CRATYLUS
By Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Contents
INTRODUCTION
CRATYLUS
INTRODUCTION
The Cratylus has always been a source of perplexity to the student of
Plato. While in fancy and humour, and perfection of style and
metaphysical originality, this dialogue may be ranked with the best of
the Platonic writings, there has been an uncertainty about the motive
of the piece, which interpreters have hitherto not succeeded in
dispelling. We need not suppose that Plato used words in order to
conceal his thoughts, or that he would have been unintelligible to an
educated contemporary. In the Phaedrus and Euthydemus we also find a
difficulty in determining the precise aim of the author. Plato wrote
satires in the form of dialogues, and his meaning, like that of other
satirical writers, has often slept in the ear of posterity. Two causes
may be assigned for this obscurity: 1st, the subtlety and allusiveness
of this species of composition; 2nd, the difficulty of reproducing a
state of life and literature which has passed away. A satire is
unmeaning unless we can place ourselves back among the persons and
thoughts of the age in which it was written. Had the treatise of
Antisthenes upon words, or the speculations of Cratylus, or some other
Heracleitean of the fourth century B.C., on the nature of language been
preserved to us; or if we had lived at the time, and been “rich enough
to attend the fifty-drachma course of Prodicus,” we should have
understood Plato better, and many points which are now attributed to
the extravagance of Socrates’ humour would have been found, like the
allusions of Aristophanes in the Clouds, to have gone home to the
sophists and grammarians of the day.
For the age was very busy with philological speculation; and many
questions were beginning to be asked about language which were parallel
to other questions about justice, virtue, knowledge, and were
illustrated in a similar manner by the analogy of the arts. Was there a
correctness in words, and were they given by nature or convention? In
the presocratic philosophy mankind had been striving to attain an
expression of their ideas, and now they were beginning to ask
themselves whether the expression might not be distinguished from the
idea? They were also seeking to distinguish the parts of speech and to
enquire into the relation of subject and predicate. Grammar and logic
were moving about somewhere in the depths of the human soul, but they
were not yet awakened into consciousness and had not found names for
themselves, or terms by which they might be expressed. Of these
beginnings of the study of language we know little, and there
necessarily arises an obscurity when the surroundings of such a work as
the Cratylus are taken away. Moreover, in this, as in most of the
dialogues of Plato, allowance has to be made for the character of
Socrates. For the theory of language can only be propounded by him in a
manner which is consistent with his own profession of ignorance. Hence
his ridicule of the new school of etymology is interspersed with many
declarations “that he knows nothing,” “that he has learned from
Euthyphro,” and the like. Even the truest things which he says are
depreciated by himself. He professes to be guessing, but the guesses of
Plato are better than all the other theories of the ancients respecting
language put together.
The dialogue hardly derives any light from Plato’s other writings, and
still less from Scholiasts and Neoplatonist writers. Socrates must be
interpreted from himself, and on first reading we certainly have a
difficulty in understanding his drift, or his relation to the two other
interlocutors in the dialogue. Does he agree with Cratylus or with
Hermogenes, and is he serious in those fanciful etymologies, extending
over more than half the dialogue, which he seems so greatly to relish?
Or is he serious in part only; and can we separate his jest from his
earnest?—_Sunt bona, sunt quaedum mediocria, sunt mala plura_. Most of
them are ridiculously bad, and yet among them are found, as if by
accident, principles of philology which are unsurpassed in any ancient
writer, and even in advance of any philologer of the last century. May
we suppose that Plato, like Lucian, has been amusing his fancy by
writing a comedy in the form of a prose dialogue? And what is the final
result of the enquiry? Is Plato an upholder of the conventional theory
of language, which he acknowledges to be imperfect? or does he mean to
imply that a perfect language can only be based on his own theory of
ideas? Or if this latter explanation is refuted by his silence, then in
what relation does his account of language stand to the rest of his
philosophy? Or may we be so bold as to deny the connexion between them?
(For the allusion to the ideas at the end of the dialogue is merely
intended to show that we must not put words in the place of things or
realities, which is a thesis strongly insisted on by Plato in many
other passages)...These are some of the first thoughts which arise in
the mind of the reader of the Cratylus. And the consideration of them
may form a convenient introduction to the general subject of the
dialogue.
We must not expect all the parts of a dialogue of Plato to tend equally
to some clearly-defined end. His idea of literary art is not the
absolute proportion of the whole, such as we appear to find in a Greek
temple or statue; nor should his works be tried by any such standard.
They have often the beauty of poetry, but they have also the freedom of
conversation. “Words are more plastic than wax” (Rep.), and may be
moulded into any form. He wanders on from one topic to another,
careless of the unity of his work, not fearing any “judge, or
spectator, who may recall him to the point” (Theat.), “whither the
argument blows we follow” (Rep.). To have determined beforehand, as in
a modern didactic treatise, the nature and limits of the subject, would
have been fatal to the spirit of enquiry or discovery, which is the
soul of the dialogue...These remarks are applicable to nearly all the
works of Plato, but to the Cratylus and Phaedrus more than any others.
