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Title: Introduction to the study of the history of language

Author: Herbert Augustus Strong
        Willem Sijbrand Logeman
        Benjamin Ide Wheeler

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i

INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF THE
HISTORY OF LANGUAGE

ii

iii

INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF THE
HISTORY OF LANGUAGE

BY
HERBERT A. STRONG, M.A., L.L.D.
PROFESSOR OF LATIN IN UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LIVERPOOL
SOMETIME PROFESSOR OF CLASSICS AT MELBOURNE UNIVERSITY

WILLEM S. LOGEMAN, L.H.C. (Utrecht Univ.)
HEAD MASTER OF NEWTON SCHOOL, ROCK FERRY, CHESHIRE

AND
BENJAMIN IDE WHEELER
PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN CORNELL UNIVERSITY, U.S.A.

LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET
1891

iv

v

PREFACE

In the following pages an attempt has been made to enable students to grasp the main points of the contents of one of the most important philological works which have been published during the last ten or twenty years—Paul’s ‘Principien der Sprachgeschichte.’

With this object in view, that work has been here, with more or less freedom, as the subject seemed to demand, rewritten. Though a translation of Professor Paul’s book has been published by one of the authors, it has been felt that the existence of that translation did not render a work like the present superfluous, nor should a student whose interest has been awakened by the reading of these pages consider he can dispense with studying what Paul has written in his great work.

It may be best to state in how far this and Professor Paul’s book are alike, as well as in what points they differ.

We have closely followed Paul in his division of the subject. Our chapters correspond in number, order, and subject with those of Paul. The views set forth in our pages are in the main those of Paul; the vi arguments are mostly his, even in the very few cases (such as the question of the consistency and nature of the laws of sound-change) where the authors might feel inclined to differ from Paul’s views. Also the order in which the various points in each chapter are discussed has been generally preserved.

On the other hand, we have altered much, as we hope, in the interest of our readers. Professor Paul wrote for Germans in the first place, and secondly for such students as were able to read books like his in the original, i.e. for those who not only knew German enough to feel all the weight and import of his German examples, but who also, like most German students, could be assumed to possess a sufficiently intelligent interest in the history of the German language to appreciate quotations of its older forms (a point which Englishmen have unfortunately too much neglected), and who, thirdly, might be expected to be sufficiently familiar with at least some of the other languages from which he drew his quotations.

Now though, in deference to a generally expressed opinion, a second edition of the translation of Paul’s work is now in the press, in which all these examples have been translated, this Englishing of the illustrations will, we think, be found to be of use in but few cases.1 It is, in fact, almost invariably not so much the mere word or sentence chosen as an illustration, vii as the peculiar form, its peculiar connotation, its peculiar construction, which is of importance. All these almost invariably disappear or differ in the translation, unless such translation be accompanied by such discussion and explanation as will bring out the meaning as an illustration of the point in question. It is self-evident that such additions in a translation could not be thought of.

Moreover, Professor Paul very frequently follows the German manner of exposition: first giving us the statement of abstract principle, and then illustrative examples. Though the authors are very far from wishing to say that no English student could or would follow this style of reasoning, they believe that it is generally preferable to lead English students from the concrete to the abstract.

All these considerations have led to the following deviations from Professor Paul’s work.

Everything has been illustrated from English wherever possible, and much also from French; examples from other foreign languages have, as a rule, been admitted only when they illustrated something new, and even then an attempt has generally been made to add such translations (literal and idiomatic) as would enable the reader to appreciate the force of the illustration, even without further knowledge of the language from which it was taken.

The order of the argument has sometimes been inverted. viii

Where what was said seemed sufficient to explain the nature and bearings of the subject of a chapter, some minor points have sometimes been omitted. They have not been omitted because they were thought unimportant, but generally because they could not be so well illustrated from English, and it was felt desirable to economise space for a full discussion of everything of which English does furnish illustrations. It will consequently be found that some of our chapters differ much more than others from the corresponding ones in Professor Paul’s book. But even where, from the nature of the case, we had to follow Paul closely, we have always aimed at supplying further English examples or at explaining fully the illustrations from other tongues.

A word should, perhaps, be said as to the joint authorship. In all cases what the one wrote has been read by the other, and Mr. Logeman wishes more especially to acknowledge in this matter his obligations to Professor Strong for many a correction of sentences where his style might have betrayed the foreigner. Professor Benjamin Ide Wheeler has perused the greater part of the work, and supplied many apt illustrations. Several important passages are from his pen. The authors at the same time have to acknowledge their gratitude to Mr. R. H. Case, B.A., who has patiently read the whole work. It was of immense advantage to them to have the benefit of the observations of a highly cultured mind, well versed in English and its ix literature, but new to a subject like this, such as Mr. Case brought to the work. Many improvements were thus made in various places where he could show the need of fuller explanation or of a different way of expressing the matter.

It may perhaps cause some surprise that we have omitted the introduction, and, unless a word in explanation of this fact were added, this omission might seem to imply but slight courtesy to Professor Paul, or respect for his emphatic statement that he considers this introduction by no means useless, nay, an integral and important part of his book.

