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INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF THE
HISTORY OF LANGUAGE
INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF THE
HISTORY OF LANGUAGE
BY
HERBERT A. STRONG, M.A., L.L.D.
PROFESSOR OF LATIN IN UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LIVERPOOL
SOMETIME PROFESSOR OF CLASSICS AT MELBOURNE UNIVERSITY
WILLEM S. LOGEMAN, L.H.C. (UTRECHT UNIV.)
HEAD MASTER OF NEWTON SCHOOL, ROCK FERRY, CHESHIRE
AND
BENJAMIN IDE WHEELER
PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN CORNELL UNIVERSITY, U.S.A.
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET
1891
PREFACE
In the following pages an attempt has been made to enable students to
grasp the main points of the contents of one of the most important
philological works which have been published during the last ten or
twenty years--Paul’s ‘Principien der Sprachgeschichte.’
With this object in view, that work has been here, with more or less
freedom, as the subject seemed to demand, rewritten. Though a
translation of Professor Paul’s book has been published by one of the
authors, it has been felt that the existence of that translation did not
render a work like the present superfluous, nor should a student whose
interest has been awakened by the reading of these pages consider he can
dispense with studying what Paul has written in his great work.
It may be best to state in how far this and Professor Paul’s book are
alike, as well as in what points they differ.
We have closely followed Paul in his division of the subject. Our
chapters correspond in number, order, and subject with those of Paul.
The views set forth in our pages are in the main those of Paul; the
arguments are mostly his, even in the very few cases (such as the
question of the consistency and nature of the laws of sound-change)
where the authors might feel inclined to differ from Paul’s views. Also
the order in which the various points in each chapter are discussed has
been generally preserved.
On the other hand, we have altered much, as we hope, in the interest of
our readers. Professor Paul wrote for Germans in the first place, and
secondly for such students as were able to read books like his in the
original, _i.e._ for those who not only knew German enough to feel all
the weight and import of his German examples, but who also, like most
German students, could be assumed to possess a sufficiently intelligent
interest in the history of the German language to appreciate quotations
of its older forms (a point which Englishmen have unfortunately too much
neglected), and who, thirdly, might be expected to be sufficiently
familiar with at least some of the other languages from which he drew
his quotations.
Now though, in deference to a generally expressed opinion, a second
edition of the translation of Paul’s work is now in the press, in which
all these examples have been translated, this Englishing of the
illustrations will, we think, be found to be of use in but few cases.[1]
It is, in fact, almost invariably not so much the mere word or sentence
chosen as an illustration, as the peculiar form, its peculiar
connotation, its peculiar construction, which is of importance. All
these almost invariably disappear or differ in the translation, unless
such translation be accompanied by such discussion and explanation as
will bring out the meaning _as an illustration of the point in
question_. It is self-evident that such additions in a translation could
not be thought of.
Moreover, Professor Paul very frequently follows the German manner of
exposition: first giving us the statement of abstract principle, and
then illustrative examples. Though the authors are very far from wishing
to say that no English student could or would follow this style of
reasoning, they believe that it is generally preferable to lead English
students from the concrete to the abstract.
All these considerations have led to the following deviations from
Professor Paul’s work.
Everything has been illustrated from English wherever possible, and much
also from French; examples from other foreign languages have, as a rule,
been admitted only when they illustrated something new, and even then an
attempt has generally been made to add such translations (literal and
idiomatic) as would enable the reader to appreciate the force of the
illustration, even without further knowledge of the language from which
it was taken.
The order of the argument has sometimes been inverted.
Where what was said seemed sufficient to explain the nature and bearings
of the subject of a chapter, some minor points have sometimes been
omitted. They have not been omitted because they were thought
unimportant, but generally because they could not be so well illustrated
from English, and it was felt desirable to economise space for a full
discussion of everything of which English _does_ furnish illustrations.
It will consequently be found that some of our chapters differ much more
than others from the corresponding ones in Professor Paul’s book. But
even where, from the nature of the case, we had to follow Paul closely,
we have always aimed at supplying further English examples or at
explaining fully the illustrations from other tongues.
A word should, perhaps, be said as to the joint authorship. In all cases
what the one wrote has been read by the other, and Mr. Logeman wishes
more especially to acknowledge in this matter his obligations to
Professor Strong for many a correction of sentences where his style
might have betrayed the foreigner. Professor Benjamin Ide Wheeler has
perused the greater part of the work, and supplied many apt
illustrations. Several important passages are from his pen. The authors
at the same time have to acknowledge their gratitude to Mr. R. H. Case,
B.A., who has patiently read the whole work. It was of immense advantage
to them to have the benefit of the observations of a highly cultured
mind, well versed in English and its literature, but new to a subject
like this, such as Mr. Case brought to the work. Many improvements were
thus made in various places where he could show the need of fuller
explanation or of a different way of expressing the matter.
It may perhaps cause some surprise that we have omitted the
introduction, and, unless a word in explanation of this fact were added,
this omission might seem to imply but slight courtesy to Professor Paul,
or respect for his emphatic statement that he considers this
introduction by no means useless, nay, an integral and important part of
his book.
We do not at all share the opinion of some critics of Professor Paul’s
work, to whom he almost indignantly refers as having said that this
introduction has no bearing upon the chapters which follow. But we do
consider that the book in this our present form can be profitably
studied without it, and especially that his introduction is of so
general a nature that there would be no advantage whatever in recasting
it; and that it can be equally well studied, and should be studied,
either in the original or in the translation of Paul’s own book--a work
of such importance that, as we would once more insist, we do not wish
our book to supersede it, but rather that our pages should cause the
reader to ‘ask for more’ and peruse the original work.
The authors feel, of course, quite certain that their work is not final:
they are but too keenly aware that they may have overlooked important
illustrations which might be drawn from English, and are quite prepared
to discover that here and there they may have added sins of commission
to such errors of omission. They will heartily welcome all criticism and
all indications of such imperfections, and if ever the demands for the
work may necessitate a second edition, they hope that it will be found
that they--in the words of a well-known author of a well-known
book--have spent their time since the publication of the First Edition
in trying to find out those things which they ought to have put in and
did not put in, and those things which they did put in and ought not to
have put in.
H. A. S.
W. S. L.
B. I. W.
_September 1, 1890._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF LANGUAGE 1
II. ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF LANGUAGE 13
III. ON SOUND-CHANGE 24
IV. CHANGE IN WORD-SIGNIFICATION 43
V. ANALOGY 73
VI. THE FUNDAMENTAL FACTS OF SYNTAX 92
VII. CHANGE OF MEANING IN SYNTAX 123
VIII. CONTAMINATION 140
IX. ORIGINAL CREATION 157
X. ON ISOLATION AND THE REACTION AGAINST IT 170
XI. THE FORMATION OF NEW GROUPS 191
XII. ON THE INFLUENCE OF CHANGE IN FUNCTION ON ANALOGICAL FORMATION 205
XIII. DISPLACEMENT IN ETYMOLOGICAL GROUPING 217
XIV. ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF MEANING 226
XV. CATEGORIES: PSYCHOLOGICAL AND GRAMMATICAL 238
XVI. DISPLACEMENT OF THE SYNTACTICAL DISTRIBUTION 268
XVII. ON CONCORD 285
XVIII. ECONOMY OF EXPRESSION 302
XIX. RISE OF WORD-FORMATION AND INFLECTION 314
XX. THE DIVISION OF THE PARTS OF SPEECH 343
XXI. LANGUAGE AND WRITING 365
XXII. ON MIXTURE IN LANGUAGE 381
XXIII. THE STANDARD LANGUAGE 395
ERRATA.
Page 57, line 1, _add_ ‘a gulf or bay.’
” 176, line 7, _for_ ‘ðoances’ _read_ ‘ðances.’
CHAPTER I.
ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF LANGUAGE.
It is the province of the Science of Language to explain, as far as
possible, the processes of the development of Language from its earliest
to its latest stage. The observations made on these processes would
naturally be registered in different _historical grammars_ of different
definite languages; these grammars would follow the different steps in
the development of each single language from its earliest traditional
origin to its most recent phase. Wider and more general observations on
the processes of this development would naturally be expressed in a
_comparative grammar_, whose task would be to examine and compare the
relations between cognate families of speech, the common origin of which
is lost: but it would in this case be necessary to insist that the
comparisons instituted should only be between languages in the same
stage of development; or that the same stage of development, in each of
the languages selected for comparison, should be taken for the purpose.
It is the task of _Descriptive Grammar_ to ascertain and record the
grammatical forms and the conditions generally of a given linguistic
community at a given time; to register, in fact, all the utterances of
any individual belonging to such community which might fall from him
without exposing him to the suspicion of being a foreigner. It will
naturally register its observations in abstractions, such as paradigms
and rules. Now, if we compare the abstractions made at any given period
of a language with those made at another time, we find that the results
are different, and we say that the language has _changed_ in certain
respects: nay, we may even be able to detect a certain regularity in
these changes; as, for instance, if we note that in English every _th_
in the third person singular present indicative of a verb is now
replaced by _s_: but we gather by such comparisons no information as to
the true nature and origin of these changes. Cause and effect do not and
cannot exist between mere abstractions: they exist only between real
objects and facts. It is only when we begin to take account of the
psychical and bodily organisms on which language depends, and to seek
for relations of cause and effect in connection with these, that we are
on safe ground.
The true object of the Science of Language, as distinguished from
Descriptive and Comparative Grammar, is the entirety of the utterances
of all individuals that speak; and the relations of these utterances to
each other. A full history of the development of language would demand
an exact knowledge of all the groups of sound ever uttered or heard, and
of all the ideas awakened by such sound-groups and symbolised by them.
The impossibility of attaining to any such knowledge is obvious; it is,
however, possible for us to get a general idea of the play of the forces
at work in the vast and complex series of processes involved in the
development of language. A part only of these operating forces is
cognisable by our senses. Speaking and hearing are two of the processes
which can be apprehended; and, again, the ideas, or pictures, called up
by language, and those which, though unspoken, pass through our
consciousness, are to some extent capable of cognition. But one of the
greatest triumphs of modern psychology is the proof, due to its agency,
of the unconscious activity of the human mind. All that has once been
present to our consciousness remains as a working factor in
unconsciousness. Power consciously acquired by exercise in consciousness
may be translated into power operating and manifesting itself
unconsciously. The mind forms from the groups of ideas with which it is
stored, psychological groups, such as sound-groups, sequences of sounds,
sequences of ideas, and syntactical combinations. Strong and weak verbs,
derivatives from the same root, words fulfilling identical functions,
such as the different parts of speech, associate themselves into groups;
and again the plurals of nouns, their different cases, their different
inflections, and even entire clauses of similar construction or similar
cadence, group themselves in the same way. These groups arise naturally,
automatically, and unconsciously, and must not be confused with the
categories consciously drawn up by grammarians; though the two, of
course, must frequently coincide.
These groups must obviously be in a constant state of change, some
growing weaker from the fact that they are strengthened by no fresh
impulse, and some being strengthened and, it may be, changed by the
accession of new ideas which ally themselves therewith. It must not be
overlooked also that, as each person’s mind is differently constituted,
the groups of his linguistic ideas will take a development peculiar to
himself; even though the sources whence the groups take their rise
should be identical, yet the elements which go to form the groups will
be introduced differently and with different intensity in the case of
each individual.
The action of our physical organs, unaided, would be unable to bring
about the development of language. The word, when once spoken,
disappears and leaves no traces; psychological activity, and this alone,
connects the pictures of the past with the present. It must, therefore,
be the task of the historian of language to give as complete an account
as possible of the psychical organisms on which the production of
language depends; and the psychical organism of language in each
individual is the aggregate of more or less conscious recollections of
words, nay, even of entire phrases, and of their connections with
certain ideas, which is lodged in his mind. It is the business of the
historian of language to watch and examine these organisms as closely as
possible: to describe the elements of which they are composed, and their
connection with each other. A state or condition of a language at a
particular period could only be described by one possessed of a full
knowledge of the psychical conditions at a particular time of all the
members of any linguistic community. The more fully such observations as
those referred to above are carried out, and the greater the number of
individuals thus examined, the more nearly shall we be in a condition to
give an accurate description of a state of language. Without a rigidly
scrupulous examination such as we have described, it would be impossible
to say how much in the language of any individual is common to all or
most individuals speaking the same language, and how much is to be set
down to individual peculiarity. In every case it will be found that the
standard of the language governs to some extent the language of every
individual; but in the case of each individual there are likewise
elements which do not conform to the standard or normal language, and
which are, in fact, individual peculiarities.
In any case, the observation of a psychical organism of language is
difficult. It cannot, like the physical side of language, _i.e._ the
sounds actually produced and even the mode of their production, be
directly observed; for it lies unseen in the mind, and is only known by
its effects.
Of the physical phenomena of linguistic activity, the acoustic are those
which lend themselves most readily to our observation. We can make the
same individual repeat sounds practically identical as often as we
please; and we can note these with more or less accuracy in proportion
as our own sense of hearing is exact and developed. But as the
transitions between the different sounds are so infinitely small, it
follows that it must be a matter of extreme difficulty for the listener
to decide whether the sounds are indeed precisely the same in colour,
pitch, etc.; while, again, if it be desired to reproduce any sound, the
process has to be carried out by orally repeating it and striving to
reproduce it by an appeal to another’s sense of hearing.
We register the sounds of a language by mastering and registering the
movements of the organs of speech that produce them. Alphabetical
symbols are at best but very imperfect pictures of sound-groups: they
are used inconsistently in most cases: and in any case even the most
perfect phonetic alphabet cannot give a true and exact picture of the
countless sounds in speech--sounds which require to be constantly
denoted anew in every language. We can only succeed at all in
registering such sounds, when we are able to closely observe the sounds
uttered by living individuals. But when we cannot do this, we must
always think of the sounds which the writing is intended to represent;
and the power so to do demands some acquaintance with phonetics, and
with the relation between writing and language. Thus a certain special
training is necessary before we can hope to be able to gain any real
knowledge of even the physical manifestations of linguistic activity.
The psychical factors in linguistic activity lie, like everything else
psychical, unseen in the mind, and can therefore only be scrutinised by
means of examinations made upon our own minds. In the process of
watching other individuals we can never perceive any other than physical
results, and thus it happens that in order to acquaint ourselves with
the psychical organisms of language in others, we have to watch as
closely as possible the processes in our own minds, and then to classify
the phenomena which we observe in the case of others by the analogy of
what we observe in our own. As we both think and speak in the
mother-tongue, our classifications by analogy will be easier when we
have to deal with fellow-countrymen; so too, for obvious reasons, with
the living subject rather than with what has been committed to writing
in the past.
It will, then, be plain that the observation of any given state of
language is no easy matter, owing to the manifold and complex way in
which groups of ideas associate themselves in the human mind, and owing
to the incessant progress of hardly perceptible sound-change. It may
easily be gathered that even the most full and perfect of ordinary
grammars are quite unable to portray the manner in which different ideas
and groups of ideas range and classify themselves. Our grammatical
system can give but the most imperfect picture of the relationships
existing between different ideas. Certain categories, for instance, are
drawn up, and under one or other of these are ranged words under the
name of certain parts of speech. As a matter of fact, a large proportion
of words is capable of being used to fulfil the function of several
parts of speech, and in no language is this more obvious than in
English. Again, we are accustomed in grammar to meet--even in the case
of the Indo-European group of languages--with the same grammatical term
employed to express quite different functions, as when we speak of the
Latin _future_, and call the English future in “_I shall_” or “_I will_”
do by the same name. Again, we are accustomed, in the case of a language
which has passed from the synthetic to the analytic stage, to employ the
same categories, regardless of the fact that, in the analytical form of
the language, new shades of meaning have found expression as they have
also come into being. Again, we often define the meaning of words by
their etymology, even though the ordinary speaker may have no knowledge
whatever of that etymology, and a new and very different meaning may
have attached itself to the word.
The comparison of different epochs in the life of any language will
enable us to draw some inferences as to its condition in the past. Of
course, in proportion as the foreign factors that have made their
influence felt in the regular course of the language are fewer, the
simpler and more satisfactory will be the comparison. It would be
impossible to reconstruct the sounds of Anglo-Saxon, for instance, from
Middle English only; as it would be necessary to remember that Norman,
Danish, Celtic, and other influences had been busy with the language
between its earlier and later stages.
We now proceed to ask what are the causes of change in language? And
how do these causes operate? In the first place, they operate in most
instances without the consciousness of the individual. There are,
indeed, a few cases in which we may say that conscious intention on the
part of the individual is operative, as where a botanist coins a name
for some new variety, and forces it upon all the scientific men of his
circle. But it must be repeated that changes are for the most part
involuntary and unconscious. It is of the essence of the life of
language to unconsciously select the forms and sounds which may best
serve for conveying the meaning present in the speaker’s mind. The
material existing and forming the actual stock in trade of any language
may very aptly be looked upon as the survival of the fittest; in this
case, of the _material_ fittest to survive. If we now proceed to
consider the causes of change in language, we must remember that there
is always in language a certain amount of freedom left to the
individual, which is quite independent of ordinary linguistic
development. As each speaker must have certain psychical peculiarities,
so must he express himself differently from every other speaker; and if
the sound-producing organs of any given speaker have any peculiarities,
he will exhibit corresponding peculiarities in the sounds which he
utters by their agency. Again, there are circumstances which must not be
overlooked, like the natural tendency to imitation; and the further
circumstance that all attempts at imitation must necessarily be
imperfect. Again, each individual is prone to modify the sounds which he
utters, through carelessness and economy of effort or laziness. Besides
all this, we must reckon the effects produced by such factors as
climate, which, however gradual in their operation, must still
ultimately leave some effects if only time enough is allowed. The
result of these displacements, if only the tendency to displacement
lasts long enough and operates in one direction, is a _displacement of
usage_. The new usage starts from the individual, and, under favourable
circumstances, succeeds in becoming permanent. There are, however,
numerous other tendencies to displacement likewise constantly occurring
which do not become permanent, because they are not consistent, and
because they do not all run in the same direction.
It must, then, be the task of the historian of language to endeavour to
settle the relationship between linguistic usage on the one hand, and
individual linguistic activity on the other; and in order to arrive at
any satisfactory conclusions on this point, it is necessary to classify,
as far as we can, the different changes of usage which occur in the
growth and development of language. It is, then, his business to trace
the relationship between the different classes which he has formed, and
to remember that his province is to trace connections where ordinary
grammar draws lines of demarcation, bearing in mind that the steps which
lead from class to class are very gradual, and that the processes
leading up to the smallest variation of usage are in very few cases due
to a single cause, but are generally very complicated. The gradual
development in the life of language in general may be best studied in
individual languages, as when we compare the English of Chaucer’s day
with that of our own; and, again, in the relations of individual
languages to each other, as when we compare Spanish, for instance, with
Italian, and note the different paths taken by these sister-tongues in
their development from Latin.
Sound-changes come about in the individual partly from the tendencies of
his own organs of speech, as when [_ii_] becomes [_ai_[2]] and when one
sound is habitually substituted for another, as in the case of the
Russian _F_eodor for _Th_eodore, or the similar substitution, frequent
among children, _f_ing for _th_ing. They partly, too, depend upon the
influences which each individual receives from others, as when an
endeavour is made to substitute a significant for an unmeaning whole, in
cases of popular etymology and the like. To this must be added the
possibility of imperfect audition, and consequently of imperfect
reproduction of sounds. These influences are mostly operative and
easiest of observation at the time that language is being learnt, _i.e._
most commonly during the time of infancy. To watch such processes as a
particular language is being learnt must always be very instructive for
the explanation of variations in the usages of language in general.
These changes in usage may of course be classified in various ways, but
there is one important point which should be noted: the processes may
either consist in the creation of what is new or in the disappearance of
what is old; or, lastly, in the replacement of the old by the new in a
single act, which is the process seen in sound-change. In the case of
word-significations, the processes of change consist either in the
disappearance of the old or in the appearance of the new. But these
processes are in truth very gradual. A word may be perfectly
intelligible with a certain meaning in one generation, and in another
generation may be obsolete and not understood: but there will none the
less have been an intervening generation, some members of which
understood the meaning attached to the word or phrase by the former
generation, while some only imperfectly understood it.
Again, we may classify changes in usage according to whether sounds or
significations are affected. The sounds change without the signification
being altered, as in the numerous words in Chaucer which as yet clearly
retained their French pronunciation. Again, the signification is
affected without any change affecting the sound, as in the case of
metaphorical uses of a word, such as _a crane_, used alike for the bird
and the lifting machine; etc. Thus it is that we arrive at the two
classes of change: sound-change and change in signification; not that
the two kinds are mutually exclusive--they may both occur together, as
in our _owe_, from A.S. _âgan_, to possess. But the two kinds of change
are independent in their origin and their development; neither is caused
by the other.
There is, however, an important class of cases in which Sound and
Meaning develop simultaneously; these are the original creations of
language; and we must suppose the entire development of language to rest
upon this primitive combination. We must conceive the original
utterances in language to have been the imitation of various natural
cries and sounds, aided and interpreted by gesticulation. Then comes a
stage in which the sound-groups already existing in language develop on
the basis of this original creation. They develop in this way mainly by
the influence of analogy, which is itself an imitative faculty and plays
a larger part where sound and signification are united than in the
department of pure sound. The principles of which we have spoken must be
held applicable to all languages at all stages of their development.
When once language had originated, it must have developed solely in the
way we have indicated. The differences between early and later stages of
language are merely differences of degree and not of kind.
It must also be noticed that we must not sharply separate the
grammatical and the logical relations of language, as if they were in no
way connected. Grammatical rules are simply convenient descriptions of
the most ordinary and striking ways in which a language expresses itself
at a particular time. But the groups of ideas in the mind of a speaker
are constantly forming themselves anew, and finding expression in forms
which do not tally with actual and received linguistic expression, and,
as they change, give rise to so-called irregularities of grammar. The
philologist must therefore discard neither the linguistic processes
which are described and registered by grammar, nor the psychical ones
which manifest themselves in speaking and hearing, but are not
represented in linguistic expression, and yet are always operative in
the direction of change in Language.
CHAPTER II.
ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF LANGUAGE.
The most elementary study of Comparative Philology teaches us that from
a language which, in all essentials, may be considered one uniform
tongue, there have frequently sprung several others; and that these, in
their turn, have parted into new dialects or distinct languages. This
process has been usually compared to that which we see operative in the
growth and development of organic nature; and the relationship between
various languages has often been expressed by the terms applicable to
the human family. Latin, for instance, is called the _parent_ of French,
Spanish, Portuguese, and the other Romance dialects; English and Dutch
are called _sister_-tongues, while the last-named pair may be called
_cousins_ of German.
The comparison implied by such use of these terms is in the main
correct; but it would be more exact to illustrate the relationship
between languages from the language of Botany: we might consider the
language of each individual speaker as the parallel of the individual
plant, and compare the various dialects, languages, and families of
languages, to the varieties, species, and classes of the vegetable
kingdom. Even then our simile is but partially applicable, and a careful
consideration of how far it holds good, and where and when it becomes
misleading, will be found instructive to a student of language.
It is now an admitted truth in Zoology as well as in Botany that nothing
but the individual plant or animal has any real existence, and that all
our species or classes are merely convenient and useful, but always
arbitrary, abstractions. The difference between two primroses is not as
great as that between a primrose and, _e.g._, a daisy, it is true; but
the differences between these pairs are merely differences in degree,
and not in kind. When we classify or arrange in groups, we select some
characteristic and thereby give it a certain pre-eminence over others.
All individuals that possess this characteristic are accordingly ranged
upon one side, and all that do not possess it are ranged upon the other.
If the characteristic has been well chosen, our classification will be
rational, but will none the less remain arbitrary; and very often--nay,
nearly always--the choice of any other quality or characteristic as the
principle of classification will be found to involve a different
grouping.
It is the same with language. Strictly speaking, there exist as many
distinct languages as there are individual speakers. These millions of
languages, however, fall naturally into groups, whose component
individual parts differ but very little from one another, though no two
of them are exactly alike. Now, in order to decide whether the language
of any one individual belongs to some particular group, we must select
one or more particular characteristics, by which to test its claim; and,
our selection made, we shall often find ourselves excluding some
language whose inclusion would have resulted from any other test than
the one selected. The difficulty is much increased when we come to range
our groups into dialects, or to classify the latter among or around
languages (using that term again in its conventional sense); and, again,
to arrange languages into families.
At no single moment do we find all the individuals of any nation,
community, or group of human beings, speaking the same language in the
strict sense of the expression; and thus, if we say that a language has
broken up or separated into several dialects or into various new
languages, we give a very inadequate description of what has really
happened. It would be truer to state that amongst any given group of
individual languages, the difference, once slight, between its various
members has grown to such an extent that we can no longer conveniently
class these members together.
In the next place, our comparison will also hold good in the following
point. The nature and development of the individual animal depends upon
two things--descent and environment. Animals, the offspring of similar
parents, resemble one another in all essentials: they are, however, not
absolutely alike, and their individual peculiarities and development
depend largely on surroundings, such as climate, food, etc.,--influences
which, as might be expected, make themselves felt most strongly in
infancy.
Again, it is the same in language. Speech is acquired by imitation, and
those who speak to the child may be considered its linguistic parents.
The special bodily and mental idiosyncrasies of the child take the place
of the accidental surroundings to which reference has already been made.
No two children hear precisely the same words spoken by the very same
persons and exactly the same number of times; no two parents and no two
children are, in mind and body, exactly alike. From the beginning there
is a difference, small though it may be, between the linguistic
surroundings of any two individuals; and the development depends upon
personal peculiarities, which, from a linguistic point of view, may be
called accidental.
It appears, then, that our attention is engaged at the very outset of
our linguistic inquiry, not merely by the fact that differences arise in
the language of individuals, but more especially by the question why
these differences are not even greater and more rapid in their
development than they prove to be. We must seek an explanation not
merely of the nature of the forces tending to differentiate the
individual languages, but also of those which counteract such forces,
and whose influence is exerted towards uniformity and the conservation
of such unity as exists.
Yet if our comparison be sufficiently correct in two such important
points, we must not forget that in one point at least there is an
essential difference between the origin of species in the animal world
and the differentiation of languages.
We saw that with descent in the animal world we must compare
_linguistic_ descent, which latter term implies that a child’s language
is acquired by imitation from the speakers surrounding him. The language
of the community in which the child grows up is the parent of his
speech. Now, it is evident that in the animal world the influence of
descent, powerful factor though it be, is still limited, inasmuch as the
_direct_ effect of the parent’s influence ceases at a fixed point. In
language, on the other hand, the influence of the _linguistic_ parent is
permanently at work: strongest during infancy, it diminishes in force
indeed, but never entirely ceases to make itself felt. Again, the animal
owes its birth to a single pair only, while in language an indefinite
number of speakers co-operate to produce the new individual. Moreover,
as soon as a child acquires any speech at all, it becomes in its turn a
member of the community and affects the language of others. Its speech
is consciously or unconsciously imitated by those from whom it learned
and is still learning; and thus, in language, parents may be said to
become the children of their own offspring.
Differentiation of language is, of course, impossible unless usage
alters; but it would be incorrect to conclude that differentiation must
necessarily be greater as the variation in usage is more violent. There
is no _à priori_ reason why a large group of individuals, who at any
given moment speak what may be considered to be _one and the same_
language, should not alter their usage all in the same manner. Yet, if
we remember that each individual has his own peculiarities, and that,
while each acquires his speech by imitating others, such imitation is
never perfect, we shall readily understand that language must change
from generation to generation, even were other causes not present to
promote such changes; and, in fact, that differences will and must
arise. Alteration and differentiation are unavoidable; and it is
intercourse between the members of a community or a nation which can
alone keep these within bounds. The alterative forces are more free to
exert their influence in proportion as such intercourse is restricted.
If we could imagine a large country where the intercourse between the
inhabitants was of perfectly equal intensity throughout, we might expect
to find the language of each individual differing but imperceptibly from
the respective languages of his neighbours; and, though the tongues
spoken at opposite extremities might show a wide divergence, it would be
impossible to arrange the individual varieties into dialectical groups;
for the speech of each man would be some intermediate stage between the
individual tongues on either side. But such equal intensity of
intercourse exists nowhere over any considerable area. Geographical,
political, commercial influences, separately or combined, erect barriers
or overcome them; and peculiarities of speech which, arising at one
place, spread over others, are yet confined within certain limits. These
peculiarities, then, will clearly distinguish those dialects of
individuals which partake of them from such as do not; and consequently
we shall have distinct limits for grouping the dialects spoken by
separate individuals into those spoken by separate districts--that is to
say, into what is most commonly understood when we speak of ‘dialects.’
All would now be simple and easy if lines of demarcation thus arrived at
were found to coincide with whatever peculiarities or characteristics we
happened to choose for our criteria. But the fact is that groups which
would be classed together in view of some special points of resemblance
will fall asunder when other points are considered as essential
characteristics; for the spread of characteristics derived from
intercourse with one district must frequently be checked and thwarted by
intercourse with another district that does not share the same tendency.
Thus, if we make use of the letter _a_ to indicate a group of
individuals speaking a tongue essentially identical, employing _b_ for
another such group, _c_ for a third, and so on, then _a_ and _b_ may
very possibly correspond in usage or pronunciation in some point, _x_,
in which both may differ from _c_, while _a_ and _c_, but not _b_, will
be found to agree in _y_. In yet a third point, _z_, in which they both
differ from _a_, etc., _b_ and _c_ may agree; whilst _a_, _b_, _c_ and
other groups may very well have points, _w_, _t_, etc., in common with
one another and with _d_ or _e_, and in these same points will differ
from _f_. On the other hand, _f_ may agree in some other points with
_a_, in some with _b_, in some with _c_, etc.
It is unnecessary to dwell further on this. We see plainly that as
different alterations have a different extent and different lines of
demarcation, the crossings of groups and resemblances may be expected to
become of infinite complexity.
But if, further, we suppose the differentiation between _a_, _b_, and
_c_ to be already so great that we may regard these as separate
dialects, yet it is by no means impossible that a tendency to some
alteration should make itself felt in each of them, or that, having
arisen in one, the peculiarity should spread over all. It follows from
this consideration that any peculiarity shared by all or many dialects
of a language is not necessarily older than one which characterises only
a few, though, of course, that such will be the case is the natural
assumption.
Nor are the most strongly marked characteristics, by whose means we now
distinguish existing dialects, and according to which we range them into
groups, necessarily older than those which we overlook in deciding these
mutual relationships. To instance this, we may refer to the various
Teutonic dialects, which undoubtedly had many marked differences long
before the process of sound-shifting began. It was some time in or near
the seventh century A.D. when some of these dialects commenced to
substitute _p_ for _b_, _t_ for _d_, _k_ for _g_; _t_ became _ts_ (_z_),
_k_ became _h_, _p_ became _f_ or _pf_, and in some cases _b_ and _g_
were substituted for the sonant fricatives _v_ and _g_.[3] This change
or sound-shifting was in progress during something like two centuries,
and it is according to the extent of their participation in this that we
classify the various dialects as High German, Middle German, and Low
German, respectively. We consequently class as Low German three dialects
which otherwise present very strongly marked differences: the Frisian,
the Saxon, and in part the Franconian, the case of which last is
especially instructive.