See Phaedrus, Introduction.
There is another aspect under which some of the dialogues of Plato may
be more truly viewed:—they are dramatic sketches of an argument. We
have found that in the Lysis, Charmides, Laches, Protagoras, Meno, we
arrived at no conclusion—the different sides of the argument were
personified in the different speakers; but the victory was not
distinctly attributed to any of them, nor the truth wholly the property
of any. And in the Cratylus we have no reason to assume that Socrates
is either wholly right or wholly wrong, or that Plato, though he
evidently inclines to him, had any other aim than that of personifying,
in the characters of Hermogenes, Socrates, and Cratylus, the three
theories of language which are respectively maintained by them.
The two subordinate persons of the dialogue, Hermogenes and Cratylus,
are at the opposite poles of the argument. But after a while the
disciple of the Sophist and the follower of Heracleitus are found to be
not so far removed from one another as at first sight appeared; and
both show an inclination to accept the third view which Socrates
interposes between them. First, Hermogenes, the poor brother of the
rich Callias, expounds the doctrine that names are conventional; like
the names of slaves, they may be given and altered at pleasure. This is
one of those principles which, whether applied to society or language,
explains everything and nothing. For in all things there is an element
of convention; but the admission of this does not help us to understand
the rational ground or basis in human nature on which the convention
proceeds. Socrates first of all intimates to Hermogenes that his view
of language is only a part of a sophistical whole, and ultimately tends
to abolish the distinction between truth and falsehood. Hermogenes is
very ready to throw aside the sophistical tenet, and listens with a
sort of half admiration, half belief, to the speculations of Socrates.
Cratylus is of opinion that a name is either a true name or not a name
at all. He is unable to conceive of degrees of imitation; a word is
either the perfect expression of a thing, or a mere inarticulate sound
(a fallacy which is still prevalent among theorizers about the origin
of language). He is at once a philosopher and a sophist; for while
wanting to rest language on an immutable basis, he would deny the
possibility of falsehood. He is inclined to derive all truth from
language, and in language he sees reflected the philosophy of
Heracleitus. His views are not like those of Hermogenes, hastily taken
up, but are said to be the result of mature consideration, although he
is described as still a young man. With a tenacity characteristic of
the Heracleitean philosophers, he clings to the doctrine of the flux.
(Compare Theaet.) Of the real Cratylus we know nothing, except that he
is recorded by Aristotle to have been the friend or teacher of Plato;
nor have we any proof that he resembled the likeness of him in Plato
any more than the Critias of Plato is like the real Critias, or the
Euthyphro in this dialogue like the other Euthyphro, the diviner, in
the dialogue which is called after him.
Between these two extremes, which have both of them a sophistical
character, the view of Socrates is introduced, which is in a manner the
union of the two. Language is conventional and also natural, and the
true conventional-natural is the rational. It is a work not of chance,
but of art; the dialectician is the artificer of words, and the
legislator gives authority to them. They are the expressions or
imitations in sound of things. In a sense, Cratylus is right in saying
that things have by nature names; for nature is not opposed either to
art or to law. But vocal imitation, like any other copy, may be
imperfectly executed; and in this way an element of chance or
convention enters in. There is much which is accidental or exceptional
in language. Some words have had their original meaning so obscured,
that they require to be helped out by convention. But still the true
name is that which has a natural meaning. Thus nature, art, chance, all
combine in the formation of language. And the three views respectively
propounded by Hermogenes, Socrates, Cratylus, may be described as the
conventional, the artificial or rational, and the natural. The view of
Socrates is the meeting-point of the other two, just as conceptualism
is the meeting-point of nominalism and realism.
We can hardly say that Plato was aware of the truth, that “languages
are not made, but grow.” But still, when he says that “the legislator
made language with the dialectician standing on his right hand,” we
need not infer from this that he conceived words, like coins, to be
issued from the mint of the State. The creator of laws and of social
life is naturally regarded as the creator of language, according to
Hellenic notions, and the philosopher is his natural advisor. We are
not to suppose that the legislator is performing any extraordinary
function; he is merely the Eponymus of the State, who prescribes rules
for the dialectician and for all other artists. According to a truly
Platonic mode of approaching the subject, language, like virtue in the
Republic, is examined by the analogy of the arts. Words are works of
art which may be equally made in different materials, and are well made
when they have a meaning. Of the process which he thus describes, Plato
had probably no very definite notion. But he means to express generally
that language is the product of intelligence, and that languages belong
to States and not to individuals.
A better conception of language could not have been formed in Plato’s
age, than that which he attributes to Socrates. Yet many persons have
thought that the mind of Plato is more truly seen in the vague realism
of Cratylus. This misconception has probably arisen from two causes:
first, the desire to bring Plato’s theory of language into accordance
with the received doctrine of the Platonic ideas; secondly, the
impression created by Socrates himself, that he is not in earnest, and
is only indulging the fancy of the hour.
