even yet at my utmost speed. “I should like very much to hear your
account of the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in those
charming words, wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest?” To
explain all that will be a serious business; still, as I have put on
the lion’s skin, appearances must be maintained. My opinion is, that
primitive men were like some modern philosophers, who, by always going
round in their search after the nature of things, become dizzy; and
this phenomenon, which was really in themselves, they imagined to take
place in the external world. You have no doubt remarked, that the
doctrine of the universal flux, or generation of things, is indicated
in names. “No, I never did.” Phronesis is only phoras kai rou noesis,
or perhaps phoras onesis, and in any case is connected with pheresthai;
gnome is gones skepsis kai nomesis; noesis is neou or gignomenon esis;
the word neos implies that creation is always going on—the original
form was neoesis; sophrosune is soteria phroneseos; episteme is e
epomene tois pragmasin—the faculty which keeps close, neither
anticipating nor lagging behind; sunesis is equivalent to sunienai,
sumporeuesthai ten psuche, and is a kind of conclusion—sullogismos tis,
akin therefore in idea to episteme; sophia is very difficult, and has a
foreign look—the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things,
and may be illustrated by the poetical esuthe and the Lacedaemonian
proper name Sous, or Rush; agathon is ro agaston en te tachuteti,—for
all things are in motion, and some are swifter than others: dikaiosune
is clearly e tou dikaiou sunesis. The word dikaion is more troublesome,
and appears to mean the subtle penetrating power which, as the lovers
of motion say, preserves all things, and is the cause of all things,
quasi diaion going through—the letter kappa being inserted for the sake
of euphony. This is a great mystery which has been confided to me; but
when I ask for an explanation I am thought obtrusive, and another
derivation is proposed to me. Justice is said to be o kaion, or the
sun; and when I joyfully repeat this beautiful notion, I am answered,
“What, is there no justice when the sun is down?” And when I entreat my
questioner to tell me his own opinion, he replies, that justice is fire
in the abstract, or heat in the abstract; which is not very
intelligible. Others laugh at such notions, and say with Anaxagoras,
that justice is the ordering mind. “I think that some one must have
told you this.” And not the rest? Let me proceed then, in the hope of
proving to you my originality. Andreia is quasi anpeia quasi e ano roe,
the stream which flows upwards, and is opposed to injustice, which
clearly hinders the principle of penetration; arren and aner have a
similar derivation; gune is the same as gone; thelu is derived apo tes
theles, because the teat makes things flourish (tethelenai), and the
word thallein itself implies increase of youth, which is swift and
sudden ever (thein and allesthai). I am getting over the ground fast:
but much has still to be explained. There is techne, for instance.
This, by an aphaeresis of tau and an epenthesis of omicron in two
places, may be identified with echonoe, and signifies “that which has
mind.”
“A very poor etymology.” Yes; but you must remember that all language
is in process of change; letters are taken in and put out for the sake
of euphony, and time is also a great alterer of words. For example,
what business has the letter rho in the word katoptron, or the letter
sigma in the word sphigx? The additions are often such that it is
impossible to make out the original word; and yet, if you may put in
and pull out, as you like, any name is equally good for any object. The
fact is, that great dictators of literature like yourself should
observe the rules of moderation. “I will do my best.” But do not be too
much of a precisian, or you will paralyze me. If you will let me add
mechane, apo tou mekous, which means polu, and anein, I shall be at the
summit of my powers, from which elevation I will examine the two words
kakia and arete. The first is easily explained in accordance with what
has preceded; for all things being in a flux, kakia is to kakos ion.
This derivation is illustrated by the word deilia, which ought to have
come after andreia, and may be regarded as o lian desmos tes psuches,
just as aporia signifies an impediment to motion (from alpha not, and
poreuesthai to go), and arete is euporia, which is the opposite of
this—the everflowing (aei reousa or aeireite), or the eligible, quasi
airete. You will think that I am inventing, but I say that if kakia is
right, then arete is also right. But what is kakon? That is a very
obscure word, to which I can only apply my old notion and declare that
kakon is a foreign word. Next, let us proceed to kalon, aischron. The
latter is doubtless contracted from aeischoroun, quasi aei ischon roun.
