phenomena of the material world, when we cannot trace the process by which
an event _has been_ produced, it is often of importance to be able to show
how it _may have been_ produced by natural causes. Thus, although it is
impossible to determine with certainty what the steps were by which any
particular language was formed, yet if we can show, from the known
principles of human nature, how all its various parts _might_ gradually
have arisen, the mind is not only to a certain degree satisfied, but a
check is given to that indolent philosophy which refers to a miracle
whatever appearances, both in the natural and moral worlds, it is unable
to explain.”(315)
This quotation from an eminent Scotch philosopher contains the best advice
that could be given to the student of the science of language, when he
approaches the problem which we have to examine to-day, namely, the origin
of language. Though we have stripped that problem of the perplexing and
mysterious aspect which it presented to the philosophers of old, yet, even
in its simplest form, it seems to be almost beyond the reach of the human
understanding.
If we were asked the riddle how images of the eye and all the sensations
of our senses could be represented by sounds, nay, could be so embodied in
sounds as to express thought and excite thought, we should probably give
it up as the question of a madman, who, mixing up the most heterogeneous
subjects, attempted to change color into sound and sound into
thought.(316) Yet this is the riddle which we have now to solve.
It is quite clear that we have no means of solving the problem of the
origin of language _historically_, or of explaining it as a matter of fact
which happened once in a certain locality and at a certain time. History
does not begin till long after mankind had acquired the power of language,
and even the most ancient traditions are silent as to the manner in which
man came in possession of his earliest thoughts and words. Nothing, no
doubt, would be more interesting than to know from historical documents
the exact process by which the first man began to lisp his first words,
and thus to be rid forever of all the theories on the origin of speech.
But this knowledge is denied us; and, if it had been otherwise, we should
probably be quite unable to understand those primitive events in the
history of the human mind.(317) We are told that the first man was the son
of God, that God created him in His own image, formed him of the dust of
the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life. These are
simple facts, and to be accepted as such; if we begin to reason on them,
the edge of the human understanding glances off. Our mind is so
constituted that it cannot apprehend the absolute beginning or the
absolute end of anything. If we tried to conceive the first man created as
a child, and gradually unfolding his physical and mental powers, we could
not understand his living for _one_ day without supernatural aid. If, on
the contrary, we tried to conceive the first man created full-grown in
body and mind, the conception of an effect without a cause, of a
full-grown mind without a previous growth, would equally transcend our
reasoning powers. It is the same with the first beginnings of language.
Theologians who claim for language a divine origin drift into the most
dangerous anthropomorphism, when they enter into any details as to the
manner in which they suppose the Deity to have compiled a dictionary and
grammar in order to teach them to the first man, as a schoolmaster teaches
the deaf and dumb. And they do not see that, even if all their premises
were granted, they would have explained no more than how the first man
might have learnt a language, if there was a language ready made for him.
How that language was made would remain as great a mystery as ever.
Philosophers, on the contrary, who imagine that the first man, though left
to himself, would gradually have emerged from a state of mutism and have
invented words for every new conception that arose in his mind, forget
that man could not by his own power have acquired _the faculty_ of speech
which is the distinctive character of mankind,(318) unattained and
unattainable by the mute creation. It shows a want of appreciation as to
the real bearings of our problem, if philosophers appeal to the fact that
children are born without language, and gradually emerge from mutism to
the full command of articulate speech. We want no explanation how birds
learn to fly, created as they are with organs adapted to that purpose. Nor
do we wish to inquire how children learn to use the various faculties with
which the human body and soul are endowed. We want to gain, if possible,
an insight into the original faculty of speech; and for that purpose I
fear it is as useless to watch the first stammerings of children, as it
would be to repeat the experiment of the Egyptian king who intrusted two
new-born infants to a shepherd, with the injunction to let them suck a
goat’s milk, and to speak no word in their presence, but to observe what
word they would first utter.(319) The same experiment is said to have been
repeated by the Swabian emperor, Frederic II., by James IV. of Scotland,
and by one of the Mogul emperors of India. But, whether for the purpose of
finding out which was the primitive language of mankind, or of discovering
how far language was natural to man, the experiments failed to throw any
light on the problem before us. Children, in learning to speak, do not
invent language. Language is there ready made for them. It has been there
for thousands of years. They acquire the use of a language, and, as they
grow up, they may acquire the use of a second and a third. It is useless
to inquire whether infants, left to themselves, would invent a language.
It would be impossible, unnatural, and illegal to try the experiment, and,
without repeated experiments, the assertions of those who believe and
those who disbelieve the possibility of children inventing a language of
their own, are equally valueless. All we know for certain is, that an
English child, if left to itself, would never begin to speak English, and
that history supplies no instance of any language having thus been
invented.