The Franconian dialect did not as a whole participate in the changes to
which we have alluded above. Only the more southern part of the
Franconian tribe adopted the sound-shifting, in common with other
southern tribes which spoke distinctly different dialects. Consequently,
adhering to our above-mentioned principle of classification, we must
class the so-called _Low_ Franconian in a group totally distinct from
that in which the _High_ Franconian must be placed, notwithstanding the
fact that in other respects these dialects have preserved many important
resemblances.
It would also be incorrect to regard dialects which have become more
strongly differentiated than others as having necessarily become so at
an earlier date. The widest divergence is not necessarily the oldest,
for circumstances may arise to facilitate the widening of a recent
breach, as they may, on the other hand, arise to prevent a slight
divergence of long standing from becoming a gap of importance. If two
groups, _a_ and _b_, are differentiated, and yet keep up sufficient
intercourse, they may very well remain similar, though not equal, during
a very long period; while a subdivision of _a_, which circumstances only
affecting a minority in that group have separated later, may develop a
rapidly increasing divergence between its small community on the one
hand, and the remaining members of _a_ together with the whole of _b_ on
the other.
One more lesson resulting from the foregoing consideration is the
following. It is too often assumed as a matter of course that the speech
of districts lying between others that possess strongly differentiated
languages is the result of the contact and commixture of the two latter.
Such possibility is indeed not denied; it, in fact, often occurs; but
the alternative supposition that the mixture is a survival of some
intermediate dialect is equally possible, and must not be forgotten.
It is clear that what we now call languages are merely further
developments of dialects; but here once more we may easily err by
assuming too much. If we find two distinct languages, it does not
necessarily follow that they have passed through a stage in which they
were two dialects, distinct indeed, but differing to a less extent than
at present. Indicating dialects by _a_ and _b_, and languages by _A_ and
_B_, we must not conclude, on meeting with the two latter, that _A_ must
have inevitably originated from _a_, and _B_ from _b_. It is quite
possible that both _A_ and _B_ may have arisen from (say) _a_ alone; and
of this possibility Anglo-Saxon and its descendant Modern English
furnish a clear instance.
The dialect spoken by the invaders differed, if at all, in a very slight
degree from the Frisian (_a_), which followed a regular course of
development in its ancestral home. But the language of the invaders
(which, in view of its identity or close resemblance with the Frisian,
we may also call _a_) had in the British Islands a different history and
a different development. It was rapidly differentiated, and one of its
dialects became a literary language, distinct in every point from its
sister-tongue. Thus the modern representative of Frisian (_A_), and our
present literary English (_B_) are found to have sprung from one source
(_a_) alone.
The consideration of this case leads us to our next point. In all the
foregoing cases we presupposed that the speakers of the individual
language or of the group-languages were on the whole stationary. We need
not here indicate at length the effect upon a community of its migration
into regions where other languages are prevalent. The result is commonly
a mixed language: and the subject of so-called mixed languages we
reserve for another chapter: here we need only remind the student that
by such migrations the connection of the language of the emigrants with
that of other communities of similar speech is loosened, and the action
of differentiating forces, which thus acquire free and unrestricted
play, must necessarily be augmented.
The criterion for distinction of dialects among a community of
individual languages is, and must be, their phonetic character.
Vocabulary and syntax are easily and generally maintained, or, if
anything new arises, it may possibly spread over wide areas; but
differences of pronunciation and peculiarities of utterance do not
necessarily result from the borrowing of new terms.
For instance: a community which pronounces _a_ of _father_ as _aw_
(_i.e._ like _a_ in _all_) will do so even when borrowing a word from
some dialect in which the pure _a_ is usual.
In conclusion, we must not omit to combat an error too often repeated in
books on language which enjoy a reputation otherwise well-deserved. It
is a common notion that the tendency to differentiation is, as
civilisation advances, replaced by one towards unification; in proof of
which we are reminded of the one uniform literary language which, among
the educated members of a nation, replaces the various provincial
dialects. But this literary language is by no means a regular and
natural development of the pre-existing dialects.
_One_ of these, favoured by circumstances political or literary, obtains
a supremacy which causes its adoption by those who would otherwise
ignore it and continue to speak the dialects of their own provinces,
counties, or districts. Hence it is in a certain sense a foreign tongue
to them, and though in course of time it may come to replace the
indigenous dialect of any district, so that scarcely a trace of the
latter remains, it would be misleading to say that this dialect has
developed into a language before which it has in reality disappeared.
CHAPTER III.
ON SOUND-CHANGE.
Language is in a constant state of change; and the changes to which it
is subject fall under two very different heads. In the first place, new
words find their way into a language, whilst existing words become
obsolete and drop out of existence: and, secondly, existing words
remain, but gradually alter their pronunciation. It is the second of
these phenomena which we have to study in this chapter; and a clear idea
of its nature, origin, and progress is indispensable to any real
knowledge of philology.
To gain this idea we must carefully consider the processes which occur
when we speak. We have to take note of no less than five elements, all
of which are present each time that we utter a sound, and these should
be carefully distinguished.
In the first place, whether we break silence and begin to speak, or
proceed in the course of speaking to any particular sound, our vocal
organs must move towards a certain position, in which they must remain
during the time of the utterance of the sound. This is equally true
whether they are set in motion after a period of rest, or after a
position rendered necessary by their utterance of some other sound. Let
us take, for instance, the sound which in the word _father_ we
represent by the letter _a_. In pronouncing this WORD we BEGIN by
putting our lips, tongue, vocal chords, etc., all in such a position
that, on the breath passing through them or coming into contact with
them, the sound represented by _f_ is produced; and as long as the vocal
organs remain in that position, nothing but _f_ can be pronounced. In
order, then, to pronounce the _a_ sound, we must alter the position of
our vocal organs: our vocal chords must be approximated, our lips
relaxed, our mouth opened wider, until the _a_ position is attained. It
is clear that the course which we take to reach our goal depends not
merely upon the position of that goal, but likewise upon the point
whence we start to reach it. Hence the course whereby we reach this _a_
position will vary constantly and considerably, seeing that in our
utterance of the _a_ sound we can and do cause many other sounds to
precede it. But all these movements agree in one respect, that they
terminate in a certain position, which we maintain as long as the _a_
sound lasts.
Secondly, we must notice that this position is maintained only by a
certain balance of the tension in the various muscles of our tongue,
throat, lips, etc.; and this tension, though we may not indeed be
conscious of it, _we feel_.
Thirdly, _we hear_, more or less exactly, the sound which we produce.
Fourthly, this feeling and this sound, like every physical occurrence in
which we actively or passively participate, leave behind them in our
mind a certain impression. This impression, though it may indeed
disappear and sink beneath the level of consciousness, remains
nevertheless existent, is strengthened by repetition, and can, under
certain conditions, be again recalled to consciousness. We consequently
come gradually to acquire a permanent mental impression of both feeling
and sound. There is formed in our mind what we may call the
memory-picture of the _position_; and
Fifthly, there is likewise formed ‘a memory-picture’ of the _sound_.
It will be readily seen that of these five ‘elements’ only the last two
are permanent, and that they, and they only, are psychical. In every
individual case of sound-utterance, all that is _physical_ is momentary
and transitory. We abandon the position; the corresponding tensions make
way for others; the sound dies away: but the memory-pictures alike of
position and sound remain in our mind. There is no physical connection
between our utterances of the ‘same’ sound, or word, or phrase; there is
only a psychical connection: and this reposes upon the two elements
which we have already called the memory-pictures of sound and position
respectively.
A word must be added on the nature of the association existing between
these two. This association, however intimate it may be, is _external_
only; there is no necessary _psychical_ connection between any sensation
of vibration in our organs of hearing and any other sensation of tension
in the muscles of our vocal organs. If we gained the first-named
sensation again and again from hearing others speak, yet we should still
be unable to imitate them at once, even though, for whatever reason, we
had set our vocal organs repeatedly in the same position. But the fact
that when we ourselves utter a sound we also hear it, associates the
physical sensations of sound with those of position, and this
invariably; and it thus happens that the respective memory-pictures of
the two are left closely associated in our mind.
When we speak of these movement- and sound-pictures as lingering or as
existing in our memories, it is not implied that we are necessarily
conscious of their existence. On the contrary, the speaker, under
ordinary circumstances, is wholly unconscious of them: nor has he
anything like a clear notion of the various elements of sound which
together make up the spoken word, or it may be the sentence, which he
utters. It would seem as though the art of writing and spelling, which
presupposes some analysis of the sound of words, proved that the
speaker, if capable of spelling and writing, must have at least some
notion of those elements. But very little consideration will suffice to
prove the contrary. In the first place, strictly speaking, it is
absolutely impossible to denote in writing all the various elements of
sound which combine to form any word or sentence. A word, however
correctly and grammatically spelt, does not consist merely of those
sounds which we symbolise in our writing. In reality it consists--or at
least the syllable consists--of an _unbroken_ series of successive
sounds or articulations, and of this series, even if we spell
‘phonetically,’ our letters represent at best no more than the most
clearly distinguished points; whereas, between these sounds so
symbolised by our letters, there lie an indefinite number of transition
sounds, of which no writer or speller takes any notice.
The above is true in the case of languages like Spanish, Portuguese,
Italian, and German, where the spelling is more or less consistent: much
more is it true in the case of English or French, with their irrational
and puzzling inconsistencies. A child which learns that it must
represent the sound of the word _but_ by letters to be called
respectively bee-you-tea, or the word _though_ by letters nick-named
tea-aitch-o-you-gee-aitch, does not receive a lesson in separating the
sound-group represented by the letters _but_ into its three, or the
sound-group represented by _though_ into its two (or three) elements.
Even in the more correctly spelt languages, there are numerous
discrepancies between the spoken and written word, which, until they are
pointed out to him, escape the attention of the native speaker or
writer. In English, some instances may be here considered. Not a few
English people are quite surprised when they are informed that they have
two distinct ways of pronouncing _th_, or of pronouncing _x_: the _th_
‘hard,’ as in _thin_, and ‘soft,’ as in _then_; the _x_ like _ks_, as in
_execution_ (eksekyushion), and like _gz_, as in _executive_
(egzekyutiv), _exact_ (egzakt), _example_ (egzampl). And there are fewer
still who have ever noticed that in _income_ many pronounce no _n_ at
all, but the same guttural and nasal sound as terminates _king_.
_Can_ is frequently pronounced _c^han_, with a distinct _h_ sound after
the _c_, without the speaker being aware of it; and the same holds good
of similar words. Again, none but the trained observer knows that the
_k_ in _keen_ is pronounced differently (more to the front of the mouth)
from the _k_ (represented by _c_) in _cool_; but the fact that perhaps
more than all excites incredulous wonder is that the sound _i_ is no
vowel, but a diphthong, as may be proved by dwelling on it. The speakers
to whom these facts are new may nevertheless all be perfectly correct
speakers: no doubt they pronounce the elements of the word; but they
have probably never paid any attention to the nature of these elements,
or at least have not begun to do so till long after the utterance became
habitual and natural.
If, then, we speak without consciousness of the separate _sounds_, much
more are we completely unconscious of the _movements_ of our vocal
organs. It is only very recently that these movements have been
carefully investigated, and the results of the science of phonetics are
in very many respects as yet _sub judice_, while even the most
superficial knowledge of the subject can only be attained by a conscious
and careful effort of attention, and by the exercise of much patience in
the observation of our precise actions when speaking. It is only the
trained observer who can at all follow these movements as he makes them,
and even _he_ does not so follow them generally, but thinks of the sense
of his words as he speaks, and not of the way in which they are
produced.
Moreover, even assuming that the speaker enjoyed a far higher degree of
consciousness, both of phonetic elements and of phonetic movement while
he is _acquiring_ the faculty of speech, it would none the less remain
true that in the ordinary course of word-utterance these facts remain
outside the speaker’s consciousness. A precisely parallel instance can
be observed in the case of a pupil learning to play the piano or violin.
At first every movement he makes is the result of a separate and
conscious act of volition; but soon practice, the repetition of
conscious action, so much facilitates the playing of scales, arpeggios,
etc., that the rapidity of their execution quite precludes all
possibility of the bestowal of separate thought, even of the shortest
duration, upon each individual note in succession. It is necessary at
the outset to insist on this fact of the speaker’s unconsciousness, both
of the elements of sound which make up the word, and of the movements of
his vocal organs; for, once fully grasped, it will guard against an
error which is too prevalent, viz. that sound-change is the result of
conscious volition in those who speak.
But though the movements necessary for production of sounds are
performed unconsciously, they are by no means beyond control; to
illustrate which fact we may once more recur to the parallel instance of
the piano-player. Like him, the speaker controls his work by listening
to its result: but the player strikes either the right note or the
wrong, and, unlike him, the speaker may vary his utterance in one
direction or another without serious error; he is not considered to make
a MISTAKE unless the difference between his present utterance and that
which is usual exceeds a certain limit. In this respect, the
violin-player resembles the speaker more closely. They both appeal to
their sense of hearing in order to decide on the correctness or
otherwise of the sound produced, and the control they can exercise over
that sound is exactly proportional to their delicacy of ear. Up to
certain limits, the variations are too small to be perceived by the ear,
but beyond these, control becomes possible. The slight differences in
pronunciation or sound do not yet, however, necessarily expose the
speaker (or player) to the charge of incorrect utterance (or
performance), and consequently, though he perceives the change, he pays
little or no attention to it. He only then corrects himself or guards
against repeating the ‘mistake,’ when the change in sound passes those
limits which cannot be transgressed without detriment to what in music
we term ‘harmony,’ or what in language we term ‘correctness of
utterance.’ It commonly happens that these limits are wider than the
limits of perception referred to above, more especially in the case of
the speaker. A wider licence is accorded to the term ‘correctness’ in
speech than is accorded to it in harmony.
While, then, control is theoretically and practically limited, the
possibility of variation is unlimited. Take, for instance, the case of
the vowels. All the possible sounds and variations from _u_ (pronounced
as _oo_ in _cool_) to _i_ (= _ee_ in _feel_) may be said to form one
uninterrupted series. In this series we distinguish only some of the
most important varieties. When we pronounce _u_, the lips are rounded,
and the tongue is drawn back and raised at the back of the mouth: if we
pass from _u_ to _i_, the lips are unrounded, and assume the shape of a
narrow and much elongated ellipse, while the tongue is pushed forward
with its back depressed and the fore-part (the blade) raised. While this
change is going on, the mouth _never_ assumes a position with which we
could not produce some vowel or other, but the difference in acoustic
quality between any two ‘neighbouring’ vowels would not always be such
that we should regard them as distinct or different sounds. On our way
from _u_ to _i_, we pass through the positions for the _o_ (_oa_) in
_coal_, the _ŏ_ in _god_, the _a_ in _father_, the _ĕ_ in _net_, the _e_
(_a_) in _hare_, the _ĭ_ in _pit_; but between these there lie an
indefinite number of possible shades of sound, and every one knows how
differently various speakers of the same community pronounce what we
call the same vowel. So, too, we need but little attention to notice
distinct occasional variations, at different moments, in the same
speaker. If, then, one and the same speaker often _perceptibly_ (though
unintentionally) varies his pronunciation, we may be perfectly sure that
his mode of utterance will vary at different times within those limits
where the divergence--though existing--is not noticed. As with the
vowels, so it is, though not so completely, with many consonants and
series of consonants. The student who is unacquainted with phonetics
should pronounce _cool_ and _keen_ one after the other, or better still
_coo_ and _kee_, getting rid of the final consonants. He will have no
difficulty in noticing the difference between the two _k_ sounds, the
first of which requires a much more backward position than the second
for its pronunciation. After a little practice, he will be able to
pronounce the first (back) _k_ with the _ee_ vowel, and the second
(forward, palatal) _k_ with _oo_. Now, between these two sounds of _k_
there is a whole series of intermediate ones, and, if this series be
followed in the direction of the palatal _k_ and then continued beyond
it, we soon reach the articulation of the palatals proper, and pass,
without any appreciable gap, to the linguo-dentals: first to the _t_
which, in words like the French _métier_, sounds so much like _q_ in the
form _méquier_ (as the French Canadians actually pronounce it); and next
to our own _t_, and to the usual French _t_, which is pronounced more to
the front with the tip of the tongue against the roots of the teeth.
Similarly, because perfect though slight closure is not remote from
extreme narrowing, we can pass in a practically unbroken series from
energetic _p_ to laxly uttered _f_, from _k_ to the guttural fricative
of German _ach_--a sound which English, in its modern form, no longer
possesses,--etc.
As we noticed in the instance of _k_, and as every one more easily
perceives in the case of the vowels, two sounds essentially different in
articulation and in acoustic character are often, in daily speech,
accepted as identical, more especially where the difference is not great
enough, or is not of a nature to cause ambiguity of meaning. If, for
instance, there existed words in the English language alike in all
respects but that the one began with the _k_ of _cool_ and the other
with the _k_ of _keen_, and if these words had different meanings, every
Englishman would be aware of the existence of two sounds, which he would
most likely indicate by two different letter-signs. As it is, the
difference between the two remains unnoticed, and the choice between
them depends upon the vowel which follows. If, then, in the ordinary
course of speaking, a ‘back’ _k_ is pronounced a little more forward, or
a palatal _k_ more to the back, no notice will be taken of it, unless
the variation oversteps a certain limit and, as a consequence, the
unusual articulation sounds strange. Similarly, for the formation of
_t_, the position of the tongue may be varied to a very great extent,
and yet, though something unusual in the sound MAY be apprehended, the
result will always be perceived as a _t_.
We must now once more emphasise the fact that the memory-picture of the
sound, and the (unconscious) memory-picture of the movement and
position, and these two alone, connect the various utterances of any
sound or sound-group, and decide its character, and the appreciation of
speaker and hearer to its correctness.
These memory-pictures and their nature and growth are therefore of the
highest importance. They are the results of _all_ preceding cases of
utterance, _of which, however, the last always has the greatest
influence_. Every variation in pronunciation entails a variation in the
memory-picture; and this, small as may be the change, is cumulative and
permanent, unless the different deviations happen to balance one another
exactly. Now, in the main this will be the case when the speaker finds
himself amid his usual surroundings, and where no external causes
co-operate to impel his deviations into one direction rather than into
another: but let us suppose him transferred to another community, and
brought in contact with a certain pronunciation habitual there and novel
to him. His memory-picture of the SOUND is made up of his own
pronunciation _and_ of what he hears from others. At first the new
pronunciation strikes him as new, and _two_ pictures stand side by side
in his mind. If, however, the difference be not too great, these soon
blend, and, the former one fading while the other constantly gains in
force, his pronunciation becomes influenced without his own knowledge;
he pronounces more and more like the surrounding speakers, and every
time he does so his memory-picture of POSITION gets slightly altered
(always in the same direction) until nothing but conscious effort of
memory or renewed intercourse with former surroundings can recall the
one thus lost.
The same thing happens essentially and effectually, though the change is
slower and less violent, where external causes favour deviation in any
special direction amongst an entire community. As far as the nature of
the effect goes, it can make no difference whether we consider the case
of a man entering a new community to find there a pronunciation which
differs from his own, or that of an entire community which alters its
existing pronunciation. But the process will go on much more slowly in
the latter case, since it has to operate in a number of individuals, and
the steps by which each of them proceeds are in ordinary cases
imperceptibly small.
Of all causes which may tend to alter our pronunciation in any special
direction, facility of utterance is the most conspicuous and the most
easily understood. There are, in all probability indeed, several others:
climate, habits of diet, etc., all _seem_ to have some effect, but no
one has as yet been able to explain how they operate. Even ease of
pronunciation is not yet thoroughly understood in all its bearings. We
must not forget that ease is something essentially subjective, and that
the memory-pictures of movement and sound and the attempt at correct
reproduction of the usual movement and sound are the main factors,
while the striving after facility of utterance is a very subordinate
one.
Yet there is no doubt whatever that in a number of instances the new
pronunciation is easier than its predecessor: we now say _last_ instead
of _latst_, examples of which earlier form may be found in the Ormulum,
for instance. Similarly, _best_ is easier than _betst_, _impossible_
than _inpossible_; and we may refer also to the numerous words still
written with a _gh_ which is no longer pronounced. In the word _knight_,
the _k_ was formerly sounded before the _n_, and the _gh_ represents a
sound which may still be heard in the German word _knecht_; and, in
fact, all spellings like _know_, _gnat_, _night_, _though_, etc., with
their numerous mute letters, represent older and undoubtedly more
laborious pronunciations. That all these sounds have been dropped has
unquestionably facilitated the utterance of the words, and there is a
similar gain of ease in all the well-known instances of complete or
partial assimilation in all languages. So in Italian _otto_ for Latin
_octo_, Latin _accendo_ for _adcendo_, etc. When, however, we come to
estimate the comparative facility of separate single sounds, or even
many combinations, we find ourselves as yet without any certainty of
result or fixed standard. Much that has been advanced is individual and
subjective: all depends on practice; and this practice we acquire at an
age when we are as yet wholly unable to form or pronounce an opinion on
any question. In fact, most of our facility of speech comes to us in
infancy.
But whatever the cause, we now understand that the memory-picture of
movement and position is shifting and unstable in its very nature.
Unless the majority of pronunciations around us all alter in the same
direction, the _sound_-picture does not alter, and it exerts a
retarding control upon the rapidity with which our _position_-picture,
and therewith our own pronunciation, might otherwise do so. Here,
however, we must draw attention to the fact that we spoke of the
majority of _pronunciations_ around us and not of speakers. For our
sound-picture the number of persons from whom we hear a word is
immaterial; it is the number of times we hear it pronounced that is
alone of importance.
All that we have hitherto said has had reference to changes of
pronunciation in _the same speaker_, and in this case alone can we speak
of alteration or change in the strict sense of the word. But when we say
that ‘a language has altered,’ we use the term in a wider sense, and
include the case when one generation is found to use a new pronunciation
in place of one current at a former time; when, in fact, it would be
strictly correct to say that an old pronunciation has died out, and that
the new one--created instead--differs more or less from that which was
its model.
A child, in learning to speak, attempts to imitate the sound it hears;
and, as long as the resulting imitation _sounds_ sufficiently correct,
any small peculiarity of pronunciation is generally overlooked. In such
a case, therefore, the child acquires a movement or position-picture
which at once materially differs from that of the former generation. We
all know by experience that sounds are difficult to ‘catch,’ and we must
remember that the vocal organs may undergo certain variations in
position without producing a correspondingly large difference in
acoustic effect;[4] and further, that any sound produced by a
particular position of the vocal organs has a tendency to change in a
different direction and at a different rate from the course which would
seem natural to the same sound if it had been produced by a different
position of the vocal organs.
If, then, we speak a word to a child, and if the child utters it (_a_)
with a slightly altered pronunciation, and (_b_) with an articulation
which differs from that which WE should naturally employ to produce the
pronunciation which the child gives to the word, then two comparatively
important steps upon the path of change have already been taken. And
thus it is clear that, though changes in language are constantly and
imperceptibly occurring throughout the whole life of the individual
speaker, yet their rise is most likely and their progress is most rapid
at the time when language is transferred from one generation to another.
The above, however, will not explain all the changes which words have
undergone. There are some which have hitherto resisted any other
explanation than this: they appear as the results of repeated errors of
utterance, which errors, owing to particular circumstances attending
each case, must have been committed by several or by most of the
speakers of the same linguistic community. Such are--(1) Metathesis,
_i.e._ where two sounds in the same word reciprocally change their
positions, whether they are (_a_) contiguous or (_b_) separated by other
sounds. Of the first kind we have instances in the Anglo-Saxon forms
_ascian_ and _axian_, both of which occur in extant documents, and also
survive in the verb _ask_ and the provincial equivalent _aks_. Cf. also
the form _brid_, found in Chaucer, for _bird_ (_e.g._ ‘Ne sey I neuer er
now no _brid_ ne best.’--Squire’s Tale, 460), and, vice versâ, _birde_
for _bride_ (_e.g._ Piers Plowman, 3, 14: ‘ðe Justices somme Busked hem
to ðe boure ðere ðe _birde_ dwelled’). Again, we may compare the English
_bourn_, Scotch _burn_, with Dutch _bron_, German _brunnen_; A.S.
_irnan_ and _rinnan_, both meaning to _run_, and _irn_, as pronounced by
a west-countryman, with _run_.[5]
Of the second kind of Metathesis (_b_) we find traces in O.H.G. _erila_,
by the side of _elira_ = N.H.G. _erle_ and _eller_; A.S. _weleras_, the
lips, as against Gothic _wairilos_; O.H.G. _ezzih_, which must have had
the sound of _etik_ before the sound-shifting process began, = Lat.
_acetum_; the Italian word, as dialectically pronounced, _grolioso_ =
_glorioso_; and, again, _crompare_ = _comprare_; M.H.G. _kokodrille_ =
Lat. _crocodilus_. We may also refer to such cases of mispronunciation
as _indefakitable_ for _indefatigable_. These are evanescent, because
they meet with speedy correction.
Besides Metathesis, we must class here (2) the assimilation of two
sounds not standing contiguous in the word (as Lat. _quinque_ from
*_pinque_; original German _finfi_ (five) = *_finhwi_, etc.), and (3)
dissimilations, as in O.H.G. _turtiltûba_, from the Lat. _turtur_; Eng.
_marble_, from Fr. _marbre_, Lat. _marmor_; M.H.G. _martel_ with
_marter_, from _martyrium_; _prîol_ with _prîor_; and conversely, M.H.G.
_pheller_ with _phellel_, from Lat. _palliolum_; O.H.G. _fluobra_,
‘consolation,’ as against O.S. _frôfra_ and A.S. _frôfor_; M.H.G.
_kaladrius_ with _karadrius_; Middle Lat. _pelegrinus_, from
_peregrinus_.
We must now conclude this chapter with a few words on the question, Are
the laws of sound-change, like physical laws, absolute and unchanging?
do they admit of no exceptions? In thus stating the question, we
challenge a comparison between physical laws and the laws of
sound-change, but we must never forget the essential difference existing
between them. Physical laws lay down what must invariably and always
happen under certain given conditions; the laws of sound-change state
the regularity observed in any particular group of historic phenomena.
We must, in dealing with this question, further distinguish between two
closely allied but not identical kinds of phenomena, _i.e._ between
those which come under the law of sound-change in the strict sense of
the word, and those which are rather to be considered as instances of
sound-correspondence or sound-interchange. When, for instance, some
sound happened to be, at any particular stage of some language,
identical in the various forms of the same word; and if this sound,
owing to difference in its position, or of its accent, or from some
other cause, has changed into a different sound in some forms of the
word, while in other forms of the same word it has remained unchanged;
and if many similar cases are remarked in the same language,--we
summarise them in our grammars in a form which, though convenient, is
not strictly correct. There are in French, for instance, many adjectives
which form their masculine termination in _f_ and their feminine in
_ve_. It is scarcely necessary to point out that in these words the
feminine form, derived as it is from the Latin feminine, cannot
correctly be described as _derived_ from the masculine in its
contemporaneous form: nor yet does the individual speaker, in using the
two genders, derive the one from the other; he reproduces both from
memory, or, possibly by a process to be discussed in Chapter V., he
produces one by analogy with other similar forms.
We nevertheless lay it down in our grammars, that adjectives in _f_ form
their feminine by ‘changing’ _f_ into _ve_. The correspondence of sounds
which we thus register, though it is a consequence of phonetic
development, does not, strictly speaking, express a law of sound-change;
we might call it ‘a law of sound-correspondence’ or ‘sound-interchange.’
The ‘law of sound-interchange’ states in a convenient form the aggregate
results of events which have occurred in accordance with some ‘law of
sound-change.’ Our question, then, refers to the ‘laws of sound-change’
proper, and not to those of ‘sound-interchange;’ and if we say that a
law of sound-change admits of no exceptions, we can only mean that,
within the limits of some definite language or dialect, all cases which
fulfil the same phonetic conditions have had the same fate: _i.e._ the
same sound must there have changed into the same other sound throughout
the language, or, where various sounds are seen to replace one and the
same other sound of the older language, the cause for this difference
must be sought in the difference of phonetic conditions, such as accent,
contact with or proximity to other sounds, etc.
It must be clear, after all that has been said in this chapter, that
laws of sound-change, in the correct meaning of this term, must be
consistent and absolutely regular. As regards the case of the individual
speaker, we have seen that the utterance of each sound depends on the
memory-picture of motion and position, and that these pictures exert
their influence without the speaker being conscious of it. It will then
naturally follow that if these pictures alter gradually in the case of
any one sound in any one word, they will do so for the same sound in all
other cases where it occurs under like conditions.
It is indeed often stated that the sense of etymological connection of a
particular word with others which retain a certain sound unaltered may
prevent that sound from taking the same course in that word as it does
in other words not so influenced; but the existence and efficacy of some
counteracting influence does not disprove the existence of the force
against which it operates, and which it overcomes or neutralizes. Nor,
again, could the inter-communication between the individual speakers
cause occasional suspension of the law of sound-change.
We have seen that the association which arises between memory-pictures
of the sound, and of the motion of our vocal organs, etc., for its
utterance, is--though but external--nevertheless very close, and that it
soon becomes indissoluble. The slight and gradual changes in the
utterance of the surrounding speakers alter the memory-pictures of the
sound, and the corresponding memory-picture of motion and position
follows in the same way. It is, then, only in case of mixture of
dialect, _i.e._ when a considerable group of speakers of one dialect
becomes mixed and scattered among speakers of another, that the
following generation _may_ adopt one sound from the one dialect and
another from the second; thus apparently exhibiting the differentiation
of the same sound, under the same phonetic circumstances, into two, of
which the one appears as the rule, the other as the exception. But then,
again, such a case--though when it has happened we may not always be
aware of it, and consequently may not always be able to assign the
phenomenon to its true cause--does not prove that the law of
sound-change admitted of exception. We merely have the results of two
such laws mixed and confused.
CHAPTER IV.
CHANGE IN WORD-SIGNIFICATION.
Sound-change is brought about by the repeated substitution of a sound or
sounds almost imperceptibly differing from the original. The A.S.
