OBJECTIONS, REAL AND REPUTED
Two languages, it has just been said, we have: one we write, and
one we speak. To bring them even remotely into conformity is one of
the hardest problems to solve that was ever put before the users of
any tongue. It is manifest from the survey which was made of the
orthographic situation, that the difficulties which stand in the way
of reforming English spelling are not the difficulties which are
ordinarily paraded. There are arguments against any change whatever.
They do not seem to me strong ones, but they are honestly held.
Furthermore, they are held by men who know too much about the language
to be imposed upon by the cheap objections, which come from the
unknowing or the unthinking. The only one of serious importance is the
existence of that period of uncertainty and confusion which must attend
the transition from the old to the new. This, to be sure, has always
existed to some extent. Once it existed to a great extent. It exists
at the present day. The introductions or appendixes to our larger
dictionaries contain lists of from fifteen hundred to two thousand
words which still continue to be spelled in different ways. But many
of these are not in common use. Hence, the number of them makes little
impression upon the common mind.
But as no reform of any kind ever yet proved an unmixed blessing, so
will not reform of English orthography. Especially will this be true
of it at its introduction. A change of spelling on any large scale
will involve for the time being certain disadvantages. The conflict
between the old that is going out and the new that is coming in cannot
fail to produce more or less of annoyance. These disturbances, indeed,
last only for a time; but to some they are very real while they do
last. Those of us who believe that the permanent benefits accruing
to the users of our tongue from a reform of our orthography outweigh
immensely the temporary inconveniences and annoyances to which they
will be subject, can well afford to bear with the hesitation of those
who like the end in view, but dislike the time and toil that must be
gone through in order to reach it. There must always be taken into
consideration the existence of a class of persons who look upon the
present state of our orthography as an evil, but an evil that cannot be
got rid of without costing more than the benefits received in return.
But such reasons for reluctance to unsettle the existing condition
of things are widely different from the pretentious objections that
are regularly advanced by those who have not studied the subject
sufficiently to understand the real difficulties that lie in the way.
Yet these imaginary obstacles loom up so large in the minds of many
that they must receive a respectable amount of consideration, even if
they are hardly entitled to respectful consideration. It is not for
any value they have in themselves that they are discussed here. It
is because they are constantly urged by men whose opinions on other
subjects are frequently of highest value. The utter hollowness of these
common objections to spelling reform will be shown in the course of
the following pages, as well as the unconscious insincerity of those
advancing them. I say unconscious, because the insincerity has not
been caused by any attempt to ignore the facts or to conceal them.
It is simply that these have never occurred to them. But I further
say insincerity, because the moment the real facts are brought to
their attention, they refuse to apply to particular cases the general
principles upon which they have been loudly insisting. The further
great difficulty in dealing with the honest objector does not consist
merely in showing him that he is wrong in his facts. It is to make
clear that his reasoning is wrong in the few instances in which his
facts are right.
I
The first of these objections is connected with the subject of
derivation. There goes on, we are told, an irrepressible conflict
between etymological spelling and phonetic, or anything approaching
phonetic spelling. If the latter come to occupy the foremost place,
the former, it is asserted, will disappear. Incalculable harm would
thereby be wrought both to the speech and to its speakers. According to
some, life would become a burden to the individual, and the language
would be ruined beyond redemption, if the spelling of a word should
hide from our eyes the source from which it came. The mystic tie that
binds the speech of the past to that of the present would be severed.
This is the special argument which comes not unfrequently from members
of the educated, and sometimes of the scholarly class, though not
from that section of it which deals with English scholarship. In the
course of the preceding pages there has been constant occasion to
give illustrations of its falsity, and far too often of its fraud.
Consequently, to discuss it directly and at length will seem to many
very much like going through the process of slaying the slain. But it
plays so conspicuous a part in all discussions of spelling reform, that
it is perhaps advisable, if not necessary, to consider it with special
fulness of detail.
There is no question, indeed, that this argument based upon etymology
has the strongest hold upon the educated class. It is constantly
brought forward as if it were sufficient of itself to settle the
question. Words, we are told, have a descent of their own. Letters
which are never heard in the spoken speech, and indeed cannot be
pronounced by any conceivable position known to us of our vocal organs,
are not to be dropped from the written speech, because they remind us,
or at least remind some of us, of forms in the languages from which
they originally came. It sends a peculiar thrill of rapture, we are
assured, through the heart of the student to find, for illustration, in
_deign_, _reign_, _feign_, and _impugn_, a letter _g_ which he never
thinks of pronouncing. Silent as it is to the ear, it is, nevertheless,
eloquent with all the tender associations connected with _dignor_,
_fingo_, _regno_, and _impugno_. That persons with little education,
and on the other hand persons with the highest linguistic training,
should not share in these feelings is not at all to the purpose. Such
are not really the ones to be consulted. Between these two classes
lies a vast body of educated men whose wishes in this matter should be
considered paramount.
That this argument in their behalf may not be charged with
misrepresentation, take the following passage from Archbishop Trench,
one of the deservedly favorite linguistic writers of the previous
generation. Furthermore, as about the only English scholar of any
repute who has come to the aid of the opponents of spelling reform,
his words deserve quotation on that very account. He is giving as a
reason for the retention of useless letters that while they are silent
to the ear, they remain eloquent to the eye. “It is urged, indeed,”
wrote Trench, “as an answer to this, that the scholar does not need
these indications to help him to the pedigree of the words with which
he deals, that the ignorant is not helped by them; that the one knows
without, and the other does not know with them; so that, in either
case, they are profitable for nothing. Let it be freely granted that
this, in both these cases, is true; but between these two extremes
there is a multitude of persons, neither accomplished scholars on
the one side, nor yet wholly without the knowledge of all languages
save their own on the other; and I cannot doubt that it is of great
value that these should have all helps enabling them to recognize the
words which they are using, whence they came, to what words in other
languages they are nearly related, and what is their properest and
strictest meaning.”[36]
Now, in the first place, were all this true, the objection would not
be a valid one. The well-being of the many is always to be preferred
to the satisfaction of the few. A language does not exist for the sake
of imparting joyful emotions to the members of a particular group who
are familiar with its sources. When committed to writing it is so
committed for the purpose of conveying clearly to the eye the sounds
heard by the ear. Anything in the form of the printed word which stands
in the way of the speediest arrival at such a result is to that extent
objectionable. But even this so-called advantage of suggesting origins
is distinctly limited. What educated men know of the sources of words
is almost entirely confined to Latin and Greek. Of the earlier forms of
the more common native words and of their meanings the immense majority
of even the most highly cultivated are ignorant. Their ignorance,
however, does not seem to impair their happiness any more than it does
their comprehension.