1. We shall have occasion to show more at length, in the Introduction
to future dialogues, that the so-called Platonic ideas are only a
semi-mythical form, in which he attempts to realize abstractions, and
that they are replaced in his later writings by a rational theory of
psychology. (See introductions to the Meno and the Sophist.) And in the
Cratylus he gives a general account of the nature and origin of
language, in which Adam Smith, Rousseau, and other writers of the last
century, would have substantially agreed. At the end of the dialogue,
he speaks as in the Symposium and Republic of absolute beauty and good;
but he never supposed that they were capable of being embodied in
words. Of the names of the ideas, he would have said, as he says of the
names of the Gods, that we know nothing. Even the realism of Cratylus
is not based upon the ideas of Plato, but upon the flux of Heracleitus.
Here, as in the Sophist and Politicus, Plato expressly draws attention
to the want of agreement in words and things. Hence we are led to
infer, that the view of Socrates is not the less Plato’s own, because
not based upon the ideas; 2nd, that Plato’s theory of language is not
inconsistent with the rest of his philosophy.
2. We do not deny that Socrates is partly in jest and partly in
earnest. He is discoursing in a high-flown vein, which may be compared
to the “dithyrambics of the Phaedrus.” They are mysteries of which he
is speaking, and he professes a kind of ludicrous fear of his imaginary
wisdom. When he is arguing out of Homer, about the names of Hector’s
son, or when he describes himself as inspired or maddened by Euthyphro,
with whom he has been sitting from the early dawn (compare Phaedrus and
Lysias; Phaedr.) and expresses his intention of yielding to the
illusion to-day, and to-morrow he will go to a priest and be purified,
we easily see that his words are not to be taken seriously. In this
part of the dialogue his dread of committing impiety, the pretended
derivation of his wisdom from another, the extravagance of some of his
etymologies, and, in general, the manner in which the fun, fast and
furious, _vires acquirit eundo_, remind us strongly of the Phaedrus.
The jest is a long one, extending over more than half the dialogue. But
then, we remember that the Euthydemus is a still longer jest, in which
the irony is preserved to the very end. There he is parodying the
ingenious follies of early logic; in the Cratylus he is ridiculing the
fancies of a new school of sophists and grammarians. The fallacies of
the Euthydemus are still retained at the end of our logic books; and
the etymologies of the Cratylus have also found their way into later
writers. Some of these are not much worse than the conjectures of
Hemsterhuis, and other critics of the last century; but this does not
prove that they are serious. For Plato is in advance of his age in his
conception of language, as much as he is in his conception of
mythology. (Compare Phaedrus.)
When the fervour of his etymological enthusiasm has abated, Socrates
ends, as he has begun, with a rational explanation of language. Still
he preserves his “know nothing” disguise, and himself declares his
first notions about names to be reckless and ridiculous. Having
explained compound words by resolving them into their original
elements, he now proceeds to analyse simple words into the letters of
which they are composed. The Socrates who “knows nothing,” here passes
into the teacher, the dialectician, the arranger of species. There is
nothing in this part of the dialogue which is either weak or
extravagant. Plato is a supporter of the Onomatopoetic theory of
language; that is to say, he supposes words to be formed by the
imitation of ideas in sounds; he also recognises the effect of time,
the influence of foreign languages, the desire of euphony, to be
formative principles; and he admits a certain element of chance. But he
gives no imitation in all this that he is preparing the way for the
construction of an ideal language. Or that he has any Eleatic
speculation to oppose to the Heracleiteanism of Cratylus.
The theory of language which is propounded in the Cratylus is in
accordance with the later phase of the philosophy of Plato, and would
have been regarded by him as in the main true. The dialogue is also a
satire on the philological fancies of the day. Socrates in pursuit of
his vocation as a detector of false knowledge, lights by accident on
the truth. He is guessing, he is dreaming; he has heard, as he says in
the Phaedrus, from another: no one is more surprised than himself at
his own discoveries. And yet some of his best remarks, as for example
his view of the derivation of Greek words from other languages, or of
the permutations of letters, or again, his observation that in speaking
of the Gods we are only speaking of our names of them, occur among
these flights of humour.
We can imagine a character having a profound insight into the nature of
men and things, and yet hardly dwelling upon them seriously; blending
inextricably sense and nonsense; sometimes enveloping in a blaze of
jests the most serious matters, and then again allowing the truth to
peer through; enjoying the flow of his own humour, and puzzling mankind
by an ironical exaggeration of their absurdities. Such were
Aristophanes and Rabelais; such, in a different style, were Sterne,
Jean Paul, Hamann,—writers who sometimes become unintelligible through
the extravagance of their fancies. Such is the character which Plato
intends to depict in some of his dialogues as the Silenus Socrates; and
through this medium we have to receive our theory of language.