The inventor of words being a patron of the flux, was a great enemy to
stagnation. Kalon is to kaloun ta pragmata—this is mind (nous or
dianoia); which is also the principle of beauty; and which doing the
works of beauty, is therefore rightly called the beautiful. The meaning
of sumpheron is explained by previous examples;—like episteme,
signifying that the soul moves in harmony with the world (sumphora,
sumpheronta). Kerdos is to pasi kerannumenon—that which mingles with
all things: lusiteloun is equivalent to to tes phoras luon to telos,
and is not to be taken in the vulgar sense of gainful, but rather in
that of swift, being the principle which makes motion immortal and
unceasing; ophelimon is apo tou ophellein—that which gives increase:
this word, which is Homeric, is of foreign origin. Blaberon is to
blamton or boulomenon aptein tou rou—that which injures or seeks to
bind the stream. The proper word would be boulapteroun, but this is too
much of a mouthful—like a prelude on the flute in honour of Athene. The
word zemiodes is difficult; great changes, as I was saying, have been
made in words, and even a small change will alter their meaning very
much. The word deon is one of these disguised words. You know that
according to the old pronunciation, which is especially affected by the
women, who are great conservatives, iota and delta were used where we
should now use eta and zeta: for example, what we now call emera was
formerly called imera; and this shows the meaning of the word to have
been “the desired one coming after night,” and not, as is often
supposed, “that which makes things gentle” (emera). So again, zugon is
duogon, quasi desis duein eis agogen—(the binding of two together for
the purpose of drawing.) Deon, as ordinarily written, has an evil
sense, signifying the chain (desmos) or hindrance of motion; but in its
ancient form dion is expressive of good, quasi diion, that which
penetrates or goes through all. Zemiodes is really demiodes, and means
that which binds motion (dounti to ion): edone is e pros ten onrsin
teinousa praxis—the delta is an insertion: lupe is derived apo tes
dialuseos tou somatos: ania is from alpha and ienai, to go: algedon is
a foreign word, and is so called apo tou algeinou: odune is apo tes
enduseos tes lupes: achthedon is in its very sound a burden: chapa
expresses the flow of soul: terpsis is apo tou terpnou, and terpnon is
properly erpnon, because the sensation of pleasure is likened to a
breath (pnoe) which creeps (erpei) through the soul: euphrosune is
named from pheresthai, because the soul moves in harmony with nature:
epithumia is e epi ton thumon iousa dunamis: thumos is apo tes thuseos
tes psuches: imeros—oti eimenos pei e psuche: pothos, the desire which
is in another place, allothi pou: eros was anciently esros, and so
called because it flows into (esrei) the soul from without: doxa is e
dioxis tou eidenai, or expresses the shooting from a bow (toxon). The
latter etymology is confirmed by the words boulesthai, boule, aboulia,
which all have to do with shooting (bole): and similarly oiesis is
nothing but the movement (oisis) of the soul towards essence. Ekousion
is to eikon—the yielding—anagke is e an agke iousa, the passage through
ravines which impede motion: aletheia is theia ale, divine motion.
Pseudos is the opposite of this, implying the principle of constraint
and forced repose, which is expressed under the figure of sleep, to
eudon; the psi is an addition. Onoma, a name, affirms the real
existence of that which is sought after—on ou masma estin. On and ousia
are only ion with an iota broken off; and ouk on is ouk ion. “And what
are ion, reon, doun?” One way of explaining them has been already
suggested—they may be of foreign origin; and possibly this is the true
answer. But mere antiquity may often prevent our recognizing words,
after all the complications which they have undergone; and we must
remember that however far we carry back our analysis some ultimate
elements or roots will remain which can be no further analyzed. For
example; the word agathos was supposed by us to be a compound of
agastos and thoos, and probably thoos may be further resolvable. But if
we take a word of which no further resolution seems attainable, we may
fairly conclude that we have reached one of these original elements,
and the truth of such a word must be tested by some new method. Will
you help me in the search?
All names, whether primary or secondary, are intended to show the
nature of things; and the secondary, as I conceive, derive their
significance from the primary. But then, how do the primary names
indicate anything? And let me ask another question,—If we had no
faculty of speech, how should we communicate with one another? Should
we not use signs, like the deaf and dumb? The elevation of our hands
would mean lightness—heaviness would be expressed by letting them drop.