But the objection, further, is a purely artificial one. The happiness
conferred is a happiness assumed to be confined to the words in
their present form. The example of other tongues shows there is no
justification for this belief. The Italian is a phonetic language.
Does any one believe that an Italian scholar experiences any less
satisfaction in finding the Græco-Latin _philosophia_, converted in
his speech into _filosofia_ than an English one does in seeing it in
the form _philosophy_? Has his language suffered any material injury
in consequence? Were I not myself inconsistent and lazy and several
other disreputable adjectives, I should write _fonetic_ instead of
_phonetic_. This I cheerfully admit. But were not the strictly virtuous
defenders of spelling according to derivation equally lacking in
consistency, and absolutely unfaithful to the high etymological ideals
they hold up for our admiration, they would be writing _phansy_,
at least, instead of _fancy_. In one of the sporadic attacks of
common-sense which have sometimes overtaken the users of our speech,
_f_ has displaced _ph_ in this word, though to prevent the result
from being wholly rational it has substituted _c_ for _s_. The Greek
_phantasia_ has come down to us through _phantasy_, _fantasy_, and has
finally subsided into the present form. To the believer in etymological
spelling _fancy_ ought to be as objectionable as _fonetic_.
In the second place, the hollowness of this pretended regard for
etymology is not only detected, it is emphasized by the fact that
the opposition to change is equally pronounced in the case of words
where the present form is the result of blundering ignorance which
gives an utterly erroneous idea of their origin. Can any antagonist
of simplification be induced by his devotion to derivation to
abandon _comptroller_? This corrupt spelling does more than defy the
pronunciation of the word; it gives an utterly false impression of its
source. _Controller_ is in Anglo-French _contre-rollour_, in law Latin
_contra-rotulator_. These, again, were taken from the Latin _contra_,
‘against,’ and the diminutive _rotulus_, _rotula_, ‘a little wheel,’
which word in the middle ages acquired the meaning of ‘roll.’ The
controller, in consequence, was the one who kept the counter-roll or
register, by which the entries on some other roll were tested. How
naturally the possession of such an office would be apt to give to
him holding it “control” over certain others, in the modern sense of
the word, is apparent on the surface. But in the sixteenth century,
and even earlier, some members of that class, “neither accomplished
scholars on the one side nor yet wholly without the knowledge of all
languages save their own on the other,” got it into their heads that
the first part of the word came from the French _compter_, ‘to count.’
Hence came the unphonetic spelling based upon a blunder of derivation!
Take two other examples, illustrative of this attitude of opposition.
Could any upholder of etymological spelling be induced to drop the _c_
of _scent_, though nobody ever pronounced the intruding letter? Yet,
as it comes from the Latin _sent-ire_, the substitution of _scent_ for
the previous _sent_ destroys in this case for the vast majority of
educated men that delightful reminiscence of the classic tongues which,
we are told, imparts so peculiar a charm to the present orthography.
Mitford, the historian of Greece, was subjected to ceaseless ridicule
and vituperation because he preferred the correct etymological form
_iland_, and refused to adopt the _s_ which had been inserted into the
word under the blundering belief that it was either derived from or was
in some way related to the Latin _insula_ and the French _isle_.
In truth, the argument of derivation is invoked only to retain whatever
orthographic anomalies we chance to have. It is abjured the moment an
effort is made to root out any etymological anomalies which have been
introduced into the speech. The fact is that if spelling according
to derivation were heeded it would result in changes to which those
proposed by any advocate of simplification of spelling would seem
absurdly trivial. This would be particularly noticeable in the case of
words derived from native sources. The opponent of spelling reform who
bases his hostility upon etymological grounds would be aghast were he
asked to conform to his principles in his practice. Out indeed would go
the _h_ of the very word _aghast_ just used. Nothing would induce him
to drop the intruding letter in this case or other letters in scores
of other cases, though their only effect is to hide the origin of the
word. Or take, for illustration of mere uselessness, the _k_ of whole
classes of words of native origin. The letter was as little known to
the Anglo-Saxon alphabet as it was to the Roman. Hence, were spelling
according to derivation strictly enforced, it would have to disappear
from no small number of words where it is not merely superfluous as
regards pronunciation, but gives an entirely erroneous impression of
the form from which it came. It has been remarked that the original
of _back_ was _bæc_, of _quick_ was _cwic_, of _stock_ was _stoc_, of
_sick_ was _seoc_. Imagine the indignant feelings of the assumed ardent
devotee of spelling according to derivation if he were asked to drop
the final letter from these words. Yet from his own point of view it
has no business there at all.
To a certain extent this particular brand of ruin had already overtaken
the language. From the native words no one had ever thought of
discarding the final _k_, because scarcely any one knew of the forms
these originally had. But knowledge of Latin was widespread. Regard for
derivation succeeded, therefore, in banishing it from whole classes
of words taken from that language. The struggle, however, was long.
The authority of Doctor Johnson was in vain invoked for its retention.
One must be familiar with the history of orthography to appreciate
what dissensions sprang up in once happy homes, what prognostics were
indulged in of the ruin that would betide the speech, were men ever
to be induced to spell _musick_ and _historick_ and _prosaick_, and a
host of similar words, without their final _k_. Boswell, who could not
help reproaching Johnson for dropping the vowel _u_ from _authour_,
praised him for standing up for the retention of this final consonant.
He represents him as saying that he spelled _Imlac_ in _Rasselas_ with
a _c_ at the end because by so doing it was less like English, which,
he continued, “should always have the Saxon _k_ added to the _c_.” The
“Saxon k” was the lexicographer’s personal contribution to the original
English alphabet. “I hope,” continued Boswell, “the authority of the
great master of our language will stop this curtailing innovation by
which we see _critic_, _public_, etc., frequently written instead of
_critick_, _publick_, etc.”