There remains a difficulty which seems to demand a more exact answer:
In what relation does the satirical or etymological portion of the
dialogue stand to the serious? Granting all that can be said about the
provoking irony of Socrates, about the parody of Euthyphro, or
Prodicus, or Antisthenes, how does the long catalogue of etymologies
furnish any answer to the question of Hermogenes, which is evidently
the main thesis of the dialogue: What is the truth, or correctness, or
principle of names?
After illustrating the nature of correctness by the analogy of the
arts, and then, as in the Republic, ironically appealing to the
authority of the Homeric poems, Socrates shows that the truth or
correctness of names can only be ascertained by an appeal to etymology.
The truth of names is to be found in the analysis of their elements.
But why does he admit etymologies which are absurd, based on
Heracleitean fancies, fourfold interpretations of words, impossible
unions and separations of syllables and letters?
1. The answer to this difficulty has been already anticipated in part:
Socrates is not a dogmatic teacher, and therefore he puts on this wild
and fanciful disguise, in order that the truth may be permitted to
appear: 2. as Benfey remarks, an erroneous example may illustrate a
principle of language as well as a true one: 3. many of these
etymologies, as, for example, that of dikaion, are indicated, by the
manner in which Socrates speaks of them, to have been current in his
own age: 4. the philosophy of language had not made such progress as
would have justified Plato in propounding real derivations. Like his
master Socrates, he saw through the hollowness of the incipient
sciences of the day, and tries to move in a circle apart from them,
laying down the conditions under which they are to be pursued, but, as
in the Timaeus, cautious and tentative, when he is speaking of actual
phenomena. To have made etymologies seriously, would have seemed to him
like the interpretation of the myths in the Phaedrus, the task “of a
not very fortunate individual, who had a great deal of time on his
hands.” The irony of Socrates places him above and beyond the errors of
his contemporaries.
The Cratylus is full of humour and satirical touches: the inspiration
which comes from Euthyphro, and his prancing steeds, the light
admixture of quotations from Homer, and the spurious dialectic which is
applied to them; the jest about the fifty-drachma course of Prodicus,
which is declared on the best authority, viz. his own, to be a complete
education in grammar and rhetoric; the double explanation of the name
Hermogenes, either as “not being in luck,” or “being no speaker;” the
dearly-bought wisdom of Callias, the Lacedaemonian whose name was
“Rush,” and, above all, the pleasure which Socrates expresses in his
own dangerous discoveries, which “to-morrow he will purge away,” are
truly humorous. While delivering a lecture on the philosophy of
language, Socrates is also satirizing the endless fertility of the
human mind in spinning arguments out of nothing, and employing the most
trifling and fanciful analogies in support of a theory. Etymology in
ancient as in modern times was a favourite recreation; and Socrates
makes merry at the expense of the etymologists. The simplicity of
Hermogenes, who is ready to believe anything that he is told, heightens
the effect. Socrates in his genial and ironical mood hits right and
left at his adversaries: Ouranos is so called apo tou oran ta ano,
which, as some philosophers say, is the way to have a pure mind; the
sophists are by a fanciful explanation converted into heroes; “the
givers of names were like some philosophers who fancy that the earth
goes round because their heads are always going round.” There is a
great deal of “mischief” lurking in the following: “I found myself in
greater perplexity about justice than I was before I began to learn;”
“The rho in katoptron must be the addition of some one who cares
nothing about truth, but thinks only of putting the mouth into shape;”
“Tales and falsehoods have generally to do with the Tragic and goatish
life, and tragedy is the place of them.” Several philosophers and
sophists are mentioned by name: first, Protagoras and Euthydemus are
assailed; then the interpreters of Homer, oi palaioi Omerikoi (compare
Arist. Met.) and the Orphic poets are alluded to by the way; then he
discovers a hive of wisdom in the philosophy of Heracleitus;—the
doctrine of the flux is contained in the word ousia (= osia the pushing
principle), an anticipation of Anaxagoras is found in psuche and
selene. Again, he ridicules the arbitrary methods of pulling out and
putting in letters which were in vogue among the philologers of his
time; or slightly scoffs at contemporary religious beliefs. Lastly, he
is impatient of hearing from the half-converted Cratylus the doctrine
that falsehood can neither be spoken, nor uttered, nor addressed; a
piece of sophistry attributed to Gorgias, which reappears in the
Sophist. And he proceeds to demolish, with no less delight than he had
set up, the Heracleitean theory of language.
