preceding, may be considered the differentiation of languages, i.e. the
manner in which differences of meaning and form have arisen in them.
Into their first creation we have ceased to enquire: it is their
aftergrowth with which we are now concerned. How did the roots or
substantial portions of words become modified or inflected? and how did
they receive separate meanings? First we remark that words are
attracted by the sounds and senses of other words, so that they form
groups of nouns and verbs analogous in sound and sense to one another,
each noun or verb putting forth inflexions, generally of two or three
patterns, and with exceptions. We do not say that we know how sense
became first allied to sound; but we have no difficulty in ascertaining
how the sounds and meanings of words were in time parted off or
differentiated. (1) The chief causes which regulate the variations of
sound are (a) double or differing analogies, which lead sometimes to
one form, sometimes to another (b) euphony, by which is meant chiefly
the greater pleasure to the ear and the greater facility to the organs
of speech which is given by a new formation or pronunciation of a word
(c) the necessity of finding new expressions for new classes or
processes of things. We are told that changes of sound take place by
innumerable gradations until a whole tribe or community or society find
themselves acquiescing in a new pronunciation or use of language. Yet
no one observes the change, or is at all aware that in the course of a
lifetime he and his contemporaries have appreciably varied their
intonation or use of words. On the other hand, the necessities of
language seem to require that the intermediate sounds or meanings of
words should quickly become fixed or set and not continue in a state of
transition. The process of settling down is aided by the organs of
speech and by the use of writing and printing. (2) The meaning of words
varies because ideas vary or the number of things which is included
under them or with which they are associated is increased. A single
word is thus made to do duty for many more things than were formerly
expressed by it; and it parts into different senses when the classes of
things or ideas which are represented by it are themselves different
and distinct. A figurative use of a word may easily pass into a new
sense: a new meaning caught up by association may become more important
than all the rest. The good or neutral sense of a word, such as Jesuit,
Puritan, Methodist, Heretic, has been often converted into a bad one by
the malevolence of party spirit. Double forms suggest different
meanings and are often used to express them; and the form or accent of
a word has been not unfrequently altered when there is a difference of
meaning. The difference of gender in nouns is utilized for the same
reason. New meanings of words push themselves into the vacant spaces of
language and retire when they are no longer needed. Language equally
abhors vacancy and superfluity. But the remedial measures by which both
are eliminated are not due to any conscious action of the human mind;
nor is the force exerted by them constraining or necessary.
(7) We have shown that language, although subject to laws, is far from
being of an exact and uniform nature. We may now speak briefly of the
faults of language. They may be compared to the faults of Geology, in
which different strata cross one another or meet at an angle, or mix
with one another either by slow transitions or by violent convulsions,
leaving many lacunae which can be no longer filled up, and often
becoming so complex that no true explanation of them can be given. So
in language there are the cross influences of meaning and sound, of
logic and grammar, of differing analogies, of words and the inflexions
of words, which often come into conflict with each other. The
grammarian, if he were to form new words, would make them all of the
same pattern according to what he conceives to be the rule, that is,
the more common usage of language. The subtlety of nature goes far
beyond art, and it is complicated by irregularity, so that often we can
hardly say that there is a right or wrong in the formation of words.
For almost any formation which is not at variance with the first
principles of language is possible and may be defended.
The imperfection of language is really due to the formation and
correlation of words by accident, that is to say, by principles which
are unknown to us. Hence we see why Plato, like ourselves unable to
comprehend the whole of language, was constrained to “supplement the
poor creature imitation by another poor creature convention.” But the
poor creature convention in the end proves too much for all the rest:
for we do not ask what is the origin of words or whether they are
formed according to a correct analogy, but what is the usage of them;
and we are compelled to admit with Hermogenes in Plato and with Horace
that usage is the ruling principle, “quem penes arbitrium est, et jus
et norma loquendi.”