If we want to gain an insight into the faculty of flying, which is a
characteristic feature of birds, all we can do is, first, to compare the
structure of birds with that of other animals which are devoid of that
faculty, and secondly, to examine the conditions under which the act of
flying becomes possible. It is the same with speech. Speech is a specific
faculty of man. It distinguishes man from all other creatures; and if we
wish to acquire more definite ideas as to the real nature of human speech,
all we can do is to compare man with those animals that seem to come
nearest to him, and thus to try to discover what he shares in common with
these animals, and what is peculiar to him and to him alone. After we have
discovered this, we may proceed to inquire into the conditions under which
speech becomes possible, and we shall then have done all that we can do,
considering that the instruments of our knowledge, wonderful as they are,
are yet far too weak to carry us into all the regions to which we may soar
on the wings of our imagination.
In comparing man with the other animals, we need not enter here into the
physiological questions whether the difference between the body of an ape
and the body of a man is one of degree or of kind. However that question
is settled by physiologists we need not be afraid. If the structure of a
mere worm is such as to fill the human mind with awe, if a single glimpse
which we catch of the infinite wisdom displayed in the organs of the
lowest creature gives us an intimation of the wisdom of its Divine Creator
far transcending the powers of our conception, how are we to criticise and
disparage the most highly organized creatures of His creation, creatures
as wonderfully made as we ourselves? Are there not many creatures on many
points more perfect even than man? Do we not envy the lion’s strength, the
eagle’s eye, the wings of every bird? If there existed animals altogether
as perfect as man in their physical structure, nay, even more perfect, no
thoughtful man would ever be uneasy. His true superiority rests on
different grounds. “I confess,” Sydney Smith writes, “I feel myself so
much at ease about the superiority of mankind—I have such a marked and
decided contempt for the understanding of every baboon I have ever seen—I
feel so sure that the blue ape without a tail will never rival us in
poetry, painting, and music, that I see no reason whatever that justice
may not be done to the few fragments of soul and tatters of understanding
which they may really possess.” The playfulness of Sydney Smith in
handling serious and sacred subjects has of late been found fault with by
many: but humor is a safer sign of strong convictions and perfect safety
than guarded solemnity.
With regard to our own problem, no one can doubt that certain animals
possess all the physical requirements for articulate speech. There is no
letter of the alphabet which a parrot will not learn to pronounce.(320)
The fact, therefore, that the parrot is without a language of his own,
must be explained by a difference between the _mental_, not between the
_physical_, faculties of the animal and man; and it is by a comparison of
the mental faculties alone, such as we find them in man and brutes, that
we may hope to discover what constitutes the indispensable qualification
for language, a qualification to be found in man alone, and in no other
creature on earth.
I say _mental faculties_, and I mean to claim a large share of what we
call our mental faculties for the higher animals. These animals have
_sensation_, _perception_, _memory_, _will_, and _intellect_, only we must
restrict intellect to the comparing or interlacing of single perceptions.
All these points can be proved by irrefragable evidence, and that evidence
has never, I believe, been summed up with greater lucidity and power than
in one of the last publications of M. P. Flourens, “De la Raison, du
Génie, et de la Folie:” Paris, 1861. There are no doubt many people who
are as much frightened at the idea that brutes have souls and are able to
think, as by “the blue ape without a tail.” But their fright is entirely
of their own making. If people will use such words as soul or thought
without making it clear to themselves and others what they mean by them,
these words will slip away under their feet, and the result must be
painful. If we once ask the question, Have brutes a soul? we shall never
arrive at any conclusion; for _soul_ has been so many times defined by
philosophers from Aristotle down to Hegel, that it means everything and
nothing. Such has been the confusion caused by the promiscuous employment
of the ill-defined terms of mental philosophy that we find Descartes
representing brutes as living machines, whereas Leibniz claims for them
not only souls, but immortal souls. “Next to the error of those who deny
the existence of God,” says Descartes, “there is none so apt to lead weak
minds from the right path of virtue, as to think that the soul of brutes
is of the same nature as our own; and, consequently, that we have nothing
to fear or to hope after this life, any more than flies or ants; whereas,
if we know how much they differ, we understand much better that _our_ soul
is quite independent of the body, and consequently not subject to die with
the body.”
The spirit of these remarks is excellent, but the argument is extremely
weak. It does not follow that brutes have no souls because they have no
human souls. It does not follow that the souls of men are not immortal,
because the souls of brutes are not immortal; nor has the _major premiss_
ever been proved by any philosopher, namely, that the souls of brutes must
necessarily be destroyed and annihilated by death. Leibniz, who has
defended the immortality of the human soul with stronger arguments than
even Descartes, writes:—“I found at last how the souls of brutes and their
sensations do not at all interfere with the immortality of human souls; on
the contrary, nothing serves better to establish our natural immortality
than to believe that all souls are imperishable.”