_hláfmesse_ is now represented by the English _Lammas_: though the _mm_
sound is clearly easier to pronounce than the combination represented by
_fm_, generations passed away before the word as we have it in English
became the recognised form. In the case of sound-change, we must notice
that the rise of the new sound is simultaneous with the disappearance of
the old one. In the case of change of signification, it is possible for
the old meaning to be maintained by the side of the new one; as when we
speak of ‘the House,’ meaning the House of Parliament, we do not exclude
the original and proper meaning of the word, but we merely narrow and
define its signification. Indeed, change in signification consists
invariably in a widening or narrowing of the extent of the
signification, corresponding to which we find an impoverishment or an
enrichment of the contents. As we saw that the employment of ‘House’ to
denote the House of Parliament implied a narrowing or specialising of
the extent of the signification of the ordinary meaning of _house_, so
we may take a word like _moon_, properly and originally applied only to
the earth’s satellite, and apply it to a whole class, which we regard in
some way as resembling it, as when we speak of _Jupiter’s moons_. In
this case we _widen_ the application of the word by _narrowing_ its
contents, but even when thus _widened_ the meaning still includes its
original denotation. Frequently such a widened application becomes once
more narrowed, by the widening of the contents: an instance of this
double process we have, _e.g._, in the word _crane_.[6] Originally only
meaning the bird of that name, it was, by a metaphor, applied to a class
of objects similar in some respects to the bird. A process of narrowing
this application led to the use of the word as a specific name for a
certain machine. The word, in this sense, no longer includes its
original meaning, and is transferred. It is only by such a succession of
widening and narrowing that a word can assume a signification absolutely
different from its original meaning. This transference may be more or
less _occasional_, or become _usual_. Thus in the case of _green_ for
_unripe_ (_cf._ blackberries are red when they are green) the meaning is
in a certain sense an ‘occasional’ one, the real and original meaning
being still clearly felt. This original meaning is, however, quite lost
sight of when we use _grain_ in _to dye in the grain_, for ‘to dye of a
fast colour’ by means of cochineal, etc., _grain_ here being the name
given to fibre of wood, etc.[7]
Change in signification, however, has this in common with sound-change,
that it is effected by individual usage which departs from the common
usage; and that this departure passes only gradually into common usage.
Change in signification is a law of language; it is a necessity: and
change is rendered possible by the fact that the signification attaching
to a word each time it is employed need not be identical with that which
usage attaches to it. As we shall have to consider this discrepancy, we
shall employ the expressions ‘usual’ and ‘occasional’ signification: and
by the ‘usual’ we shall understand the ordinary or general
signification; by the ‘occasional’ we shall understand that which the
individual attaches to it at the particular moment when he uses the
word. The ‘usual’ signification means, as we employ it, the entire
contents of any word as it presents itself to a member of any linguistic
community: the ‘occasional’ signification means the contents of the
conception which the speaker, as he utters the word, connects therewith,
and expects the listener to connect with it likewise. The word _shade_,
used by itself and without any interpretation from the context or the
situation, would suggest to a hearer its USUAL signification of
‘interruption of light;’ but the individual who employs the word may
have in mind, as he may easily disclose, the shade of a tree or a
lamp-shade.
The ‘occasional’ signification is commonly richer than the ‘usual’ one
in content and narrower in extent. For instance, the word in its
occasional sense may denote something concrete: while, in its usual
sense, it denotes something abstract only; _i.e._ some general
conception under which different concrete conceptions may be ranged. By
a ‘concrete’ conception is here meant something presupposed as actually
existing, subject to definite limits of time and space; by an
‘abstract’ one is here meant a general conception, the contents of a
mere idea and nothing more, freed from all trammels of time and place.
_The House of Commons_ is concrete: _a house_ is abstract. This division
has nothing to do with the ordinary division of substantives into
abstract and concrete. The substantives which in ordinary grammar we
call ‘concrete’ often denote a conception as general as the so-called
abstract nouns; as in _England’s battles_: and, conversely, the latter
are occasionally used as what we here call ‘concretes’ when they are
used to express a single quality or activity defined by limits of space
and time; as, _The days of thy youth_. In the phrase ‘My horse has run
well to-day,’ _horse_ is concrete in the sense which we attach to the
term: but in the phrase ‘A horse has four legs,’ it is what we call
‘abstract;’ because the statement does not refer to any one definite
concrete horse, but to horses generally, and the predicate therefore is
associated with the abstract idea of _horse_.
The greater number of words can be employed in occasional use in either
abstract or concrete significations. There are some words, indeed,
essentially concrete, such as _thou_, _thine_, _he_, _there_, _to-day_,
_yesterday_;--which, however, need individual application to render them
immediately and definitely concrete. Words like _I_, _here_, _there_,
serve to define some one’s position in the concrete world; but it
requires the aid of other words, or of the circumstances in which they
are uttered, to render them thus definite. Even our demonstrative
pronouns, and the word _the_, may be employed to denote abstract
conceptions; as, _The whale is a mammal; it has warm blood_. _Pity the
widow and the orphan._ Even proper names, which we might be inclined at
first to take as the type of concrete words, as denoting a single
object or person, may be used either ‘usually’ as concrete, or
‘occasionally’ as abstract, since the same name may be borne by various
people and various localities, as _Newton_, _Brighton_: and, indeed, may
be applied to objects named after localities; as _Stilton_, _Champagne_,
etc. Then there is a small class of words which express an object
conceived of as existing once and once only, such as _God_, _devil_,
_world_, _universe_, _earth_, _sun_. These nouns are concrete both in
their ‘usual’ and in almost all their ‘occasional’ meanings; but even
they may be regarded as abstract if regarded from a definite point of
view. Indeed, a proper name is essentially concrete; if it becomes
abstract, this can only be because it has become a generic name, _i.e._
because it has become a common noun, a common noun being such in virtue
of its standing as the name of each individual of a class or group of
things. On the other hand, there are some words which from their very
nature are abstract; such are the pronouns _ever_, _any_; the Latin
_quisquam_, _ullus_, _unquam_, _uspiam_; but the abstract character even
of words like these suffers certain limitations in occasional usage; cf.
_Did he ever_ (_i.e._ on any particular occasion) _act so_, and _Should
he ever really do it_. In these cases _ever_ is in the first instance
limited to the past, and in the second to the future.
A more important and deeper-lying distinction between ‘usual’ and
‘occasional’ signification is that a word may have various ‘usual’
significations, but can only bear a single ‘occasional’ one; _i.e._ in
each case of ‘occasional’ use the meaning is one and definite:[8]
except, indeed, when the word is of set purpose used ambiguously,
either to deceive, or to point a witticism; as in ‘If you get the best
of port, port will get the best of you.’ It happens in all languages
that there occur words identically pronounced which may be understood in
different significations: and, for practical purposes, we must regard
these as the same word, since whoever hears the sounds of which the word
is composed spoken cannot, without the aid of the connection, possibly
tell which of the senses is intended by the speaker to be attached to
the word. Under this head must be ranged, in the first place, words
which accidentally happen to correspond in sound, though they differ in
meaning. The English language is particularly full of such words, owing,
in some degree, to the coincidence of many words coming from Norman
French with words coming from a Teutonic source. Such are _mean_,
intend; _mean_, common; _mean_, moyen: _match_, a contest; _match_,
mèche: _sound_, son and ge-sund. We have, in these and similar cases,
instances of words which usually receive several significations. But
besides these we have numerous words in English, as in other languages,
which are etymologically identical and which yet have several
significations. Such is the word _box_ in English: it means in the first
and most common case, ‘a chest to put things in;’ then, ‘a tree,’ ‘a
small seated compartment in the auditorium of a theatre,’ ‘the driver’s
seat on a carriage,’ ‘a present given at Christmas’ in the combination
‘a Christmas box;’ besides the meaning of a ‘box on the ear,’ which
comes from a different source. Such, too, are: _post_ = (1) ‘A stake in
the ground,’ (2) ‘a professional situation,’ (3) ‘the system of
delivering the mails;’ _broom_, the shrub, and _broom_, ‘a besom;’
_bull_, ‘a papal edict’ and ‘a blunder in language;’ _canon_, ‘a rule’
and ‘a church dignitary;’ to _bait a horse_ and to _bait a hook_; a
_coach_ in the sense of ‘a teacher’ and of ‘a carriage;’ _board_, ‘a
plank’ or ‘food supplied at lodging-houses:’ so in French, _un radical_,
‘a root in language,’ ‘a root in algebra,’ ‘a radical in chemistry,’ or
‘a radical politician;’ _plume_, ‘a feather,’ and _plume_, ‘a pen;’ Lat.
_examen_, ‘swarm,’ ‘tongue of a balance,’ and ‘examination.’ It is true
that the derived meanings in these words spring from a primary one, but
it is equally true that it is impossible, without some knowledge of the
history of the word, to recognise the original connection between the
various significations; and these bear the same relations to each other
as if the identity in sound were purely accidental. This is especially
true in cases where the primary meaning has entirely disappeared, as in
the case of _villain_, used now only in the uncomplimentary sense which
circumstances have affixed to the word, save, indeed, in historical
treatises; though even in its early sense it is no longer ‘the man who
lives and works on the _villa_.’ It is the same with _pagan_, and
_recreant_. Another good illustration is afforded by the word
_impertinent_, which signifies (1) not pertinent (obsolete); (2) having
no special pertinency, trifling; (3) rude. Etymology, working by
comparison, often serves to detect such disappearances: thus N.H.G.
_klein_, small, has lost its original meaning, that still appears in
Eng. _clean_.
But in many cases, too, where we can still recognise the relationship of
the derived to the primary signification, we must nevertheless
acknowledge the independence of the derived meaning; especially where,
as in the case of ‘post,’ it has become the usual one. The test, in
these cases, of the independence of the word is whether a word
‘occasionally’ used in the derivative sense can be understood without
any necessity arising for the primary meaning to force itself on the
consciousness of the speaker or hearer. There are, further, two negative
tests whereby we may judge that a word has not a simple, but a complex
signification. The first of these is if no simple definition can be
framed, including the whole of its meaning, and neither more nor less;
and the second, if the word cannot, if employed ‘occasionally,’ be used
in the whole extent of its signification. It is easy to apply these
tests to the examples cited above. No simple definition of the word
_post_ would be possible; a whole series would be necessary to explain
the meaning of the word to a foreigner. Again, any definition of the
word _post_ used in the ‘occasional’ sense of ‘a situation’ would leave
the other meanings quite unexplained.
Even in cases where the ‘usual’ signification may be regarded as simple,
the individual meaning may vary from this and yet may not become
concrete, as it may develop on the lines of one of the special meanings
included in the general conception. Thus the simple word _pin_ may, in
single cases, be understood as _lynch-pin_, _hair-pin_, etc.; so
_bye-law_ is now always used as if it were a secondary law.[9]
All understanding between individuals depends upon the correspondence in
their psychical attitude. In order that a word may be understood in its
‘usual’ meaning, no more perfect mental correspondence is imperative
than such as naturally exists between the members of a single linguistic
community who have mastered their own language; should, however, the
signification of a word be specialised in ‘occasional’ use, as when we
speak of ‘the House,’ and understand thereby ‘the House of Parliament,’
a closer understanding must be supposed to exist among the speakers. The
same words may be intelligible or otherwise, or, again, may be
misunderstood, according to the state of mind of the person who is
addressed; or, again, according to the chance surroundings, whose
presence or absence may act as an aid or a drawback to the enforcement
of the signification. And it seems well in this place to emphasise the
fact that the body of ideas which may at any time be called up by a word
is _never the same_ in the case of any two speakers. The ideas will
resemble each other less as the speakers are members of social
communities more widely separated from each other, or more in proportion
as the persons using the words possess similar degrees of cultivation or
life-experience. For instance, we may understand all the words of a
philosophic discussion, and still it may remain a mere jargon to us.
This truth holds good even for the simplest language in its simplest
stage. Hence it is that no perfect translation of a literary masterpiece
is possible; especially if such be written in the idiom of a
civilisation far removed from that of the translator, alike in the
circuit of ideas, and in the way in which these ideas present
themselves. Every expression is in fact accompanied by a store of
associative suggestion, which _must_ suffer loss to a greater or less
extent in the attempt to insert an equivalent expression from a stranger
tongue. It thus results that the interpreter of the language of a past
civilisation must undertake by laborious study to reconstruct and attach
to each expression the body of associations which should be its native
environment. The aids necessary for understanding words in their
‘occasional’ meaning do not require to be of a linguistic nature at
all; although they may, on the other hand, be so. We have seen before
that abstract words may be rendered concrete by connecting them with
such words as essentially express the concrete, and that the article is
one of the chief of these words. _Horse_ is abstract, but _the horse_ is
generally, as we have seen, concrete. But even this rule is not
absolute, and consequently this aid is not absolutely sufficient; for we
have seen that in expressions like _The horse is a quadruped_, the
article has come to express the general conception. Again, there are
languages, like Latin and Russian, which have developed no article; and
these employ abstract words, with no special mark of denotation, for the
concrete.
In any case, whether the reference to the ‘concrete’ is expressly
denoted or not, other methods may be adopted to define it more closely.
The first of these depends upon the common environment of the speaker
and hearer, and upon the perception common to both. The hearer cannot
fail to understand the speaker if, in referring to a tree or tower, he
means the definite single tree or tower which they both have before
their eyes. The speaker may point to the object in question, or may
indicate its position by his gaze. Nay, such signs may serve to indicate
objects not directly cognisable by the senses, provided that the
direction in which these objects lie is known.
Another method whereby the word is made to refer to something definite
and concrete is found in the recalling by the hearer of the past
utterances of the speaker, or, it may be, in a special explanation which
the speaker has given. If the hearer understands that a word is once
intended to bear a concrete sense, then this same sense may continue to
attach to the word throughout the rest of the conversation. If ‘the
Church’ have once been spoken of in the sense of ‘the body of adherents
to the Church of England,’ it will be understood that this is the sense
in which the word ‘Church’ is to be apprehended for the rest of the
conversation. The recollection of the previous utterance will take the
place of immediate perception. Again, this reference to the past can be
emphasised by words like demonstrative pronouns and adverbs. If, after
using ‘the Church’ in a definite sense, I employ a phrase like ‘that
Church’ or ‘that Church of which I spoke,’ it is clear that this word
‘that,’ whose function was originally merely to express a perception,
serves in its new function to call attention to the individualisation of
the signification and to render it intelligible to the hearer.
In the third place, anything is capable of being represented and
understood as concrete, when the speaker and the hearer are so similarly
circumstanced that the same thoughts naturally rise into the
consciousness of both at once. Such agreement or correspondence depends
upon such circumstances as common residence, common age, common tastes,
business, or surroundings of the speakers. An instance of this is seen
in the rhetorical usage commonly known as κατ’ ἐξοχην. If two
people live near together in the country in the neighbourhood of a large
town, they would both certainly understand by ‘going _to town_’ the town
nearest to where they happen to live. If, on the other hand, they both
had their business in London, they would certainly both understand
‘London’ by ‘town.’ Again, words like the _town-hall_, _the square_,
_the market_ are understood by the inhabitants of a particular town to
refer to the town-hall or market of that particular town. Again, such
words as _the kitchen, the larder_, when spoken of by members of a
family, refer to the rooms in their particular house, which they know by
these names. Thus, again, in speaking of _Sunday_, we mean the nearest
Sunday to the day on which we are speaking; and, in fact, the Sunday can
be fixed with _perfect_ precision by merely affixing to the word
_Sunday_ a word expressing past or future; as, _next Sunday_, _last
Sunday_. Words expressing relationship between persons are naturally and
without effort transferred to persons who bear such relationship to
hearer and speaker alike: and what is more, no doubt can arise from the
use of the singular, as long as there is only one person who could
naturally bear the description. Thus, if the children of a family speak
to each other of ‘father’ or ‘mother,’ this concrete reference is just
as intelligible to them as that of ‘the Queen’ or ‘the President’ to the
British or the Americans respectively. Nay, even though the relationship
exists only upon one side, whether of the speaker or the hearer, the
reference may still be equally unmistakable, assuming that circumstances
aid in pointing to the person named. If one man says to another ‘The
wife is better,’ the hearer would at once understand that the speaker’s
_own wife_ was referred to, assuming that her illness had been
previously discussed between the two.
In the fourth place, a speaker may employ some more closely defining
word, as an epithet, in order to render his meaning more definite and
concrete. Thus he might say, _That is the old king’s palace_, _That is
the royal castle_. But even such defining epithets as these fail to give
a perfect definition unless some other aid, like the memory aid of which
we have spoken, or the aid of the situation, supports the definition. If
the speakers have been conversing about ‘the old king,’ both _palace_
and _castle_ would receive a concrete significance from what had been
said before. Thus, the phrase ‘the king’s castle’ comes to mean a single
object only, when it is known that the king has only one castle, or if
the hearer be referred to a single place, where he must know the castle
to lie.
Finally, a concrete word may affect other words connected with it, and
may give them a concrete sense as well. In sentences like _John never
moved a finger_; _I never laid hand upon him_; _I took him by the arm_;
_You hit me on the shoulder_, the words _finger_ and _hand_ get their
concrete meaning from the subject, and _arm_ and _shoulder_ from the
object.[10] In French, in the sentence, _Il sauta dans l’eau, la tête la
première_, ‘la tête’ acquires its concrete sense from the subject.
Just as general names receive a definite concrete reference, so proper
names applicable to different persons come to denote but a single one.
It may be sufficient merely to speak of a man as ‘Charles’ in order to
sufficiently identify him; and indeed such reference would suffice if he
were before us, or had recently been mentioned. Again, even without
this, the name ‘Charles’ would sufficiently identify any person within
his own family, or within any other circle where no other ‘Charles’ was
known. Under other circumstances, we must naturally define him more
closely; as, ‘Charles the Sixth of France,’ ‘Charles the First of
England.’ Just so, there are many places bearing the same name; but a
single name is sufficient to define the place for the neighbourhood, and
even for the world at large when the place happens to be the most
important of the places called by the name: cf. _Melbourne_,
_Brisbane_, _London_, _Strassburg_: otherwise a nearer definition has to
be employed, as _Stony Stratford_, _Newton-le-Willows_.
Words are _specialised_ in meaning in the same way as they are defined
and rendered concrete, and by the same factors. When we hear a word, we
naturally think of the most obvious and common of its various meanings,
or else of its primary meaning. In the case of ‘train,’ we think of the
means of locomotion: in the case of ‘crane’ we probably think of the
bird. Sometimes the two tendencies work together. Should several
meanings tolerably common stand side by side, the primary meaning will
commonly present itself to the mind of the hearer before the others; as
in the case of the word _head_ used in so many metaphorical senses. But
this general rule is liable again to be altered by the surroundings amid
which the word is uttered. The situation awakens certain groups of ideas
in the mind of the hearer before the word is uttered, and itself aids
powerfully in fixing the meaning. We affix a different meaning to the
word _sheet_ according as we hear it in a haberdasher’s shop, or on a
yacht, or at a book-binder’s: as we do to the words ‘to bind,’ according
as we hear them in a book-binder’s or in a harvest field. Different
trades and professions use the same word and affix their own meaning to
it, and no ambiguity arises in their own circle: take such words as ‘a
goose’ in the mouth of a tailor; ‘a form’ among hatters. Then, again,
the connection in which a word occurs does much to fix its meaning.
Observe how the meaning is affected by the connection in such utterances
as _a good point_, _a point of view_, _a point of honour_; _the bar of a
river_, _the bar of a hotel_, _the bar of justice_; _the foot of a
mountain_, _the foot of a table_; _the tongue of a woman_, _a tongue of
land_, _the tongue of a balance; crowded ball_, _a round ball_; _a gulf
or bay_, _a bay and a roan_; _the cock crows_, _the cock is turned on_;
_ere the king’s crown go down there are crowns to be broke_; _the train
is starting_, _a train of thought_; _a bitter draught_, _a bitter
reputation_; _clean linen_, _a clean heart_; _a donkey-engine_, _John is
a donkey_; _the money goes_, _the mill goes_; _to stand still_, _to
stand upon ceremony_, _to stand at ease_.
Cases may, however, occur in which the ‘_occasional_’ meaning may not
include all the elements of the ‘_usual_’ meaning, while it may contain
something beyond and above this. Take, for instance, the words
expressive of colour, such as _blue_, _red_, _yellow_, _white_, _black_.
These words may be used to denote colours which, according to their
simple meaning, they are inadequate to denote. Each colour may be mixed
with another colour, and there must arise a succession of transition
stages for which language has no name. For instance, the northern word
_blae_ varies in meaning from the purple colour of the blaeberry to the
dull grey of unbleached cottons;[11] while the same word in old Spanish
takes the form _blavo_, and is found to mean _yellowish grey_. Three
centuries ago, _auburn_ meant ‘whitish,’ and _drab_ meant ‘no colour at
all’ (= Fr. _drap_, ‘undyed cloth’).
But the widest field for such inadequate application as that which we
have been instancing is given by words whose signification consists of a
complex assembly of ideas, as is the case, for instance, in metaphorical
expressions. Metaphorical expressions are nothing else than comparisons
instituted between groups of ideas _with respect to what they possess in
common_. We compare in these only certain characteristics, and we leave
the rest out of account. If we say of a man _He is a fox_, we mean
merely that some of the qualities which go to make up the conception of
a fox are found in the man as well. We may, indeed, express the point of
comparison between the two, as by saying _He is as crafty as a fox_. On
the other hand, we might say more simply _He is foxy_, in which case the
adjective merely denotes such a selection of the qualities of a fox as
may be necessary to characterise the man sufficiently: and, finally, we
may say _He is a fox_, whereby we merely mean that he is in several
respects like a fox. In this case, then, the words _foxy_ and _fox_ have
passed beyond the limits of their proper signification. They have come
to denote a single quality only, instead of a group of qualities, and
this signification has come to be usual.
A word may, again, pass beyond the limits of its strict signification by
the operation of what rhetoricians call _synecdoche_, or naming a thing
by some prominent or characteristic part of it; as, ‘A fleet of twenty
_sail_;’ ‘All _hands_ to the pumps;’ ‘They sought his _blood_.’ In this
case, something connected spatially, or temporally, or causally with the
usual meaning is understood with the word when it is spoken.
When a word passes beyond the limits of its usual signification, it is
liable to be misunderstood, unless, indeed, some impulse be present to
serve as a sign-post to the sense in which it is intended to be used. We
are naturally inclined to use a word in its ordinary meaning and in no
other, unless, indeed, we are reminded by something that its ordinary
sense is impossible. In simple cases, such as the proverb, _Speech is
silvern, but silence is golden_, we think of the predicates as used
metaphorically, simply because it is impossible to think of them as used
in any other sense. But when Shakespeare talks about _the majesty of
buried Denmark_, each principal word in the combination serves as a
sign-post to the sense in which each other word is to be used, and we
are enabled to guess the sense which we are to attach to each word.
Repeated departures from the usual meaning--in other words, the repeated
employment of the occasional meanings of words--end in a true change of
signification. The more regularly these departures occur, the more, of
course, do individual peculiarities approximate to common use. The test
of the transition from an ‘occasional’ to a ‘usual’ meaning is whether
the employment of the ‘occasional’ meaning brings into the mind of the
speaker or hearer a previous usage with which he was familiar, and in
which he will naturally understand the word. When such recollection
naturally presents itself to the mind, and when the word is employed, as
well as understood, with no reference to the original signification of
the word, then the word may fairly be deemed to have accomplished its
transition of meaning. But it is clear that there may be many gradations
between the two usages. If I speak of _sweet_ memories or of a _bright_
future, there may or may not be any recollection on the part of the
speaker or hearer that these expressions are metaphors from the use of
the word _sweet_ and _bright_ in a physical sense.
It must further be remarked that it is difficult for the _occasional_
meaning of a word to pass into the _usual_ by the aid of an individual,
unless those to whom he speaks reciprocate the influence which he has
exerted upon them. Milton, for instance, uses such words as _expatiate_
and _extravagant_ in their Latin sense, and _hear_ in the sense of ‘to
be called;’ thus, again, Chaucer and others use _copy_ (copia) in the
sense of _plenty_: but these words were not taken up by a sufficiently
large number of persons to enable their ‘occasional’ use to become
‘usual,’ even though introduced by such authorities as these.[12]
Words have a strong tendency to change their meaning when they pass into
the mouth of a new generation. A child fixes the meaning of a word by
hasty and imperfect generalisations; and not by means of descriptive or
exhaustive definitions. The simple and unreflecting mind of childhood
identifies objects on very imperfect grounds, and stays not to consider
whether there be any basis for such identification or not.[13] And thus
it is that, from the very first steps in the process of acquiring
language, the child employs the same word to define several objects, and
these not objects which _really resemble each other, but which have the
appearance in any degree of doing so_. Of course this whole proceeding
implies that no clear conception can exist of the contents and extent of
the usual meaning. A child conceives of a word as covering an extent
sometimes too narrow, sometimes too wide; more commonly, however, too
wide than too narrow, and the more so as the extent of his words is the
more limited. He will include _a sofa_ under the name of _a chair_; _an
umbrella_ under that of _a stick_; _a cap_ under that of _a hat_; and
this repeatedly. Another cause of inexact appreciation of meaning is the
fact that the speaker, when indicating to a child certain objects,
connects them in his own mind with certain other objects; the child may
fail to understand the limitations of meaning to be placed upon the word
when it is parted from the idea as a whole. Take, for instance, such a
word as _congregation_. In the mouth of a clergyman, this word might be
used as an inseparable adjunct of a church, but he will still speak of
the _congregation_ as distinguished from the church, and as forming a
distinct though necessary connection with the idea of ‘Church.’ The
child, generalising faultily, may apply the word _congregation_ to a
collection of politicians, or of traders, or of animals; and it may be
long before he is in a position to correct his wrong conception. The
adult, again, constantly has to encounter the same difficulties as the
child, when he meets with words of rare occurrence or denoting technical
or complex ideas; and, supposing that he learns such words by their
occasional application only, he is exposed to the same errors as the
child. Thus the word _insect_ has come to be so commonly used to mark
the distinction between insects and other animals, that we read on
labels, _This powder is harmless to animal life, but kills all insects_.
These inaccuracies in the case of the apprehension of the usual meaning
are, taken singly, of little account, and are commonly corrected by the
standard or ordinary usage which the speaker will naturally hear from
the mouths of the greater part of the community. At the same time, in
cases where a large number of individuals unite in a partial
misapprehension or in investing simultaneously a word with an
‘occasional’ meaning, it will happen that this, though only partially
corresponding with the meaning which was usual amongst an older
generation, will be substituted.
Such, among others, are the significations attaching to certain terms,
expressive of qualities ennobled by Christianity, such as _humility_,
_faith_, _spiritual_, _ghostly_, etc.
Commonly speaking, the older generation gives the main impulse to change
of meaning, controlling, as it does, the whole usage of language. But
the younger generation has great power in aiding the process of change,
from the fact that the very first time that a word has presented itself
to one of its members, the word may have been used in an ‘occasional’
sense, which would by him have been taken to be its regular use. Thus, a
child might often hear a horse spoken of as _a bay_, or a dolt as _an
ass_. In such cases he understands the secondary meaning only; nor does
he even mentally connect this meaning with any other.
The change in ‘usual’ signification, then, takes its rise from
modification in the ‘occasional’ application of the word. The most
common case of change in signification owing to such modification, is
where the meaning of the word is specialised by the narrowing of its
comprehension and the enrichment of its contents. In the English word
_stamp_ we have a good instance of the difference between ‘occasional’
and ‘usual’ specialisation. The word may be employed of any object used
as a particular mark. It may be used for a _receipt stamp_ or for a
_bill stamp_, or, again, metaphorically, as the _stamp of nobility_.
These are instances of ‘occasional’ specialisation. But, while it
requires some definite situation to make us think of _stamp_ in its
other significations, it immediately occurs to us to think of it as a
_postage stamp_, and we then think little, if at all, of the general
idea of stamping, but rather of an object of definite shape and
construction and used for the definite purpose of franking letters. We
must thus admit that this meaning has parted from the more general
meanings, and stands independently as a special meaning; in fact, that
it is specialised and ‘usual.’ Other examples are the use of _frumentum_
for ‘corn’ in Latin; _fruit_ for the produce of certain trees as
distinguished from ‘the fruits of the earth;’ _pig_, originally the
young of animals;--in Danish, _pige_, a young girl. _Corn_, in English,
is restricted to ‘wheat,’ and, in America, to _maize_, or Indian corn;
while, in German, _korn_ denotes any species of grain: _fowl_, in
English, means specially ‘a barn-door fowl;’ _a bird_ means, in the
language of sportsmen, ‘a partridge;’ _a fish_, ‘a salmon:’ ὄρνις,
in the conventional language of Athens, as disclosed by the
Comic poets, means ‘a barn-door fowl:’[14] and a special usage of this
kind is seen in the names of materials themselves employed to denote the
products of materials; as, _glass_, _horn_, _gold_, _silver_, _paper_,
_copper_,--as when we talk of paper in the sense of _paper money_, etc.
Proper names owe their origin to the change of the ‘occasional’ concrete
meanings of certain words into ‘usual’ meanings. All names of persons
and places took their origin from names of species; and the usage
κατ’ ἐξοχήν was the starting-point for this process. We are
able to observe it distinctly in numerous instances of names both of
persons and of places. Such ordinary names as the following are very
instructive for our purpose: _Field_, _Hill_, _Bridges_, _Townsend_,
_Hedges_, _Church_, _Stone_, _Meadows_, _Newton_, _Villeneuve_,
_Newcastle_, _Neuchâtel_, _Neuburg_, _Milltown_, etc. Such names as
these served in the first instance merely to indicate to neighbours a
certain person or town: and they were sufficient to distinguish such
person or town from others in the neighbourhood. They passed into
regular proper names as soon as they were apprehended in this concrete
sense by neighbours too far removed to judge of the reasons why they
received their special name: cf. names like _Pont newydd_: and names
like _Bevan_, _Pritchard_, from _ab (son) Evan_ and _ap Richard_. There
are, no doubt, beside these, many place-names which began by resembling
real proper names, in so far as they are derived from names of persons:
such are _Kingston_, _St. Helens_.
There is also one kind of specialising process which begins to operate
as soon as ever a word comes into use. Instances of this may be seen in
the case of words which may be derived at will, according to the
ordinary laws of any language, from other words in common use, but which
are not employed till a special need calls them into play. Such words as
these are sometimes found, in the first stage of their descent from the
root-word, to bear a more special meaning than the derivative, as such,
would naturally bear. Thus the substantive formations in _-er_ (A.S.
_-er_, _-e_)[15] denote properly a person who stands in some relation to
the idea of the root-word--commonly speaking, expressing the agent: but
in the case of single words thus terminated the most varied instances of
specialisation are found.[16] _The ‘pauser’ reason_ (Macbeth, II. iii.
117) would naturally mean reason that pauses or halts; but Shakespeare
uses it as the ‘reason that makes us pause;’--similarly, there is no
reason why the word _scholar_ (M.E. _scolere_), an imitation of Lat.