In the latter part of the dialogue Socrates becomes more serious,
though he does not lay aside but rather aggravates his banter of the
Heracleiteans, whom here, as in the Theaetetus, he delights to
ridicule. What was the origin of this enmity we can hardly
determine:—was it due to the natural dislike which may be supposed to
exist between the “patrons of the flux” and the “friends of the ideas”
(Soph.)? or is it to be attributed to the indignation which Plato felt
at having wasted his time upon “Cratylus and the doctrines of
Heracleitus” in the days of his youth? Socrates, touching on some of
the characteristic difficulties of early Greek philosophy, endeavours
to show Cratylus that imitation may be partial or imperfect, that a
knowledge of things is higher than a knowledge of names, and that there
can be no knowledge if all things are in a state of transition. But
Cratylus, who does not easily apprehend the argument from common sense,
remains unconvinced, and on the whole inclines to his former opinion.
Some profound philosophical remarks are scattered up and down,
admitting of an application not only to language but to knowledge
generally; such as the assertion that “consistency is no test of
truth:” or again, “If we are over-precise about words, truth will say
‘too late’ to us as to the belated traveller in Aegina.”
The place of the dialogue in the series cannot be determined with
certainty. The style and subject, and the treatment of the character of
Socrates, have a close resemblance to the earlier dialogues, especially
to the Phaedrus and Euthydemus. The manner in which the ideas are
spoken of at the end of the dialogue, also indicates a comparatively
early date. The imaginative element is still in full vigour; the
Socrates of the Cratylus is the Socrates of the Apology and Symposium,
not yet Platonized; and he describes, as in the Theaetetus, the
philosophy of Heracleitus by “unsavoury” similes—he cannot believe that
the world is like “a leaky vessel,” or “a man who has a running at the
nose”; he attributes the flux of the world to the swimming in some
folks’ heads. On the other hand, the relation of thought to language is
omitted here, but is treated of in the Sophist. These grounds are not
sufficient to enable us to arrive at a precise conclusion. But we shall
not be far wrong in placing the Cratylus about the middle, or at any
rate in the first half, of the series.
Cratylus, the Heracleitean philosopher, and Hermogenes, the brother of
Callias, have been arguing about names; the former maintaining that
they are natural, the latter that they are conventional. Cratylus
affirms that his own is a true name, but will not allow that the name
of Hermogenes is equally true. Hermogenes asks Socrates to explain to
him what Cratylus means; or, far rather, he would like to know, What
Socrates himself thinks about the truth or correctness of names?
Socrates replies, that hard is knowledge, and the nature of names is a
considerable part of knowledge: he has never been to hear the
fifty-drachma course of Prodicus; and having only attended the
single-drachma course, he is not competent to give an opinion on such
matters. When Cratylus denies that Hermogenes is a true name, he
supposes him to mean that he is not a true son of Hermes, because he is
never in luck. But he would like to have an open council and to hear
both sides.
Hermogenes is of opinion that there is no principle in names; they may
be changed, as we change the names of slaves, whenever we please, and
the altered name is as good as the original one.
You mean to say, for instance, rejoins Socrates, that if I agree to
call a man a horse, then a man will be rightly called a horse by me,
and a man by the rest of the world? But, surely, there is in words a
true and a false, as there are true and false propositions. If a whole
proposition be true or false, then the parts of a proposition may be
true or false, and the least parts as well as the greatest; and the
least parts are names, and therefore names may be true or false. Would
Hermogenes maintain that anybody may give a name to anything, and as
many names as he pleases; and would all these names be always true at
the time of giving them? Hermogenes replies that this is the only way
in which he can conceive that names are correct; and he appeals to the
practice of different nations, and of the different Hellenic tribes, in
confirmation of his view. Socrates asks, whether the things differ as
the words which represent them differ:—Are we to maintain with
Protagoras, that what appears is? Hermogenes has always been puzzled
about this, but acknowledges, when he is pressed by Socrates, that
there are a few very good men in the world, and a great many very bad;
and the very good are the wise, and the very bad are the foolish; and
this is not mere appearance but reality. Nor is he disposed to say with
Euthydemus, that all things equally and always belong to all men; in
that case, again, there would be no distinction between bad and good
men. But then, the only remaining possibility is, that all things have
their several distinct natures, and are independent of our notions
about them. And not only things, but actions, have distinct natures,
and are done by different processes. There is a natural way of cutting
or burning, and a natural instrument with which men cut or burn, and
any other way will fail;—this is true of all actions. And speaking is a
kind of action, and naming is a kind of speaking, and we must name
according to a natural process, and with a proper instrument. We cut
with a knife, we pierce with an awl, we weave with a shuttle, we name
with a name. And as a shuttle separates the warp from the woof, so a
name distinguishes the natures of things. The weaver will use the
shuttle well,—that is, like a weaver; and the teacher will use the name
well,—that is, like a teacher. The shuttle will be made by the
carpenter; the awl by the smith or skilled person. But who makes a
name? Does not the law give names, and does not the teacher receive
them from the legislator? He is the skilled person who makes them, and
of all skilled workmen he is the rarest. But how does the carpenter
make or repair the shuttle, and to what will he look? Will he not look
at the ideal which he has in his mind? And as the different kinds of
work differ, so ought the instruments which make them to differ. The
several kinds of shuttles ought to answer in material and form to the
several kinds of webs. And the legislator ought to know the different
materials and forms of which names are made in Hellas and other
countries. But who is to be the judge of the proper form? The judge of
shuttles is the weaver who uses them; the judge of lyres is the player
of the lyre; the judge of ships is the pilot. And will not the judge
who is able to direct the legislator in his work of naming, be he who
knows how to use the names—he who can ask and answer questions—in
short, the dialectician? The pilot directs the carpenter how to make
the rudder, and the dialectician directs the legislator how he is to
impose names; for to express the ideal forms of things in syllables and
letters is not the easy task, Hermogenes, which you imagine.