The biographer’s hopes were doomed, however, to disappointment. Walker,
the favorite lexicographer of a hundred years ago, bowed to the storm,
while he deplored the havoc it had wrought. “It has been a custom
within these twenty years,” he wrote, “to omit the _k_ at the end of
words when preceded by _c_. This has introduced a novelty into the
language, which is that of ending a word with an unusual letter, and
is not only a blemish on the face of it, but may possibly produce some
irregularity in future formations.” To call it a novelty was stating
the matter too strongly. But to this extent Walker’s assertion was
true, that spelling a word with a final _c_ was only occasional.
Here we have been considering the dropping of a useless final letter
which has no justification for its existence on the ground of
derivation. This naturally leads to the consideration of the case
in which it is proposed to drop a particular one which has such
justification. This is the no longer pronounced guttural with which,
as one example, _through_ ends. One of the queer objections brought
against the spelling _thru_ was that hardly a word existed in our
language that ended in the letter _u_. That seemed to the protester
an all-sufficient reason for never letting any of them have that
termination. If the sound was there to be represented, there seemed
no very cogent reason why the letter fitted to represent it should
not perform its office. In the original speech _u_ terminated some
most common words, as _sunu_, ‘son’; _duru_, ‘door’; and _pu_, ‘thou.’
What crime has this unfortunate vowel committed that it should be
deprived of its ancient privilege of standing at the end of a word?
The objection is interesting because it shows what sort of reasons
intelligent people can be led to believe and to adduce under the honest
impression that these are to be deemed arguments.
Another fallacy connected with this subject of spelling in conformity
with the derivation is suggested by the extract taken from Archbishop
Trench’s work, rather than directly asserted in it. This is that a
knowledge of the origin of words is a desirable if not an essential
requisite to their proper use. Consequently, the spelling of the
English word should be made to conform to the etymology for that
particular reason. This is an assumption that has no warrant in fact.
The existence of great authors in every literature, who had either no
knowledge or had very imperfect knowledge of the sources of the speech
which they wielded at will, is an argument which may be ignored, and
ordinarily is ignored, because it can never be squarely met. It is
not from their originals or from their past meanings that men learn
the value of the terms they employ. Acquaintance with that comes from
experience or observation, or from familiarity with the usage of the
best speakers and writers. Is the meaning of _nausea_ any plainer
after we have learned that it is by origin a Greek word which come
from _naus_, ‘ship,’ and in consequence ought strictly to be limited
to denoting seasickness? One hour’s experience of the sensation will
give the sufferer a keener appreciation and a preciser knowledge of
the signification than a whole year’s study of the derivation. Will
_stirrup_ be employed with greater clearness after one has learned
that in the earliest English it was _stige-râp_, and that accordingly
it meant the ‘rope’ by which one ‘sties’ or mounts the horse? The
information thus gained has an independent value of its own. It may
be of interest as satisfying an intelligent curiosity. It may show
that the first stirrups were probably made of ropes. But it implies
a mistaken and confused perception of what is to be derived from
etymological study, to fancy that as a result of it any one will have
a better knowledge of this particular appendage to a saddle or use
the term denoting it with more precision and expressiveness. It is
only in the exceptional cases, when a word is beginning to wander away
from its primitive or strictly proper sense, that the knowledge of the
derivation imparts accuracy of use. Yet even here this knowledge is of
slight value. The transition of meaning is either a natural development
which ought not to be held in check, or it is a general perversion
which the etymological training of the few is in most cases powerless
to arrest.
One form of this fallacy of derivation is that which connects it with
the history of words. The two are closely allied. They are, indeed,
so closely allied that when one is spoken of, it is the other that is
usually meant. We are often condescendingly assured by the opponent of
spelling reform that its advocates forget that words have a history of
their own. After indulging in this not particularly startling remark he
almost invariably goes on to make clear by illustration that he himself
has no conception of what it means. “Shall we,” asks a writer, after
reciting this well-worn formula--“shall we mask the Roman origin of
_Cirencester_ and _Towcester_ by spelling them Sissiter and Towster,”
as they are pronounced? Now it may not be wise, for various reasons,
to alter the orthography of proper names. But the unwisdom of it will
not be for the reason here given. In this case it is evident from the
words accompanying his protest that what the decryer of change means
to say is that by altering the spelling of the place names, their
history would be obscured. What he actually says, however, is that
their derivation, which is but a single point in their history, would
be hidden from view.
For the leading idea at the bottom of an argument of this sort, if it
has any idea at all, must necessarily be that the particular form
which the word assumed at the first known period of its existence
should be the form religiously preserved for all future time. Now, if
orthography is merely or, even mainly, to represent etymology; if,
further, we are able both to obtain and retain the earliest spelling,
there is method in this madness, even though there be not much sense.
But of the first form we have been able to secure the knowledge with
certainty in only a few instances. Far fewer are the instances in
which we have retained it. Almost invariably it is a form belonging
to some later period that is adopted and set before us as somehow
having attained sanctity. This imputed sanctity works only harm. The
maintenance of one form through all periods not only contributes
nothing to the history of the word, it does all it can to prevent
any knowledge of its history being kept alive. For it is the spoken
word alone that has life. Only by the changes which the written word
undergoes can the record of that life be preserved. If the written
word remains in a fossilized condition, all direct knowledge of the
successive stages through which the spoken word passed, disappears.
The moment a word comes to have a fixed unchangeable exterior form,
no matter what alterations may take place in its interior life, that
is to say, in its pronunciation, that moment its history, independent
of the meaning it conveys, becomes doubtful and obscure. This is
the condition to which English vocables are largely reduced. Their
successive significations can be traced; but knowledge of the important
changes of pronunciation they have undergone becomes difficult, if not
impossible, of attainment.