_scholaris_, should not signify ‘he who schools or teaches;’ but, as a
matter of fact, it always seems to have borne its present sense. In
English, indeed, it bears the special sense of ‘a student enjoying the
benefit of a foundation.’ A _poulterer_ is one who vends poultry: a
_fisher_ is one who tries to catch fish; a _burgher_, one who dwells in
a burgh; a _falconer_, one who trains falcons, or one who hawks for
sport: while a _pensioner_ is one who receives a pension. Take, again,
the case of verbs derived from substantives, like _to butter_, _to
head_, _to top_, _to badger_, _to earwig_, _to dust_, _to water_, _to
pickle_, _to bone_ (_a fowl_,) _to skin_, _to clothe_, _to book_ (_a
debt_). In many of these cases, the meaning of the verb is derived from
a metaphorical sense of the substantive. In this case, too, the usage
can only be formed gradually, and according to the general fundamental
conditions of language.
When language demands the expression of a conception hitherto undenoted,
one of the most obvious expedients is to choose a word expressive of the
most prominent characteristics of the conception, as to name the horse
‘the swift animal’ (Sans. _açvas_), or the wolf the ‘grey animal’ or
‘the tearer.’ Many substantives have arisen in this way (cf. the old
terms ‘a grey’ and ‘a brock’[17] for a badger), but we must not
therefore conclude that there was any general rule for such formation;
such as, for instance, that all substantives proceeded from verbs.
The second principal kind of change in signification is the converse of
the kind already spoken of. It is where the application of the term is
limited to one part only of its original content, though such reduction
on one side is commonly accompanied by amplification on another.
The great number of phenomena occurring under this head renders it hard
to classify them: but certain ones of marked peculiarity may be
mentioned. In some cases we name the object from its appearance to our
sight: as in the case of the _eye_ of a potato, the _head_ or _heart_ of
a cabbage, the _arm_ of a river, the _cup_ of a flower, the _bed_ of a
river. A statue or a picture is named after what it represents; as, _an
Apollo_, _a Laocoon_, _the Adoration of the Magi_: or, again, a work of
art is named after its executor; as, _a Phidias_, _a Praxiteles_. In all
such cases the original signification has been limited in one direction
and amplified in another. For instance, in the case of ‘the _bed_ of a
river,’ we exclude from consideration other beds, such as beds for
sleeping on; but, on the other hand, the word may be applied in its
novel sense to as many rivers as flow and have _beds_. We call a part of
one object after the part of another object which corresponds to it in
position; we talk of the _neck_ or _belly_ of a bottle, of the
_shoulder_ of a mountain, the _foot_ of a ladder, the _tail_ of a kite.
The different uses of _caput_ are mostly reproduced in our own use of
_head_; as, _caput urbis_; _capitolium_; _caput fontis_, fountain head;
_caput montis_, ρυφή; _caput conspirationis_; Ital. _capo_;
_caput arboris_; _caput libri_, chapter, κεφάλαιον; _caput
pecuniæ_, capital; cape. We call a measure by the name of some object
which in some way resembles it in dimensions; as, _a cubit_, _an ell_,
_a foot_, _a barley-corn_. A _pen_ or _feather_ writes: and so ‘a pen’
and ‘une plume’ may mean _a steel pen_. We transfer words expressive of
conceptions of time to conceptions of place, and _vice versâ_, as in
_long_ and _short_; _before_, _after_; _behind_, _before_: and thus in
the case of many other adverbs and prepositions. We transfer the
impressions made on one sense to those made on another, as in the cases
of _sweet_; _beautiful_; _loud_ (originally applicable to hearing
alone), in the phrase ‘loud colours;’ and the Fr. _voyant_, in such a
phrase as _une couleur voyante_, originally applicable to the sense of
sight alone. Words which in their proper sense denote sensual and
corporeal ideas only, are transferred to the denotation of ideas
spiritual and intellectual: as in the cases of _apprehension_,
_comprehension_, _reflection_, _spirit_, _inclination_, _penchant_,
_appetite_, _penser_ (lit. _peser_ = to weigh, etc.). Consider, again,
the various applications of such words as _to feel_, _to see_; _bitter_,
_lovely_, _fair_, _mean_, _dirty_, _great_, _small_, _lofty_, _low_,
_warm_; _taste_, _fire_, _passion_; _to sting_, _to thrill_, etc. Words
which properly denote one species only are given a wider extension; as,
_cat_, _crab_, _apple_, _rose_, _moon_ (as in Jupiter’s moons),
_fishery_ (as in whale-fishery, lobster-fishery, after the analogy of
the herring-fishery, etc.), _le sanglier_ (l’animal solitaire,
_singularis_), _le fromage_ (lac formaticum, _milk made into shape_),
_le baudet_ (O.Fr. bald, baud, _the spirited animal_,--originally _the
male ass_). We make proper names pass into class names, as when we speak
of _a Cicero_, _a Nelson_, _a Cato_; _an Academy_, from Plato’s
gymnasium near Athens, called Ἀκαδημία; _Palace_, from
Palatium, the seat of Augustus’ Palace. Thus, again, we actually talk of
a wooden house as being dilapidated. And we have such further
development as _a martinet_; _a cannibal_; _a vandal_; _Tom_, _Dick_,
and _Harry_; _John Doe_ and _Richard Roe_. Such adjectives as
_romantic_, _Gothic_, _pre-adamite_, may also serve as illustrations of
the development, which is also manifest in the case of _sehr_, ‘very,’
formerly meaning ‘painful,’ of Eng. _sore_, with the like use in ‘_sore_
afraid.’ So compare _schlecht_ (schlechterdings, schlichten) with
_slight_, primitive signification ‘plain;’ _silly_ with _selig_, etc.
The transference in the case of verbs is seen in such cases as ‘I was
sorry to _find_ you out when I called;’ ‘He _enjoys_ poor health,’ etc.
This development is similar to that illustrated above by _apprehension_,
_reflection_, etc., to which we may add _understand_, _verstehen_,
ἐπίστασθαι, _transpire_.
The third principal division of change in meaning is the transference
of the idea to what is connected with the fundamental conception of the
word by some relation of place, or time, or cause.
The simplest sub-division of this is when a part is substituted for the
whole--the figure called by rhetoricians _synecdoche_, and referred to
before on p. 58. The part is, in such cases, always a prominent
characteristic; it suggests, as a rule, that aspect of the whole which
it is desired to bring into prominence for rhetorical effect. Thus, ‘all
_hands_ to the pumps;’ ‘they sought his _blood_;’ ‘the _blade_,’ for
‘the _sword_;’ ‘a maid of twelve _summers_.’ The German word _Bein_
(leg) = Eng. _bone_, has been thus used by synecdoche: it retains its
older value in _Gebeine_, _Elfenbein_. Persons and animals are named
after characteristic features in the body or the mind; as, _grey-beard_,
_curly-head_, _thick-head_, _red-breast_, _fire-tail_; _a good soul_, _a
bright spirit_: in French _blanc-bec_, _grosse-tête_, _rouge-gorge_,
_rouge-queue_, _pied-plat_, _gorge-blanche_, _mille-pieds_: _esprit
fort_, _bel esprit_. Names, again, are given to objects from some
prominent feature with which they are commonly connected: such are those
taken from garments; as, _blue-stocking_, _green-domino_, _a red-coat_,
_a blue-jacket_; cf. the use of _un cuirassier_. Other names are
transferred from one object to another included in it: such as _the
town_, for ‘the talk of the town;’ _the smiling year_, for ‘the spring;’
_the cabinet_, _the church_, _the court_, etc. Conversely, we find the
idea transferred from the object to its surroundings, as in _the Round
Table_, _the Porch_, _the Mountain_, _the Throne_, _the Altar_, etc.
Sometimes the name of a quality is transferred to the person or thing
possessing the quality, as in the case of _age_, _youth_, _plenty_:--
‘The people’s prayer, the glad diviner’s theme,
The young man’s vision and the old man’s dream,’
as Dryden calls the Duke of Monmouth:[18] cf. also _desert_, _bitters_.
Other examples of this are--_his worship_, _the Godhead_, _your
highness_, _his majesty_, _his excellence_, _his holiness_, etc. It will
thus be seen that collective names take their rise in this way as well
as the names for single persons or things; we can speak of _their
worships_, meaning the magistrates. But these words do not always form
substantives.
Nouns of action suffer the same transference as names of qualities. By
nouns of action we mean names denoting activities generally, and
conditions which are derived from verbs, such as _overflow_, _train_,
_income_, _government_, _providence_, _gilding_, _warning_, _influence_.
In the instances given, the name of the action has been transferred to
its subject: but it is equally capable of being transferred to its
object, if ‘object’ be taken in the widest sense. Thus, it may be
transferred to a consequence or result of the verbal activity: such as
_rift_, _spring_, _growth_, _a rise_, _assembly_, _union_, _education_:
or to an object affected by the activity, such as _seed_, _speech_,
_doings_, _lamentations_, _bewailings_, _resort_, _excuse_, _dwelling_.
Writings are denoted by the name of their author; as, ‘Have you read
Shakespeare?’ A person is named after some favourite word of his own;
as, _Heinrich jasomir Gott_: ‘_Cedo alteram_’ (Tacitus, Annals, book
iii.):[19] animals are named from their utterances, in nursery language,
as a _bow-wow_; or from those used to appeal to them, as a _gee-gee_:
besides these, we may add the names of such plants as _puzzle-monkey_,
_noli me tangere_, _forget-me-not_, etc.
The different kinds of change in meaning may follow each other, and thus
unite. Thus the word _rosary_ has on one side gained in comprehension,
since it is now used of a necklace composed of beads employed for a
sacred purpose; but, on the other, it has lost all connection with
roses. A _horn_ is a wind instrument which may be, but is not commonly
made of horn: the name may equally apply to an instrument made of other
materials.
It frequently happens that some idea foreign to the essence of a word,
and connected with it merely by accident, becomes absorbed into its
signification as a mere accessory: and this is then thought of as the
proper meaning, the primary meaning being forgotten: thus names of
relations of time and place gradually pass into causal words; as,
_consequence_, _purpose_, _end_ (to the end that), _means_, _way_.
Seeing that the unit of language is the sentence, and not the word--in
other words, that we think in sentences,--it is natural that the change
in meaning should affect, not merely the separate words, but also entire
sentences. These sentences may receive a meaning which is at the outset
merely ‘occasional,’ but which by repetition may become ‘usual’--a
meaning not implied by the combination of words as we hear it for the
first time. Take, for instance, such phrases as _A plot is on foot_;
_The business has come to a head_; _He has come to the front_; _I have a
man in my eye_; and such combinations as the following, in which the
word _hand_ plays a great part: _well in hand_, _off hand_, _hands off_,
_at hand_, etc. We cannot say that in these cases special meanings of
the word _hand_ have developed: rather, these meanings have become
obscured by the attention which we have come to pay to the phrase as a
whole. English is full of such terms of expression. In many of these the
sense can only be derived from the meanings of the several words by the
aid of an historical knowledge of the language in which such
combinations occur. Take such cases as, _to dine with Duke Humphrey_;
_to tell a cock and bull story_; _all his geese are swans_; _to stuff
one up_; _to give one the sack_; _to be half seas over_: in French--_il
raisonne comme un tambour_; _sot comme un panier_ (for _un panier
percé_); _triste comme un bonnet de nuit_; _donner une savonnade_;
_faire une jérémiade_.
Language is incessantly engaged in an endeavour to express the entire
stock of ideas in the human mind. But it is met by the difficulty, in
the first place, that the ideas of each individual in any society differ
widely from those of the other individuals in the society: in the next
place, by the difficulty that the ideas of each individual are liable to
a constant process of expansion or contraction. The consequence is that
the ideas which language is constantly endeavouring to express are
necessarily coloured by individual peculiarities; though it is equally
true that these peculiarities are unimportant in ordinary definitions of
the meanings of single words or groups of words. For instance, it is no
doubt true that the word _horse_ has the same meaning for everybody, in
so far as everybody refers it to the same object: but, on the other
hand, each man in his own particular line, a hunter, a coachman, a
veterinary surgeon, or a zoologist will connect with the idea a larger
quantity of conceptions than one who has nothing to do with horses. A
father would be differently defined by a lawyer and a physiologist: but
the points which in the thoughts of these make up the essence of
paternity are absolutely wanting to the consciousness of the infant who
uses the name of ‘father.’ The differences in the judgments applied to
feelings and ethics are very great, and for obvious reasons. What
different individuals understand by _good_ and _bad_, _virtue_ and
_vice_, is impossible to bring under one definition, indisputable and
undisputed.
The sum of the words at the disposal of any individual connects itself
with his ideas: and it thus follows that the entire store of words
forming the stock of any community must adapt itself to the whole stock
of ideas belonging to any community, and must change as these change.
The meaning of the words, again, must adapt itself to the standard of
culture attained from time to time by each nation. New words must be
created for new objects and new relations and kindred, though novel
meanings must become attached to the old words--as in the case of _steel
pen_, properly, ‘a steel feather.’ And again, a quantity of unobserved
changes are constantly passing on language which are hardly remarked as
such, and are the immediate result of a change in the whole culture of a
nation. Such are the words _humility_, _talent_, _faith_, _spirit_, and
the numerous other words referred to before, to which Christianity has
given a deeper and more spiritual significance. Then, again, progressive
skill may have worked striking changes in objects essentially the same:
we call a Roman trireme, a Chinese junk, and a British man-of-war by the
same name, _ship_; but we must admit that the ideas attaching to it have
changed considerably. And thus it is with all objects capable of
improvement by skill, and again with purely mental or intellectual
conceptions, which change according to the changing conditions of
culture of the community which possesses them.
CHAPTER V.
ANALOGY.
All the ideas consciously or unconsciously present in the human mind are
directly or indirectly connected with one another. No thought, no
conception, is so independent of all others as not to suggest some other
idea or ideas in some way cognate or related. Thus, for instance, if we
think of the action of walking, it is physically impossible not to call
to mind, with more or less distinctness, the idea of a person who walks.
And again, the idea of walking is likely also to evoke the idea of some
of the varieties of that action, which we commonly indicate by such
words as (to) _go_, _run_, _step_, _stalk_, _stroll_, _stride_, etc.
Thus it is clear that our _ideas_ associate themselves into groups; and,
as a natural result of this, the words which we employ to express these
ideas come similarly to associate themselves in our minds.
_Words_, then, which express related ideas, form themselves into groups.
Another source, though not equally prolific, of such association, is
similarity in sound. Thus the word _book_ may remind us of _brook_, as
it in fact reminded Shakespeare; the word _alarms_, of ‘_to arms!_’ the
word _hag_, of _rag_ or _tag_; the word _blue_ may remind us of _few_.
Such groupings are, however, but very loose and ineffectual, unless a
more or less close association (based on reality or fancy) co-operates
in order to make them strong and suggestive. This may be seen by taking
as examples the associations existing between _brook_ and _book_, _blue_
and _few_, on the one hand, and those existing between _alarms_ and ‘_to
arms!_’ and _hag_, _tag_, and _rag_, on the other. There is no
similarity of meaning, no similarity of contents between the words
_book_ and _brook_; the association, therefore, in this case is a very
loose one, looser than that existing between _foot_ and _boot_, for
instance. On the other hand, the connection between the ideas of
_alarms_ and ‘_to arms!_’ is more obvious: a sudden surprise, as in the
case of an attack by an unexpected enemy, might often be connected with
the idea of a call ‘_to arms!_’ Similarly, _hag_ and _rag_ are ideas
which often present themselves to our mind in connection with one
another, and consequently the association between these two words is
stronger than that, for instance, existing between _hag_ and _flag_.
Correlation in the ideas, coupled with correlation of their contents,
especially if accompanied by similarity of sound, makes the association
most inevitable; and the closer the correlation, or the greater the
similarity, the stronger will be the tie which binds the members of the
group.
It is necessary to the more exact classification of these groups, that
we should first obtain a clear conception of the difference between what
we may call the _material_ contents of a word, on the one hand, and the
_formal_ or _modal_ contents, on the other.
For this purpose, let us look at the two words _father_ (singular) and
_fathers_ (plural). Both these words indicate a person or persons who
stand in a certain and well-defined blood-relationship to some other
person or persons. This meaning, common to both, we call their
_material_ contents. But the one form is used to indicate _one_ such
individual; the other, to indicate any number more than one. This, the
_unity_ or _singularity_ of the one, the _plurality_ of the other, makes
up the _formal_ or _modal_ contents of each. This _modal_ part of the
contents, in most of the languages of the Indo-European stock, is left
without separate expression in the singular: in the plural, however, it
is generally expressed or indicated by some change in form; this change
being, in most cases, made by the addition of some termination--in the
example we have chosen, by the addition of _s_.
Before passing to another example, it is well to point out that the
_modal_ contents of a so-called “singular-form” by no means invariably
imply unity; nor, again, is the plural always, as in the case cited,
formed from the singular. In such a sentence as _A father loves his
child_, the idea expressed relates, or may relate, to more than a single
father; in fact, it may be taken as a statement made correctly or
incorrectly of all fathers universally; and, with regard to the second
point mentioned, Welsh, among other languages, has many words in which
the plural is expressed by the shorter collective form, and the single
individual is indicated by a derivative, e.g. _adar_, birds; _aderyn_, a
bird: _plant_, children; _plentyn_, a child: _gwair_, hay; _gweiryn_, a
blade of hay, etc.[20]
We can now come back to our point, and fix our attention on two such
words as (_I_) _speak_ and _speech_.
Both these words evoke the thought of some well-known and familiar
activity called into play by our vocal organs. This constitutes the
_material_ contents of both alike. The former, however, conveys the idea
that the action is being performed at the time the word is uttered; the
other is the name of the result or product of that action. This, the
_modal_ part of their contents, is left unexpressed; or, to speak more
accurately, we cannot divide the words so as to be able to say that one
part serves to express the _material_ contents, and another the
_modal_,--a division which we could make in the case of _fathers_, and
which we might make in, e.g., _speak_, _speaking_; _speech_, _speeches_;
_book_, _books_, _booklet_; etc.
It will now be clear that, among associations based on correlation or on
similarity of IDEA, this similarity may exist between the _material_
contents of the words grouped together, or between their _modal_
contents. We therefore are now in a position to distinguish between
MATTER-GROUPS and MODAL-GROUPS.
To sum up, there exist association-groups based on--
1. Similarity in sound only.
2. ” ” meaning only.
3. ” ” both sound and meaning.
These two latter classes (nos. 2 and 3) are subdivided, as to the part
of the meaning in which they agree, into (_a_) _matter_-groups and (_b_)
_modal_-groups.
Instances of all these are numerous, and will readily suggest
themselves; a few may suffice to illustrate further what has already
been said.
If we were to set down in a vertical column the complete conjugation of
some verb--say, of _to walk_,--and, parallel to this, with equal
completeness and in the same order, the conjugation of the verbs _to
write_, _to go_, and _to be_, we should then have in our vertical
columns four _matter_-groups. Taken horizontally, the separate tenses
would form so many _modal_-groups, each divisible into smaller groups of
singulars as against plurals, or of first persons as against second and
third persons, etc. We should then, at the same time, have illustrated
the fact that in many cases similarity of contents is accompanied by, or
perhaps we should say expressed by, similarity in sound, and that it
often happens that _similar change of modal contents is accompanied by
similar change in form or in termination_.
Now, this fact, though far from holding good in all cases, is of the
greatest possible importance for the development of language.
In order to realise this, let us for a moment suppose a language in
which no such ‘regularity’ held good: in which ‘I love’ was expressed by
_amo_; ‘thou lovest’ by _petit_; ‘he loves’ by _audivimus_; and that
thus for every thought, every shade of meaning, every _modal_ variation
of _material_ contents, there existed a new word in no way related to
the others which indicate associated ideas. The language would in this
case be more difficult of acquirement for those born in the country
where it was indigenous than Chinese writing and reading is to the
Chinese, and would almost defy the efforts of a foreigner to master it.
Like the Chinese, the natives would only by dint of long-continued study
be in a position to collect a scanty vocabulary, which, in the case of
the foreigner, would prove more scanty still. The picture here given of
such a language is, indeed, nowhere fully realised; but some languages
of savage tribes, in certain of their features, approximate to the
condition we have sketched. Thus, for instance, in Viti, the _number_
AND _the object numbered_ are expressed together in a single word,
varying for each number in each word; thus, _buru_ signifies ten
cocoa-nuts, _koro_ a hundred cocoa-nuts; whilst _sclavo_ signifies a
thousand cocoa-nuts.[21]
Strange and far-fetched as this method of forming language may seem to
us, and indeed is, it is after all merely a much exaggerated example of
what we find in all modern languages, and, _e.g._, in English, which,
side by side with the normal terminations to indicate gender, as in
_lion_, _lioness_, preserves such pairs as _bull_, _cow_; _stag_,
_hind_; _cock_, _hen_; etc.
Now, why should a language constructed on such principles be so
difficult to master as we have assumed it to be? Or, to put the case
differently, why should a ‘regular’ language be more easily acquired
than an irregular one? To discuss this may seem superfluous; but just
as, in Algebra, some of the most important theorems are deduced from a
thorough discussion of the principles of simple addition, so it will aid
us in language to have a clear grasp of this point, to possess a full
comprehension of the meaning of Analogy and its influence.
In our hypothetical language, _every_ word would have to be acquired by
a new and unaided effort of memory. In actually existing languages, this
is not the case. Whether by precept or by observation, consciously or
unconsciously, whether in the process of acquiring our own language in
childhood, or in our study of a foreign tongue, we associate not only
_words_ but also _parts of words_ with one another and with parts of
_material_ or _modal_ contents of our thoughts. A child that learns to
call a single book _book_, and more than one, _books_, and to proceed
similarly in a large number of cases, comes unconsciously to connect the
_s_, written or spoken, with the idea ‘many of them.’ The child
attaches regularly this sound or its symbol _s_ to any word whose plural
it needs to express; and (perfectly correctly as far as the logic of its
case is concerned) says _one foot_ and _two foots_, after the model of
_one boot_, _two boots_. The child does not know that the form _foots_
is contrary to established usage, while the form _boots_ is in harmony
with it; a series of corrections on the part of those who know the
established usages will gradually imprint on its memory the usual form;
but until this correction has occurred sufficiently often, the form
_foots_ will recur in the child’s vocabulary. The sound or symbol _s_,
or rather the habit of adding such a sibilant to a word or words which
state something about more than one object, in order to denote
plurality, leads sometimes to its being used in cases where ‘correct’
grammar omits it. A child will form words by a simple process of
analogy, which seem curious enough to us, but are really quite simple
and natural formations. Thus, _e.g._ a little one spoke of
_two-gas-lits_, on seeing two gas-jets lit one after another; and--to
add a parallel instance of another frequent termination--another child,
when urged to ‘come on,’ replied, ‘I cannot come quickerly.’
Such formations have been represented as the result of a kind of problem
in linguistic proportion, somewhat like this:--
Given the knowledge of the formation _soon_, _sooner_; _large_,
_larger_; etc., what is the value of _x_ in the equation:--
_Soon_: _sooner_: :_quick_: _x_?
Answer, _quicker_.
Next, given the knowledge of _large_, _largely_; _nice_, _nicely_; etc.,
what then is the value of _x_ which satisfies:--
_Large_: _largely_: :_quick_: _x_?
Answer, _quickly_.
When combined, these two problems yield a compound proportion sum,
thus:--
_Large_: _larger_ } : : _quick_: _x_.
_Large_: _largely_ }
To this, the answer would be quickli-er or quick-er-ly, and logically
either answer is perfectly correct; they only differ in the practically
all-important, but logically totally indifferent accident that the one
happens to be usual, while the other is opposed to the normal usage.
In order to fully realise how readily such forms, whether ‘correct’ or
‘incorrect,’ may be coined, we must likewise bear in mind that for the
apprehension of a child our divisions of sentences into words do not
exist at all. The sentences which a child learns to understand are, at
all events in the first instance, to its conception one and undivided,
nay, apparently indivisible aggregates of sound, conveying somehow or
another a certain notion. The infant answers to such a catena of sounds
as _go-to-papa_, or _don’t-do-that_, and _run-away_, long before it has
the faintest conception of the meaning of such sentences as, e.g., _go
that way_. It is only the incessant variations of the surroundings of a
_word_, while that combination of sounds itself remains unaltered,
which, by a _very_ gradual process, brings to our consciousness the fact
that the whole sentence is made up of separate elements, and enables us
to distinguish the _word_ as an unit of expression. This process,
however, of the discovery of such units comes about unconsciously and
tentatively; whilst by all children and many adult speakers the extent
of meaning attached to such units is very vaguely appreciated.
There is, therefore, in the linguistic history of each speaker, a
period in which such a sound-group as, e.g., _noisier_, seems to consist
as much or as little of _two_ words as the group _more noisy_, etc. The
question then presents itself, why, at a later period, we distinguish
two words in the latter group, while we continue to regard the former
group as one? The answer to this is found in the fact that _both_ the
sounds, _noisy_ and _more_, are found to occur frequently alone or amid
totally different surroundings; they occur, however, consistently
maintaining the same meaning; whilst of _noisier_, the first part only
is used alone, and the sound represented by _er_--whilst employed with
many other words to express a similar variation of idea--can never, like
_more_, serve independently to indicate that variation, unaccompanied by
the sound which expresses the thought which it is desired to vary. And
the same remarks hold good for other cases.
It would, no doubt, be going too far to assert that the usual division
of words in our written language is wholly fanciful and unnatural. But
it is nevertheless true that the division is not made in speaking, nor
is it always equally present in our consciousness while we are uttering
our thoughts. The less educated the speaker--in other words, the less he
has been taught to bring reflection into play--the less active and
operative is this consciousness.
If, then, we represent the formation of such a word as _quicker_ in the
shape of a solution of a proportion problem, the identity between the
linguistic and algebraical processes must not be too closely insisted
on. Similarly, we must not exaggerate the idea of clearness and
distinctness present to the consciousness of the speaker who expresses
the idea ‘rapid in movement’ by _quick_, and a higher degree of rapidity
in the movement by the addition of the word _more_ before it, or _er_
after it. The fact is that no comparison is an absolute identity. Both
our descriptions of the process by which many of our words arise in our
minds, viz. the proportion, and the composition of the two elements, are
inexact in some respects; and in some respects one, in other respects
the other, will prove less faulty. If in a formation like _quick_,
_quicker_, it is more likely that the two syllables in _quick-er_
maintain a certain independence of signification, still no such
explanation could possibly apply to such a form as _brang_, heard from a
child or a foreigner, instead of _brought_. No simpler way of describing
this process can be found than the equation--
_Sing_ : _sang_ :: _ring_ : rang :: _bring_ : _brang_.[22]
Moreover, this is doubtless the process adopted by our reasoning in
acquiring a foreign language. We are taught that _To speak_ is to be
rendered by _parler_; _I speak_, by _Je parle_; _I was speaking_, by _Je
parlais_, etc.; and our teacher expects (and naturally) that, possessing
this knowledge, we shall be able, when he proceeds to inform us that
_porter_ means ‘to carry,’ to find the as yet unknown and unheard forms
_Je porte_, _Je portais_, etc. At a later period, when we have read and
spoken the language frequently, we form many similar tenses and persons
of many verbs never or rarely encountered previously; and no speaker
could certainly affirm whether he owes the utterance of the word to his
memory recalling it into renewed consciousness, or to a process of
automatic regulation by analogy after the model of other similar and
more familiar forms.
From the above examples it may be seen that analogy is productive, not
merely of abnormal forms, but also, and even to a larger extent, of
normal forms. The operation of Analogy, however, attracts most attention
when its influence leads to the formation of unusual forms, and this
fact has prevented due credit being given to its full power and
importance. It was once usual to speak of all forms employed by any
speaker in conformity with normal usage as ‘correct;’ and of others,
formed on the model of other examples, but deviating from normal usage,
as ‘incorrect;’ in other words, as _mistakes_, or as formed BY FALSE
ANALOGY. From what we have said it will be clear that this last term is
wrong and misleading, and can only be applied as expressing that the
analogy followed by the speaker in a certain case ought, for some reason
or another, not to have been accepted as the _norm_.
Analogy, then, in most cases acts as a _conservative_ agent in language
by securing that its propagation and its continuity shall be subject to
some degree of regularity. On the other hand, this very tendency to
promote regularity and uniformity often makes itself felt by the
_destruction of existing words or flections_ which deviate from a given
goal; and it is mainly when its destructive powers are manifest that its
effects are deserving of separate discussion.
So long as a speaker employs or a nation continues to use the ‘correct’
form,--gradually, regularly, and naturally developing it according to
the regular laws of phonetic change and growth to which it is subject
for the time being,--it is immaterial for the student of language
whether, in any particular case of the employment of a word, this
regularity is due to memory or to analogy. It is when analogy produces
forms phonetically irregular that its operation becomes of importance;
and it is from the study of such ‘novelties’ amongst its productions,
that we can alone derive full information about its nature. As long as
we find that the A.S. _stánas_ remained _stánas_, or even that this form
was gradually changed into _stones_, we are not tempted to call in the
aid of Analogy, nor are we challenged to prove its operation. Similarly,
as long as the plural of _eáge_ remains _eágan_, or _eáge_ changes into
_eye_, and forms its plural _eyen_, no temptation presents itself to
inquire into Analogy or its operation. Even in this case, however, we
cannot help remarking that Chaucer might conceivably have formed his
plural _eyen_ by analogy with other plurals in _en_. But it is when the
form _eyen_ is replaced by _eyes_, that we naturally inquire whence
comes the _s_? And since no phonetic development can change _n_ into
_s_, we know that analogy with other substantive plurals is and must be
the reason of the appearance of this otherwise inexplicable form. Thus
the French _mesure_ could and did become the English _measure_; but the
French _plaisir_ could not, according to the laws of phonetics, develop
into _pleasure_. We can only explain the latter form by assuming that it
is founded on the _analogy_ of the older forms _measure_, _picture_,
etc.[23]
We ascribe to Analogy those cases of change in form of words, in
syntactical arrangement, or in any other phenomenon of language, such as
gender, etc., where the existing condition has been replaced by
something new modelled upon some pattern furnished by other more
numerous groups. Thus, for instance, we find that the Latin feminine
nouns in _-tas_, _-tatis_, have developed French derivatives in _-té_,
all of the feminine gender. Why, then, is _été_ masculine, though
equally derived from a feminine Latin _æstatem_? The answer lies in the
fact that _printemps_, _automne_, and _hiver_, being all masculine, the
feeling set in that the ‘names of the seasons’ should be masculine: just
as names of trees are feminine in Latin, and this possibly under the
influence of _arbor_. Thus _été_ followed the example of the others, and
was classed with them. The affinity in signification here caused the
difference in gender to be felt as an incongruity, and the less strong
came to be assimilated to the stronger and more universal type.
