet gone, I do not anticipate that opponents
wall find it prudent to take a stand. Seeing that monkeys use their
voices more freely than any other animals in the way of intentionally
expressive intonation; that all the higher animals make use of gesture
signs; that denotative words are (psychologically considered) nothing
more than vocal gestures; that, if there is any psychological interval
between simple gesticulation and denotative articulation, the interval
is demonstrably bridged in the case alike of talking birds, infants,
and idiots;—seeing all these things, it is evident that opponents
of the doctrine of mental evolution must take their stand, not on
the faculty of _articulation_, but on that of _speech_. They must
maintain that the mere power of using denotative words implies no
real advance upon the power of using denotative gestures; that it
therefore establishes nothing to prove the possibility, or even the
probability, of articulation arising out of gesticulation; that their
position can only be attacked by showing how a sign-making faculty,
whether expressed in gesticulation or in articulation, can have become
developed into the faculty of predication; that, in short, the fortress
of their argument consists, not in the power which man displays of
using denotative words, but in his power of constructing predicative
propositions. This central position, therefore, we must next attack.
But, before doing so, I will close the present chapter by clearly
defining the exact meanings of certain terms as they will afterwards be
used by me.
By the _indicative_ stage of language, or sign-making, I will
understand the earliest stage that is exhibited by intentional
sign-making. This stage corresponds to the divisions marked four
and six in my representative scheme (p. 88), and, as we have now
so fully seen, is common to animals and human beings. Indicative
signs, then, whether in the form of gestures, tones, or words, are
intentionally significant. For the most part they are expressive of
emotional states, and simple desires. When, for example, an infant
holds out its arms to be taken by the nurse, or points to objects
in order to be taken to them, it cannot be said to be _naming_
anything; yet it is clearly _indicating_ its wants. Infants also cry
_intentionally_, or as a partly conventional sign to show discomfort,
whether bodily or mental.[92] They will likewise at an early age learn
wholly conventional signs whereby to indicate—though not yet to
name—particular feelings, objects, qualities, and actions. My son, for
instance, was taught by his nurse to shake his head for “No,” nod it
for “Yes,” and wave his hand for “Ta-ta,” or leave-taking: all these
indicative gestures he performed well and appropriately when eight and
a half months old. This indicative stage of language, or sign-making,
is universally exhibited by all the more intelligent animals, although
not to so great an extent as in infants. The parrot which depresses its
head to invite a scratching, the dog which begs before a wash-stand,
the cat which pulls one’s clothes to solicit help for her kittens in
distress—all these animals are making what I call _indicative_ signs.
Following upon the indicative stage of language there is what I have
called _denotative_ (7 A in the scheme on p. 88). This likewise occurs
both in animals and in children when first beginning to speak—talking
birds, for instance, being able to learn and correctly use names as
_notæ_, or marks, of particular objects, qualities, and actions. Yet
such _notæ_—be they verbal or otherwise—thus learned by special
association, are not, strictly speaking, _names_. By the use of such
a sign the talking bird merely affixes a vocal mark to a particular
object, quality, or action: it does not _extend_ the sign to any
other similar objects, qualities, or actions of the same class; and,
therefore, by its use of that sign does not really _connote_ anything
of the particular object, quality, or action which it _denotes_.