Two terms designating common diseases may seem to illustrate fairly
well the opposite condition of things here indicated. They are
_quinsy_ and _phthisic_. The one early dropped the forms _squinancy_,
_squinacy_, and _squincy_, which belonged to the immediate Romance
original. To that an _s_ had been prefixed. When that letter ceased
to be pronounced, no one thought of retaining it. So for that reason
it disappeared from the English, just as for the opposite reason it
has been preserved in the corresponding French word _esquinancie_. In
this case a history has been unrolled before us. It is not unlike that
seen in the supplanting of the form _chirurgeon_ by _surgeon_. On the
other hand, take the case of the word _phthisic_, as now ordinarily
written. This form gives us no knowledge of the real history of the
word. From other sources we learn that it was once spelled as it is
now pronounced. The most current of several forms was _tisik_. In
Milton it is found as _tizzic_. Such a spelling makes evident at once
how it was then sounded, just as still do the corresponding _tisico_
in Italian and _tisica_ in Spanish. But in the seventeenth century,
and even as early as the sixteenth, scholars went back to the Greek
original and imposed upon the unfortunate word the combination _phth_,
which by a liberal use of the imagination is supposed to have somehow
the sound of _t_. This has finally come to prevail over the earlier
phonetic spelling. He whose knowledge of the word is confined to its
present form is almost necessarily led to believe that it was taken
directly from its remote source. From all acquaintance with the
various changes it has undergone, and with the pronunciation it has
had at various periods, he is shut out. Archbishop Trench has pointed
out the transition by which _emmet_ has passed into _ant_ through
the intermediate spellings of _emet_ and _amt_, which necessarily
represented changes of sound.[37] By this means a history has been
unrolled before us. But he certainly had no right to felicitate himself
upon the result. If his theories be true, instead of spelling the word
as we pronounce it, which we now do, we ought to adopt in writing the
poetic and dialectic _emmet_ at least, if not the earliest known form.
To employ his own argument, letters silent to the ear would still be
most eloquent to the eye. In this particular case some of us would
be made happy beyond expression by being reminded of the Anglo-Saxon
original _æmete_.
Even using history in the narrow and imperfect sense in which those
who advance this argument constantly employ it, we are no better
off. Nearly every old word in the language has had different forms
at different periods of its existence. Which one of these is to be
selected as the standard? When does this so-called history begin? Take
the word we spell _head_. Shall we so write it because it is the custom
to do so now? Or shall we go back to the Anglo-Saxon original _heâfod?_
Or shall we adopt some one of its three dozen later forms--such, for
instance, as _heved_ or _heed_ or _hed_? This last, which with our
present pronunciation, would be a pure phonetic spelling, was more or
less in use from the thirteenth to the eighteenth century. The reason
for our preference for the existing form has no other basis than the
habit of association to which attention has been so frequently called.
We do not spell the word as _head_ because it gives us a knowledge of
the changes which have taken place in its history, for this it does not
do at all. Nor do we so spell it because it gives us a knowledge of its
derivation, for this it does very little. Nor further do we so spell it
because it represents pronunciation, for this it does still less. We
cling to it for no other reason than that we are used to it. What is
here said of _head_ can be said of thousands of other words.
Even in the case of Cirencester and Towcester, above mentioned, the
same statement holds good. As there intimated, proper names do not
really enter into the discussion of the general question. Being
individual in their nature, they are more or less under the control of
the individuals who own them. These can and do exercise the right of
changing at will their orthography and their pronunciation. But for the
sake of the argument, let us assume that it would be a gross outrage
to spell the names of these towns as _Sissiter_ and _Touster_. Let us
admit that by such a change all knowledge of their Roman origin would
be lost to those who did not care enough about it to make the matter a
subject of special study. It is accordingly a natural and, indeed, a
perfectly legitimate inference, that in the designation of towns the
main office of their orthography is to point out who founded them or
how they chanced to come into being.
If this be so, the principle ought to be carried through consistently.
What, in such a case, should be done with _Exeter_? The ancient name
was _Exanceaster_, which passed through various changes of form, among
which were _Exscester_ and _Excester_. As early, at least, as the reign
of Queen Elizabeth it became usually _Exeter_. If it be the object of
spelling to impart information about the origin of places, ought we not
at any rate to return to the form _Excester_, to remind “a multitude of
persons, neither accomplished scholars on the one side, nor yet wholly
without the knowledge of all languages save their own on the other,”
that the Romans once had a permanent military station on the banks of
the Exe? It is to be feared that no devotion to derivation would lead
the inhabitants of the city to sanction such a change. In truth, the
value of all knowledge of this sort is something assumed, not really
substantiated. The few who need it, or wish it, can easily acquire it
without the necessity of perverting orthography from its legitimate
functions to the business of imparting it. How many of the inhabitants
of Boston in Lincolnshire and of Boston in Massachusetts lead useful,
happy, and honored lives, and go down to their graves in blissful
unconsciousness of the fact that the name of their city has been
shortened from Botolph’s Town! How many of them are aware, indeed, that
such a saint as Botolph ever existed at all?
In truth, all knowledge of the history of words ceases for most of us
the moment these assume a fixed form, independent of the sounds they
purport to represent. That history is found in the pronunciation. It is
recorded and revealed to us only by the variations in spelling which
variations in pronunciation require. In this matter the attitude of
the past and of the present is distinctly at variance. Especially is
this so in the case of unpronounced letters. Our ancestors discarded
such without scruple, whether found in the original or not. We cling
to them. We are not content with merely clinging to them. The more
in the way they are, the more we cherish them. This point is brought
out strikingly in the earlier and the later treatment of two initial
letters which ceased to be sounded. These are _k_ and _h_. The latter
was incontinently dropped in writing when it failed to be heard in the
pronunciation. This, indeed, was done so long ago that knowledge of the
fact that the letter once existed at the beginning of certain words
is now mainly confined to the students of our earlier speech. In the
other case the unpronounced letter is still retained in the spelling.
There is consequently no way for us to determine from the form of the
word when this initial _k_ ceased to be a living force. That knowledge
must be gained with more or less of certainty from an independent
investigation.
It has already been pointed out that there are some two dozen words in
our speech in which an initial _k_ followed by _n_ is silent.[38] If
the researches of Mr. Ellis can be trusted, the dropping of the sound
of this letter from pronunciation in the speech of the educated took
place in the seventeenth century. By that time English orthography
was beginning to be subjected to that process of petrifaction which
consummated its work in the century following. The external form in
existence continued to be preserved with little or no modification,
regardless of whatever changes took place in its internal life.
Naturally these words beginning with an unpronounced _k_ fell
under this influence. Take as an illustration the word _knave_,
corresponding to the German _knabe_, ‘boy,’ and having originally
the same signification. As regards its meaning the English word has
passed through the successive senses of boy, of a boy as servant, of a
servant without regard to age, of a rascally servant, and finally of a
simple rascal with no reference to the time of life or the nature of
employment. There it remains. The idea both of boyhood and of service
has entirely disappeared. That of rascality, not at all implied in the
original, has now become the predominant sense.