(8) There are two ways in which a language may attain permanence or
fixity. First, it may have been embodied in poems or hymns or laws,
which may be repeated for hundreds, perhaps for thousands of years with
a religious accuracy, so that to the priests or rhapsodists of a nation
the whole or the greater part of a language is literally preserved;
secondly, it may be written down and in a written form distributed more
or less widely among the whole nation. In either case the language
which is familiarly spoken may have grown up wholly or in a great
measure independently of them. (1) The first of these processes has
been sometimes attended by the result that the sound of the words has
been carefully preserved and that the meaning of them has either
perished wholly, or is only doubtfully recovered by the efforts of
modern philology. The verses have been repeated as a chant or part of a
ritual, but they have had no relation to ordinary life or speech. (2)
The invention of writing again is commonly attributed to a particular
epoch, and we are apt to think that such an inestimable gift would have
immediately been diffused over a whole country. But it may have taken a
long time to perfect the art of writing, and another long period may
have elapsed before it came into common use. Its influence on language
has been increased ten, twenty or one hundred fold by the invention of
printing.
Before the growth of poetry or the invention of writing, languages were
only dialects. So they continued to be in parts of the country in which
writing was not used or in which there was no diffusion of literature.
In most of the counties of England there is still a provincial style,
which has been sometimes made by a great poet the vehicle of his
fancies. When a book sinks into the mind of a nation, such as Luther’s
Bible or the Authorized English Translation of the Bible, or again
great classical works like Shakspere or Milton, not only have new
powers of expression been diffused through a whole nation, but a great
step towards uniformity has been made. The instinct of language demands
regular grammar and correct spelling: these are imprinted deeply on the
tablets of a nation’s memory by a common use of classical and popular
writers. In our own day we have attained to a point at which nearly
every printed book is spelt correctly and written grammatically.
(9) Proceeding further to trace the influence of literature on language
we note some other causes which have affected the higher use of it:
such as (1) the necessity of clearness and connexion; (2) the fear of
tautology; (3) the influence of metre, rhythm, rhyme, and of the
language of prose and verse upon one another; (4) the power of idiom
and quotation; (5) the relativeness of words to one another.
It has been usual to depreciate modern languages when compared with
ancient. The latter are regarded as furnishing a type of excellence to
which the former cannot attain. But the truth seems to be that modern
languages, if through the loss of inflections and genders they lack
some power or beauty or expressiveness or precision which is possessed
by the ancient, are in many other respects superior to them: the
thought is generally clearer, the connexion closer, the sentence and
paragraph are better distributed. The best modern languages, for
example English or French, possess as great a power of self-improvement
as the Latin, if not as the Greek. Nor does there seem to be any reason
why they should ever decline or decay. It is a popular remark that our
great writers are beginning to disappear: it may also be remarked that
whenever a great writer appears in the future he will find the English
language as perfect and as ready for use as in the days of Shakspere or
Milton. There is no reason to suppose that English or French will ever
be reduced to the low level of Modern Greek or of Mediaeval Latin. The
wide diffusion of great authors would make such a decline impossible.
Nor will modern languages be easily broken up by amalgamation with each
other. The distance between them is too wide to be spanned, the
differences are too great to be overcome, and the use of printing makes
it impossible that one of them should ever be lost in another.
The structure of the English language differs greatly from that of
either Latin or Greek. In the two latter, especially in Greek,
sentences are joined together by connecting particles. They are
distributed on the right hand and on the left by men, de, alla, kaitoi,
kai de and the like, or deduced from one another by ara, de, oun,
toinun and the like. In English the majority of sentences are
independent and in apposition to one another; they are laid side by
side or slightly connected by the copula. But within the sentence the
expression of the logical relations of the clauses is closer and more
exact: there is less of apposition and participial structure. The
sentences thus laid side by side are also constructed into paragraphs;
these again are less distinctly marked in Greek and Latin than in
English. Generally French, German, and English have an advantage over
the classical languages in point of accuracy. The three concords are
more accurately observed in English than in either Greek or Latin. On
the other hand, the extension of the familiar use of the masculine and
feminine gender to objects of sense and abstract ideas as well as to
men and animals no doubt lends a nameless grace to style which we have
a difficulty in appreciating, and the possible variety in the order of
words gives more flexibility and also a kind of dignity to the period.