“I should be more readily persuaded, if you would show me this natural
correctness of names.”
Indeed I cannot; but I see that you have advanced; for you now admit
that there is a correctness of names, and that not every one can give a
name. But what is the nature of this correctness or truth, you must
learn from the Sophists, of whom your brother Callias has bought his
reputation for wisdom rather dearly; and since they require to be paid,
you, having no money, had better learn from him at second-hand. “Well,
but I have just given up Protagoras, and I should be inconsistent in
going to learn of him.” Then if you reject him you may learn of the
poets, and in particular of Homer, who distinguishes the names given by
Gods and men to the same things, as in the verse about the river God
who fought with Hephaestus, “whom the Gods call Xanthus, and men call
Scamander;” or in the lines in which he mentions the bird which the
Gods call “Chalcis,” and men “Cymindis;” or the hill which men call
“Batieia,” and the Gods “Myrinna’s Tomb.” Here is an important lesson;
for the Gods must of course be right in their use of names. And this is
not the only truth about philology which may be learnt from Homer. Does
he not say that Hector’s son had two names—
“Hector called him Scamandrius, but the others Astyanax”?
Now, if the men called him Astyanax, is it not probable that the other
name was conferred by the women? And which are more likely to be
right—the wiser or the less wise, the men or the women? Homer evidently
agreed with the men: and of the name given by them he offers an
explanation;—the boy was called Astyanax (“king of the city”), because
his father saved the city. The names Astyanax and Hector, moreover, are
really the same,—the one means a king, and the other is “a holder or
possessor.” For as the lion’s whelp may be called a lion, or the
horse’s foal a foal, so the son of a king may be called a king. But if
the horse had produced a calf, then that would be called a calf.
Whether the syllables of a name are the same or not makes no
difference, provided the meaning is retained. For example; the names of
letters, whether vowels or consonants, do not correspond to their
sounds, with the exception of epsilon, upsilon, omicron, omega. The
name Beta has three letters added to the sound—and yet this does not
alter the sense of the word, or prevent the whole name having the value
which the legislator intended. And the same may be said of a king and
the son of a king, who like other animals resemble each other in the
course of nature; the words by which they are signified may be
disguised, and yet amid differences of sound the etymologist may
recognise the same notion, just as the physician recognises the power
of the same drugs under different disguises of colour and smell. Hector
and Astyanax have only one letter alike, but they have the same
meaning; and Agis (leader) is altogether different in sound from
Polemarchus (chief in war), or Eupolemus (good warrior); but the two
words present the same idea of leader or general, like the words
Iatrocles and Acesimbrotus, which equally denote a physician. The son
succeeds the father as the foal succeeds the horse, but when, out of
the course of nature, a prodigy occurs, and the offspring no longer
resembles the parent, then the names no longer agree. This may be
illustrated by the case of Agamemnon and his son Orestes, of whom the
former has a name significant of his patience at the siege of Troy;
while the name of the latter indicates his savage, man-of-the-mountain
nature. Atreus again, for his murder of Chrysippus, and his cruelty to
Thyestes, is rightly named Atreus, which, to the eye of the
etymologist, is ateros (destructive), ateires (stubborn), atreotos
(fearless); and Pelops is o ta pelas oron (he who sees what is near
only), because in his eagerness to win Hippodamia, he was unconscious
of the remoter consequences which the murder of Myrtilus would entail
upon his race. The name Tantalus, if slightly changed, offers two
etymologies; either apo tes tou lithou talanteias, or apo tou
talantaton einai, signifying at once the hanging of the stone over his
head in the world below, and the misery which he brought upon his
country. And the name of his father, Zeus, Dios, Zenos, has an
excellent meaning, though hard to be understood, because really a
sentence which is divided into two parts (Zeus, Dios). For he, being
the lord and king of all, is the author of our being, and in him all
live: this is implied in the double form, Dios, Zenos, which being put
together and interpreted is di on ze panta. There may, at first sight,
appear to be some irreverence in calling him the son of Cronos, who is
a proverb for stupidity; but the meaning is that Zeus himself is the
son of a mighty intellect; Kronos, quasi koros, not in the sense of a
youth, but quasi to katharon kai akeraton tou nou—the pure and
garnished mind, which in turn is begotten of Uranus, who is so called
apo tou oran ta ano, from looking upwards; which, as philosophers say,
is the way to have a pure mind. The earlier portion of Hesiod’s
genealogy has escaped my memory, or I would try more conclusions of the