In the case of the signification, we have therefore a complete history
unrolled before us. In the case of the form, we have but a partial
history. It was not so at first. In the earlier period the spelling
of the word changed with its pronunciation. The original was _cnafa_.
The substitution of _k_ for _c_ indicated no difference in the sound.
But the weakening of the final _a_ to _e_, the replacing of _f_ by
_v_ denoted the prevalence at the early period of the idea that the
spelling was not designed to defy pronunciation, but to point it out.
Then changes made in it are evidences of the changes that had been
going on in the sound. But when later the _k_ disappeared from the
pronunciation, no attempt was made to indicate the fact by dropping it
also from the spelling. By that time the printing-office had begun to
fasten its fangs upon the language. Consequently, the letter no longer
heard by the ear was carefully retained to console the eye and burden
the memory.
Now, it may not be advisable--at least, for the present--to discard
the unpronounced initial letter in the case of words of this class;
this, too, for reasons entirely independent of the feelings of
association. The revival of the phonetic sense among the men of
the English-speaking race is possible as a result of an extensive
reform of English spelling. In that case the pronunciation of _k_
before _n_ might be resumed in English speech, just as it is still
found in German. The letter, indeed, continues yet to be heard in
English dialects, so that in one sense it has never died out. Highly
improbable, therefore, as is the resumption of the sound, it is at
least possible. This consideration, though it can not form an argument,
may suggest a pretext for not discarding it at present. But to retain
it on the ground of derivation is more than irrational in itself. It is
absolutely inconsistent with the attitude which has been taken and is
now universally approved in the case of words which once were spelled
with an initial _h_.
Had the users of language been always under the sway of the feelings
which have made us keep the _k_, no small number of common words which
now begin with _l_, _n_, or _r_ would have these letters preceded by
the aspirate. So they were at first. This class may be represented
by _ladder_ and _lot_, the originals of which were _hlædder_ and
_hlot_; by _neck_ and _nut_, originally _hnecca_ and _hnut_; by
_ring_ and _roof_, originally _hring_ and _hrôf_. The letter _h_,
having disappeared from the pronunciation, our fathers dropped it
from the spelling. The most ardent devotee of derivation as a guide
to orthography would now be unwilling to restore it. The same men
who would be horrified at the idea of dropping _k_ from _knoll_
and _knife_, because that letter or its equivalent is found in the
original, would be equally horrified at the thought of restoring _h_ to
_loud_ and _nap_ and _raven_, though in all of them it once flourished.
It is simply another illustration of the same old sham of invoking
derivation to resist any change in the spelling to which we are
accustomed, and of disregarding it, and even defying it, when we are
asked to carry out our professed principles by altering the spelling so
as to bring it into accordance with them.
II
There is still another objection to be considered. We are given to
understand that difference of spelling is quite essential to the
recognition of the meaning of words pronounced alike. Otherwise
there would be danger of misapprehension. This is a point upon which
Archbishop Trench insisted strongly. He discovered that great confusion
would be caused by writing alike words which have the same sound when
heard, but are distinguished to the sight. Such, for illustration,
are _son_ and _sun_, _rain_ and _reign_ and _rein_. This is one of
those difficulties which are very formidable on paper, but nowhere
else. It is what comes to men of learning from looking at language
wholly from the side of the eye and not at all from that of the ear.
In the controversy that went on in this country in consequence of
the President’s order, I noticed that in a certain communication
an old friend of mine specified me personally as one setting out
to destroy what he called sound English by arranging letters in a
totally different way, and thereby seeking to reconstruct the language
to its destruction. Naturally, he was indignant at the nefarious
attempt, though had he stopped to consider the disproportion between
the pettiness of the puny agent and the massiveness of the mighty
fabric, there would have appeared little reason for much excitement.
Personally, so far from feeling resentment at his words, I read them
with even more amazement than sorrow. The argument he used is of the
sort which I expect to find communicated to the press by that noble
army of the ill-informed who are always rushing to the rescue of the
English language from the reckless practices of those who do not use
it with their assumed accuracy or spell it according to their ideas of
propriety. But here the objection came from a real scholar.
His words were, therefore, a convincing argument for the necessity of
reform. They revealed in a striking way the bewildering effect our
orthography exercises over the reasoning powers. He wanted to know what
the phonetists--they deserve that name, he told us--are going to do
with words alike in sound but different in sense. He began with _ale_
and _ail_. It might have been inferred from his argument that, unless
_ail_ and _ale_ were spelled differently, no person could ever be quite
certain whether he were suffering from the one or partaking of the
other. Another of his instances was _bear_ and _bare_. Does anybody, on
hearing either of these words, hesitate about its meaning? Why should
he, then, when he sees it, even if both were spelled the same way? Or
again, take the noun _bear_ by itself. If any one comes across it, does
he suffer much perplexity in ascertaining whether it is the bear of
the wilderness or the bear of Wall Street that is meant?
This last example, indeed, exposes of itself the utter futility of
this argument. There is an indefinite number of words in the language
which have precisely the same form as nouns or verbs. The fact that
they belong to different parts of speech never creates the slightest
confusion. Furthermore, there are but few common words in the language
which are not used in different senses, often in many different
senses, sometimes in widely different senses. Does that fact cause
any perceptible perplexity in the comprehension of their meaning? Do
reporters, who must arrive at the sense through the medium of the
ear, experience any difficulty in ascertaining what the speaker is
trying to say? Does any one in any relation of life whatever? When a
man is returning from a voyage across the Atlantic, is he bothered by
the different significations of the same term when he is trying to
ascertain whether it is his duty to pay a duty? When one meets the word
_piece_, does he suffer from much embarrassment in determining whether
it means a part of something, or a fire-arm, or a chessman, or a coin,
or a portion of bread, or an article of baggage, or a painting, or a
play, or a musical or literary composition? Does any one experience
trouble, on hearing a sentence containing the word _thick_, in
determining whether it is an adjective or a noun, or whether it denotes
‘dense,’ or ‘turbid,’ or ‘abundant,’ or a measure of dimension? Given
the connection in which it is employed, does any one mistake _rain_
for _reign_ or _rein_? The negative answer which must be made to
such questions as these disposes at once of a difficulty that has no
existence outside of the imagination.