Of the comparative effect of accent and quantity and of the relation
between them in ancient and modern languages we are not able to judge.
Another quality in which modern are superior to ancient languages is
freedom from tautology. No English style is thought tolerable in which,
except for the sake of emphasis, the same words are repeated at short
intervals. Of course the length of the interval must depend on the
character of the word. Striking words and expressions cannot be allowed
to reappear, if at all, except at the distance of a page or more.
Pronouns, prepositions, conjunctions may or rather must recur in
successive lines. It seems to be a kind of impertinence to the reader
and strikes unpleasantly both on the mind and on the ear that the same
sounds should be used twice over, when another word or turn of
expression would have given a new shade of meaning to the thought and
would have added a pleasing variety to the sound. And the mind equally
rejects the repetition of the word and the use of a mere synonym for
it,—e.g. felicity and happiness. The cultivated mind desires something
more, which a skilful writer is easily able to supply out of his
treasure-house.
The fear of tautology has doubtless led to the multiplications of words
and the meanings of words, and generally to an enlargement of the
vocabulary. It is a very early instinct of language; for ancient poetry
is almost as free from tautology as the best modern writings. The
speech of young children, except in so far as they are compelled to
repeat themselves by the fewness of their words, also escapes from it.
When they grow up and have ideas which are beyond their powers of
expression, especially in writing, tautology begins to appear. In like
manner when language is “contaminated” by philosophy it is apt to
become awkward, to stammer and repeat itself, to lose its flow and
freedom. No philosophical writer with the exception of Plato, who is
himself not free from tautology, and perhaps Bacon, has attained to any
high degree of literary excellence.
To poetry the form and polish of language is chiefly to be attributed;
and the most critical period in the history of language is the
transition from verse to prose. At first mankind were contented to
express their thoughts in a set form of words having a kind of rhythm;
to which regularity was given by accent and quantity. But after a time
they demanded a greater degree of freedom, and to those who had all
their life been hearing poetry the first introduction of prose had the
charm of novelty. The prose romances into which the Homeric Poems were
converted, for a while probably gave more delight to the hearers or
readers of them than the Poems themselves, and in time the relation of
the two was reversed: the poems which had once been a necessity of the
human mind became a luxury: they were now superseded by prose, which in
all succeeding ages became the natural vehicle of expression to all
mankind. Henceforward prose and poetry formed each other. A
comparatively slender link between them was also furnished by proverbs.
We may trace in poetry how the simple succession of lines, not without
monotony, has passed into a complicated period, and how in prose,
rhythm and accent and the order of words and the balance of clauses,
sometimes not without a slight admixture of rhyme, make up a new kind
of harmony, swelling into strains not less majestic than those of
Homer, Virgil, or Dante.
One of the most curious and characteristic features of language,
affecting both syntax and style, is idiom. The meaning of the word
“idiom” is that which is peculiar, that which is familiar, the word or
expression which strikes us or comes home to us, which is more readily
understood or more easily remembered. It is a quality which really
exists in infinite degrees, which we turn into differences of kind by
applying the term only to conspicuous and striking examples of words or
phrases which have this quality. It often supersedes the laws of
language or the rules of grammar, or rather is to be regarded as
another law of language which is natural and necessary. The word or
phrase which has been repeated many times over is more intelligible and
familiar to us than one which is rare, and our familiarity with it more
than compensates for incorrectness or inaccuracy in the use of it.