Instead of entering into these perplexities, which are chiefly due to the
loose employment of ill-defined terms, let us simply look at the facts.
Every unprejudiced observer will admit that—
1. Brutes see, hear, taste, smell, and feel; that is to say, they have
five senses, just like ourselves, neither more nor less. They have both
sensation and perception, a point which has been illustrated by M.
Flourens by the most interesting experiments. If the roots of the optic
nerve are removed, the retina in the eye of a bird ceases to be excitable,
the iris is no longer movable; the animal is blind, because it has lost
the organ of _sensation_. If, on the contrary, the cerebral lobes are
removed, the eye remains pure and sound, the retina excitable, the iris
movable. The eye is preserved, yet the animal cannot see, because it has
lost the organs of _perception_.
2. Brutes have sensations of pleasure and pain. A dog that is beaten
behaves exactly like a child that is chastised, and a dog that is fed and
fondled exhibits the same signs of satisfaction as a boy under the same
circumstances. We can only judge from signs, and if they are to be trusted
in the case of children, they must be trusted likewise in the case of
brutes.
3. Brutes do not forget, or as philosophers would say, brutes have memory.
They know their masters, they know their home; they evince joy on
recognizing those who have been kind to them, and they bear malice for
years to those by whom they have been insulted or ill-treated. Who does
not recollect the dog Argos in the Odyssey, who, after so many years’
absence, was the first to recognize Ulysses?(321)
4. Brutes are able to compare and to distinguish. A parrot will take up a
nut, and throw it down again, without attempting to crack it. He has found
that it is light; this he could discover only by comparing the weight of
the good nuts with that of the bad: and he has found that it has no
kernel; this he could discover only by what philosophers would dignify
with the grand title of syllogism, namely, “all light nuts are hollow;
this is a light nut, therefore this nut is hollow.”
5. Brutes have a will of their own. I appeal to any one who has ever
ridden a restive horse.
6. Brutes show signs of shame and pride. Here again any one who has to
deal with dogs, who has watched a retriever with sparkling eyes placing a
partridge at his master’s feet, or a hound slinking away with his tail
between his legs from the huntsman’s call, will agree that these signs
admit of but one interpretation. The difficulty begins when we use
philosophical language, when we claim for brutes a moral sense, a
conscience, a power of distinguishing good and evil; and, as we gain
nothing by these scholastic terms, it is better to avoid them altogether.
7. Brutes show signs of love and hatred. There are well-authenticated
stories of dogs following their masters to the grave, and refusing food
from any one. Nor is there any doubt that brutes will watch their
opportunity till they revenge themselves on those whom they dislike.
If, with all these facts before us, we deny that brutes have sensation,
perception, memory, will, and intellect, we ought to bring forward
powerful arguments for interpreting the signs which we observe in brutes
so differently from those which we observe in men.
Some philosophers imagine they have explained everything, if they ascribe
to brutes _instinct_ instead of _intellect_. But, if we take these two
words in their usual acceptations, they surely do not exclude each
other.(322) There are instincts in man as well as in brutes. A child takes
his mother’s breast by instinct; the spider weaves its net by instinct;
the bee builds her cell by instinct. No one would ascribe to the child a
knowledge of physiology because it employs the exact muscles which are
required for sucking; nor shall we claim for the spider a knowledge of
mechanics, or for the bee an acquaintance with geometry, because _we_
could not do what they do without a study of these sciences. But what if
we tear a spider’s web, and see the spider examining the mischief that is
done, and either giving up his work in despair, or endeavoring to mend it
as well as may be?(323) Surely here we have the instinct of weaving
controlled by observation, by comparison, by reflection, by judgment.
Instinct, whether mechanical or moral, is more prominent in brutes than in
man; but it exists in both, as much as intellect is shared by both.
Where, then, is the difference between brute and man?(324) What is it that
man can do, and of which we find no signs, no rudiments, in the whole
brute world? I answer without hesitation: the one great barrier between
the brute and man is _Language_. Man speaks, and no brute has ever uttered
a word. Language is our Rubicon, and no brute will dare to cross it. This
is our matter of fact answer to those who speak of development, who think
they discover the rudiments at least of all human faculties in apes, and
who would fain keep open the possibility that man is only a more favored
beast, the triumphant conqueror in the primeval struggle for life.
Language is something more palpable than a fold of the brain, or an angle
of the skull. It admits of no cavilling, and no process of natural
selection will ever distill significant words out of the notes of birds or
the cries of beasts.
Language, however, is only the outward sign. We may point to it in our
arguments, we may challenge our opponent to produce anything approaching
to it from the whole brute world. But if this were all, if the art of
employing articulate sounds for the purpose of communicating our
impressions were the only thing by which we could assert our superiority
over the brute creation, we might not unreasonably feel somewhat uneasy at
having the gorilla so close on our heels.