Similarly, such words as _valeur_ seem to have become feminine after the
analogy of Latin abstracts in _-ura_, _-tas_, etc. In the former of
these particular instances we had to deal with a ‘MATTER-GROUP’ of four
cognate ideas, viz. ‘the seasons;’ in which group, as three of the terms
agreed in another accidental peculiarity, viz. that of gender, this
peculiarity was imposed likewise upon the fourth member, so as to
produce a more complete uniformity in every respect.
In other cases we find, perhaps indeed more frequently, MODAL groups
thus extending their domain. Thus the comparative forms, which nearly
all end in _er_, create the feeling that if a word expresses a
comparative degree it may be naturally expected to end in _er_; and
_more_ from _mo_, _lesser_ instead of _less_--nay, even _worser_ for
_worse_ is the result. In the case of _more_, its very form led to the
supposition that _mo_ was a positive form.
Similarly, the existence of the plurals in _s_ in Anglo-Saxon, aided no
doubt by the frequency of _s_ plurals in French, has caused this way of
expressing the plural to embrace almost all English nouns; or, at all
events, to embrace their formation to such an extent that the older
methods (such as vowel modification, _e.g. mouse_, _mice_; _foot_,
_feet_; formations in _en_--_ox_, _oxen_, etc.) now appear as
exceptions, themselves needing explanation; and, again, as in the case
of _more_, when once the rule was formulated which laid down that if a
word expresses the plural it must end in _s_, the conclusion was drawn
that, if a word ending in _s_ be used as a plural, this _s_ is the
termination, and must be omitted in the singular. It thus happens that
to the analogy of _fathers_ as against _father_, _trees_ as against
_tree_, etc., we owe the sets _Chinese_ used as a plural noun with its
newly coined singular _Chinee_; _Portuguese_ with its singular
_Portuguee_; _cherries_ (Fr. _cérise_), _cherry_; _pease_ (Lat.
_pisum_), _pea_. Nay, it is not even always necessary that the _s_ form
be used in a plural signification to cause the _s_ to be ‘removed’ in
order to express the singular; _a raedels_ was perfectly good Old
English, but as _two riddles_ was right, the conclusion was natural that
_one riddles_ was wrong. _Two chaise_ would not give offence, but it
seemed natural to write and say _one shay_.
The modal group, again, consisting of such formations as _despotism_,
_nepotism_, _patriotism_, etc., created the feeling that _tism_ was the
correct ending instead of _ism_, and so has manifested a tendency to
supplant it. Thus the correcter form _egoism_ has made way for
_egotism_. Thus it is to the _pianist_, _machinist_, _violinist_, that
the _tobacconist_ owes his _n_, to which he has no right; he ought,
properly speaking, to appear as _tobaccoist_.
The most widely reaching result of the operations of analogy is where
_modal_ and _matter_ groups, in their cross classifications, unite to
cancel irregularities created in the first instance by phonetic
development. Thus the Anglo-Saxon form _scæd_ (neuter) exists side by
side with another form, _sceadu_ (feminine). The Gothic form _skadus_
proves the latter to belong to the _u_ declension. But even in
Anglo-Saxon this declension was but sparingly represented, most words
originally belonging to it being declined according to the far more
common scheme of words, like _stán_, stone; _dóm_, doom, etc.; others
varying in their declensions between the feminines whose stem ended in
_wâ_, or like those in _â_. In both these declensions the nominative
ended in _u_; an example of the _wâ_ declension being--
Nom. _beadu_, Gen. _beadwe_,
and of the _â_ declension--
Nom. _giefu_, Gen. _giefe_.
Our word _sceadu_ long oscillated between these two paradigms, and we
consequently meet with a Gen. sing. _sceade_, as well as an Acc. plur.
_sceadwa_. This termination, where _w_ was maintained, developed into
our present termination _ow_, seen in _shadow_; whilst the form _shade_
is, properly speaking, a nominative form. Analogy, however, depending
upon other nouns in which all cases in the singular had become identical
in form, caused the form _shadow_ to be used in the nominative as well
as in other cases, and extended the use of _shade_ over those cases
which were declined. Similarly, the two forms _mead_ and _meadow_ are
due, the one to a nominative, the other to the inflected cases of the
same word, the A.S. _mǽd_. In these cases both forms survived, and the
meanings became slightly differentiated; it more frequently happens that
one succumbs. Thus the A.S. Nom. plur. of the pronoun for the second
person _gé_ developed into _ye_, the inflected case _éow_ into _you_.
The latter has now almost completely ousted the once correct nominative
_ye_, which survives only in dialects or in elevated language, where, in
its turn, it frequently supplants the accusative and dative _you_.
The regular development of preterite and past participle in many verbs,
together with the dropping of the prefix _ge_, which in several Teutonic
languages has become specialised as a mark of that participle, caused
both these forms to converge into one. This has in its turn been the
cause why, in the case of many verbs, where regular phonetic development
kept preterite and participle asunder, one of these forms was made to
serve for both.
The A.S. verb _berstan_ was, in its preterite, conjugated thus:--
Indic. _Bærst_ Subj. _burste_
” _burste_ ” _burste_
” _bærst_ ” _burste_
” _burston_ ” _bursten_
” _burston_ ” _bursten_
” _burston_ ” _bursten_
and its past participle was _borsten_. Thus the _u_ was present in four
of the six forms in the indicative, and in six subjunctive forms. The
first effect of the operation of Analogy was to abolish this useless and
cumbersome irregularity, and the _u_ supplanted the _æ_, not long after
this _æ_ had become _a_ (_barst_). Then the process set in which we
explained above, and the past part. _borst (en)_ was replaced by
_burst_.
It would be easy to multiply these instances _ad infinitum_. Enough has,
however, been said to explain the working of Analogy and to show how
wide its application is. The student who has mastered this sketch,
should proceed to study carefully the corresponding chapter in Paul’s
‘Principles of Language,’ and the pamphlet, cited above, by Professor
Wheeler, where many illustrations will be found taken from English and
many other languages. One of the main points which are clearly brought
out in the latter work is that the phenomena of folk-etymology show that
these groupings are effectual in modifying form only in so far as a
supposed likeness of contents or idea is associated (erroneously) with
the resemblance of form.
Before concluding our remarks, we must, however, add a few words on the
operation of Analogy where it works neither as a conservative nor as a
destructive agent, but simply as a CREATIVE one.
In the cases hitherto discussed, the forms called into being have
survived to the prejudice of older material which perished for lack of
vitality. In the struggle for existence it succumbed. A new form, in
order to survive, had necessarily to replace some unusual and
inconvenient older one, or it was a necessary condition that several
speakers, for some other reason, should concur in creating the same
novel form.[24] That ‘irregular’ forms should continue to exist in the
case of some of the commonest verbs, and in the pronouns, is explicable
by the fact that these words occur with sufficient frequency to gain
enough strength to resist innovation. The frequency of their occurrence
induces familiarity. Any new form which some innovating speaker might
create on the basis of some analogy is, in those words, too strongly
felt as a novelty; the speaker too frequently hears or reads the
‘correct’ form to permit the survival of the new candidate for general
usage. The novelty is a ‘mistake,’ remains a ‘mistake,’ and succumbs in
the struggle for existence. Frequency of use in the case of any
particular word _may_ assist its phonetic development and increase its
impulse in that particular line, and its rate of speed on the road to
phonetic decay:--this is as yet, however, a point of dispute among
philologists, and a question which claims attention from all students of
language. But there can be no doubt that the more frequent the
occurrence of any particular form in ordinary speech, the more capacity
it must gain for resisting the levelling tendencies, the absorbing
influence of other more numerous but less common groups. It is, however,
not true that all the offspring of Analogy is thus exposed to the
struggle for existence. Where new ideas are to be expressed, Analogy
guides us in our choice of terms, and even where the idea is not
strictly new, but no term for it exists in the vocabulary or in the
memory of a community, or even in that of the majority of such
community, the new form will be adopted with little reluctance; nay,
often without being felt as a new creation at all. In this way the
language is always being enriched by new forms created on the analogy of
existing ones. Where many instances might be given, a few will
suffice.[25] The termination _y_ of _mighty_, _guilty_, etc., was added
to the nouns _earth_, _wealth_, etc., to form _wealthy_,
_earthy_,--nay, even used to form such hybrids as _savoury_, _spicy_,
_racy_. After the model of _kingdom_, _heathendom_, etc., were formed
_princedom_, _popedom_, etc. The group _winsome_, _blithesome_, etc.,
gave birth to _venturesome_, _meddlesome_, etc.; and whilst _sorrowful_,
_thankful_, _baleful_, _shameful_, are found in A.S., no such antiquity
can be claimed for _blissful_, _youthful_, _faithful_, _merciful_,
_respectful_, etc.
It has been well remarked[26] that a perfect grammar would be one which
admitted no irregularities or exceptions; and if all the operations of
Analogy in forms and syntax could be thoroughly mastered and reduced to
rule, exceptions and irregularities would be far less common than they
are.
CHAPTER VI.
THE FUNDAMENTAL FACTS OF SYNTAX.
A SENTENCE must be looked upon as the first creation of language. The
SENTENCE is THE SYMBOL WHEREBY THE SPEAKER DENOTES THAT TWO OR MORE
CONCEPTIONS HAVE COMBINED IN HIS MIND; and is, at the same time, the
means of calling up the same combination in the mind of the hearer. Any
group of words which accomplishes this is a sentence, and consequently A
SENTENCE NEED NOT NECESSARILY CONTAIN A FINITE VERB, as is sometimes
alleged. In Latin, and in the Slavonic languages, the word answering to
_is_ is very commonly suppressed; and in Latin epistolary language whole
sentences appear in which no copula occurs. Such combinations as _Omnia
præclara rara_; _Suum cuique_; are perfectly intelligible. In English we
often employ sentences like _You here? I grateful to you! This to
me! Your very good health! Long life to you! Three cheers for
him! Why all this noise?_--and, again, such proverbs as _Oak, smoke_;
_Boys, noise_; _Ash, splash_: and these are just as much sentences as
_The man lives_.
Language possesses the following means of expressing and specialising
such combinations of ideas:--
(1) The simple juxtaposition of the words corresponding to the
ideas; as, _All nonsense! You coward! Away, you rogue!_
(2) The order of the words; as, _There is John_, as contrasted
with _John is there_; _John beats James_, as against _James beats
John_.
(3) The emphasis laid upon these words; as in ‘Charles is _not_
ill.’
(4) The modulation of the voice; as when _Charles is ill_ is
stated as a mere assertion, and ‘Charles is _ill_?’ in which case
the same words are turned into an interrogative sentence by the
mere change of pitch during the utterance of the last word.
(5) The time, which commonly corresponds with the emphasis and the
pitch; the words in the previous sentences which are emphasised or
spoken in a higher pitch respectively, will be found to occupy a
longer time in utterance than the words composing the rest of the
sentence.
(6) Link-words, such as prepositions, conjunctions, and auxiliary
verbs.
(7) The modification of words by inflection, in which (_a_) the
inflectional forms may, without other aid, indicate the special
kind of combination which it is desired to express, as in _patri
librum dat_; _his books_; _father’s hat_: or (_b_) the connection
between the words may be denoted by formal agreement; as, _anima
candida_, _la bonne femme_.
The method of combining ideas by means of link-words and inflections is
one which could only have set in after a certain period of historical
development, for inflections and link-words are themselves of
comparatively recent appearance in language; the other methods, on the
contrary, must have been at the disposal of speakers from the very first
development of language. It should, however, be noticed that 2-5
inclusive are not always consistently employed to represent simply the
natural ideas as they present themselves, but are capable of a
traditional development and, consequently, conventional application. For
instance, in the Scandinavian languages the method of intonation is a
purely artificial one;[27] and in Chinese, homonyms are distinguished by
lowering or raising the voice.
In Chinese the tones are five: a monosyllable may be uttered with (1) an
even high tone; with (2) a rising tone, as when we utter a word
interrogatively; with (3) a falling tone, as when we say, _Go!_--with
(4) an abrupt tone, as of demand; or with (5) an even low tone. These
are the tones of the Mandarin dialect, which is the language of the
cultivated classes; and, in their application, they are limited by
euphonic laws, so that they cannot all be used with all syllables.[28]
The idea, or the nature of the combination intended to be expressed by
the speaker, need not be completely represented by words in order to
render fully intelligible the thought present in the mind of the
speaker. Much less than a complete expression will often suffice.
If a sentence is the means of inducing a certain combination of at least
two ideas in a hearer’s mind, a complete sentence must necessarily
consist of at least two parts. We shall later discuss those sentences in
which only one of the two parts is expressed in words, and shall here
confine our attention to the complete sentence. Grammar teaches us that
a complete sentence consists of a subject and a predicate. Now, these
grammatical categories are undoubtedly based upon a psychological
distinction; but we shall soon see that it does not necessarily follow
that the grammatical and psychological subject, or the grammatical and
psychological predicate are always identical. The PSYCHOLOGICAL SUBJECT
expresses the _conception which the speaker wishes to bring into the
mind of the hearer_; the PSYCHOLOGICAL PREDICATE indicates _that which
he wishes him to think about it_. This, and no more than this, is
required to impart to any collection of words the nature of a sentence.
In grammar we commonly attach a much more restricted meaning to the
terms ‘subject,’ ‘predicate,’ and ‘sentence.’ For instance, when the
predicate is a noun, we demand that the normal sentence should express
the comprehension of the subject in a wider class; as, _John is a boy_:
or that it should express some quality of the subject; as, _John is
good_: or, lastly, that the subject be identical with the predicate; as,
_John is King of England_. But in reality we have, in many sentences,
noun-predicates which show us relations of quite another kind, expressed
by the mere collocation of subject and predicate, as in many proverbs
and proverbial expressions; e.g., _One man, one vote_; _Much cry and
little wool_; _First come, first served_; _A word to the wise_; _Like
master, like man_; _Better aught than naught_; _Small pains, small
gains_. This is the way in which children make themselves intelligible;
as, _Papa hat_, for _Papa has a hat on_: and this is the way in which
even adults endeavour to express their meaning to foreigners when the
latter have not mastered more of the language than perhaps a few nouns,
viz. by mentioning the objects which they wish to bring under the notice
of their companions, and trusting to the situation to enable these to
understand their meaning. We say, _Window open_, and we are understood
by the foreigner to mean that the window is open, or that we wish it
open, as the circumstances may show.
Originally, there was only one method of marking the difference between
subject and predicate, viz. stress of tone; as, _e.g._, in the instance
which we just gave, of ‘Window open.’ If these words are pronounced with
a great stress on ‘window,’ we at once perceive them to mean, The thing
which is (or which I wish to be) open is the _window_. If, on the other
hand, we exclaim, ‘Window OPEN,’ with stress on ‘open,’ we at once
convey the sense, The window is (or must be) _open_, not closed. This
shows that, in the case of such isolated instances, the psychological
predicate has the stronger accent, as being the more important part of
the sentence, and the part containing the new matter. Again, the place
held in the sentence by the subject and predicate respectively, may have
afforded another means of distinction between the two. Different views
have been held as to the respective precedence of subject and predicate
in the consciousness of the speaker. The true view seems to be that the
idea of the subject is the first to arise in the consciousness of the
speaker; but as soon as he begins to speak, the idea of the predicate,
on which he wishes to lay stress, may present itself with such force as
to gain priority of expression, the subject not being added till
afterwards. Take, for example, the opening of Keats’ Hyperion--
‘Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat grey-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.’
In this case, the superior emphasis gained by the position of the
predicate in the first place causes the speaker to set it there, and is
indicative of the superior importance which he attaches to it.[29]
Similarly, the subject is sometimes expressed first by a pronoun, whose
relation only becomes clear to the listener when expressed more
definitely at a later period; as--
‘She is coming, my dove, my dear.’
(Tennyson, Maud.)
‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid
whom there were none to praise And very few to love.’
(Wordsworth, The Lost Love.)
‘She was a staid little woman, was Grace.’
(Dickens, Battle of Life.)
This construction is extremely common in French; as, ‘Elle approche,
cette mort inexorable;’ ‘Mais ce qu’elle ne disait point, cette pauvre
bergère.’
The transposition, then, of subject and predicate may be considered an
anomaly; but it is an anomaly of frequent occurrence, and is based on
the importance which the predicate assumes in the mind of the speaker.
We have seen that single words may possess concrete and abstract
significations,[30] and it is the same with sentences. A sentence is
concrete when either the psychological subject or the psychological
predicate is concrete; as, _This man is good_. But as far as the mere
form goes, concrete and abstract sentences need not differ; for
instance, an expression like _The horse is swift_ (which, when it does
not refer to any particular horse, is an ‘abstract’ sentence) is
identical in form with the expression _The horse is worthless_, which
obviously refers to some particular horse, and is therefore ‘concrete.’
It is the situation and circumstances alone which mark the different
nature of the sentences. There are, however, sentences which, with a
concrete subject, have a partially abstract meaning. If, for instance,
on hearing a lady sing, one remarks, _She sings too slowly_, the
sentence is entirely concrete; but the same words may be used to express
that the singer is in the habit of singing too slowly, in which case the
predicate becomes abstract. Such sentences may be called ‘concrete
abstract.’
It was stated that at least two members are necessary to make up a
sentence. It seems, at first sight, a contradiction to this statement
that we find sentences composed of merely a single word, or of a group
of words forming a unit. The fact is that, in this case, one member of
the sentence is assumed and finds no expression in language. Commonly
this member is the logical subject. This subject may, however, be
completed from what precedes, or is sufficiently clearly indicated by
the circumstances of the case; or, again, in conversation, it is often
necessary to take it from the words of the other speaker. The answer is
frequently a predicate alone; the subject may be contained in the
question, or the whole question may be the logical subject. If I say,
_Who struck you?_ and the answer is _John_, the subject is, in this
case, contained in the question, and the answer is, ‘The striker is
John.’ If I say, _Was it you?_ the whole question is the logical
subject, and the answer, _Yes_, _No_, _Certainly_, _Surely_, _Of
course_, etc., is the logical predicate, as if the reply had been, ‘My
being so is the case.’ Many other similar words may serve as the
predicate to a sentence spoken by another, such as _Admittedly_, _All
right_, _Very possibly_, _Strange enough_, _No wonder_, _Nonsense_,
_Stuff_, _Balderdash_, etc.
In other cases, the surrounding circumstances, or what is called ‘the
situation,’ forms the logical subject. If I say, ‘Welcome!’ and at the
same time stretch out my hand to a new arrival, this is equivalent to
saying, _You are welcome_, and _welcome_ is the logical predicate. In
exclamations of sudden astonishment and alarm, such as _Fire!_
_Thieves! Murder! Help!_ it is the situation which is the logical
subject. Challenges are instances of the same kind, e.g. _Straight on or
not? Right or left? Back or forward?_ When the poet sings--
‘A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast,’
_the situation_, again, is the logical subject.
It should be noticed that, in the case of sentences expressed by a
single member, the word which for the speaker is the psychological
predicate becomes for the hearer the subject. A man, seeing a house on
fire, cries ‘_Fire!_’ for him _the situation_ is the subject, and the
idea of _fire_ is the predicate. The man who hears ‘_Fire!_’ cried
before he himself sees it, conceives of _fire_ as the subject, and of
_the situation_ as the predicate. Sentences may, however, occur in which
both speaker and hearer apprehend what is uttered as the subject, and
the situation as the predicate. Supposing, for instance, that two
persons have agreed that the fire shall be extinguished before they go
out, and one of them, observing the chimney smoking, cries out, ‘The
fire!’ in this case the fire, the logical subject, is alone denoted, and
the predicate is gathered by the person addressed from the situation,
which is evident from the speaker’s gestures. If, again, two friends are
travelling, and one remarks that the other is without his umbrella, the
mere exclamation, ‘Your umbrella!’ suffices to make the latter complete
the predicate. The vocative, again, pronounced as such, and intended to
warn or entreat, suggests a psychological predicate which it lacks in
words. On the other hand, by the side of a verb in the second person
without subject pronoun, the vocative may be apprehended as the subject
to the verb. If I say, ‘Come!’ the vocative (the person addressed) may
be apprehended as the subject to this verb; if it be Charles, the
meaning is, _Charles should come_.
It is a question much disputed, and not yet decided, whether impersonal
verbs should be regarded as lacking a subject or not. If we regard the
grammatical form alone, we cannot doubt that sentences like _It snows_,
_It freezes_, _It is getting late_, have a subject. But there is no
reason for alleging that this subject (_it_) can be treated as a logical
subject; a logical subject must admit of a definite interpretation, and
it is difficult to give one in this case. Again, in the case of
impersonal verbs, like the Latin _pluit_, the Greek ὕει,, the
Sanscrit _varśati_, (it rains), and the Lithuanian _sninga_ (it snows),
the formal subject _may_ be found in the ‘personal’ termination, which
is supposed to be the remnant of a word signifying _he_, _she_, or _it_.
And it seems natural to recognise a formal subject in this case, but, at
the same time, to notice that this formal subject stands apart from the
psychological subject. It seems probable that an older stage of language
existed, in which the bare verbal stem was set down; just as in
Hungarian at the present day, where the third person of the present
singular has no suffix, the first and second terminating in _-ok_ and
_-s_ respectively. In Anglo-Saxon we find passive and other impersonal
verbs used absolutely, without any subject expressed or understood;
thus, _þám ylcan dóme e þé démoð eów byð gedémed_ (= With the same
judgment that ye judge, to you (it) shall be judged); _him hungrede_ (=
N.H.G. es hungerte ihn).[31] The psychological subject is, then, as
little expressed in the sentence _It is hot_, as in the sentence _Fire_.
But although it is not expressed, it would be unsafe to assume its
non-existence, for here, as well as everywhere else, we have two ideas
conjoined, in the same way as when we exclaim, _Fire!_ In this case
there is, on the one side, the perception of a concrete phenomenon; on
the other, the abstract idea of burning or of fire: and just as that
perception is brought by our exclamation under the general idea of
burning, so in the statement _It rains_, the perception of what is
going on is by our words ranged under the general notion of water
falling in drops from the sky. Our conclusion, therefore, is this:
sentences like _Fire!_ as well as those like _It rains_, have both
psychological subject and predicate; but in the former case no subject
is expressed, whereas in the latter _a formal_ subject is employed,
which, however, does but imperfectly, if indeed at all, correspond to
the psychological one. This holds good unless we conceive of the formal
subject, _It_, as standing for that which we see or that which is
happening now. In this case, the peculiar nature of the impersonal verbs
would be restricted to the difficulty, but not the impossibility, of
explaining their subject.
We have defined the sentence as the expression for the connection of two
ideas. Negative sentences may seem, at first sight, to contradict this,
since they denote a separation. But the ideas must have met in the
consciousness of the speaker before judgment can be pronounced whether
they agree or disagree. In fact, the negative sentence may be defined as
the statement that the attempt to establish a connection between the
ideas has failed. The negative sentence is, in any case, of later date
than the positive, and though, in all known languages, negation now
finds a special expression, it is possible to imagine that negative
sentences might be found in some primitive stage of language, wherein
the negative sense was indicated by the stress alone and the
accompanying gestures. Cf. such sentences as ‘_I_ do this?’ or ‘Eine ego
ut adverser?’ (Ter., And., I. v. 28.)[32] At all events sentences of
assertion and sentences of demand border on each other very closely, and
can be expressed by the same forms of language. The different shades of
meaning attaching to the words can be recognised only by the different
tones conveying the feeling meant to be indicated.
Wishes and demands, again, touch each other very closely; and it is
natural to suppose that, in an early state of linguistic consciousness,
a wish would have been equivalent to a demand. A sentence like ‘Heads
up!’ expresses a demand or wish, but it might equally convey an
assertion. We can say perfectly well, ‘_They entered, heads up_,’ or
‘_erect_;’ and we hear quite commonly, _Heads up!_ meaning, ‘Hold your
heads up!’ And indeed such sentences of demand, or imperative sentences,
would naturally be the first to present themselves to primitive mankind,
whose utterances, like those of children nowadays, would naturally take
the shape of requests that their immediate needs might be satisfied. We
employ many such sentences at the present day, such as _Eyes right!_
_Attention! Hats off! This way! All aboard! Joking apart_; _An
eye for an eye_; _Peace to his ashes! A health to all good lasses!_
_Away with him! Out with him!_ Then, again, there are sentences
composed of a single linguistic member; such as _Hush! Quick! Slow!_
_Forward! Up! Off! To work!_
Two kinds of interrogatory sentences must be distinguished: (1) those
that put in question _one only_ of the members of which they are
composed, and (2) such as contain nothing affirmative, but are _purely_
interrogatory in their nature. No satisfactory names have as yet been
given to these two classes, but a study of one or two examples will show
that the difference is real, and will tend to illustrate it. Such a
sentence as _Who has done this?_ or _Where did you get that?_ no doubt
asks a question as to the name of the doer of a certain deed, or the
place where a particular object was obtained, but, at the same time,
certainly assumes that the interrogator takes for granted that a certain
deed was done by some one, or a certain object obtained by the person
addressed. In fact, the form of the interrogation is to some extent
affirmative. No such affirmation, however, is present in such questions
as _Can you speak French? Will you come? Have you money?_ etc.
Of these two classes of questions, the former are certainly of the more
recent origin, for they demand the employment of an interrogative
pronoun or adverb, with which the latter can dispense. It is noteworthy
that in I.E. languages these interrogative words are at the same time
indefinite; and it is hard to decide which of the two meanings should be
regarded as the original. On the one hand, it is easy to conceive how a
word bearing an interrogative meaning could assume an indefinite one. If
we are accustomed to employ the word _who_ when we wish to know who a
person is, but are uncertain, we may easily proceed to apply this word
in a case where we are uncertain (or wish to appear so), though we do
not ask for information. _A who-person has done this_, is not and has
never been an English method of expressing, ‘Some one has done it.’[33]
But it is conceivable that, at some stage of the I.E. languages, our
linguistic ancestors may have adopted a similar mode of expression. On
the other hand, it is as easy to imagine that a word expressive of
uncertainty, or absence of knowledge or information, should be used to
indicate the desire for it. In fact, we actually do employ a method akin
to this when we use the indefinite _any_ to show that we desire to know;
_e.g._, if, upon entering a dark room, we ask, _Any one here?_ This, of
course, is not, and never has been, in English, equivalent to ‘_Who_ is
here?’--but still it is quite conceivable that at some early linguistic
period this transition has actually been made. Could it be demonstrated
that it ever actually was made, the transition from the questions in our
second category, to those falling under our first, would be explained.
For suppose the question _Is any (one) here?_ (an order of words to
which we now are bound, but which, as we shall see, was not always the
necessary order) to be put as _Any (one) is here?_ the proximity of this
sentence to _Who is here?_ is at once evident.
Questions with an interrogative pronoun stand nearer still to questions
with an indefinite pronoun where a negative answer is expected, as
appears when we set _What can I answer?_ by the side of _Can I answer
anything?_--_Who will do this?_ by the side of _Will any one do
this?_--_Where is such a man?_ by the side of _Is there such a man?_ The
question to which the simple answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is expected is in many
languages expressed by a special particle. Thus _ne_ in Latin serves to
mark an interrogation, and the stress is laid upon the word to which the
interrogative particle is affixed. At present, the Teutonic and Romance
languages almost universally express interrogation by the order of the
words; but this inverted order by no means necessarily involves
interrogation, and in former times was very frequently employed in
affirmative clauses. Thus, for instance, in A.S.--
‘Ne hýrde ic cymlîcor ceól gegyrwan:’
Not heard I comelier keel to have been prepared
= I never heard ... (Beowulf, 38).
‘Saegde se ðe cûðe’ (ibid., 90):
Said he that knew = He ... said.
‘Waes seó hwíl micel’ (ibid., 146):
Was the time great = The time was long.
Even now we have many interrogations in which the stress or tone alone
marks their nature; as, _Any one there? All right? Ready? A glass
of beer, sir?_ (spoken by a waiter). We can thus conceive it possible
that, for a long time, sentences may have existed without any sign
except the tone to indicate their interrogative nature.
Simple interrogative sentences hold in some ways a middle position
between positive and negative sentences of assertion. They may, in fact,
be thrown into a positive or a negative form at choice; the positive
form naturally presenting itself as the simpler, while the function of
the negative form is to modify the question pure and simple. Such
modifications may, indeed, cause the interrogation to take something of
the character of the sentence of assertion. We may, for instance,
mention a fact and expect it to be confirmed by another. In this case,
we may employ a negative interrogatory sentence; as, _Were you not
there? I thought I saw you!_ Or we may employ a positive interrogatory
form of sentence, showing by the tone of query alone the nature of the
sentence; as, _You were there, I think? You are quite happy?_ We thus
see, by examples taken from both the positive and negative side, how
nearly the sentences of interrogation touch the sentences of assertion.
Another way in which sentences of interrogation and assertion approach
one another is in the expression of admiration or surprise. To express
such feelings we may employ either (1) the interrogative or (2) the
assertive form of sentence, marking the latter, however, by a tone
expressive of interrogation. Thus we may say, _Is Francis dead?_ or
express the same idea by saying, _Francis is really dead?_ emphasising
the word _really_ and raising the voice at the last word. Thus, too, we
can ask the direct question, _Are you here again?_ or employ the
assertive form, _You are here again?_[34]
Sentences expressive of surprise without a verb, may be classed either
with the interrogative form, or with the assertive form with the
interrogatory tone. They occupy a neutral ground between the two. Thus,
_You my long lost brother? What, that to me? What, here already?_
_So soon?_[35] And infinitival clauses are similarly used; as, _I to
herd with savage races! etc._ (Tennyson, Locksley Hall); _Mene incepto
desistere victam?_ (Vergil, Æneid, I. 37). This use is very common in
French; cf. _Moi vous abandonner!_ (Andrieux); _Et dire qu’à moi seul je
vins à bout de toutes ces prévisions!_ (Daudet). We find, also,
expressions of surprise in which the psychological subject and predicate
are connected by ‘and:’ _So young and so worn out? A maid and be so
martial?_ (Shakespeare, 1 Henry VI., II. i.).[36] The expression of
surprise is sometimes weakened into a mere conventional formula for
opening a conversation; as, _Always in good spirits? Busy as always?_
_Busy yet?_
The primitive form of expression without any finite verb is especially
common in the indignant repudiation of an assertion; as, _I a liar?_
‘She ask _my_ pardon?’ _How! not know the friend that served you? Ego
lanista? Io dir bugie?_
What is vaguely known as the rhetorical class of questions arises from
a desire, on the part of the interrogator, to make the person addressed
reflect upon and admit the truth of information indirectly contained in
the interrogation. Such are the questions in some catechisms, and those
in the ‘Guide to Knowledge;’ e.g., _Do not mulberry trees often bear two
crops of leaves in a year? Must not every substance be prepared before
it receives the colour?_ This use of the interrogation and interrogative
form is, of course, of much more recent date than the other common
usages.