Striking expressions also which have moved the hearts of nations or are
the precious stones and jewels of great authors partake of the nature
of idioms: they are taken out of the sphere of grammar and are exempt
from the proprieties of language. Every one knows that we often put
words together in a manner which would be intolerable if it were not
idiomatic. We cannot argue either about the meaning of words or the use
of constructions that because they are used in one connexion they will
be legitimate in another, unless we allow for this principle. We can
bear to have words and sentences used in new senses or in a new order
or even a little perverted in meaning when we are quite familiar with
them. Quotations are as often applied in a sense which the author did
not intend as in that which he did. The parody of the words of
Shakspere or of the Bible, which has in it something of the nature of a
lie, is far from unpleasing to us. The better known words, even if
their meaning be perverted, are more agreeable to us and have a greater
power over us. Most of us have experienced a sort of delight and
feeling of curiosity when we first came across or when we first used
for ourselves a new word or phrase or figure of speech.
There are associations of sound and of sense by which every word is
linked to every other. One letter harmonizes with another; every verb
or noun derives its meaning, not only from itself, but from the words
with which it is associated. Some reflection of them near or distant is
embodied in it. In any new use of a word all the existing uses of it
have to be considered. Upon these depends the question whether it will
bear the proposed extension of meaning or not. According to the famous
expression of Luther, “Words are living creatures, having hands and
feet.” When they cease to retain this living power of adaptation, when
they are only put together like the parts of a piece of furniture,
language becomes unpoetical, inexpressive, dead.
Grammars would lead us to suppose that words have a fixed form and
sound. Lexicons assign to each word a definite meaning or meanings.
They both tend to obscure the fact that the sentence precedes the word
and that all language is relative. (1) It is relative to its own
context. Its meaning is modified by what has been said before and after
in the same or in some other passage: without comparing the context we
are not sure whether it is used in the same sense even in two
successive sentences. (2) It is relative to facts, to time, place, and
occasion: when they are already known to the hearer or reader, they may
be presupposed; there is no need to allude to them further. (3) It is
relative to the knowledge of the writer and reader or of the speaker
and hearer. Except for the sake of order and consecutiveness nothing
ought to be expressed which is already commonly or universally known. A
word or two may be sufficient to give an intimation to a friend; a long
or elaborate speech or composition is required to explain some new idea
to a popular audience or to the ordinary reader or to a young pupil.
Grammars and dictionaries are not to be despised; for in teaching we
need clearness rather than subtlety. But we must not therefore forget
that there is also a higher ideal of language in which all is
relative—sounds to sounds, words to words, the parts to the whole—in
which besides the lesser context of the book or speech, there is also
the larger context of history and circumstances.
The study of Comparative Philology has introduced into the world a new
science which more than any other binds up man with nature, and distant
ages and countries with one another. It may be said to have thrown a
light upon all other sciences and upon the nature of the human mind
itself. The true conception of it dispels many errors, not only of
metaphysics and theology, but also of natural knowledge. Yet it is far
from certain that this newly-found science will continue to progress in
the same surprising manner as heretofore; or that even if our materials
are largely increased, we shall arrive at much more definite
conclusions than at present. Like some other branches of knowledge, it
may be approaching a point at which it can no longer be profitably
studied. But at any rate it has brought back the philosophy of language
from theory to fact; it has passed out of the region of guesses and
hypotheses, and has attained the dignity of an Inductive Science. And
it is not without practical and political importance. It gives a new
interest to distant and subject countries; it brings back the dawning
light from one end of the earth to the other. Nations, like
individuals, are better understood by us when we know something of
their early life; and when they are better understood by us, we feel
more kindly towards them. Lastly, we may remember that all knowledge is
valuable for its own sake; and we may also hope that a deeper insight
into the nature of human speech will give us a greater command of it
and enable us to make a nobler use of it.[2]
[2] Compare again W. Humboldt, _Ueber die Verschiedenheit des
menschlichen Sprachbaues_; M. Müller, _Lectures on the Science of
Language_; Steinthal, _Einleitung in die Psychologie und
Sprachwissenschaft_: and for the latter part of the Essay, Delbruck,
_Study of Language_; Paul’s _Principles of the History of Language_:
to the latter work the author of this Essay is largely indebted.
CRATYLUS
By Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Hermogenes, Cratylus.
HERMOGENES: Suppose that we make Socrates a party to the argument?