same sort. “You talk like an oracle.” I caught the infection from
Euthyphro, who gave me a long lecture which began at dawn, and has not
only entered into my ears, but filled my soul, and my intention is to
yield to the inspiration to-day; and to-morrow I will be exorcised by
some priest or sophist. “Go on; I am anxious to hear the rest.” Now
that we have a general notion, how shall we proceed? What names will
afford the most crucial test of natural fitness? Those of heroes and
ordinary men are often deceptive, because they are patronymics or
expressions of a wish; let us try gods and demi-gods. Gods are so
called, apo tou thein, from the verb “to run;” because the sun, moon,
and stars run about the heaven; and they being the original gods of the
Hellenes, as they still are of the Barbarians, their name is given to
all Gods. The demons are the golden race of Hesiod, and by golden he
means not literally golden, but good; and they are called demons, quasi
daemones, which in old Attic was used for daimones—good men are well
said to become daimones when they die, because they are knowing. Eros
(with an epsilon) is the same word as eros (with an eta): “the sons of
God saw the daughters of men that they were fair;” or perhaps they were
a species of sophists or rhetoricians, and so called apo tou erotan, or
eirein, from their habit of spinning questions; for eirein is
equivalent to legein. I get all this from Euthyphro; and now a new and
ingenious idea comes into my mind, and, if I am not careful, I shall be
wiser than I ought to be by to-morrow’s dawn. My idea is, that we may
put in and pull out letters at pleasure and alter the accents (as, for
example, Dii philos may be turned into Diphilos), and we may make words
into sentences and sentences into words. The name anthrotos is a case
in point, for a letter has been omitted and the accent changed; the
original meaning being o anathron a opopen—he who looks up at what he
sees. Psuche may be thought to be the reviving, or refreshing, or
animating principle—e anapsuchousa to soma; but I am afraid that
Euthyphro and his disciples will scorn this derivation, and I must find
another: shall we identify the soul with the “ordering mind” of
Anaxagoras, and say that psuche, quasi phuseche = e phusin echei or
ochei?—this might easily be refined into psyche. “That is a more
artistic etymology.”
After psuche follows soma; this, by a slight permutation, may be either
= (1) the “grave” of the soul, or (2) may mean “that by which the soul
signifies (semainei) her wishes.” But more probably, the word is
Orphic, and simply denotes that the body is the place of ward in which
the soul suffers the penalty of sin,—en o sozetai. “I should like to
hear some more explanations of the names of the Gods, like that
excellent one of Zeus.” The truest names of the Gods are those which
they give themselves; but these are unknown to us. Less true are those
by which we propitiate them, as men say in prayers, “May he graciously
receive any name by which I call him.” And to avoid offence, I should
like to let them know beforehand that we are not presuming to enquire
about them, but only about the names which they usually bear. Let us
begin with Hestia. What did he mean who gave the name Hestia? “That is
a very difficult question.” O, my dear Hermogenes, I believe that there
was a power of philosophy and talk among the first inventors of names,
both in our own and in other languages; for even in foreign words a
principle is discernible. Hestia is the same with esia, which is an old
form of ousia, and means the first principle of things: this agrees
with the fact that to Hestia the first sacrifices are offered. There is
also another reading—osia, which implies that “pushing” (othoun) is the
first principle of all things. And here I seem to discover a delicate
allusion to the flux of Heracleitus—that antediluvian philosopher who
cannot walk twice in the same stream; and this flux of his may
accomplish yet greater marvels. For the names Cronos and Rhea cannot
have been accidental; the giver of them must have known something about
the doctrine of Heracleitus. Moreover, there is a remarkable
coincidence in the words of Hesiod, when he speaks of Oceanus, “the
origin of Gods;” and in the verse of Orpheus, in which he describes
Oceanus espousing his sister Tethys. Tethys is nothing more than the
name of a spring—to diattomenon kai ethoumenon. Poseidon is posidesmos,
the chain of the feet, because you cannot walk on the sea—the epsilon
is inserted by way of ornament; or perhaps the name may have been
originally polleidon, meaning, that the God knew many things (polla
eidos): he may also be the shaker, apo tou seiein,—in this case, pi and
delta have been added. Pluto is connected with ploutos, because wealth
comes out of the earth; or the word may be a euphemism for Hades, which
is usually derived apo tou aeidous, because the God is concerned with
the invisible. But the name Hades was really given him from his knowing
(eidenai) all good things. Men in general are foolishly afraid of him,
and talk with horror of the world below from which no one may return.