The running of any animal would be described by a similar movement of
our own frames. The body can only express anything by imitation; and
the tongue or mouth can imitate as well as the rest of the body. But
this imitation of the tongue or voice is not yet a name, because people
may imitate sheep or goats without naming them. What, then, is a name?
In the first place, a name is not a musical, or, secondly, a pictorial
imitation, but an imitation of that kind which expresses the nature of
a thing; and is the invention not of a musician, or of a painter, but
of a namer.
And now, I think that we may consider the names about which you were
asking. The way to analyze them will be by going back to the letters,
or primary elements of which they are composed. First, we separate the
alphabet into classes of letters, distinguishing the consonants, mutes,
vowels, and semivowels; and when we have learnt them singly, we shall
learn to know them in their various combinations of two or more
letters; just as the painter knows how to use either a single colour,
or a combination of colours. And like the painter, we may apply letters
to the expression of objects, and form them into syllables; and these
again into words, until the picture or figure—that is, language—is
completed. Not that I am literally speaking of ourselves, but I mean to
say that this was the way in which the ancients framed language. And
this leads me to consider whether the primary as well as the secondary
elements are rightly given. I may remark, as I was saying about the
Gods, that we can only attain to conjecture of them. But still we
insist that ours is the true and only method of discovery; otherwise we
must have recourse, like the tragic poets, to a Deus ex machina, and
say that God gave the first names, and therefore they are right; or
that the barbarians are older than we are, and that we learnt of them;
or that antiquity has cast a veil over the truth. Yet all these are not
reasons; they are only ingenious excuses for having no reasons.
I will freely impart to you my own notions, though they are somewhat
crude:—the letter rho appears to me to be the general instrument which
the legislator has employed to express all motion or kinesis. (I ought
to explain that kinesis is just iesis (going), for the letter eta was
unknown to the ancients; and the root, kiein, is a foreign form of
ienai: of kinesis or eisis, the opposite is stasis). This use of rho is
evident in the words tremble, break, crush, crumble, and the like; the
imposer of names perceived that the tongue is most agitated in the
pronunciation of this letter, just as he used iota to express the
subtle power which penetrates through all things. The letters phi, psi,
sigma, zeta, which require a great deal of wind, are employed in the
imitation of such notions as shivering, seething, shaking, and in
general of what is windy. The letters delta and tau convey the idea of
binding and rest in a place: the lambda denotes smoothness, as in the
words slip, sleek, sleep, and the like. But when the slipping tongue is
detained by the heavier sound of gamma, then arises the notion of a
glutinous clammy nature: nu is sounded from within, and has a notion of
inwardness: alpha is the expression of size; eta of length; omicron of
roundness, and therefore there is plenty of omicron in the word
goggulon. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the correctness of names; and
I should like to hear what Cratylus would say. “But, Socrates, as I was
telling you, Cratylus mystifies me; I should like to ask him, in your
presence, what he means by the fitness of names?” To this appeal,
Cratylus replies “that he cannot explain so important a subject all in
a moment.” “No, but you may ‘add little to little,’ as Hesiod says.”