CRATYLUS: If you please.
HERMOGENES: I should explain to you, Socrates, that our friend Cratylus
has been arguing about names; he says that they are natural and not
conventional; not a portion of the human voice which men agree to use;
but that there is a truth or correctness in them, which is the same for
Hellenes as for barbarians. Whereupon I ask him, whether his own name
of Cratylus is a true name or not, and he answers “Yes.” And Socrates?
“Yes.” Then every man’s name, as I tell him, is that which he is
called. To this he replies—“If all the world were to call you
Hermogenes, that would not be your name.” And when I am anxious to have
a further explanation he is ironical and mysterious, and seems to imply
that he has a notion of his own about the matter, if he would only
tell, and could entirely convince me, if he chose to be intelligible.
Tell me, Socrates, what this oracle means; or rather tell me, if you
will be so good, what is your own view of the truth or correctness of
names, which I would far sooner hear.
SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying, that “hard is
the knowledge of the good.” And the knowledge of names is a great part
of knowledge. If I had not been poor, I might have heard the
fifty-drachma course of the great Prodicus, which is a complete
education in grammar and language—these are his own words—and then I
should have been at once able to answer your question about the
correctness of names. But, indeed, I have only heard the single-drachma
course, and therefore, I do not know the truth about such matters; I
will, however, gladly assist you and Cratylus in the investigation of
them. When he declares that your name is not really Hermogenes, I
suspect that he is only making fun of you;—he means to say that you are
no true son of Hermes, because you are always looking after a fortune
and never in luck. But, as I was saying, there is a good deal of
difficulty in this sort of knowledge, and therefore we had better leave
the question open until we have heard both sides.
HERMOGENES: I have often talked over this matter, both with Cratylus
and others, and cannot convince myself that there is any principle of
correctness in names other than convention and agreement; any name
which you give, in my opinion, is the right one, and if you change that
and give another, the new name is as correct as the old—we frequently
change the names of our slaves, and the newly-imposed name is as good
as the old: for there is no name given to anything by nature; all is
convention and habit of the users;—such is my view. But if I am
mistaken I shall be happy to hear and learn of Cratylus, or of any one
else.
SOCRATES: I dare say that you may be right, Hermogenes: let us
see;—Your meaning is, that the name of each thing is only that which
anybody agrees to call it?
HERMOGENES: That is my notion.
SOCRATES: Whether the giver of the name be an individual or a city?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, now, let me take an instance;—suppose that I call a man
a horse or a horse a man, you mean to say that a man will be rightly
called a horse by me individually, and rightly called a man by the rest
of the world; and a horse again would be rightly called a man by me and
a horse by the world:—that is your meaning?
HERMOGENES: He would, according to my view.
SOCRATES: But how about truth, then? you would acknowledge that there
is in words a true and a false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And there are true and false propositions?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And a true proposition says that which is, and a false
proposition says that which is not?
HERMOGENES: Yes; what other answer is possible?
SOCRATES: Then in a proposition there is a true and false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But is a proposition true as a whole only, and are the parts
untrue?
HERMOGENES: No; the parts are true as well as the whole.
SOCRATES: Would you say the large parts and not the smaller ones, or
every part?
HERMOGENES: I should say that every part is true.
SOCRATES: Is a proposition resolvable into any part smaller than a
name?
HERMOGENES: No; that is the smallest.
SOCRATES: Then the name is a part of the true proposition?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Yes, and a true part, as you say.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not the part of a falsehood also a falsehood?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then, if propositions may be true and false, names may be
true and false?
HERMOGENES: So we must infer.
SOCRATES: And the name of anything is that which any one affirms to be
the name?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And will there be so many names of each thing as everybody
says that there are? and will they be true names at the time of
uttering them?
HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates, I can conceive no correctness of names other
than this; you give one name, and I another; and in different cities
and countries there are different names for the same things; Hellenes
differ from barbarians in their use of names, and the several Hellenic
tribes from one another.