It cannot be denied that brutes, though they do not use articulate sounds
for that purpose, have nevertheless means of their own for communicating
with each other. When a whale is struck, the whole shoal, though widely
dispersed, are instantly made aware of the presence of an enemy; and when
the grave-digger beetle finds the carcass of a mole, he hastens to
communicate the discovery to his fellows, and soon returns with his _four_
confederates.(325) It is evident, too, that dogs, though they do not
speak, possess the power of understanding much that is said to them, their
names and the calls of their master; and other animals, such as the
parrot, can pronounce every articulate sound. Hence, although for the
purpose of philosophical warfare, articulate language would still form an
impregnable position, yet it is but natural that for our own satisfaction
we should try to find out in what the strength of our position really
consists; or, in other words, that we should try to discover that inward
power of which language is the outward sign and manifestation.
For this purpose it will be best to examine the opinions of those who
approached our problem from another point; who, instead of looking for
outward and palpable signs of difference between brute and man, inquired
into the inward mental faculties, and tried to determine the point where
man transcends the barriers of the brute intellect. That point, if truly
determined, ought to coincide with the starting-point of language: and, if
so, that coincidence ought to explain the problem which occupies us at
present.
I shall read an extract from Locke’s Essay concerning Human Understanding.
After having explained how universal ideas are made, how the mind, having
observed the same color in chalk, and snow, and milk, comprehends these
single perceptions under the general conception of whiteness, Locke
continues:(326) “If it may be doubted, whether beasts compound and enlarge
their ideas that way to any degree: this, I think, I may be positive in,
that the power of abstracting is not at all in them; and that the having
of general ideas is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt man and
brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means
attain to.”
If Locke is right in considering the having general ideas as the
distinguishing feature between man and brutes, and, if we ourselves are
right in pointing to language as the one palpable distinction between the
two, it would seem to follow that language is the outward sign and
realization of that inward faculty which is called the faculty of
abstraction, but which is better known to us by the homely name of Reason.
Let us now look back to the result of our former Lectures. It was this.
After we had explained everything in the growth of language that can be
explained, there remained in the end, as the only inexplicable residuum,
what we called _roots_. These roots formed the constituent elements of all
languages. This discovery has simplified the problem of the origin of
language immensely. It has taken away all excuse for those rapturous
descriptions of language which invariably preceded the argument that
language must have a divine origin. We shall hear no more of that
wonderful instrument which can express all we see, and hear, and taste,
and touch, and smell; which is the breathing image of the whole world;
which gives form to the airy feelings of our souls, and body to the
loftiest dreams of our imagination; which can arrange in accurate
perspective the past, the present, and the future, and throw over
everything the varying hues of certainty, of doubt, of contingency. All
this is perfectly true, but it is no longer wonderful, at least not in the
Arabian Nights sense of that word. “The speculative mind,” as Dr. Ferguson
says, “in comparing the first and last steps of the progress of language,
feels the same sort of amazement with a traveller, who, after rising
insensibly on the slope of a hill, comes to look from a precipice of an
almost unfathomable depth to the summit of which he scarcely believes
himself to have ascended without supernatural aid.” To certain minds it is
a disappointment to be led down again by the hand of history from that
high summit. They prefer the unintelligible which they can admire, to the
intelligible which they can only understand. But to a mature mind reality
is more attractive than fiction, and simplicity more wonderful than
complication. Roots may seem dry things as compared with the poetry of
Goethe. Yet there is something more truly wonderful in a root than in all
the lyrics of the world.
What, then, are these roots? In our modern languages roots can only be
discovered by scientific analysis, and, even as far back as Sanskrit, we
may say that no root was ever used as a noun or as a verb. But originally
roots were thus used, and in Chinese we have fortunately preserved to us a
representative of that primitive radical stage which, like the granite,
underlies all other strata of human speech. The Aryan root _DÂ_, to give,
appears in Sanskrit _dâ-nam_, _donum_, gift, as a substantive; in _do_,
Sanskrit _dadâmi_, Greek _di-dō-mi_, I give, as a verb; but the root DÂ
can never be used by itself. In Chinese, on the contrary, the root TA, as
such, is used in the sense of a noun, greatness; of a verb, to be great;
of an adverb, greatly or much. Roots therefore are not, as is commonly
maintained, merely scientific abstractions, but they were used originally
as real words. What we want to find out is this, What inward mental phase
is it that corresponds to these roots, as the germs of human speech?
Two theories have been started to solve this problem, which, for
shortness’ sake, I shall call the _Bow-wow theory_ and the _Pooh-pooh
theory_.(327)