Socrates here interposes his own request, that Cratylus will give some
account of his theory. Hermogenes and himself are mere sciolists, but
Cratylus has reflected on these matters, and has had teachers. Cratylus
replies in the words of Achilles: “‘Illustrious Ajax, you have spoken
in all things much to my mind,’ whether Euthyphro, or some Muse
inhabiting your own breast, was the inspirer.” Socrates replies, that
he is afraid of being self-deceived, and therefore he must “look fore
and aft,” as Homer remarks. Does not Cratylus agree with him that names
teach us the nature of things? “Yes.” And naming is an art, and the
artists are legislators, and like artists in general, some of them are
better and some of them are worse than others, and give better or worse
laws, and make better or worse names. Cratylus cannot admit that one
name is better than another; they are either true names, or they are
not names at all; and when he is asked about the name of Hermogenes,
who is acknowledged to have no luck in him, he affirms this to be the
name of somebody else. Socrates supposes him to mean that falsehood is
impossible, to which his own answer would be, that there has never been
a lack of liars. Cratylus presses him with the old sophistical
argument, that falsehood is saying that which is not, and therefore
saying nothing;—you cannot utter the word which is not. Socrates
complains that this argument is too subtle for an old man to
understand: Suppose a person addressing Cratylus were to say, Hail,
Athenian Stranger, Hermogenes! would these words be true or false? “I
should say that they would be mere unmeaning sounds, like the hammering
of a brass pot.” But you would acknowledge that names, as well as
pictures, are imitations, and also that pictures may give a right or
wrong representation of a man or woman:—why may not names then equally
give a representation true and right or false and wrong? Cratylus
admits that pictures may give a true or false representation, but
denies that names can. Socrates argues, that he may go up to a man and
say “this is year picture,” and again, he may go and say to him “this
is your name”—in the one case appealing to his sense of sight, and in
the other to his sense of hearing;—may he not? “Yes.” Then you will
admit that there is a right or a wrong assignment of names, and if of
names, then of verbs and nouns; and if of verbs and nouns, then of the
sentences which are made up of them; and comparing nouns to pictures,
you may give them all the appropriate sounds, or only some of them. And
as he who gives all the colours makes a good picture, and he who gives
only some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but still a picture; so he
who gives all the sounds makes a good name, and he who gives only some
of them, a bad or imperfect one, but a name still. The artist of names,
that is, the legislator, may be a good or he may be a bad artist. “Yes,
Socrates, but the cases are not parallel; for if you subtract or
misplace a letter, the name ceases to be a name.” Socrates admits that
the number 10, if an unit is subtracted, would cease to be 10, but
denies that names are of this purely quantitative nature. Suppose that
there are two objects—Cratylus and the image of Cratylus; and let us
imagine that some God makes them perfectly alike, both in their outward
form and in their inner nature and qualities: then there will be two
Cratyluses, and not merely Cratylus and the image of Cratylus. But an
image in fact always falls short in some degree of the original, and if
images are not exact counterparts, why should names be? if they were,
they would be the doubles of their originals, and indistinguishable
from them; and how ridiculous would this be! Cratylus admits the truth
of Socrates’ remark. But then Socrates rejoins, he should have the
courage to acknowledge that letters may be wrongly inserted in a noun,
or a noun in a sentence; and yet the noun or the sentence may retain a
meaning. Better to admit this, that we may not be punished like the
traveller in Egina who goes about at night, and that Truth herself may
not say to us, “Too late.” And, errors excepted, we may still affirm
that a name to be correct must have proper letters, which bear a
resemblance to the thing signified. I must remind you of what
Hermogenes and I were saying about the letter rho accent, which was
held to be expressive of motion and hardness, as lambda is of
smoothness;—and this you will admit to be their natural meaning. But
then, why do the Eritreans call that skleroter which we call sklerotes?
We can understand one another, although the letter rho accent is not
equivalent to the letter s: why is this? You reply, because the two
letters are sufficiently alike for the purpose of expressing motion.
Well, then, there is the letter lambda; what business has this in a
word meaning hardness? “Why, Socrates, I retort upon you, that we put
in and pull out letters at pleasure.” And the explanation of this is
custom or agreement: we have made a convention that the rho shall mean
s and a convention may indicate by the unlike as well as by the like.
How could there be names for all the numbers unless you allow that
convention is used? Imitation is a poor thing, and has to be
supplemented by convention, which is another poor thing; although I
agree with you in thinking that the most perfect form of language is
found only where there is a perfect correspondence of sound and
meaning. But let me ask you what is the use and force of names? “The
use of names, Socrates, is to inform, and he who knows names knows
things.” Do you mean that the discovery of names is the same as the
discovery of things? “Yes.” But do you not see that there is a degree
of deception about names? He who first gave names, gave them according
to his conception, and that may have been erroneous. “But then, why,
Socrates, is language so consistent? all words have the same laws.”
Mere consistency is no test of truth. In geometrical problems, for
example, there may be a flaw at the beginning, and yet the conclusion
may follow consistently. And, therefore, a wise man will take especial
care of first principles. But are words really consistent; are there
not as many terms of praise which signify rest as which signify motion?