In fact, language presents not merely many examples of words with the
same spelling which have different meanings, but sometimes of those
that have exactly opposite meanings. Yet that condition of things
produces no confusion. Does any one hesitate about what course to
pursue when told, on the one hand, to “stand fast” or on the other to
“run fast?” Does he ever in actual life confound the word _cleave_,
when it means to adhere with the _cleave_ which means to destroy
adherence by splitting? When you dress a fowl, you take something off
it or out of it; when you dress a man, you put something on him. Or
take an example which may fairly be considered as presenting a certain
obscurity at the first glance. In his ode on the morning of Christ’s
Nativity, Milton tells us that “Kings sate still with awful eye.” Here
_awful_ does not have the sense, most common with us, of ‘inspiring
awe,’ but the strictly etymological one of ‘full of awe.’ Yet no
one proposes to indicate by difference of spelling a difference of
signification, the ascertainment of which depends not on the sight but
on the brain. In truth, if no trouble is experienced in determining the
meaning of words sounded alike in the hurry of conversation, when the
hearer has but a moment to compare the connection and comprehend the
thought, it is certainly borrowing a great deal of unnecessary anxiety
to fancy that embarrassment could be caused in reading, where there is
ample opportunity to stop and consider the context and reflect upon the
sense which the passage must have. The actual existence of any such
difficulty would imply an innate incapability of comprehension which,
were it even justified by the individual consciousness of the asserter,
it would be manifestly unfair to attribute to the whole race.
It needs but a moment’s consideration to perceive the worthlessness
of this argument. Yet let us put ourselves in the place of those who
advance it, and treat it as if it had some weight. Let us assume that
if words having the same pronunciation are spelled alike, a confused
apprehension would be produced in the reader’s mind. But are these
believers in man’s impenetrable stupidity willing to carry out the
doctrine they profess to its logical conclusion? For the sake of
preventing this assumed confused state of mind, are they willing to
change the spelling of words which have precisely the same form but
a pronunciation distinctly different? It will be found that the very
men who clamor for the retention of different spellings for words
pronounced alike are just as insistent upon the retention of words
with similar spellings which are pronounced unlike. Of these there is
a very respectable number in our tongue. Especially is this true of
verbs and substantives which have precisely the same form on paper, but
a different pronunciation. We _lead_, for example, an expedition to
discover a _lead_ mine. A _tarry_ rope may cause us to _tarry_. This
inconsistency of attitude is necessarily more marked in words belonging
to the same part of speech. In consequence, a burden is imposed upon
the learner of mastering a distinction which, in a language sensibly
spelled, would be ashamed to put in a plea for its existence. _Slough_,
‘a miry place,’ has as little resemblance in sound as in meaning to
_slough_, ‘the cast-off skin of a serpent.’ We indicate the _tear_
in our eyes and the _tear_ in our clothes by words which have little
likeness of sound, but have the same spelling in the written speech.
We could go on enumerating examples of this sort; but to what end? It
is maintained, according to the theory enunciated in the case of _ail_
and _ale_, that a distinction of form in these and similar words ought
to be insisted upon so that the reader may discover without effort
which one is meant. But the application of this very argument would
be at once scouted were an attempt made to extend the principle to
words spelled alike but pronounced differently. This is but another
of the numberless inconsistencies in which the opponents of reform
find themselves plunged when they attempt to stand up for the existing
orthography on the ground of reason.
III
So much for an objection which, if not serious in itself, has to many
a serious look. There has been another brought forward which is so
baseless, not to call it comic, that nothing but the sincerity of those
adducing it would justify its consideration at all. It is to the effect
that, were there any thorough reform of the spelling, all existing
books would be rendered valueless. Owners of great libraries, built
up at the cost of no end of time and toil and money, would see their
great collections brought to nought. The rich and varied literature of
the past could no longer be easily read; it would have to wait for the
slow work of presses to transmit it to the new generation in its modern
form. Such is the horrible prospect which has been held before our
eyes. The view would be absurd enough if directed against thoroughgoing
phonetic reform. But as against the comparatively petty changes
which are proposed and which alone stand now any chance of adoption,
language is hardly vituperative enough to describe its fatuousness.
But as in the discussion of this question we have to deal largely with
orthographic babes, it is desirable to pay it some slight attention.
For the purpose of quieting the fears which have been expressed, it
is necessary to observe that change of anything established, even
when generally recognized as for the better, is not accomplished
easily. Therefore, it is not accomplished quickly. It never partakes
of the nature of a cataclysm. For its reception and establishment
it requires regular effort, not impulsive effort; it requires labor
prolonged as well as patient. It took, for instance, many scores of
years to establish the metric system wherever it now prevails, with
all the power of governments behind it. When the change made depends
upon the voluntary action of individuals it must inevitably be far
slower. Any reform of spelling in English speech which is ever proposed
must stretch over a long period of years before it is universally
adopted. There will consequently be ample time for both publishers and
book-owners to set their houses in order before the actual arrival of
the impending calamity.
This is on the supposition that it can be deemed a calamity to either.
There is actually about it nothing of that nature. The process deplored
is a process which is going on every day before our eyes. There is not
an author of repute in our literature of whose works new editions are
not constantly appearing in order to satisfy a demand which the stock
on hand does not supply. Few, comparatively, are the instances in which
a classic English writer is read in editions which came out during his
lifetime. This is true even of those who flourished as late as the
middle of the last century. How many are the people who read Thackeray,
Dickens, and Macaulay in books which appeared before the death of these
authors? If there is any demand for their works, these are constantly
reprinted and republished. But the appearance of the new book does not
lower the value of the old, if it be really valuable. If it be not, if
the edition supplanted is of an inferior character or has been merely a
trade speculation, it has already served its purpose when it has paid
for itself. Under any conditions it can be trusted to meet the fate it
deserves.
So much for the point of view of booksellers and book-owners. As
regards book-readers, the fear is just as fatuous. Few, again, are the
men who read works of any long repute--naturally the most valuable
works of all--in the spelling which the author used who wrote them
and in which the publisher first produced them. It is not because the
difference in this respect between the present and the past breeds
dislike. On this point the book-market furnishes incontrovertible
testimony. Valuable works which are printed in an orthography different
from that now prevailing do not decrease in price at all. On the
contrary, they steadily rise. This is a fact which the impecunious
student, in search of early editions, learned long ago, not to his
heart’s content, but to its discontent. The increase in value renders
them difficult for him to procure. Does the difference of spelling
render them difficult to decipher? A single example will suffice to
settle that point. At the present moment there lies before me the first
edition of the greatest English satire to which the strife of political
parties has given birth--the _Absalom and Achitophel_ of John Dryden.