The foregoing consideration of the sentence in its simplest form, as
consisting of simple subject and predicate only, will have prepared us
for the study of the development of all other syntactical relations from
this the only primitive one. For all other extensions of the
sentence--with the single exception of the copulative union of two
simple ones--arise from the repetition of the relation between subject
and predicate.[37] The copulative extension is now commonly indicated by
means of conjunctions or other particles; _e.g._, ‘John wrote _and_
Alfred was reading:’ but even now mere co-ordination is sufficient; as,
_John wrote, Alfred read_; _He came, he saw, he conquered_; _One rises,
the other falls_; _Men die, books live_; etc. It is therefore easy to
imagine that, at one time, this mere juxtaposition, which seems to us an
exceptional usage, may have been the regular one.
Among the other extensions, two main cases are to be distinguished, as
either (1) two equivalent members combine in the same clause with
another (_i.e._ two subjects with one predicate, or two predicates with
a single subject); or[38] (2) a combination (_a_) of subject and
predicate becomes, as such, the _subject_ or predicate of some other
word or combination (_b_), which latter is then the _predicate_ or
subject to (_a_) the former.
It is not easy to illustrate these extensions by instances drawn from
modern English: nay, it is impossible if we insist upon invariably
framing sentences which the present state of our language would regard
as admissible. But we must remember that we are now attempting to trace
the probable development of our syntactical relations, or rather of our
method of expressing the various syntactical relations, as it proceeded
during a very primitive stage of the history of language. At this period
the speakers were struggling to find intelligible utterance for their
thoughts, which were themselves but primitive, confused, childish. All
the examples which we have given heretofore should be regarded therefore
merely as illustrating processes common in very remote linguistic
periods, and not as instances of what is usual at the present period. We
have found it necessary on previous occasions to illustrate our
arguments by combining English words in a way which is not and has never
been English,--the advantage of such illustration being that it aided us
to understand, at least in a certain measure, the mode in which our
linguistic ancestors of ages long past thought. To this artifice we
shall find it necessary to revert somewhat largely, as the analytical
character of modern English, with its necessarily fixed order of words,
has effaced most traces of this primitive state of language.
We should have an instance of the first main case of extension mentioned
if, after saying, e.g., _John reads_, we remembered that _Alfred_ too
was reading, and then merely added this second subject. We have shown
that we must not suppose that _originally_ the order of the words was,
as is now invariably the case in modern English, (1) subject, (2) verb:
so that _John read_ (without inflection, _read_ being a mere name of the
action) was just as correct as _read John_, but not more so. If we
clearly grasp this, we can fully understand that such a combination as
_John read Alfred_ (or, indeed, _John, Alfred read_) might once have
been intelligible for what we should now express by _John and Alfred are
reading_.
Similarly, a little linguistic imagination will suffice to enable us to
conceive of the production by those primitive language-makers of a
sentence like _Sing_(ing) _John dance_(ing) to express _John sings and
dances_. Such constructions of two equal parts in combination with a
third might be symbolised. Thus we might put _s_ for subject, _p_ for
predicate, then the symbolisation would run _sps_, _ssp_, _psp_, or
_spp_, etc., or _a_ + _b_ + _a_.[39]
In the first fictitious example, the two subjects stood BOTH IN
PRECISELY THE SAME RELATION to the predicate, and in the second the two
predicates stood in exactly the same relation to the subject. In such
cases, the facts may be described just as correctly and just as
completely by a sentence consisting of two parts only, viz., a compound
subject, consisting of the two joined by a copula, + the predicate (or
subject + compound predicate). Of these two modes of expression,
closely allied as they are, the one appears to us strange and, indeed,
impossible,--the other so familiar that we can hardly imagine a state of
language in which both alike may have been regular. On the other hand,
we have no difficulty in seeing how the two systems have become
confused.
All traces, therefore, of the construction which we have now lost are
interesting and worth studying. A sentence like Cicero’s _Consules,
prætores, tribuni plebis, senatus, Italia cuncta a vobis deprecata est_
(= Consuls, prætors, tribunes of the plebs, the senate, all Italy
implored of you) is constructed much upon the model of the method now
obsolete. In this case, however, the construction seems to us less
unnatural, because the subject last named in the sentence, viz.,
_Italia_, may be considered to include all the others and to stand alone
in their stead: hence it is that we find the verb in the singular, and
hence the feminine gender of _deprecata_ (implored). In another passage
Cicero says, _Speusippus et Xenocrates et Polemo et Cantor nihil ab
Aristotele dissentit_. This would be a perfect instance of _ssp_ were it
not for the insertion of _et_, which (due, as it is, to confusion with
the compound subject in the sentence consisting of two parts only) would
lead us to expect that the verb would be placed in the plural. It is,
however, precisely this fact that the verb stands in the singular which
demonstrates that it belongs as predicate to each subject separately,
and not to the group indicated by the enumerated subjects jointly. In
M.H.G. we meet with such constructions, especially those where _one_
part--as the subject, for instance--is placed _between_ the two others;
as, _Dô spranc von dem gesidele her Hagene alsô sprach_ = ‘Then sprang
from the seat hither Hagen thus spoke.’ In A.S., too, we find
occasionally a somewhat similar construction, as in Beowulf, 90-92:
_Saegde se ðe cúðe ... cwæð ðæt se Ælmihtiga_ = ‘Said he who knew ...
spoke that the Almighty.’ If we change the order, and add _and_, we
transform this sentence into one of two parts: SUBJECT, _he who knew_;
PREDICATE (compound), _said and spoke_. Even in modern language this
construction is not wholly without parallels. Cf. _Another love
succeeds, another race_ (Pope, Essay on Man, iii., line 130); cf. also,
_Dust thou art, to dust returnest_ (Longfellow).
Or, again, we find sentences where the two equal parts both follow or
both precede. _He ðæs frófre gebád, wéox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum ðáh_
(He received consolation [compensation], grew up under the clouds [= on
earth], increased in fame) (Beowulf, 7); _He weepeth, wayleth, maketh
sory cheere_ (Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 3618); _Is Bushy, Green, and
the Earl of Wiltshire dead?_ (Shakespeare, Richard II., Act III., ii.,
141); _Of ðære heortan cumað yfele geðancas, mannslyhtas, unriht-hæmedu,
forligru, stale, léase gewitnyssa, tællíce word_ (Matt. xv. 19).
But it is also quite conceivable that (REMEMBERING THE EXTENDED MEANING
WHICH, FOR THE PRIMITIVE STAGE OF LANGUAGE, WE MUST ATTACH TO THESE
TERMS) two subjects should come into the consciousness as related to the
same predicate, even though that RELATION is OF a very DIFFERENT NATURE
in the case of the one from that in the other. To illustrate this, let
us remember that the noun must once have been uninflected, or, at least,
no definite system of inflection had been evolved; the verb had a much
vaguer and less definite meaning than at present; the order of words had
not yet begun to be significant; that _John strike_, as well as _strike
John_, or words equivalent in meaning, could stand for _John strikes_,
or _John has been striking_; nay, even, if only accompanied by
appropriate gestures, for _John was struck_, or _John is being struck_.
Even at present, in the case of a verb like _to smell_, the relation
between the subject and predicate differs essentially when we say, _I
smell the flower_; or, _The flower smells_. An effort on the part of our
linguistic imagination is again needed, but the effort need not be very
difficult, in order to enable us to realise that in a sentence like
_John smell flower_, or _John strike Alfred_, BOTH nouns may once have
been felt as standing in the subject relation to the predicate; so that,
again, in the latter sentence, gestures or circumstances were needed in
order to make it clear who was the acting subject and who the suffering
subject, whereas, in the former sentence, no such confusion could arise.
If we take a sentence like ‘Give him a book,’ we feel both the person
and the thing as _objects_ of the action; and observation of this fact
will enable us further to understand still more clearly that, at an
older period of language, two subjects may have stood in the same
sentence with the same predicate, though the relation between them and
that predicate was not the same. It may further aid us to understand
how, when once one of these subjects had developed into the grammatical
category of OBJECT, the possible relations of such objects were so
varied that the differentiation into various grammatical categories of
accusative, dative, etc., becomes intelligible and natural.
The object, when once developed, may and often does become, by the
nature of its relation to the predicate, a mere limitation or definition
of such predicate, instead of remaining a member of the sentence
equivalent in importance and weight with the subject, as it is, _e.g._,
in such sentence as _John strikes Alfred_: whilst in a sentence like
_John runs a mile_, the object is a mere attribute to the predicate, and
the sentence can no longer be looked upon as tripartite, but must be
regarded as consisting of two parts, _i.e._ (1) the subject, and (2) the
predicate with its extension. These two cases, however, are not
separated by any clear line of demarcation.
And just as the predicate may receive such a defining word, so may the
subject and the object developed from it. These now commonly occur in
the shape of attributes, whether substantival or adjectival, and
genitives of substantives; as, _The cattle are the farmer’s best_; _The
cattle are beautifully fat_. This could not be expressed at all in
languages which have as yet developed no inflections: these could merely
employ the defining word in juxtaposition to the word defined; as, in
Chinese, _T’su sin heu sin t’u ye_, literally meaning ‘Origin Sin prince
Sin spring _final part_,’ _i.e._ ‘Originally the prince of Sin sprang
from Sin,’ _i.e._ ‘was born of a woman of the Kingdom of Sin.’ The fact
that the determinant attached to the subject is not a predicate can then
only be discovered by the presence of a third word which is detached
from the two words that together make up the subject by a greater stress
or, it may be, by a slight pause. Thus, if we say, _liber pulcher_, it
is impossible to say whether _pulcher_ is a predicate or merely the
attribute to _liber_, unless we add some verb like _est_ or _habetur_,
or unless the custom of the language leads us to apprehend _pulcher_,
from its position, as a predicate.
In truth the determinant, in this case ‘pulcher,’ is nothing but a
degraded predicate, uttered not so much for _its own_ sake, _i.e._ for
the information it conveys, as in order to assign to this group of
subject and determinant a further predicate, which predicate then
conveys the real information; as, _Liber pulcher nobis gaudio est: Hæc
res agetur nobis, vobis fabula_ (Plautus, Captivi, Prologue.)
We have stated that the determinant is merely a degenerate or degraded
predicate. The meaning of this statement may be most easily apprehended
from cases in which the finite verb is affected by this degeneration, so
that of the two predicates one might be logically replaced by a relative
sentence; as, _There is a devil haunts thee_ (Henry IV., Pt. I., Act
II., iv.); _I have a mind presages me_ (Merchant of Venice, I. i.); _He
groneth as our bore lith in our stie_ (Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 7411);
_And was war of a pistel stood under a wal_ (Tale of Gamelyn); _I’ll
have none shall touch what I shall eat_ (Massinger, City Madam, I. i.);
_I can tell you news will comfort you_ (ibid., III. i.); _The price is
high shall buy thy vengeance_ (Middleton, Spanish Gipsy, V. i. 443).
A similar construction was found in the older stages of the Romance
languages; cf. O.Ital. _Non vi rimasse un sol non lacrimassi_ (‘There
remained none did not cry’); O.Fr. _Or n’a baron ne li envoit son fil_
(‘There is no baron does not send him his son’). Nor must we suppose
that this construction is one peculiar to the Indo-European languages,
and entirely inherited from an early stage in their development. Its use
in Teutonic languages becomes more general towards the end of the Middle
Ages than before that time. But even in Semitic languages like Arabic,
we meet with expressions such as ‘I passed by a man slept.’
In the above instances, we have seen that the finite verb could sink
into the position of a mere attributival determinant. In other words, in
such a sentence as ‘There is a devil haunts thee,’ the very words show
that the important word, in which the chief information lies, is
_devil_, while the verb _haunts_ might almost as well be expressed by an
adjectival attributive, as ‘haunting.’ It is plain that if a verb could
thus easily lose its predicatival character, a predicate bearing no
distinguishing marks of its verbal character could, with even more
facility, be similarly degraded. The border-land between _meus_ in
‘liber meus’ (= the book is mine) and _liber meus amittitur_ is a very
narrow one.
It is very necessary to distinguish between the various functions of the
determinant--the differences in which, however, commonly remain
undenoted by us by any corresponding verbal difference, though they are,
logically speaking, of the greatest importance. The determinant may
leave the extent of the subject untouched; in other words, the epithet
may apply to all the objects or ideas which the substantive by itself,
or limited as it is by other circumstances, denotes: this is the case in
_mortal man_; _the almighty God_. On the other hand, it may serve to
restrict the meaning of the substantive; as when we say, _old houses_,
_an old house_, _a_ (or _the_) _son of the king_, _the journey to
Paris_, _Charles the Great_. Similarly, if we say, _the old house_,
meaning to contrast it with _the new one_, it is obvious that we
individualise the meaning of _house_: while the expression would come
under the first head in a sentence like _Lo, the place where I was born!
Humble as it is, I love the old house_. In the latter class of
instances, the determinant must be expressed, because without it the
predicate is meaningless or untrue. If we say, _A journey obliges us to
cross the channel_, we ascribe by these words to all journeys what is
true of some only, _e.g._, of a journey to Paris. In the first category,
in considering the epithet, we may notice that it may already be known
as commonly attached to the word to which it is appended, as in _This
red wine_ (the speaker holding it up) _I prefer to many more expensive
ones_; or it may tell us something new, as in the case of _That poor man
has no children_, where the sentence without _poor_ would state the same
fact, the word _poor_ conveying additional information. In this case it
approaches the nature of a true predicate, and we often employ a
relative sentence to express it: thus, instead of saying, _Poor Charles
has had to emigrate_; if we wished to emphasise the adjective, we should
say, _Charles, who was poor_, _etc._ Again, the determinant need stand
in no direct relation to the predicate, as in our above example, where
the fact that the man has no children is independent of his being poor;
but it may also stand to the predicate in the relation of cause and
effect, as in _The cruel man would not listen to his victim’s prayers_,
where the determinant ‘cruel’ is applied _owing to_ the fact mentioned
in the predicate.
We have now seen that attributes are degenerated predicates. There are
sentences in which the determinant has, as yet, a somewhat greater
independence than is the case with the ordinary attributes, and which,
therefore, may be said to represent a transition stage. In a sentence
like _He arrived safe and sound_, the determinant _safe and sound_ is
still predicate, in the wider sense of the term, to _he_, but
subordinate to the other predicate _arrived_, which alone in present
grammar would bear this name. _Safe and sound_ are, IN COMPARISON WITH
_arrived_, a mere attribute to _he_, and nowadays such determinants are,
for the linguistic consciousness, what has been very correctly termed
PREDICATIVE ATTRIBUTES. These are distinguished from ordinary attributes
by a greater freedom in the place they may occupy in the sentence, and
thereby manifest their greater independence.
Predicative attributes are very frequently, but not always, adjectives:
we might, _e.g._, replace the one in our example by a prepositional
phrase like _in safety and in good health_. In Modern High German, where
the attributive adjective is declined in agreement with its noun, the
near affinity of this construction to the predicate shows itself in the
use of the uninflected form of the adjective as in the case of the
predicate. Thus we say, _Er is gesund nach Paris gekommen_: just as we
say, _Er ist gesund_.
When once all these various determinations have been developed from
original subjects or predicates, the sentence may become further
complicated, (1) by a combination of a determined and a determining
element becoming determined by a new element,--as in _All good men_
(i.e. _good men_ + _all_); _John’s eldest daughter_ (i.e. either _eldest
daughter_ + _John’s_ or _John’s daughter_ + _eldest_, according to
circumstances); _He falls easily into a passion_,--to be understood, _He
falls into a passion_ + _easily_: (2) this combination may itself serve
as a determinant,--as in _Very good children_ (i.e. _children_ + _very
good_); _An all-sacrificing love_ (i.e. _a love_ + _all sacrificing_);
_He speaks very well_ (i.e. _He speaks_ + _very well_); or (3) several
determining elements may be joined to one determinate,--as in _Bad
gloomy weather_; _He walks well and fast_: or (4) several determinate
elements may be joined to a single determinant, just as several subjects
may be joined to one predicate, or several predicates to a single
subject,--e.g., _John’s hat and stick_; _He hits right and left_.
These constructions are not always distinctly separable: for instance, a
phrase like _big round hats_ may be understood as _hats that are big and
that are also round_ (constr. No. 3,) or we may take it as _round hats
that are big_ (constr. No. 1). Though the results of both constructions
would be the same, the ways in which these results are obtained are
logically distinct; just as the result of 3 × 5 is identical with 5 × 3,
though the genesis of that result varies according as we have groups of
five and take three of such groups, or as there are groups of three and
we put five of them together.
We have now considered the simple sentence and its extensions according
to the formula _a_ + _b_ + _a_ (see p. 110) in all their bearings and
consequences. We said, however, that besides extensions on this plan,
there were others in which some combination of subject and predicate
became itself the predicate or subject to another member of a sentence.
This we may symbolise by (_a_ + _b_) + _a_.[40]
We here enter on the ground covered by the complex sentence; but if the
reader has understood what has been already said, he will see that, if
we consider this division into simple and complex sentences from a
historical and psychological point of view, no clear line of demarcation
is to be found. It is indeed true that, as long as we agree that no set
of words shall be called a sentence unless it contains a finite verb, a
definite criterion exists. If, however, we fully realise that a
combination of noun and adjective, for instance, is as much subject and
predicate as noun and verb (cf. _homo vivus_ with _homo vivit_), we
shall likewise feel that ‘The good man lives’ is a complex sentence, one
predicate of which has degenerated: it must accordingly be admitted to
differ in degree, but not in kind, from ‘The man who is good lives’,
where, again, the complexity is of precisely the same nature as in the
phrase _round straw hats_, if we were to say, for instance, ‘Round straw
hats are pretty, but round felt hats are ugly.’
Combinations on the plan (_a_ + _b_) + _a_ are common enough: _I think
you are mistaken_; _The doctor saw I was not well_; _Remember you owe me
sixpence_: in which cases the subject and predicate (_a_ + _b_) serve as
object to another predicate.
There are, however, other constructions conceivable which would be more
strictly conformable to the scheme; such as _I owe you sixpence is
true_, or _You are in danger grieves me_; where we now use the so-called
conjunction _that_, which is originally a pronoun standing as a
repetition or a resumption of the subject--‘_That_ I owe you sixpence is
true’ being originally ‘I owe you sixpence; _that_ is true.’
To find such constructions as _I owe, etc., is true_ in actual use, we
must go back to older stages of language, _e.g._, to Hans Sachs, the
German shoemaker--poet--dramatist (1494-1576), who framed such sentences
as _A couple (man and wife) lived in peace for seventy years vexed the
devil_, for _A couple lived, etc., and this vexed, etc._;[41] _The
afflicted woman stabbed herself tells Boccaccio_. In the former of these
the sentence is subject, in the latter, object. A sentence (_a_ + _b_)
serving as actual predicate we might illustrate by remembering that in
Latin _Imperator felix_ may mean ‘The emperor _is_ happy,’ and then
using _Imperator qui capite est operto_ for the emperor’s answer in the
well-known anecdote--‘The emperor _is_ he who has his hat on his head.’
Remembering this, and always carefully remembering the extended meaning
of the terms subject and predicate, we realise that in the common
construction like _You are always grumbling, a bad habit_, we have
really, in the so-called apposition _a bad habit_, a predicate.
In this way we can follow up the development of the sentence from its
simplest to its most complex form. After thus studying the hypotaxis in
all its bearings, we need only touch briefly on the subject of
parataxis.
Though, of course, it may occur that we have reason to make in immediate
succession two or more statements which are absolutely independent of
one another, this will be naturally rare; and, when it happens, we are
not likely to combine these statements into one compound clause. Even in
the nearest approach to such a case, where we enumerate different but
analogous or contrasting facts, the sentences are not absolutely
disconnected and independent: cf. _She is crooked, he is lame_. Here,
undoubtedly, more is expressed by means of the parataxis than the mere
enumeration of the two facts; an additional significance being given to
each by the very analogy between the two cases. Similarly in _He is
laughing, she weeps_, where the contrast is an additional fact expressed
by the coupling of the sentences. Still, the approach to independence is
here undoubtedly very close. We already depart a step further from mere
co-ordination in the case where--in grammatically absolutely identical
manner--two or more sentences are co-ordinated in a story; as, e.g., _I
arrived at twelve o’clock; I went to the hotel; they told me there was
not a single room to be had; I went to another hotel_, etc., where each
sentence to a certain extent expresses a cause or defines the time of
occurrence of the fact which is mentioned in the next. Now, though this
additional meaning is clearly there, it is a meaning which at the
moment of uttering each clause is not necessarily, nay not probably
clearly present in the speaker’s mind: we might more fully and perhaps
more correctly, though undoubtedly very clumsily, express the course of
thought by: _I arrived ..., and when I had arrived, I went ..., but when
I had gone to the hotel, they told ..., and because they told ... I went
to another, etc._
We have, then, in our example a combination of independence with
interdependence which is the first step on the road towards
subordination of one member to the other.
Instead of the clumsy method of repetition which, if ever, is of course
but very seldom employed, we give partial expression to this mutual
relationship by demonstrative pronouns or verbs. (1) _I arrived ...,
then I went ..., there they told ..., etc._ (2) _I met a boy; he told
me...._ (3) _He bought a house; that was old._ (4) _He told a lie; that
was a pity._ A careful study of these examples,--in the third of which
the demonstrative pronoun refers (as in the second) to one part only of
the preceding sentence, whilst in the fourth it relates to the whole
statement made in the former part,--will show (_a_) the method of
development of demonstrative into relative pronoun; (_b_) that of
demonstrative pronoun into conjunction--_It was a pity that he told a
lie_; (_c_) the concomitant change from parataxis to hypotaxis--from _He
bought a house_, + _that (house) was old_, to _He bought a house that
was old_ = ‘which was old.’
A peculiar kind of paratactical subordination occurs where an imperative
or interrogative clause loses its independence and becomes an expression
of condition; e.g., _Go there yourself_, (_and_ or _then_) _you will see
that I am right_, or _Do you want to do it? then make haste_.
CHAPTER VII.
CHANGE OF MEANING IN SYNTAX.
We have considered, in Chapter IV., the different ways in which words
change their meanings: and have remarked that change of meaning consists
in the widening or narrowing of the scope or application of each word.
We wish, in this chapter, to point out that these processes are not
confined to words, but that whole syntactical combinations are
constantly undergoing changes of meaning of a similar nature. It may be
well to give at the outset an instance illustrative of such difference.
Let us take the sentence, ‘The book reads like a translation.’ In this
sentence the meaning which we attach to the word _book_ has developed
from that attached to A.S. _bóc_, a beech tree.[42] The word _read_ has
been specialised in meaning from the more primitive signification ‘to
interpret.’ In the same way, _translation_ meant originally nothing more
than a _transference_ of any kind, but has been specially applied to a
transference of the ideas expressed by one language into those of
another. Such, then, are examples of changes of meaning which have
occurred in words.
But besides these changes, it is obvious that we have here a sentence in
which the relation between the subject and predicate differs
considerably from that which is the _usual_ one. We do not in the
aforesaid sentence mean to say that the subject _book_ performs the
action _reads_, but we wish to assert that the subject is of such a
nature as to admit of some person performing the action in question.
This usage of the subject and predicate, though, when employed
circumspectly, it need cause no obscurity, yet is an exceptional usage,
or, as we have elsewhere called it, an _occasional_ one. Such a
construction might, however, easily spread, and become habitual or
_usual_. In that case we should have to admit that the meaning of the
general syntactical relation between subject and predicate connected by
a verb in the active voice had widened in extent, and contracted in
content. Instead of stating that the subject _does_ the action, we
should now have to adapt the statement to the wider but more indefinite
relation--the subject either _does or admits of_ the action. We shall
have occasion to return to these and similar phrases later on.
Now let us take the phrase ‘He reads himself into the mind of his
author.’ In this case we shall find that the meaning of _reads_ is the
same as that which we usually attach to it; the peculiar meaning lies
not in the separate words, but in the phrase taken as a whole. The
particular, _occasional_ use of the accusative _himself_, together with
the combination of the words, is what expresses the whole thought
implied; and thus we have here an instance of a specific construction in
which the force of the accusative connected with the word is different
from the force of the case in more common usage. Though the application
of the accusative in the way we have just mentioned must originally have
been an _occasional_ one, yet the phrase, though it has indeed become
specific, has become so common, that we may _in this combination_ call
its meaning _usual_. We have, then, in studying change of meaning in
syntactical relations, besides the classification of _occasional_ and
_usual_, another _distinction_ to draw; that between (_a_) a change of
meaning in a general relation, without reference to the individual terms
which happen to stand in that relation (such as subject and predicate,
verb and object, noun with accompanying genitive, preposition and its
régime), and (_b_) a change in meaning of a case, or other syntactical
relation, with regard to a specific word or expression, in connection
with which it has come to express a new shade of thought. These two
classifications are independent of each other, and cross one another. It
is further to be noticed that, just as it is impossible to draw a hard
and fast line of distinction between the _occasional_ and _usual_ in the
meaning of a word, so it is impossible to always clearly formulate when
the change in meaning of a syntactical relation is _general_ or
_special_; nay, it would in many cases be difficult to decide whether a
change of meaning in a group of words is owing to a change of meaning in
the words, or in their syntactical relations. Yet it is necessary to
keep the distinction in view.
Instances of these syntactical changes are common in all languages. We
might take, as a simple instance, from the Latin, the syntactical change
which is brought about in the relationship of the transitive verb and
its accusative. Transitive verbs commonly take the accusative of the
direct object; as, _Grecia capta ferum victorem cepit_. But many words
not originally transitive become so when composed with a preposition;
as, _accedere_, _præcellere_, _transgredi_, just as _to forego_ in
English is transitive, while _to go_ is intransitive. This construction
was then felt as _usual_. But besides these we find a quantity of verbs
strictly intransitive employed with the accusative; as, _ambulare
maria_, (to walk the seas: Cicero, de Finibus, ii. 34); _ludere Appium_
(just as we say, _to play the fool_: Cicero, ad Quint. Fratr., ii. 15);
_saltare Cyclopa_ (to dance the Cyclops dance: Horace, Sat. I. v.);
_stupere donum_, (Vergil); etc. It was felt that the relationship
between _ambulare_ and _maria_, e.g., was closely enough related to that
of _regere currum_ on the one hand, and to that of _ambulare super
maria_ on the other, to enable analogy to become widely operative in
extending this use. The result was that some of the constructions passed
into regular usage; some stood out longer, and must always have appeared
as exceptional or occasional; as, _sudare mella_ (Vergil, Eclogue iv.
30).
One of the most ordinary changes brought about by relations in syntax is
that due to the relationship of what is commonly called the governing
word and its case. The signification, for example, borne by an
accusative standing in the relation of object to a verb may cause the
verb to bear a meaning more special than its ordinary meaning. Thus, in
the case of such a phrase as _I beat_, it is clear that in _to beat a
dog_, _to beat the enemy_, _to beat the air_, different values are
attached to the meaning of the word ‘(to) beat,’ and the word thereby is
narrowed in its definition and correspondingly enriched in its contents.
It seems natural to examine a little more in detail the relationship
borne by the cases to the word which governs them: there seems no
objection to the use of the word _governs_, provided only that it be
understood with due limitations; that certain particular forms are
commonly devoted to the expression of certain ideas or relationships,
and that the idea be not entertained that there is anything in the
nature of the meanings of the words indissolubly connected with a
particular form.
To deal with the _Cases_ first. It is impossible to set together the
different uses of the genitive, and to draw from these by induction any
certain proof of the functions which this case fulfilled in the
primitive Indo-European languages. For instance, the use of the genitive
when it depends on verbs seems to have nothing in common with that of
the same case when connected with substantives. In the former case, for
instance, in the Classical languages, we find merely a few isolated
instances of the genitive regularly governed by verbs, especially those
verbs which signify _ruling over_, _remembering_, _lacking_, etc. The
genitive with nouns, on the other hand, seems most probably to have been
used in Indo-European for the expression of any relation between two
substantives, as indeed it was in classical Greek, and, to a less
extent, in Latin; cf. such different usages as _Cæsaris horti_; _docendi
gratia_; _reus Milonis_; _urbis instar_; _me Pompeii esse scio_ (Cicero,
Fam., ii. 13); _Germanicus Ægyptum proficiscitur cognoscendæ
antiquitatis_ (Tacitus, Annals, xi. 59); _hoc præmii_; _ut adhuc
locorum_ (Plautus, Captivi, 382). In modern English, on the contrary,
the function of the genitive in connection with substantives is greatly
restricted. Many usages possible in Anglo-Saxon are at the present day
obsolete; for instance, _Criste is_ ALLRE _kinge king_ (Orm., 3588),
MÁDMA _mænigo_ (Beowulf, 41), _ðaer wæs_ MÁDMA _fela_ (ibid., 36), RINCA
_manige_ (ibid., 729), _he_ ÐAES WÆPNES _onláh sélran sweord-frecan_ =
_he lent the weapon to the brave hero_ (ibid., 1468-69), _tó gebídanne_
ÓÐRES YRFEWEARDES = _to expect another heir_ (ibid., 2453,) _he ʒef
Horse_ MÁDMES _inoʒe_ (L.I. 163, Fiedler and Sachs, ii. p. 277).[43] The
genitive at the present day is confined to certain characteristically
special usages, and possesses several apparently independent
significations. It must, however, be noticed that the true inflectional
genitive in English is that which characterises the possessive case; as,
_John’s hat_. In other cases in Modern English, we have commonly dropped
the inflection, and are accustomed to render the genitival relation by a
periphrasis with the preposition _of_. Using the word _genitive_ in this
sense, we may say that the typical usages of the genitive in modern
English are the possessive genitive (_the man’s brother_), the partitive
genitive (_a cup of wine_), and the genitive denoting that the governing
substantive is what it is in virtue of what depends upon it (_the writer
of the work_). This last division falls naturally into two sub-divisions
in the case of nouns of action: the _subjective_ genitive (_surly
Gloster’s governance_--Shakespeare, 2 Henry VI., I. iii.) and the
_objective_ genitive (_the government of the country_). These usages
have survived the various original methods of the application of the
genitive, and they must thus be counted amongst genuine grammatical
categories.
The relation of the accusative to its governing verb resembles the
relation of the genitive to its governing substantive. The most general
definition of the meaning of the accusative might be that it denotes any
and every kind of relation that a substantive can bear to a verb, except
that of a subject to its predicate. It is, however, true that, in
English, we are unable to employ it in every case to denote such
relation: nor, indeed, does this use seem to have been permissible in
the original Indo-European languages; though it is true that the
accusative was used more freely and commonly in old Greek and Latin, for
instance, than in later times: cf. such constructions as ἄπορα
πόριμος (Æsch., Prom. Vinctus); _Quid tibi hanc rem tactio est?_
(Plautus, Pœnulus, V. v. 29), _humeros exsertus uterque_ (Statius,
Thebais, v. 439). Hence, in considering the different uses of the
accusative, we must at the very outset place those meanings side by side
which have gradually become independent.