There is episteme, which is connected with stasis, as mneme is with
meno. Bebaion, again, is the expression of station and position;
istoria is clearly descriptive of the stopping istanai of the stream;
piston indicates the cessation of motion; and there are many words
having a bad sense, which are connected with ideas of motion, such as
sumphora, amartia, etc.: amathia, again, might be explained, as e ama
theo iontos poreia, and akolasia as e akolouthia tois pragmasin. Thus
the bad names are framed on the same principle as the good, and other
examples might be given, which would favour a theory of rest rather
than of motion. “Yes; but the greater number of words express motion.”
Are we to count them, Cratylus; and is correctness of names to be
determined by the voice of a majority?
Here is another point: we were saying that the legislator gives names;
and therefore we must suppose that he knows the things which he names:
but how can he have learnt things from names before there were any
names? “I believe, Socrates, that some power more than human first gave
things their names, and that these were necessarily true names.” Then
how came the giver of names to contradict himself, and to make some
names expressive of rest, and others of motion? “I do not suppose that
he did make them both.” Then which did he make—those which are
expressive of rest, or those which are expressive of motion?...But if
some names are true and others false, we can only decide between them,
not by counting words, but by appealing to things. And, if so, we must
allow that things may be known without names; for names, as we have
several times admitted, are the images of things; and the higher
knowledge is of things, and is not to be derived from names; and though
I do not doubt that the inventors of language gave names, under the
idea that all things are in a state of motion and flux, I believe that
they were mistaken; and that having fallen into a whirlpool themselves,
they are trying to drag us after them. For is there not a true beauty
and a true good, which is always beautiful and always good? Can the
thing beauty be vanishing away from us while the words are yet in our
mouths? And they could not be known by any one if they are always
passing away—for if they are always passing away, the observer has no
opportunity of observing their state. Whether the doctrine of the flux
or of the eternal nature be the truer, is hard to determine. But no man
of sense will put himself, or the education of his mind, in the power
of names: he will not condemn himself to be an unreal thing, nor will
he believe that everything is in a flux like the water in a leaky
vessel, or that the world is a man who has a running at the nose. This
doctrine may be true, Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue;
and therefore I would have you reflect while you are young, and find
out the truth, and when you know come and tell me. “I have thought,
Socrates, and after a good deal of thinking I incline to Heracleitus.”
Then another day, my friend, you shall give me a lesson. “Very good,
Socrates, and I hope that you will continue to study these things
yourself.”
We may now consider (I) how far Plato in the Cratylus has discovered
the true principles of language, and then (II) proceed to compare
modern speculations respecting the origin and nature of language with
the anticipations of his genius.
I. (1) Plato is aware that language is not the work of chance; nor does
he deny that there is a natural fitness in names. He only insists that
this natural fitness shall be intelligibly explained. But he has no
idea that language is a natural organism. He would have heard with
surprise that languages are the common work of whole nations in a
primitive or semi-barbarous age. How, he would probably have argued,
could men devoid of art have contrived a structure of such complexity?
No answer could have been given to this question, either in ancient or
in modern times, until the nature of primitive antiquity had been
thoroughly studied, and the instincts of man had been shown to exist in
greater force, when his state approaches more nearly to that of
children or animals. The philosophers of the last century, after their
manner, would have vainly endeavoured to trace the process by which
proper names were converted into common, and would have shown how the
last effort of abstraction invented prepositions and auxiliaries. The
theologian would have proved that language must have had a divine
origin, because in childhood, while the organs are pliable, the
intelligence is wanting, and when the intelligence is able to frame
conceptions, the organs are no longer able to express them. Or, as
others have said: Man is man because he has the gift of speech; and he
could not have invented that which he is. But this would have been an
“argument too subtle” for Socrates, who rejects the theological account
of the origin of language “as an excuse for not giving a reason,” which
he compares to the introduction of the “Deus ex machina” by the tragic
poets when they have to solve a difficulty; thus anticipating many
modern controversies in which the primary agency of the divine Being is
confused with the secondary cause; and God is assumed to have worked a
miracle in order to fill up a lacuna in human knowledge. (Compare
Timaeus.)