It was published in November, 1681. To purchase it now would, under
ordinary circumstances, take far more money than it would to buy the
best and completest edition of the whole of Dryden’s poems. It consists
of ten hundred and twenty lines of rhymed heroic verse. The number
of different words it contains may be guessed at from that fact; it
has never, to my knowledge, been determined. But the words which are
spelled differently in it from what they are now are just about two
hundred.
This first edition itself presents certain characteristics of spelling
so alien to our present orthography that it suggests that those now
desiring change in it need not necessarily be put to death as having
plotted treason against the language. In truth, the examination of
this one poem, as it originally appeared, would destroy numerous
beliefs which ignorance has created and tradition handed down and
superstition has come to sanctify. A few of the facts found in it
may be worth recounting for the benefit of those who fancy that
forms now prevailing have descended to us from a remote past. Among
the two hundred variations from the now prevalent usage are the past
participles _allowd_, _bard_, _confind_, _coold_, _enclind_, _faild_,
_shund_, _unquestiond_, and _banisht_, _byast_, _impoverisht_,
_laught_, _opprest_, _pact_, _puft_, _snatcht_. We have also _red_
as a preterite and _sed_ as a participle. Further, not only is
_could_ most frequently spelled _coud_, which is etymologically
right, but there also appears _shoud_, which is phonetically nearer
right but is etymologically wrong. _Woud_, indeed, is distinctly
preferred to _would_, the former being found ten times, the latter
but once. _Monarch_ occurs as _monark_, _mould_ as _mold_, _whole_
and _wholesome_ as _hole_ and _holsom_. _Scepter_ is also the form
found, and not _sceptre_. In the case of several words there are still
not unfrequent those variant spellings which were common before the
printing-house had established our present uniformity, or, rather,
approach to uniformity. There is variation in the _or_, _our_ forms
with, on the whole, a distinct preference for the latter, as might have
been expected when the influence of the French language and literature
was predominant. _Labor_, for instance, as a noun or verb, occurs full
two dozen times. In every instance it is spelled _labour_. So also in
the same way are found _authour_, _emperour_, _inventour_, _oratour_,
_superiour_, _successour_, _tutour_, and _warriour_. Not the slightest
hint of these and such like facts can be gathered from editions now
current. This single illustration brings out strongly the practice of
the modern publisher in printing the writings of the great authors of
the past, not in the orthography they themselves employed but in that
which recent custom has chosen to set up in its place. Still, with
all these differences just mentioned, and others not specified, the
most unintelligent opponent of spelling reform would experience no
difficulty whatever in reading the poem.
IV
Another objection remains to be considered. It is not really directed
against any proposals made by any organized bodies which have taken up
the consideration of the subject. These, to use the distinction already
specified, devote themselves to reform _in_ English orthography and not
to reform _of_ it. This latter is the object aimed at by individuals
and not by societies. Consequently, this objection does not strictly
concern the plans for simplification now before the public. It is
really directed against the far wider-reaching reform which would aim
to render the spelling phonetic. It is regarded by some as so crushing
that I have deferred its consideration to the last. It may be summed up
in a few words. Variations of sound are almost numberless. They cause
a marked difference of pronunciation among individuals, a more marked
difference between different parts of the same country. Furthermore,
they are often so delicate as almost to defy representation. You
could not denote them if you would; and if you could, you would be
encumbered, rather than aided, by the multiplicity of signs. It is
impossible, therefore, to have our tongue spelled phonetically,
because it is pronounced differently by different persons equally well
educated. Whose pronunciation will you adopt? That is the point which
has first to be determined. It is safe to say that it is one which can
never be determined satisfactorily. That fact is of itself decisive of
the matter in dispute.
This view of the question at issue is triumphantly put forward as
one which can never be successfully met. Assuming for the sake of
the argument that it is a genuine objection, let us look at what it
involves. The very result of the lawlessness of our present orthography
is given as the reason why no attempt should be made to bring it under
the reign of law. It is a real maxim in morals, and a theoretical one
in jurisprudence, that an offender has no right to take advantage
of his own wrong. This is the very course, however, which opponents
of change recommend for adoption. Our orthography has rendered the
orthoepy varying and doubtful. No one can tell from the spelling of a
word how it ought to be pronounced. The result is that it is pronounced
differently by different men. Accordingly, there should be no attempt
to reduce the orthography to order, because the uncertainty which has
been fastened upon it by the pronunciation has rendered it impossible
to ascertain what it really ought to be.
But it never seems to occur to those who advance this argument that
difficulties of the sort here indicated are not experienced in
languages which for all practical purposes are phonetically spelled,
such as Italian and Spanish. Even German can be included, because its
variations from the normal standard do not extend to the great source
of our woes, the arbitrary and different sounds given to the vowels
and combinations of vowels. But take, for example, the first mentioned
of these tongues. Its pronunciation differs in different parts of the
country. In some cases the variation is very distinctly marked. Yet,
while the spelling remains the same, no embarrassment follows of the
kind indicated. If this simple fact had been taken into consideration,
it would at once have disclosed the nature of the imaginary strength
and actual weakness of this supposedly crushing argument.
For of all the hallucinations that disturb the mental vision of the
advocates of the existing orthography, this is perhaps the most dismal
as it is the most unreal. No phonetically spelled tongue ever has or
ever would set out to record the varying shades of the pronunciation
of any country, still less the varying shades of the pronunciation
of individuals. A system which indicates the delicate distinction of
sounds characterizing the speech of different regions resembles the
chemist’s scales, which detect the variation in weight of filaments
of hair to all appearance precisely alike. Instrumentalities of
this nature phoneticians may need and use in order to represent the
slightest diversities of pronunciation. They can and do get up for
their own guidance characters conveying differences even of intonation.