The first distinction which we must remark in the use of the accusative
is that between the _free_ accusative, or accusative which is
independent of the nature of the verb which it follows,--as, _to buy a
hat_,--and the _attached_ accusative, which is connected with a few
verbs only by a close tie, and in each case with a restricted
signification,--as, _to blow a gale_, _to row a race_. The free
accusative is more freely used in English than in French or German; many
of the relations which in those languages are expressed by the genitive
and dative are in English expressed by the case under consideration.
One of the original usages of the _free_ accusative was the expression
of an extension _over space and time_; and in this case, it is not
always found with verbs. We have in Latin, _Cæsar tridui iter processit_
(Cæsar, Bell. Gallic., i. 38); _Unguem non oportet discedere_ (Cicero,
ad Att., xiii. 20): and, in English, such uses as _To write of victories
next year_ (Butler, Hudibras, II., III., 173); _My troublous dream this
night_ (Henry VI., Part II., Act. II., ii.); where the dative was usual
in Anglo-Saxon (see Koch, ii., p. 94; Mason, p. 147). As instances of
the _attached_ accusative, we must especially consider the accusative of
such substantives as are ETYMOLOGICALLY CONNECTED with the verb; as, _to
fight a hard fight_; _to see a strange sight_; _sangas ic singe_ (Ps.
xxvi. 7).[44] This ‘cognate accusative’ most probably furnishes the cue
to such constructions as _Come and trip it as you go_, where _it_ seems
to replace some noun, as, e.g., _tripping_. Once established, this use
of _it_ instead of a cognate noun in the accusative, would easily be
extended to cases like _to foot it_ for _to dance a dance_, where the
use of the verb _to foot_ is but an ‘occasional’ one, and apparently too
unusual to admit of the formation of the noun _footing_ in the sense of
_dance_. We must, then, suppose that the word _it_ stands for a _dance_,
i.e. for an accusative not cognate with the verb actually used, but with
another and synonymous verb. The use of the accusative of towns in
Latin, in answer to the question _Whither?_--as, _Ire Romam_,
_Tarentum_, etc., further illustrates the _attached_ accusative with
which we may compare expressions in English, as _to go west_; _flying
south_, etc.
The usage, now common in English, whereby a predicative adjective is
connected with an intransitive verb seems to be of later origin. Cf. _to
cry one’s eyes red_; _to wash one’s forehead cool_; _to eat one’s-self
full_; _to dance one’s-self tired_; _to shout one’s-self hoarse_. In
these cases the predicatival force of the accusative must be regarded as
a widening of the signification. No doubt, however, special factors must
have aided to bring this construction into use: such as the survival of
the memory of the general signification of the accusative, as
representing the goal of the verbal action; and, again, the analogy of
such cases as _to shoot a man dead_; _to buy a man free_; _to strike a
man dumb_; _to beat black and blue_;--where the accusative serves to
define the verb, and indeed, almost enters into composition with it, as
it in fact actually does in many cases in German, like _tot schlagen_;
cf. the English _dumb-foundered_. There are a large number of colloquial
phrases which are similar,[45] such as _to talk a person’s head off_;
_to worm one’s-self into another’s confidence_; _to read one’s-self
into an author_; _to laugh a man down_, etc.
There is, next, the case of the accusative after _compound_ verbs, where
the simple verbs are intransitive or govern a different kind of
accusative from that taken by the verb when compounded. Such are
_circumdare_ and _præcellere_ in Latin, and, in English, _to forego_,
_to underrate_, _to withstand_, _to outlast_; or, A.S. _ofer-swimman_,
_forestandan_, etc.; e.g., (hé) _oferswam sioleða bigong_--_He swam
across the sea_ (Beowulf, 2368): _Wið ord and wið ecge ingang
forstód_--_He withstood entrance against sword and spear_ (ibid.,
1550).[46] These are on the border line of ‘free’ and ‘attached’
accusatives.
There are certain verbs composed with certain prefixes which, in virtue
of their composition, receive a transitive force; as, _belabour_,
_begrudge_, _bewitch_, _belie_, _befleck_, etc., and which, in some
cases, receive in addition the power of adopting a different kind of
object, generally calling in the aid of metaphor to extend their
meaning; as, _embody_, _encompass_, _enthral_, _overrule_.
An ‘attached’ accusative, or one properly attached adverbially, in a
defining and qualifying sense,[47] to one definite individual verb, has,
as a rule, only one single meaning, limited by use. But sometimes we
find that in this case, too, several applications have set in; such may
have been in some cases original, and in others due to the fact that the
one ‘usual’ signification has extended by ‘occasional’ transgression.
Take such cases as _to blow a gale_, _to blow a sail_, _to strike a
blow_; _to strike a man_, _to strike terror_; _to run a race_, _to run
a man down_; _to stone a man_, _to stone cherries_; _pacing the ground_,
_the morrice pacings_; _to keep a man from harm_, _to keep harm from a
man_; _to stick a man with a knife_, _to stick a stamp_; and in Latin,
_defendere aliquem ab ardore solis_, _defendere ardorem solis ab
aliquo_; _prohibere calamitatem a provincia_, _prohibere provinciam
calamitate_; _mutare equum mercede_, _mutare mercedem equo_. So, too, in
Greek: ἀρκεῖν τινα ἀπὸ κινδύνου; ἀρκεῖν κίνδυνον ἀπό τινος.
Poetry has a strong tendency to aid such ‘occasional’ constructions to
become ‘usual:’ for it is a part of the technique of poetry to produce
strong impressions by using its material in a fresh and striking way:
thus we find in Latin, _vina cadis onerare_ (Vergil, Æneid, i. 199: a
variation for _cados vinis_); _liberare obsidionem_ (Livy, xxvi. 8),
instead of _liberare urbem obsidione_; _vina coronant_ (Vergil, Æneid,
iii. 526) instead of _pocula vinis coronant_: δάκρυα τέγγειν = ‘to stain
tears,’ instead of ‘to stain with tears’ (Pindar): αἷμα δεύειν = ‘to
stain blood,’ instead of ‘to stain with blood’ (Sophocles). Thus, in
English, we have _The Attic warbler pours her throat_ (Gray); _to
languish a drop of blood a day_ (Shakespeare, Cymbeline, I. ii.) The
relation expressed by the accusative may in itself be more than a single
one; and thus the connection of a single verb with several accusatives
to express different ideas is quite natural.
It seems hardly true to state that the Indo-European prepositions
governed any particular case. The case which followed the preposition
was actually referred to the verb; the general meaning of the verb was
still felt and was merely specialised by the preposition; whence it
comes that the same preposition is followed by different cases, each
bearing its own special meaning. The Greek language offers good
examples of this, and seems to stand nearer the original state, as far
as usage goes. Take, for instance, a preposition like πάρα. Its general
meaning may be defined as ‘from:’ when followed by the genitive it
signifies ‘proceeding from;’ when followed by the accusative, ‘to,’
reference to the source not being overlooked: similarly with κατά, μετά,
etc. In English, more than in most European languages, the tendency has
been to multiply the use of prepositions, and to employ them
independently of any feeling for the case. The case has thus become more
and more independent of the preposition: the connection of the latter
with the case has become merely matter of custom; and the consciousness
of the original signification of the case has become fainter. With
regard to the Latin prepositions which govern one case only (like _ex_,
_ab_), or which govern more than one without affecting the sense (like
_tenus_), the employment of the case is merely traditional, and no value
can be attached to it. Between the absolute fixity of the one use and
the original freedom of the other use stands the employment of _in_,
_sub_, and _super_, sometimes with the ablative, sometimes with the
accusative, but with different meanings for the respective cases.
The changes that have appeared in Syntax in the case of prepositions are
very well exemplified in English, in which language their use has so
greatly spread, and plays such an important part. They were, in the
first place, prefixed to the verb, which they qualified adverbially,[48]
forming, in fact, a compound with it; as, ‘to _over_take,’
‘_over_reach,’ ‘_over_look.’ They were next detached from the verb, but
not prefixed to the noun; as, ‘to take _over_,’ ‘to reach _over_,’ ‘to
look _over_;’ and the difference in meaning between these three pairs
of phrases will show us how the preposition came to lose memory of the
proper signification of the case. In a later stage still, they appear
prefixed to nouns, and serve to particularise the relations of actions
to things--relations which, in the inflected state of language, were
expressed by the case endings of nouns; cf. _Bigstandað me strange
genéatas_ (Cædmon) = ‘Stout vassals bystand me;’ _He heom stód wið_
(Layamon) = ‘He them stood against;’ or _Again the false paiens the
Christens stode he by_ (P. Langtoft) = ‘Against the false pagans the
Christians he stood by;’ _i.e._ ‘He stood by the Christians.’
We sometimes find the partitive use of the genitive replaced by
apposition. The simplest and most natural example of this is where the
apposition is made up of several members which are collectively the
equivalent of the substantive to which they are appended; for instance,
‘They went, one to the right, the other to the left;’ ‘Postero die
terrestrem navalemque exercitum, non instructos modo, sed hos
decurrentes, classem in portu, simulacrum et ipsam edentem navalis pugnæ
ostendit’ (Livy, xxix. 22). ‘Duæ filiæ harum, altera occisa, altera
capta est’ (Cæsar, Bell. Gallic., i. 53); ‘Diversa cornua, dextrum ad
castra Sammitium, lævum ad urbem tendit’ (Livy, x. 41); ‘Capti ab
Iugurtha, pars in crucem acti, pars bestiis objecti sunt’ (Sall., Iug.).
But the same appositional construction appears when the whole apposition
represents only a part of the expression or phrase of which it is the
expansion; as, ‘Volsci maxima pars cæsi,’ (Livy): ‘Cetera multitudo
decimus quisque ad supplicium lecti’ (Livy); ‘Nostri ceciderunt tres’
(Cæsar); ‘My arrival, although an only son, unseen for four years, was
unable to discompose, etc.’ (Scott, Rob Roy, i.); ‘Tuum, hominis
simplicis, pectus vidimus’ (Cicero, Phil., ii. 43). This is also the
case where the subject is expressed only by the personal termination of
the verb; as, ‘Plerique meminimus’ (Livy); ‘Simoni adesse me quis
nuntiate’ = ‘Tell Simo, one or the other of you!’ (Plautus). Similarly,
in the case of the designation of materials, we find an apposition
taking the place of the partitive genitive; thus we find, in Latin,
‘aliquid id genus’ for ‘something of that kind;’ ‘Scis me antea
orationes aut aliquid id genus solitum scribere’ (Cicero, Att., xiii.
12);’ Pascuntur omne genus objecto frumento maxime ordeo’ (Varro, de Re
Rustica, iii. 6);[49] ‘arma magnus numerus’ (Livy). Thus, ‘He gained the
sur-addition Leonatus’ (Shakespeare, Cymbeline, I. i.).
This more simple and primitive appositional construction is very common
in modern German; as, _ein stück brot_, _ein glas wasser_: in Middle
High German it was rarer; in modern Scotch it is common in such
instances as _a wee bit body_, _a curran days_ (a number of days): it
was common in Anglo-Saxon; as, ‘scóp him Heort naman’ (Beowulf, 78);
_Emme broðer ðe queene_ (Robert of Gloucester); _The Duke of Burgoys,
Edmonde sonne_ (Wa., i. 87); _David Kingdom_ (R. of G., i. 7.):[50] and
is found in Chaucer,--_Gif us a busshel whet or malt or reye_
(Canterbury Tales, 7328); _half a quarter otes_ (ibid., 7545): and has
survived even in modern English, in such cases as _The Tyrol passes_
(Coleridge, Picc., i. 10); _Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss_
(Scott, Lay of Last Minstrel, i. 21). We must regard this method of
apposition as the most primitive in language; the two words in
apposition are simply placed side by side like two Chinese roots, and
must be looked upon as the simple stems without any inflection.
Even the subject of a verb may deviate from previous usage in the way
whereby it denotes a relation: cf. such phrases as _The cistern is
running dry_; _The roof drips with water_; _The trees drop honey_. Thus
we can say, _The river is running over_; _The wood is resonant with
song_; _The window will not shut_; _The fire will not draw_; _The kettle
boils_; _This sample tastes bad_; _The hall thick swarming now with
complicated monsters_ (Milton): in Italian, _Le vie correvano sangue_
(Malespini): in Spanish, _Corrieron sangue los rios_: _Sudare mella_
(Vergil, Ecl. iv., 30); cf. also, the use of _sapere_, in Latin, in such
cases as _cum sapimus patruos_ (Persius, Sat. i., 11); _sentir_, in
French, as _Cela sent la guerre_. In these cases we should expect the
subject and object to be inverted.
A similar departure from ordinary usage occurs in the case of what we
commonly speak of as ‘transferred’ epithets; _i.e._ adjectives referring
to merely indirect relations with the substantive to which they are
attached. Such are expressions like _wicked ways_; _quiet hours_; _in
ambitious Latin_ (Carlyle, Past and Present, ii. 2); _the blest abodes_
(Pope, Essay on Man, iii. 259). Many of these linguistic licences have
become quite usual, and it is forgotten that the epithet attached to the
word does not strictly fit it: thus we speak quite commonly of _the
happy event_, _a joyful surprise_, _happy hours_, _a learned treatise_,
_an intoxicated condition_, _in a foolish manner_, _a gay supper_, _a
bright prospect_, etc.; and we can even say, _He gives us an unhealthy
impression_, _a stingy gift_, etc. The word _secure_ in English, like
_sûr_ in French, refers in the first instance to a person who need not
be anxious; in the second place, to a thing or person about whom no one
need be anxious. Thus we can say, _I am safe in saying that he is safe_.
As soon as these freer combinations are apprehended as an ordinary
epithet applied to its substantive, we may state that a change in
word-meaning has occurred.
Such licence occurs in the case of the participles and nouns in _-ing_
even more than in that of adjectives; thus we can say, _in a dismantled
state_ (Dickens, Pickwick, 2); _a smiling answer_; _this consummation of
drunken folly_ (Scott, Rob Roy, 12); _a dazzling prospect_; _the selling
price_; _the dying day_; _a parting glass_; _writing materials_;
_sleeping compartment_; _dining room_; _singing lesson_; _falling
sickness_; _waking moments_; _the ravished hours_ (Parnell, Hesiod,
225). So, too, we speak of _a talented man_; cf. also the common French
expressions, _thé dansant_, _café chantant_. Tacitus has such uses as
_Muciano volentia rescripsere_ (Hist., iii. 52) for _volenti_, _etc._
We may probably compare with this use that of the so-called ‘misrelated
participle,’ a freely attached predicatival attribute, which is indeed
condemned as ungrammatical and careless, but which still occurs very
commonly in even the best authors. Cf. ‘When _gone_ we all regarded each
other for some minutes with confusion’ (Goldsmith, Vicar of Wakefield,
13);
‘Thus _repulsed_, our final hope
Is flat despair’
(Milton, Paradise Lost, ii. 142);
‘_Amazed_ at the alteration in his manner, every sentence that he
uttered increased her embarrassment’ (Miss Austin, Pride and Prejudice,
ch. xliii.).[51] We are, indeed, accustomed to say that in this case we
must supply a subject, and that the full expression would be ‘Amazed _as
she was_,’ in the last instance cited. But if we use such an expression
as ‘a _pitying_ tear,’ we might maintain as well that it is necessary to
explain this as, ‘with a tear, shed in sign of his pity.’ The fact is,
that these loosely appended predicatival attributes answer to a need
felt in language, just as much as such words as _regarding_, _during_,
_vu que_, _instar_, supply a requirement in the prepositional category.
In the case of participial constructions, the participle expresses
formally the time-relation in which the condition or action denoted by
the participle stands to the finite verb. Thus, ‘_Being frightened_ he
runs away’ expresses formally nothing more than the temporal relation
between the fright and what follows it. It is, however, possible to
understand different relations as implied by this participle; thus there
would, in this instance, be a connection of cause and effect. There are
many cases in which, were we to extend the participial construction into
a separate sentence, we should have to employ different conjunctions;
sometimes those denoting the reason,--as, ‘_Since_ he was frightened he
ran away;’ sometimes we should have to employ such conjunctions as
denote an opposition,--as, ‘Notwithstanding that;’ thus, supposing that
the sentence in question ran, ‘Being frightened he did _not_ run away,’
this would naturally be broken up into ‘_Notwithstanding_ that he was
frightened, he did not run away.’ Sometimes, again, the participle
expresses a condition, as in such common cases as ‘_Failing_ an heir,
the property passes to the crown.’
Still it is unnecessary to assert that the participle, as such, denotes
these different meanings--such as cause, condition, opposition, etc.
These relations are only accidental and _occasional_. When, however, we
have dependent sentences introduced _by a temporal conjunction_, like
_quum_, _since_, the accidental relation of this conjunction to the
governing sentence may come to attach itself and become permanent; in
this case, the conjunction will experience a change of syntactical
meaning. Take the case of _since_, formed by the adverbial genitive
suffix _es_, from _sin_ = _sithen_ (from _sið_, _þ̱am_, after that).
_While_, again, from meaning ‘the time that’ (a thing occurred,) has
come to denote ‘in spite of the fact that,’ in such phrases as ‘_While_
you pretend that you love me, you act as though you did not.’ In the
case of the modern German _weil_, the temporal signification has
completely disappeared; and in the same way prepositions, such as
_through_ and _by_, which possess strictly speaking a local or temporal
meaning, pass into a causal meaning.
The instances given above may serve to show the way in which changes are
constantly occurring in syntax, and will aid in pointing out how
language is constantly aiming at supplying, in an economical fashion,
its needs as they successively present themselves.
CHAPTER VIII.
CONTAMINATION.
We have discussed, in Chapter V., the force of analogy and its effect.
We have now to study a phenomenon of language which may be called
‘contamination,’ and which, though widely differing from analogy in the
most characteristic instances of both, is yet so closely allied to it as
to render it a difficult matter to draw any hard and fast line of
demarcation between the two.
We call the process ‘contamination’ when two synonymous forms or
constructions force themselves simultaneously, or at least in the very
closest succession, into our consciousness, so that one part of the one
replaces or, it may be, ousts a corresponding part of the other; the
result being that a new form arises in which some elements of the one
are confused with some elements of the other.
Thus, for instance, to take an imaginary case, a person seeing a book on
the table might wish to exclaim, ‘Take that thing away!’ Just, however,
as he is uttering the word _thing_, the consciousness that it is
properly called a _book_ forces itself upon him, and he utters the word
_thook_. Of course such a form is a mistake, and a mistake so palpable
and, indeed, so absurd that the speaker will at once correct it. Every
one, however, who is in the habit of watching closely the utterances of
others, and indeed of himself, will be aware that such slips of the
tongue are extremely common; and it is clear that, though such
formations are, in the first instance, sudden and transitory, and
generally travel no further than the individual from whom they proceed,
yet they may, by repetition on the part of the same individual, or, it
may be, by imitation, conscious or unconscious, on the part of others,
end by becoming ‘usual.’
Contamination manifests itself not merely in the form of words, but also
in their syntactical combination. In the case of such a curious mixture
of two words as that which we took for our example, the very
grotesqueness of the result would probably bar the way to the spreading
of the word, though, as we shall see, traces are to be found of cases
hardly less grotesque than this. In syntactical combinations, however,
the results have far more frequently proved permanent; or, in any case,
the results do not commonly appear in such jarring contrast to received
usage as to challenge immediate correction, and, consequently, instances
can be more easily found in literature of syntactical than of verbal
contamination; some cases of such contamination pass into language and
become ‘usual;’ some are refused admission into normal language and are
set down as the peculiarities of the individual writer or speaker, or,
it may be, as his mistakes.
We saw that formation by analogy manifests itself as the alteration of
one form in compliance with a rule more or less consciously abstracted
from a number of examples drawn from a group to which that form does
not, strictly speaking, belong. Contamination is the alteration of one
form on the model of another synonymous form. The difficulty of
distinguishing between the two arises from this--that the contaminating
form or construction often derives additional force from being
associated with other members of its group, so that it may be doubtful
whether the rule or the one synonym gave the impetus to the new
formation. Nevertheless, we may lay it down that for analogy we must
demand a sufficient number of examples on which to base a rule; while
for contamination, a single form or construction may suffice. If we bear
in mind these main points of distinction, we shall commonly find no
difficulty in deciding to which of the two classes we should refer any
particular case.[52]
Among the results of contamination in single words, we must naturally
expect that those have the best chance of becoming permanent which least
deviate from the correct form; _i.e._ where the synonymous[53] forms
confused resembled each other, and the form due to their contamination
consequently bore sufficient resemblance to both to enable it to arise
repeatedly in the mouth of several speakers, and, when formed, to escape
observation. Thus the word _milt_ (the soft roe of fishes) is a
substitute for _milk_ (it appears in Swedish as _mjölke_); this was
probably due to contamination with _milt_ (spleen), which is a different
word.[54] Again, the English combination _ough_ is due to the
contamination of three distinct forms, viz., _ugh_ (A.S. _-uh_), _-ogh_
(A.S. _-áh_), _-oogh_ (A.S. _-óh_); whilst, at the same time, the loss
of the _gh_ has affected the quality of the preceding vowel by the
principle of compensation. Thus the word _through_ should have appeared
as _thrugh_, A.S. *_ðruh_ (for _ðurh_); but it has been altered to
_through_, as if from A.S. *_ðrúh_, or else to *_thurgh_ (A.S. _ðurh_),
which has been lengthened to _thor(ou)gh_.[55]
A.S. _byrðen_, ‘a load,’ became _burthen_, and is now _burden_, the
change being assisted by confusion with _burden_ (Fr. _bourdon_), ‘the
refrain of a song.’[56] The word _anecdotage_ is a wilful contamination
of _anecdote_ + _dotage_, with a side glance at _age_ (time of life),
though in _dotage_ the suffix _age_ has no connection with the noun of
same sound. _Another-gaines_, which was used by Sydney in his Arcadia
(1580) seems to have resulted from the confusion of _anotherkins_ (of
another kind), which survives in the Whitby dialect, and _anothergates_
(of another gate, manner). On these instances, see Murray’s Dictionary,
s.v.
In this and similar instances, where the fact that the word occurs in
more than one meaning is due to confusion or misconception, it is often
difficult to say whether we have to deal with contamination proper, as
we defined it and illustrated it by the example on page 140. There
exist, however, in many languages words and forms which can be explained
in no other way. Such is the O.Fr. form _oreste_, a contamination
between _orage_ and _tempeste_; and again, the O.Fr. _triers_ seems to
be a contamination between _tres_ (trans) and _rier_ (retro).[57]
The confusion was rendered easier in the case of forms which may easily
pass into a grammatical paradigm. Thus, from the Italian _o_ of _sono_
and the perfect termination in _-ro_ (= _runt_), the _o_ was
transferred to the other third person plural forms; whence such forms
as old Tuscan _fecérono_ (modern _furono_) are contaminations between
the forms _fecéro_ and _amano_.
The confusion of words belonging to the same etymological group is more
common: an instance may be seen in the Italian _trápano_ (τρύπανον),
whose form seems to have been affected by _traforare_.[58] In Old French
the form _doins_ is due to a contamination between _dois_ and _don_. In
Provençal, the form _sisclar_ seems a contamination between _sibilare_
and _fistulare_.[59] The English _yawn_ represents a fusion of two
Anglo-Saxon forms, _géonian_ and _gánian_.[60] The word _minnow_ is a
contamination between M.E. _menow_ and the O.Fr. _menuise_. Both of
these are ultimately from the same base, _min_ (small),[61] but
underwent a different development. We might add as an instance the
jocular coinage _squarson_ = Squire + Parson.
Our word _ache_ offers a further curious illustration. There was in
Anglo-Saxon a verb _ácan_ with past tense _oc_, past participle _acen_,
which gave us the verb _ake_ (to hurt)--now erroneously spelt _ache_,
but still correctly pronounced. The noun in Anglo-Saxon was _æce_, in
which the _k_ sound was palatalised into the sound of _ch_ (in church),
whilst it remained _k_ in the verb.[62] Accordingly we find still in
Shakespeare the distinction between the verb _ake_ and the noun _ache_
(pronounced with _tch_ as in _batch_, etc.). The confusion began about
A.D. 1700, when the verb began to replace the noun in pronunciation, and
occasionally the spelling _ache_ was used for both noun and verb. The
prevalence of this spelling at present is mainly due, it appears, to a
mistaken derivation from the Gr. ἄχος;--the pronunciation to confusion,
or to contamination of the noun by the verb.
We reach the borderland of ‘Analogy,’ if we do not actually enter it, in
those cases where a word--under the influence of a modal group with a
synonymous function--assumes a suffix or prefix whose modal significance
was already expressed by the word in its simpler form. Thus it has been
considered a case of contamination of the comparative _worse_ with the
modal groups of the other comparatives in _er_, when we find the double
comparative _worser_. Similarly, the Latin frequentative _iactare_
(_iacio_) was extended into _iactitare_ under the influence of the modal
group composed of words like _volitare_, etc.: again, in English, the
form _lesser_ has, as an adjective, almost entirely superseded the form
_less_; just as, in the colloquial language of the uneducated, we find
_leastest_ by the side of _least_. There is, in Gothic, a superlative
_aftuma_, beside which we, however, find even there the double
superlative _aftumists_. This appears in Anglo-Saxon[63] as _æftermest_,
M.E. _eftermeste_, and in Modern English as _aftermost_; where the _o_
in the last syllable is due to the mistaken idea that the whole word was
a compound of _most_, though, as we have seen, it was really another
instance of a double suffix.
Contamination plays a far more important part in the area of syntax. It
is easy to cull from the pages of authors of repute instances of
anomalies which have no permanent influence on language: cf. ‘Amazed at
the alteration in his manner, every sentence that he uttered increased
her embarrassment’ (Miss Austen, Pride and Prejudice, ch. 43,[64]--a
confusion between ‘She was amazed at the alteration,’ etc., and ‘Amazed
as she was.’) There are many similar constructions in Shakespeare: cf.
‘Marry, that I think be young Petruchio’ (a confusion of ‘That I think
_is_’ and ‘I think that _be_’--Romeo and Juliet, I. v. 133); so, again,
‘Why do I trifle thus with his despair is done to cure it’ (a confusion
between ‘_Why_ I trifle is _to cure_’ and ‘My trifling is done to
cure,’--Lear, IV. vi. 33).[65] The following are instances of
syntactical contamination from various quarters:--‘Showering him with
abuse and blows’ (Mary L. Booth, Translation of ‘Abdallah’ by Laboulaye,
p. 4,--from ‘Showering abuse and blows upon him’ and ‘Overwhelming him
with abuse and blows’).
‘Let us once again assail your ears....
What we have two nights seen.’
(Hamlet, I. i. 31),
(from ‘Let us once again tell you’ and ‘Let us assail your ears with
what we....’).
‘Jhone, Andrew, James, Peter, _nor_ Paull
Had few houses amang thame all’
(Sir David Lyndsay, The Monarche, Bk. III. i. 4541-42),
(from ‘John, Andrew, etc. _and_ Paul had few houses among them all’ and
‘Neither John, Andrew, etc. _nor_ Paul had many houses’).
‘Thare ryches, rentis nor tressour
That tyme, sall do thame small plesour’
(Ibid., Bk. IV., 5504-5; see Skeat, ‘Specimens,’ iii.),
(from ‘Riches, rent, _and_ treasure shall give small pleasure’ and
‘Riches, rent, _nor_ treasure shall give much (or great or any)
pleasure’).
‘What with griefe and feare my wittes were reft’
(Cf. Th. Sackville, Mirrour for Magistrates--Skeat, Specimens, iii., p. 287--stanza 18),
(from ‘What with grief and what with fear my wits’ and ‘With grief and
fear my wits, etc.’).
‘She was not one of _those_ who fear to hurt _her_ complexion’ (W.
Besant, The World went very well then, ch. 26). ‘What Castilla insists’
(= What Castilla pretends + upon which Castilla insists),--Ibid. ‘If our
eyes be barred that happiness’ (= If our eyes be debarred from that ...
+ If (to) our eyes be denied that happiness),--Comus, 343. ‘On
attempting to extract the ball, the patient began to sink’ (= On
attempting ... ball, the doctors saw that the patient, etc., + when the
doctors attempted, ... the patient began, etc.),--Nichol and M’Cormick,
p. 56. ‘I must insist, sir, you’ll make yourself easy on that head’ (She
stoops to conquer, ii. 1,--a confusion between ‘I must insist upon your
making yourself easy,’ and ‘I hope, or demand, that you will make,
etc.’). ‘Was ever such a request to a man in his own house?’ (ibid.,--a
confusion between ‘Was ever such a request made to a man?’ and ‘Did ever
you hear such a request to a man?’). ‘A very troublesome fellow this, as
ever I met with’ (ibid.,--A very troublesome fellow this + As
troublesome a fellow as ever I met with). ‘There can be no doubt but
that this latest step ... has been the immediate result of ...’
(President’s Address, Mechanical Section, British Association,
Manchester;--a confusion between ‘There can be no doubt that’ and ‘It
cannot be but that’). ‘I prefer to go to London rather than to Paris,’
(a confusion between ‘I prefer going (to go) to London to going to
Paris,’ and ‘I would go to London rather than to Paris’).[66]
In many cases the contamination has become usual. We say in English, _I
am friends with him_, from ‘I am friendly with him’ and ‘We are
friends.’ The Danish popular idiom is similar: _Han er gode venner med
dem_ (He is good friends with them). Compare too, the following
expressions: ‘a friend _of mine_;’ _Fare thee well_ (a confusion between
‘Keep thee well’ and ‘Fare well’). _On my behalf_ arose out of a
confusion of the A.S. _on healfe_, ‘on the side of,’ with a second
common phrase _be healfe_, ‘by the side of.’[67] In Greek we find
expressions like ὁ ἥμισυς τοῦ χρόνου, a confusion between ὁ ἥμισυς
χρόνος and τὸ ἥμισυ τοῦ χρόνου, etc.; in Spanish, _muchas de virgines_,
instead of _muchas virgines_ or _mucho de virgines_: in Italian, _la più
delle gente_ (Boccaccio). We have a similar instance of contamination in
the case of the Latin gerund: _Pœnarum solvendi tempus_ (Lucretius),
from _Pœnarum solvendarum_ and _pœnas solvendi; nominandi istorum quam
edundi erit copia_ (Plautus, Captivi, IV. ii. 72). Cicero, again,
writes, _Eorum partim in pompa partim in acie illustres esse voluerunt_,
in which there is a confusion between _eorum pars_ and _ii partim_.
Occasionally, a contamination results from the confusion of the active
and passive constructions; e.g., _I care na by how few may see_ (Burns’s
song, ‘First when Maggie was my care’).