The reason why his subjects never wish to come back, even if they
could, is that the God enchains them by the strongest of spells, namely
by the desire of virtue, which they hope to obtain by constant
association with him. He is the perfect and accomplished Sophist and
the great benefactor of the other world; for he has much more than he
wants there, and hence he is called Pluto or the rich. He will have
nothing to do with the souls of men while in the body, because he
cannot work his will with them so long as they are confused and
entangled by fleshly lusts. Demeter is the mother and giver of food—e
didousa meter tes edodes. Here is erate tis, or perhaps the legislator
may have been thinking of the weather, and has merely transposed the
letters of the word aer. Pherephatta, that word of awe, is pheretapha,
which is only an euphonious contraction of e tou pheromenou
ephaptomene,—all things are in motion, and she in her wisdom moves with
them, and the wise God Hades consorts with her—there is nothing very
terrible in this, any more than in the her other appellation
Persephone, which is also significant of her wisdom (sophe). Apollo is
another name, which is supposed to have some dreadful meaning, but is
susceptible of at least four perfectly innocent explanations. First, he
is the purifier or purger or absolver (apolouon); secondly, he is the
true diviner, Aplos, as he is called in the Thessalian dialect (aplos =
aplous, sincere); thirdly, he is the archer (aei ballon), always
shooting; or again, supposing alpha to mean ama or omou, Apollo becomes
equivalent to ama polon, which points to both his musical and his
heavenly attributes; for there is a “moving together” alike in music
and in the harmony of the spheres. The second lambda is inserted in
order to avoid the ill-omened sound of destruction. The Muses are so
called—apo tou mosthai. The gentle Leto or Letho is named from her
willingness (ethelemon), or because she is ready to forgive and forget
(lethe). Artemis is so called from her healthy well-balanced nature,
dia to artemes, or as aretes istor; or as a lover of virginity, aroton
misesasa. One of these explanations is probably true,—perhaps all of
them. Dionysus is o didous ton oinon, and oinos is quasi oionous
because wine makes those think (oiesthai) that they have a mind (nous)
who have none. The established derivation of Aphrodite dia ten tou
athrou genesin may be accepted on the authority of Hesiod. Again, there
is the name of Pallas, or Athene, which we, who are Athenians, must not
forget. Pallas is derived from armed dances—apo tou pallein ta opla.
For Athene we must turn to the allegorical interpreters of Homer, who
make the name equivalent to theonoe, or possibly the word was
originally ethonoe and signified moral intelligence (en ethei noesis).
Hephaestus, again, is the lord of light—o tou phaeos istor. This is a
good notion; and, to prevent any other getting into our heads, let us
go on to Ares. He is the manly one (arren), or the unchangeable one
(arratos). Enough of the Gods; for, by the Gods, I am afraid of them;
but if you suggest other words, you will see how the horses of
Euthyphro prance. “Only one more God; tell me about my godfather
Hermes.” He is ermeneus, the messenger or cheater or thief or
bargainer; or o eirein momenos, that is, eiremes or ermes—the speaker
or contriver of speeches. “Well said Cratylus, then, that I am no son
of Hermes.” Pan, as the son of Hermes, is speech or the brother of
speech, and is called Pan because speech indicates everything—o pan
menuon. He has two forms, a true and a false; and is in the upper part
smooth, and in the lower part shaggy. He is the goat of Tragedy, in
which there are plenty of falsehoods.
“Will you go on to the elements—sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air,
fire, water, seasons, years?” Very good: and which shall I take first?
Let us begin with elios, or the sun. The Doric form elios helps us to
see that he is so called because at his rising he gathers (alizei) men
together, or because he rolls about (eilei) the earth, or because he
variegates (aiolei = poikillei) the earth. Selene is an anticipation of
Anaxagoras, being a contraction of selaenoneoaeia, the light (selas)
which is ever old and new, and which, as Anaxagoras says, is borrowed
from the sun; the name was harmonized into selanaia, a form which is
still in use. “That is a true dithyrambic name.” Meis is so called apo
tou meiousthai, from suffering diminution, and astron is from astrape
(lightning), which is an improvement of anastrope, that which turns the
eyes inside out. “How do you explain pur n udor?” I suspect that pur,
which, like udor n kuon, is found in Phrygian, is a foreign word; for
the Hellenes have borrowed much from the barbarians, and I always
resort to this theory of a foreign origin when I am at a loss. Aer may
be explained, oti airei ta apo tes ges; or, oti aei rei; or, oti pneuma
ex autou ginetai (compare the poetic word aetai). So aither quasi
aeitheer oti aei thei peri ton aera: ge, gaia quasi genneteira (compare
the Homeric form gegaasi); ora (with an omega), or, according to the
old Attic form ora (with an omicron), is derived apo tou orizein,
because it divides the year; eniautos and etos are the same thought—o
en eauto etazon, cut into two parts, en eauto and etazon, like di on ze
into Dios and Zenos.