But these the ordinary speaker does not require at all. Instead
of benefiting him, they would be in his way. For the average man,
even of highest cultivation, it is no more important that shades
of pronunciation should be denoted in his alphabet than it would be
important for him to lug about in all temperatures and in all climates
an astronomical clock with a compensation pendulum. What any working
phonetic system would set out to do is to give those broad and easily
recognizable characteristics of educated utterance which are sufficient
to indicate to the hearer what the speaker is aiming to say. It would
represent a norm sufficiently narrow of limit to make understood
what is said, and sufficiently broad to offer within justifiable
bounds ample opportunity for the play of individual or territorial
peculiarities. Its principal effect would be to set up a standard which
would be ever before the eyes of men.
In truth, the comparison just made is sufficient of itself to lay
this ghastly specter of an argument which haunts so persistently
the imagination of many opponents of phonetic spelling. It is with
our pronunciation as with our timepieces. None of our watches run
precisely alike. Few if any can be called unqualifiedly correct. For
all that, with the aid of these imperfect and never precisely agreeing
instruments, we manage to transact with little friction and delay the
daily business of a life in which we have constantly to wait upon one
another’s movements. So, in the matter of sounds, a phonetic alphabet
would denote only those clearly recognizable distinctions which are
apparent to the ear of ordinary men. Orthography based upon such an
alphabet would assume as the very foundation upon which to build itself
the existence of a recognized standard orthoepy. It is that alone
which the spelling would represent. Provincial speakers in consequence
would have always before their eyes in the form of the word its exact
and proper pronunciation. By it they would be able to compare and if
necessary to correct their own.
But we may be told that while a standard time actually exists, a
standard pronunciation does not. Consequently, no phonetic spelling
can be established which will be regarded by any large portion of the
general public as satisfactory. The all-sufficient answer to this
objection is that the very thing which it is said cannot be done has
been already done and done many times. It has been done, too, in the
face of the very objection that it could not be done at all. The proof
of this statement lies in the existence of the pronouncing dictionary.
Works of this nature did not appear until the latter part of the
eighteenth century. Before they appeared the project of producing them
was criticised with extreme severity. They were denounced as irrational
of nature and as impossible of execution. The same arguments, assumed
to be convincing, were produced against them as those just considered
against uniform phonetic spelling. Doctor Johnson brought the artillery
of his ponderous polysyllables to bear upon them. He proved--at least,
to his own satisfaction--the utter futility of Sheridan’s scheme of
preparing a work of this nature. His argument was based entirely on
the ground of the wide differences prevailing in pronunciation. In
spite of these arguments pronouncing dictionaries were prepared. At
a comparatively early period several appeared in rapid succession.
They are now so thoroughly established in the affections of us all
that were a dictionary to leave out this characteristic it would
cease to have consideration and sale. But a work of such sort goes
upon the assumption that there is a standard pronunciation. Otherwise
it would have no justification for its own existence. Its compilers
seek to ascertain and represent this standard. A word, indeed, may be
and not unfrequently is pronounced differently by different classes
of educated men. In that case both or all sounds of it will be
recognized--at least, until such time as one has come to prevail over
the other or over all others. The pronouncing dictionary was indeed a
necessity of the situation. It was called by Archbishop Trench “the
absurdest of all books.” On what ground it can be called absurd by
an advocate of the existing orthography it is hard to determine. It
is, without doubt, a clumsy substitute for phonetic spelling. It is
not for him, however, who protests against such spelling to denounce
the aid to correct pronunciation, imperfect as it may be, which has
been rendered absolutely essential by the general prevalence of the
beliefs he accepts and defends. Had pronouncing dictionaries not come
to exist, the divergence which has been going on between spelling
and pronunciation in consequence of our lawless orthography would
have rapidly extended with the extension of the language and with the
increasing number of those who came to speak it, dwelling as they do
in regions far apart. Diversities of pronunciation would have been
sure to spring up in such a case even among the educated classes, to
say nothing of those prevailing in classes of different social grades
living almost in contact. As a matter of fact such do spring up now.
They must necessarily continue to spring up in a language where the
spelling is not under the sway of phonetic law. But they are reduced
to the lowest possible terms, in consequence of the wide use of
pronouncing dictionaries. Between the authorizations of these there are
at times divergences, but the agreements are far more numerous than
the divergences. Hence, the authorizations are sufficient to keep the
language fairly uniform. Furthermore, these works bring out clearly
the truth of the statement with which this chapter began: that every
speaker of English has to learn two languages. In dictionaries, the one
he reads and writes is given the place of honor on the printed page. To
it he turns whenever for any purpose he wishes to consult its meaning.
Following after it, whenever the word is not itself phonetically
spelled, is the form of it, usually in parentheses, as it is heard from
the lips of men. To this he turns for its pronunciation.
No project is entertained by any organized body to establish phonetic
spelling. It can hardly be said to exist outside of dictionaries.
These have to employ it or some approach to it in order to convey to
the users of language a conception of the proper pronunciation which
the form itself does not indicate. The discussion of the subject
is, therefore, an academic question rather than a practical one.
But this it is desirable to say about it. Phonetic spelling is not
a destructive but a conservative agency. Just as the creation of
literature holds a language fast to its moorings, just as it renders
it stable by arresting all speedy verbal or grammatical change, so the
establishment of phonetic spelling would operate upon orthoepy. The
exact pronunciation would be imposed upon the word by its very form.
No one could mistake it, no one would be tempted to disregard it. From
it there would never be variation save when a change in the sound
imperatively demanded a change in the spelling to indicate it. This is
a counsel of perfection which we can recognize as desirable, but need
never expect--at least, in our day--to see realized. None the less can
we discern the benefits that would result from it. Had it existed with
us, the wide degradation of that sound of a which is represented in
_father_ and _far_ could not have gone on at the rapid rate it has done
in this country. There are districts in the United States where even
the following _l_ does not protect it, and _calm_, for illustration,
is made to ryme with _clam_. Did phonetic spelling exist in the mother
country, the pronunciation of _a_ almost like “long _i_”--as, for
example, _late_, which by American ears is apt to be mistaken for
_light_--now so prevalent in London and apparently extending over
England, could never have held its ground, even with those who had
received but a limited education. With an orthography which has no
recognizable standard of correct usage, degradations of this sort are
always liable to occur; nothing, in fact, can keep them from occurring.
FOOTNOTES:
[36] _English, Past and Present_, p. 298, 8th edition, revised, London,
1873.
[37] _English, Past and Present_, p. 326.
[38] See page 165.