Sometimes an inaccuracy arises owing to the idea of a word which might
have been used displacing the word which actually was used by the
writer. Thus, for instance, the idea of the inhabitants displaces that
of the town or the country: cf. Θεμιστοκλῆς φεύγει ἐς 149 Κέρκυραν, ὢν
αὐτὼν εὐεργέτης (Thuc., 1. 136): _Auditæ legationes quorum_ (Tacitus,
Annals, iii. 63). Cf. _The revolt of the Netherlands_ (for _the
Netherlanders_) _from Spain_; ‘That faction (for _the partisans_) in
England _who_ most powerfully opposed his pretensions’ (Mrs.
Macaulay.)[68] Here belongs the pleonastic use of pronouns, common in
English: cf. ‘I bemoan Lord Carlisle, _for whom_, although I have never
seen him, and he may never have heard of me, I have a sort of personal
liking _for him_’ (Miss Mitford, Letters and Life, 2nd Series, 1872,
vol. ii., p. 160).[69] In Latin and Greek we often find the relative
referring to a possessive pronoun, as if the personal pronoun had
preceded: cf. _Laudare fortunas meas qui natum haberem_ (Terence, And.,
I. i. 69);[70] Τῆς ἐμῆς ἐπεισόδου, ὃν μήτ’ ὀκνεῖτε (‘The approach of me
whom neither fear ye’--Sophocles, Œd. Col., 730).
We have next to note confusions of the comparative and superlative
manner of expression, resulting in combinations like ‘Hi ceterorum
Britannorum _fugacissimi_’ (Tacitus, Agricola). Cf. ‘The climate of Pau
is perhaps the _most genial_ and the _best suited_ to invalids of any
other spot in France’ (Murray, Summer in Pyrenees, vol. i., p. 131).
‘Mr. Stanley was the only one _of his predecessors_ who slaughtered the
natives of the region he passed through’ (_London Examiner_, Feb. 16,
1878, p. 204).[71]
A case of contamination sometimes results from the idea of the past time
rising into memory simultaneously with that of present time: cf., in
Latin, the use of _iamdudum_ when joined to the imperative; as
_iamdudum sumite pœnas_ (Vergil, Æneid, ii. 103),--a confusion between
_iam sumite pœnas_ and _sumite pœnas iamdudum meritas_, i.e. between the
thoughts ‘pray take’ and ‘you should long ago have taken.’ Cf. _Those
dispositions that of late transform you from what you rightly are_
(Lear, I. iv. 242), and _He is ready to cry all the day_; cf., also,
such instances in Latin as _Idem Atlas generat_ and _Cratera antiquum
quem dat Sidonia Dido_ (Vergil, Æneid, ix. 266), where the _effect_ of
the action once performed is intended to be brought out by the use of
the present.
We often find in English an interrogation with the infinitive, where we
should expect a finite verb; as, _I do not know what to do_; where we
should rather have expected _I do not know what I should do_. This
construction seems a confusion between cases in which the infinitive was
directly dependent on the verb without any interrogative, as, _Scit
dicere_ (He can say); _Il sait dire_: and such constructions as _What to
say? I do not know_. Other instances are _Shelley, like Byron, knew
early what it was to love_ (Medwin’s Memoirs of Byron, p. 9); _How have
I then with whom to hold converse_ (Milton); _then sought where to lie
hid_ (ibid.); _hath not where to lay his head_. This construction is
common in the Romance languages; as in French,--_je ne sais quel parti
prendre_; Italian,--_non ho che dire_; Spanish,--_non tengo con quien
hablar_; Latin,--_rogatus ecquid haberet super ea re dicere_ (Aul.
Gellius, iii. 1).
Another form of syntactical contamination is when an interrogative
sentence is made dependent on a verb, and, at the same time, the subject
of this interrogative sentence is made the verb’s nominal object; as, _I
know thee who thou art: You hear the learned Bellario what he writes_
(Merchant of Venice, IV. i. 167): cf., also, Lear, I. i. 272. This usage
is common in Latin; as, _Nosti Marcellum quam tardus sit_ (Cicero): in
Italian an instance occurs in _tu’l saprai bene chi è_ (Boccaccio).
Similarly, we have cases in which the subject of an objective clause
introduced by _that_ becomes a nominal object of the principal verb; as,
_All saw him, that he was among the prophets_: so, too, the _object_ of
some subordinate clause may be also object of the main verb; e.g., _They
demanded £400, which she knew not how to pay_.
We find in English such phrases as ‘SUCH of the Moriscoes might remain
WHO demeaned themselves as Christians’ (Watson’s Life of Philip
III.)[72] We find in common use such phrases as _such as I saw_ side by
side with _the same which I saw_, or _that I saw_. Bacon writes _such
which must go before_; and Shakespeare, _Thou speakest to_ SUCH _a man_
THAT _is no fleering tell-tale_ (Julius Cæsar, I. iii). So Fuller:
_Oft-times_ SUCH WHO _are built four stories high are observed to have
little in their cockloft_. In Latin, we similarly find _idem_ followed
by _ut_, as in _eadem sunt iniustitia ut si in suam rem aliena
convertant_. In English, again, we find sentences like--
‘But scarce were they hidden away, I declare,
_Than_ the giant came in with a curious air’
(Tom Hood, Junr., Fairy Realm, p. 87);
_It is said that nothing was so teasing to Lord Erskine_ THAN _being
constantly addressed by his second title of Baron Clackmannan_ (Sir H.
Bulwer, Historical Characters, vol. ii., p. 186, Cobbett). We say ‘each
time _when_’ and ‘each time _that_’ (similarly, in French we find ‘au
temps _où_,’ and, at an earlier period, ‘au temps _que_’); ‘the rather
_because_,’ as well as ‘the rather _that_.’
In English we frequently find constructions like ‘Mac Ian, _while_
putting on his clothes, was shot through the head’ (Macaulay, History of
England, vii., p. 24); ‘I wrote an epitaph for my wife _though_ still
living’ (Goldsmith, Vicar of Wakefield, ii.). In these cases, the
predicatival attribute has the same function as a dependent sentence
introduced by a conjunction; and consequently the circumstance described
is rendered more exact by the placing of certain conjunctions before the
simple adjective. So, in French, we say, _Je le fis quoique obligé_;
and, in Italian, _benchè costretto_. Similarly, in Latin, many
conjunctions are placed before the ablative absolute; cf. _quamvis
iniqua pace, honeste tamen viverent_ (Cicero): _etsi aliquo accepto
detrimento_ (Cæsar).
Conversely, the fact that dependent sentences and prepositional
determinants may have the same function, causes prepositions to be used
to introduce dependent sentences. This use is especially common in
English: cf. EXCEPT _a man be born_ (St. John iii. 5); FOR _I cannot
flatter thee in pride_ (Shakespeare, 2 Henry VI., I. iii); AFTER _he had
begotten Seth_ (Genesis); sometimes this usage extends to cases where
the strict written language hesitates to accept it as usual; as,
‘_without_ they were ordered’ (Marryat); ‘I hate him _for_ he is a
Christian, but more for that--he lends’ (Merchant of Venice, I. iii.
43). _Till_ and _until_ are specially common in this use. Indeed, the
prepositional use of these words has almost died out in Modern English,
but is frequent in the literature of the Elizabethan age; cf.
Shakespeare, ‘From the first corse _till_ he that died to-day’ (Hamlet,
I. ii. 105), where _he_ should, strictly speaking, be _him_. Other
instances are quoted by Abbott, § 184. It must, however, be particularly
noticed that the constructions _for that_, _after that_, etc.,
may be used instead of _for_, _after_, when these words are used as
conjunctions. A preposition also stands before indirect questions: cf.
‘_at_ the idea of how sorry she would be’ (Marryat): ‘the daily quarrels
_about_ who shall squander most’ (Gay).
The result of contamination in syntax is often a pleonasm. Thus, in
Latin, we frequently meet with several particles expressive of
similarity; as, _pariter hoc fit atque ut alia facta sunt_ (Plautus):
and, again, we find expressions like _quasi si_; _nisi si_.[73] Thus, in
English, we meet with the common but incorrect expression _like as if_.
We can connect a preposition either with a substantive or with a
governing verb: we can say, _the place I am in_, or, _the place in which
I am_. The two even occur in combination: cf. _That fair_ FOR _which
love groaned_ FOR (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I. v., chorus), and,
_In what enormity is Marcus poor in...?_ (Coriolanus, II. i. 18). Nay,
we often find such expressions as _of our general’s_ (Shakespeare,
Antony and Cleopatra, I. i. 1), instead of _of our general_ or _our
general’s_; ‘If one may give that epithet to any opinion _of a
father’s_’ (Scott, Rob Roy, ch. ii.); ‘He is likewise a rival _of mine_,
that is my other _self’s_’ (Sheridan): cf. also the common pleonasm _of
ours_. Sometimes, to adverbs of place--themselves denoting the direction
whence--is added a preposition with a similar meaning; as, _from
henceforth_ (Luke v. 10): cf. ‘I went _from thence_ on to Edinburgh’
(Life of George Grote, ch. ii., p. 187).
Other instances of pleonasms arising from syntactical contamination are:
‘He saw that _the reason why_ witchcraft was ridiculed was _because_ it
was a phase of the miraculous, etc.’ (Lecky, History of Rationalism,
vol. i., p. 126); ‘_The reason why_ Socrates was condemned to death was
_on account of_ his unpopularity’ _Times_, February 27, 1871).[74]
Double comparatives and superlatives pleonastically resulting from
syntactical contamination are not unusual in English: cf. ‘Farmers find
it far _more profitable_ to sell their milk wholesale _rather than_ to
retail it’ (Fawcett, Pauperism, ch. vi., p. 237): ‘Still it was on the
whole _more satisfactory_ to his feeling to take the directest means of
seeing Dorothea _rather than_ to use any device,’ etc. (Middlemarch,
vol. iii., bk. vi., ch. lxii., p. 365). Thus we have in Shakespeare,
_more kinder_, _more corrupter_, and _most unkindest_ (Julius Cæsar,
III. ii. 187); and _thy most worst_ (Winter’s Tale, III. ii. 180). In
poetry, again, we find adjectives with a superlative sense compared; as,
_perfectest_, _chiefest_ (Shakespeare), _extremest_ (Milton), _more
perfect_ (English Bible), _lonelier_ (Longfellow).[75]
In Latin and Greek, we find the comparative where we should expect the
positive; as, _ante alios immanior omnes_ (Vergil, Æneid, iv.);
αἱρετώτερον εἶναι τὸν καλὸν θάνατον ἀντὶ τοῦ αἰσχροῦ βίου (Xenophon). In
Scotch it is usual to say _He is quite better again_ for _He is quite
well again_. We find the positive where we should expect the
comparative, as in St. Mark ix. 43; Καλόν σοι ἐστί ... ἤ (It is good for
thee than, etc.). We also find the superlative used where the
comparative would be regular: cf. Theocritus, xv. 139: Ἕκτωρ, Ἑκάβας ὁ
γεραίτατος εἴκατι παίδων.[76]
Pleonasm arising from contamination occurs most extensively in the case
of _negations_. Cf. ‘There was no character created by him into which
life and reality were _not_ thrown with such vividness that the thing
written did _not_ seem to his readers the thing actually done’
(Forster’s Life of Dickens, vol. ii., ch. ix., p. 181). In older stages
of English, as of German and French, this usage was very common. Cf.
_Parceque la langue française cort parmi le monde est la plus délitable
à lire et à oir que nulle autre_ (Martin da Canale);[77] _Wird das
hindern können, dass man sie nicht schlachtet?_ (Schiller). In Chaucer
and Shakespeare the use of the double negative is common: _First he
denied you had in him no right_ (Comedy of Errors, IV. ii. 7). _You may
deny that you were not the cause_ (Richard III., I. iii. 90).[78] With
this we may compare the redundant negative in Greek after verbs of
denying: οὐκ ἀπαρνοῦμαι τὸ μή; and, in Latin, _non dubito quin_: cf.
also the use of the double negative in Plautus, _neque illud haud
objiciet mihi_ (Epid., V. i. 5). In these cases a negative appears with
an infinitive where the main verb itself contains a quasi-negatival
force: numerous instances may be found in Shakespeare; cf. _Forbade the
boy he should not pass those grounds_ (Pas. Pilgrim, 9).
So we find a contamination of the two constructions: ‘not--and not’ and
‘neither--not’ in cases like Shakespeare’s ‘Be not proud, nor brag not
of thy might’ (Venus and Adonis, 113), = Be not ... and brag not +
neither be ... nor brag.
Compare also, ‘I cannot choose one nor refuse none’ = I cannot choose
one and I can (or may) refuse none + I can neither choose one nor refuse
one.[79]
A pleonastic negation occurs in French and other languages after words
signifying ‘without:’ cf. Mätzner, Fr. Gr., § 165: _Sans_ NUL _égard
pour nos scrupules_ (Béranger); _Elle ne voyait aucun être souffrant
sans que son visage_ N’_exprimât la peine qu’elle en ressentait_
(Bernardin de St. Pierre).[80] A curious pleonasm of the article occurs
in the following sentence: _No stronger and stranger_ A _figure is
described in the modern history of England_ (Justin McCarthy, History of
our own Times, vol. i., ch. ii., p. 31); a contamination between _There
was not a stronger figure_, and _No stronger figure_.
NOTE TO PAGE 148.
A very interesting and useful little book has been published by
Professor Nichol and M’Cormick on English Composition. It came too late
into our hands for us to make use of the many instructive and often
amusing examples it contains. We subjoin one (from p. 76).
‘The curses of Mr. A. B., like chickens, will come home _to roost
against him_’ (a contamination of ‘will be brought up against him,’ and
‘will come home to roost’).
Contaminations will account for many irregularities noted by the
authors.
CHAPTER IX.
ORIGINAL CREATION.
We must not suppose that the conditions under which language was
originally created were different from those which we are able to trace
and to watch in the process of its historical development. We must not
suppose that mankind once possessed a special faculty for coining
language, and that this faculty has died out. Education and experience
must have developed our faculties no less for the creation of language
than for other purposes; and if we have ceased to create new materials
for language at the present day, the reason must be that we have no
further need to do so. The mass of linguistic material which we have
inherited is, in fact, so great that it is scarcely possible for us to
conceive a new idea for which, in the existing language, we could not
find some word or form either ready to our hand, or capable of being
made more or less suitable to express it, or at least able to supply
some derivative for the purpose. On the other hand, we must admit that
the process of new creation has never wholly ceased in language; and
even in English we find a certain quantity of words whose derivation is
unknown, and which seem to be unconnected with any Indo-European
language; _e.g._, dog, rabbit, ramble, etc.[81]
Again, we must not suppose that the history of language falls into two
parts--a period of _roots_, and another period when language was _built
up_ of roots. At first, indeed, every idea to be expressed demanded the
creation of a new term; and even when the stock of existing words had
already become considerable, new thoughts must constantly have arisen
for which, as yet, there was no expression. Still, as the existing
vocabulary grew larger, the necessity for absolutely new words, not
connected with or derived from others already existing, grew less and
less; and it would therefore seem as if the need for such formations
would have gradually disappeared completely. But a little consideration
will suffice to show that, at all stages in the history of language,
there must have existed a certain necessity for new creations to express
new ideas; and we have a right to assume that in later times, as
civilisation grew more complex, the degree in which new creations were
necessary remained a considerable one.
The essence of original creation consists in the fact that a group of
sounds is connected with a group of ideas, without the intervening link
of any association already existing between a similar, related
sound-group, and a similar, related idea. When the Dutch chemist, Van
Helmont, conceived the novel idea of a category which should embrace all
such substances as _air_, _oxygen_, _hydrogen_, etc., he invented a new
term, ‘gas,’ which, unless the fancied connection with the word ‘geest’
(ghost) was indeed present in his mind, was a ‘new creation.’ If, on the
other hand, some one were now to invent some entirely new process of
treating gases, or of treating other substances with gases, and to
indicate such an operation by some such form as _gasel_, the word
_gasel_ would no doubt be quite new, but we should not speak of it as an
‘original creation’ in the sense in which we use the words in this
chapter. It would be a new _derivative_.
Original creation is due, in the first instance, to an impulse which may
disappear and leave no permanent traces. It is necessary, in order that
a real language may arise from this process, that the sounds should have
operated upon the mind so that memory can reproduce them. It is further
necessary that other individuals should understand the sounds which thus
constitute a word, and should be able to reproduce them as well.
We find that the new is named in language after what is already known;
in fact, the old and the new stand related to each other as cause and
effect: in other words, the new is not produced without some kind of
connection with the old. This connection generally consists of some
pre-existing association between cognate words and cognate ideas. In the
case, then, of original creation, the essence of which we declared to be
the absence of that link, some other connection must exist; and this
will generally be found in the fact that the sounds and their
signification suggest each other. The sounds in that case will strike
the generality of hearers as appropriate to the meaning intended to be
conveyed, and the speaker will be conscious that those sounds are
peculiarly fitted to express the idea which is in his mind. As an
instance, we might take the barbarously constructed word
‘electrocution,’ now in use in America to denote the new method of
inflicting the death penalty in that country. The word _electric_ is
understood; and so is the word _execution_: the barbarous new word is
the effect of our previous comprehension of these two words. Such
appropriateness will secure the repetition of the new creation by the
same speaker, and make probable the spontaneous creation of the same
term by various speakers living in the same mental and material
surroundings, both which effects are essential conditions for the common
acceptance of the new expression.
The most obvious class of words to illustrate this connection between
sound and meaning is what is known as ‘onomatopoietic;’ _i.e._ names
which were plainly coined in order to imitate sounds. The most common of
these are such as seem to be imitations of noises and movements. Such
are _click_, _clack_, _clink_, _clang_, _creak_, _crack_, _ding_,
_twang_, _rattle_, _rustle_, _whistle_, _jingle_, _croak_, _crash_,
_gnash_, _clatter_, _chatter_, _twitter_, _fizz_, _whiz_, _whisk_,
_whiff_, _puff_, _rap_, _slap_, _snap_, _clash_, _dash_, _hum_, _buzz_,
_chirp_, _cheep_, _hiss_, _quack_, _hoot_, _whirr_, _snarl_, _low_,
_squeak_, _roar_, _titter_, _snigger_, _giggle_, _chuckle_, _whimper_,
_croon_, _babble_, _growl_.[82] Those with the suffix _le_ are used to
express iteration, and so to form frequentative verbs. These suffixes
are specially noticeable in words of imitative origin, such as the list
given in Skeat, English Etymology, p. 278. Some verbs denote at once a
noise and an explosion, like _bang_, _puff_; French, _pan_, _pouf_:
others a noise and motion, as _fizz_, _whirr_. These are words which
appear to date from comparatively modern English. There would be no
difficulty in gathering from Greek and Latin parallel instances, namely
of words imitative of sounds, which seem to be new creations and have no
apparent connection with any other Indo-European language, such as
_gannire_, χρεμετίζειν.
It would seem, therefore, that, as far as we can judge, the original
creations of language must have consisted in words expressive of emotion
on the one hand, and of sounds on the other.
Because, in such words as we have been considering, we recognise an
intimate affinity between the sound and the signification, it does not
however follow that all these words must necessarily have been in their
origin onomatopoietic. There are some cases in which the words have been
consciously modified so as to imitate the sound; as, _hurtle_, _mash_,
_smash_. _Some_ may thus, perhaps, only _seem_ to be ‘new creations,’
but it is very unlikely that this is generally the case. Nay, we may say
it is certain that most of such words as we have been considering are
‘new creations,’ and we are further strengthened in this conviction by
the fact that we frequently find words of similar meaning, and very
similar forms, which cannot, according to the laws of sound, be referred
to a single original; such are, e.g., _crumple_, _rumple_, _crimp_;
_slop_, _slap_, _slip_; _squash_, _gash_; _grumble_, _rumble_. These
seem to support the idea that they were formed as imitative of sound.
Strictly speaking, however, the only absolutely certain original
creations are interjections. True interjections, at least those usually
employed, are as truly learnt by tradition as any other elements of
language, and it is owing to their association that they come to express
emotion. But, as reflex-utterances to sudden emotions, they essentially
belong to the class of words we are now considering. Once existing, they
become conventional, and hence it is that we see different sounds
employed to express the same emotions in different languages. Thus we
have in English to express surprise, _Dear me!_--in Greek,
Παπαί--German, _Aha!_ The Englishman says _Hulló_ with rising, where the
Portuguese would say _Holà_, with falling intonation. To express pain,
we have _Alas! Welladay! Woe’s me!_--in German, _Ach! Weh!_
_Au!_--in French, _Oh! Hélas! Ciel!_--in Gaelic, _Och! Och mo
chreach!_ To express joy, we have in English, _Hurrah_, _Good!_--in
German, _Heida! Heisa! Juch! Juchheisa!_--in Greek, Εὖγε!--in
Latin, _Evax!_--in French, the old expression, _Oh gay!_ (Molière, Mis.,
Act. I., sc. iii.). Hence it is, too, that individuals employing the
same dialect employ different interjections to express the same emotion.
Thus, different individuals in the same linguistic community might
employ, to express disgust or disbelief, _Pshaw! Fudge! Stuff!_
_Nonsense!_ etc.
Of the interjections cited above, it may be noticed that some, like
_Pshaw!_ and _Pooh!_ seem to be a primitive and simple expression of
feeling. Most interjections, however, seem to be made up of existing
words or groups of words; cf. _farewell_, _welcome_, _hail_, _good_,
_welladay_, _bother_, _by ‘r Lady_, _bosh_: and this is the case in the
most various languages. In many cases, their origin is quite concealed
by sound changes; as in _hélas_, which is really derived from the
natural sound _hé_, and _las_, ‘weary,’ and has come to be pronounced
‘hél_as_.’ Other instances are _Welladay! Zounds!_ (i.e. _God’s
wounds_), _Jiminy_ (i.e. _Jesu Domine_). Some of these have been
assimilated by popular etymology to words existing in the language; such
as _Welladay!_ into which meaningless expression the old form wellaway
(A.S. _wá lá wá_ = _wo! lo! wo!_) has been turned. Other instances are
_harrow_, in Chaucer, from N.F. _haro_; _goodbye_, from _God be wi’ ye_;
_palsangguné_ = _par le sang béni_ (Molière); _cadedis_, in Gascon, (=
_cap de Dieu_ = caput Dei). Some, again, have come to be used as
expressions of emotion, being in their origin foreign words whose
signification is partially or wholly forgotten; such are
_Hosannah!_[83] (Save, we pray), _Hallelujah!_[84] (Praise ye Jehovah).
There seems, however, to be a certain number of words which owed their
origin immediately to reflex movements, and which come to be employed
when we happen to again experience a similar sudden excitement. Such
words as these are _bang_, _dash_, _hurrah_, _slap_, _crack_, _fizz_,
_boom_. There are, probably, ‘interjections’ which, in single cases, are
natural productions, and in all cases lie near the field of natural
production; _e.g._, the sign of shuddering, or shivering with cold,
horror, fright (often written _ugh!_). It accompanies the shiver of the
body and is itself the result of an expulsion of air from the lungs
through the vocal passages where all the muscles are in a state of
sympathetic contraction. _Aau!_ may also be, in single cases, a natural
production. _Aautch_ is a sort of diminutive of it. Again, the sound
used in clearing the throat is a purely natural production. Coupled with
closure of the lips, forcing an exit by the nasal passages, it assumes
the form _hm!_--or _hem!_ as commonly written. As commonly appearing
preparatory to speaking, it comes by association to have value in
attracting attention.
Many of these words are, at the same time, substantives or verbs as
well; and in this case it is often difficult to say whether the
interjectional use, on the one hand, or the nominal and verbal on the
other, is the original. For us, however, this is at present immaterial;
as long as in the one we have a real ‘original creation,’ the other
meaning may be a derived one. Duplication and triplication of sounds is
often employed, and often the vowel sounds belonging to the different
syllables are differentiated by _ablaut_. Thus _chit-chat_, _ding-dong_,
_snip-snap_ (Shakespeare, Love’s Labour’s lost, V. i.), _tittle-tattle_,
_kit-kat_ (in ‘the Kit-kat Club’), _sing-song_, _see-saw_, _gew-gaw_,
_tick-tack_; French, _clic-clac_, _cric-crac_, _drelin-drelon_,
_cahu-caha_ (used to express the jolting of a vehicle). Words used as
substantives only, are formed in somewhat similar pairs as
_hurly-burly_, _linsey-woolsey_, _hotch-potch_; and so also are adverbs
such as _helter-skelter_, _higgledy-piggledy_. Old language material,
too, is often employed in the formation of such words as _sing-song_,
_ding-dong_, _boohoo_, _rub-a-dub_, _zig-zag_. We may compare also such
formations as _ring-a-ching-a-chink-chink_. There are other words due to
the same imitative impulse, which, however, are formed according to the
regular laws of language. Such are combinations of several words echoing
the sound, and differing only in their vowels: such as _flicker and
flacker_, _crinkle-crankle_, _dinging and donging_.
_Nursery language._ Most nursery language is imitative of natural
sounds, and reduplication plays an important part in the words in this;
cf. _bow-wow_, _puff-puff_, _gee-gee_, etc.[85] This language is not
invented by children, but is received by them like any other, and
welcomed by those who have to teach infants, as facilitating the efforts
of the teacher. The relation of the sound to the meaning which often
still exists therein, facilitates the acceptance of the word by the
child to be taught. Indeed, the words of the language of culture are
sometimes actually compounded with words of nursery language, as in the
case of _moo-cow_, _baa-sheep_, _coo-dove_. It must further be remarked
that, when a language has developed into a state of culture and finds it
necessary to create new words, these words accommodate themselves to the
forms already existing in the language, and undergo processes of
formation similar to those which have operated on the words already
existing in the language. They appear with the derivation and flection
syllables common in the language at the time when they were created. For
instance, supposing _cackle_ and _chuckle_ to be words of this sort,
_cack_, and _chuck_ or _chugh_ are the only parts due to original
creation;--the termination _le_ seems a regular iterative form, and the
words have come to be classified with others of the same formation, and
treated in the same way. Similar instances are αἰάζω (αἰαί) οἰμώζω
(οἰμοι), etc.
_Roots._ We are led to see, then, from such forms as _cackle_, that what
we regard as a _root_ need not necessarily ever have existed as a bare
root, as an independent element; but immediately upon its appearance, it
is naturally provided with one or more suffixes or prefixes in
accordance with the exigencies of the language. Thus, for instance, in
the Middle ages a belfry was called _clangorium_. And further, the
_function_ of new creations is determined by the analogy of other words
existing in the language; and thus the new words, as soon as they appear
in the language, conform to the laws of language, and an element appears
in the words which does not depend upon original creation. So φεῦ forms
a verb in Æschylus, Agamemnon: τί ταῦτ’ ἔφευξας (1194; see also line
960); cf. _ächzen_ in N.H.G., and the use of such words as _crack_,
_crackle_, _crackling_.
In what has been said hitherto, we have mainly considered the form in
which language appears; but neither in this nor in its syntax must we
suppose that the first creations with which language began were operated
upon by any such influences as analogy. We must suppose them to have
been entire conceptions, condensed sentences, as when we cry out _Fire!_
_Thieves!_ They are really, it will be seen, predicates; and an
impression unspoken but felt by the speaker forms their subject. The
impressions made by noises and sounds would be those that would
naturally strike first upon man’s consciousness; and to express these he
creates the first sounds of language. The oldest words, therefore, seem
to have been imperfectly expressed conceptions partaking of an
interjectional character.
Again, it must be remembered that the new creations of primitive man
must have been made with no thought of communication. Until language was
created, those who uttered the first sounds must have been ignorant that
they could thereby indicate anything to their neighbours. The sounds
which they uttered were simply the reflection of their own feelings, or
when they came by observation to associate with their neighbours’
feelings. But as soon as other individuals heard these reflex sounds,
and at the same time had the same feelings, the sounds and feelings were
in some way connected, and must have passed into the consciousness of
the community as in some measure connected as cause and effect. We must
also suppose that gesture language developed side by side with the
language of sounds: and, indeed, it is not until language has reached a
high degree of development that it can dispense with gesture language as
an auxiliary. The Southern nations, which use most interjections,
employ also most gesticulations. The Portuguese language, for instance,
is exceedingly rich in interjections, and moreover these interjections
are in common use, to an extent which at first strikes a foreigner as
excessive and almost unpleasant, but which he soon learns to appreciate.
Conversation in Portuguese often derives a peculiar charm and
picturesqueness from the frequency with which one of the speakers
expresses his meaning, quite clearly, with some interjection (e.g.
_ora_) and some gesticulation.[86]
We must further remember that, as soon as a speaker has recognised the
fact that he can, by the means of language, communicate his thoughts,
there is nothing to prevent the sounds uttered consciously as the
vehicles of communication from attaching themselves to those which are
merely involuntary expressions of feelings. Whether the group of sounds
so produced shall disappear or survive must depend on its suitability to
fill a need, and on many chance circumstances.
It should also be noticed that we must suppose the original human being,
who had never as yet spoken, to have been absolutely unable to reutter
at his will any form of speech which he had chanced to produce. He would
slowly and gradually, after repeatedly hearing the sound, acquire the
capacity for reproducing it. The children of our own day hear a certain
number of definite and limited sounds repeated by persons in whom
identical motory sensations have developed.
We are driven, therefore, to assume that language must have begun with a
confused utterance of the most varying and uncertain articulations, such
as we never find combined in any real language. We may thus gather that
the consistency in motory sensation necessary to a language must have
been very slow in developing.
The result, then, at which we arrive is that no motory sensation can
attain to a definite form and consistency except for such sounds as are
favoured by their natural conditions. The sounds most open to be acted
on by such conditions are those immediately resulting from the attempt
to express natural feelings; in the endeavour to express these, nature,
which prompted the feelings, must have prompted some uniformity of
utterance. The traditional language must at its outset have contented
itself with comparatively few sound signs, even though a large quantity
of different sounds were, on different occasions, uttered by the
different individuals.
The process of utterance must have been long and tedious before anything
worthy to be called a language could come into existence. A language
cannot be produced until individuals belonging to the same linguistic
community have begun to store up in memory the product of their original
creations. When they can draw upon their memory at will, and can count
upon reproducing the same sound-groups to represent the same ideas, and
can likewise count upon these sound-groups being understood in the same
sense, then, and not till then, can we speak of language in any true
sense.
If this be the true test of the existence of a language, it is no doubt
true that we must admit that many beasts possess language. Their calls
of warning or of enticement are clearly traditional, and are learnt from
those around them. They utter the same cries to express the same
emotions, and this consistently. But the language of beasts suffices
only for the expression of a simple and definite feeling. The language
of man consists in the grouping of several words so as to form a
sentence. Man thus develops the power of advancing beyond simple
intuition, and of pronouncing judgment on what is not before him.