So much, then, for signs as _denotative_. By signs as _connotative_,
I mean signs which are in any measure _attributive_. If we call a dog
Jack, that is a denotative name: it does not attribute any quality as
belonging to that dog. But if we call the animal “Smut,” or “Swift,” or
by any other word serving to imply some quality which is distinctive
of that dog, we are thereby connoting of the dog the fact of his
presenting such a quality. Connotative names, therefore, differ from
denotative, in that they are not merely _notæ_ or marks of the things
named, but also imply some character, or characters, as belonging
to those things. And the character, or characters, which they thus
imply, by the mere fact of implication, assign the things named to a
_group_: hence these connotative names are _con-notæ_, or the marking
of one thing _along with_ another—_i.e._ express an act of nominative
_classification_. This is an important fact to remember, because, as
we shall afterwards find, all connotative terms arise from the need
which we experience of thus verbally classifying our perceptions of
likeness or analogy. Moreover, it is of even still more importance
to note that such verbal classification may be either receptual or
conceptual. For instance, the first word (after _Mamma_, _Papa_,
&c.) that one of my children learnt to say was the word _Star_. Soon
after having acquired this word, she extended its signification to
other brightly shining objects, such as candles, gas-lights, &c. Here
there was plainly a perception of likeness or analogy, and hence the
term _Star_, from having been originally denotative, began to be also
connotative. But this connotative extension of the term must evidently
have been what I term receptual. For it is impossible to suppose that
at that tender age the child was capable of thinking about the term
_as_ a term, or of setting the term before the mind as an object of
thought, distinct from the object which it served to name. Therefore,
we can only suppose that the extension of this originally denotative
name (whereby it began to be connotative) resembled the case of a
similar extension mentioned in the last chapter, where my parrot raised
its originally denotative sign for a particular dog to an incipiently
connotative value, by applying that sign to all other dogs. That is to
say, both in the case of the child and the bird, connotation within
these moderate limits was rendered possible by means of receptual
ideation alone. But, with advancing age and developing powers, the
human mind attains to conceptual ideation; and it is then in a position
to constitute the names which it uses _themselves objects of thought_.
The consequence is that connotation may then no longer represent the
merely spontaneous expression of likeness receptually perceived: it
may become the intentional expression of likeness conceptually thought
out. In the mind of an astronomer the word _Star_ presents a very
different mass of connotative meaning from that which it presented to
the child, who first extended it from a bright point in the sky to a
candle shining in a room. And the reason of this great difference is,
that the conceptual thought of the astronomer, besides having greatly
_added_ to the connotation, has also greatly _improved_ it. The only
common quality which the name served to connote when used by the child
was that of brightness; but, although the astronomer is not blind to
this point of resemblance between a star and a candle, he disregards
it in the presence of fuller knowledge, and will not apply the term
even to objects so much more closely resembling a star as a comet or a
meteor. Now, this greater _accuracy_ of connotation, quite as much as
the greater _mass_ of it, has been reached by the astronomer in virtue
of his powers of conceptual thought. It is because he has thought about
his names _as_ names that he has thus been able with so much accuracy
to define their meanings—_i.e._ to limit their connotations in some
directions, as well as to extend them in others.
Obviously, therefore, we are here in the presence of a great
distinction, and one which needs itself to be in some way connoted.
It is, indeed, but a special exhibition of the one great distinction
which I have carried through the whole course of this work—namely,
that between ideation as receptual and conceptual. But it is none the
less important to designate this special exhibition of it by means of
well-defined terms; and I can only express surprise that such should
not already have been done by logicians. The terms which I shall use
are the following.
By a connotative name I will understand the connotative extension of
a denotative name, whether such extension be great or small, and,
therefore, whether it be extended receptually or conceptually. But
for the _exclusively conceptual_ extension of a name I will reserve
the convenient term _denomination_. This term, like those previously
defined, was introduced by the schoolmen, and by them was used as
synonymous with connotation. But it is evident that they (and all
subsequent writers) only had before their minds the case of conceptual
connotation, and hence they felt no need of the distinction which
for present purposes it is obviously imperative to draw. Now, I do
not think that any two more appropriate words could be found whereby
to express this distinction than are these words _connotation_ and
_denomination_, if for the purposes of my own subsequent analysis I am
allowed to define them in accordance with their etymology. For, when so
defined, a connotative sign will mean a _classificatory_ sign, whether
conferred receptually or conceptually; while a denominative sign will
mean a connotative sign which has been conferred as such _with a truly
conceptual intention_—_i.e._ with an introspective appreciation of its
function as all that logicians understand by a _name_.
I will now sum up these sundry definitions.
By an _indicative_ sign I will understand a significant tone or
gesture intentionally expressive of a mental state; but yet not in any
sense of the word denominative.
By a _denotative_ sign I will understand the receptual marking of
particular objects, qualities, actions, &c.
By a _connotative_ sign I will understand the classificatory
attribution of qualities to objects named by the sign, whether such
attribution be due to receptual or to conceptual operations of the mind.
By a _denominative_ sign I will understand a connotative sign
consciously bestowed as such, or with a full conceptual appreciation of
its office and purpose as a name.
By a _predicative_ sign I will mean a proposition, or the conceptual
apposition of two denominative terms, expressive of the speaker’s
intention to connote something of the one by means of the other.