We do not at all share the opinion of some critics of Professor Paul’s work, to whom he almost indignantly refers as having said that this introduction has no bearing upon the chapters which follow. But we do consider that the book in this our present form can be profitably studied without it, and especially that his introduction is of so general a nature that there would be no advantage whatever in recasting it; and that it can be equally well studied, and should be studied, either in the original or in the translation of Paul’s own book—a work of such importance that, as we would once more insist, we do not wish our book to supersede it, but rather that our pages should cause the reader to ‘ask for more’ and peruse the original work.

The authors feel, of course, quite certain that their work is not final: they are but too keenly aware that x they may have overlooked important illustrations which might be drawn from English, and are quite prepared to discover that here and there they may have added sins of commission to such errors of omission. They will heartily welcome all criticism and all indications of such imperfections, and if ever the demands for the work may necessitate a second edition, they hope that it will be found that they—in the words of a well-known author of a well-known book—have spent their time since the publication of the First Edition in trying to find out those things which they ought to have put in and did not put in, and those things which they did put in and ought not to have put in.

H. A. S.
W. S. L.
B. I. W.

September 1, 1890.
xi

CONTENTS

xii

xiii

xiv

1

CHAPTER I.
ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF LANGUAGE.

It is the province of the Science of Language to explain, as far as possible, the processes of the development of Language from its earliest to its latest stage. The observations made on these processes would naturally be registered in different historical grammars of different definite languages; these grammars would follow the different steps in the development of each single language from its earliest traditional origin to its most recent phase. Wider and more general observations on the processes of this development would naturally be expressed in a comparative grammar, whose task would be to examine and compare the relations between cognate families of speech, the common origin of which is lost: but it would in this case be necessary to insist that the comparisons instituted should only be between languages in the same stage of development; or that the same stage of development, in each of the languages selected for comparison, should be taken for the purpose.

It is the task of Descriptive Grammar to ascertain and record the grammatical forms and the conditions generally of a given linguistic community at a given time; to register, in fact, all the utterances of any 2 individual belonging to such community which might fall from him without exposing him to the suspicion of being a foreigner. It will naturally register its observations in abstractions, such as paradigms and rules. Now, if we compare the abstractions made at any given period of a language with those made at another time, we find that the results are different, and we say that the language has changed in certain respects: nay, we may even be able to detect a certain regularity in these changes; as, for instance, if we note that in English every th in the third person singular present indicative of a verb is now replaced by s: but we gather by such comparisons no information as to the true nature and origin of these changes. Cause and effect do not and cannot exist between mere abstractions: they exist only between real objects and facts. It is only when we begin to take account of the psychical and bodily organisms on which language depends, and to seek for relations of cause and effect in connection with these, that we are on safe ground.

The true object of the Science of Language, as distinguished from Descriptive and Comparative Grammar, is the entirety of the utterances of all individuals that speak; and the relations of these utterances to each other. A full history of the development of language would demand an exact knowledge of all the groups of sound ever uttered or heard, and of all the ideas awakened by such sound-groups and symbolised by them. The impossibility of attaining to any such knowledge is obvious; it is, however, possible for us to get a general idea of the play of the forces at work in the vast and complex series of processes involved in the development of language. A part only of these operating forces is cognisable by our senses. Speaking and hearing are two of the processes 3 which can be apprehended; and, again, the ideas, or pictures, called up by language, and those which, though unspoken, pass through our consciousness, are to some extent capable of cognition. But one of the greatest triumphs of modern psychology is the proof, due to its agency, of the unconscious activity of the human mind. All that has once been present to our consciousness remains as a working factor in unconsciousness. Power consciously acquired by exercise in consciousness may be translated into power operating and manifesting itself unconsciously. The mind forms from the groups of ideas with which it is stored, psychological groups, such as sound-groups, sequences of sounds, sequences of ideas, and syntactical combinations. Strong and weak verbs, derivatives from the same root, words fulfilling identical functions, such as the different parts of speech, associate themselves into groups; and again the plurals of nouns, their different cases, their different inflections, and even entire clauses of similar construction or similar cadence, group themselves in the same way. These groups arise naturally, automatically, and unconsciously, and must not be confused with the categories consciously drawn up by grammarians; though the two, of course, must frequently coincide.

These groups must obviously be in a constant state of change, some growing weaker from the fact that they are strengthened by no fresh impulse, and some being strengthened and, it may be, changed by the accession of new ideas which ally themselves therewith. It must not be overlooked also that, as each person’s mind is differently constituted, the groups of his linguistic ideas will take a development peculiar to himself; even though the sources whence the groups take their rise should be identical, yet the elements 4 which go to form the groups will be introduced differently and with different intensity in the case of each individual.

The action of our physical organs, unaided, would be unable to bring about the development of language. The word, when once spoken, disappears and leaves no traces; psychological activity, and this alone, connects the pictures of the past with the present. It must, therefore, be the task of the historian of language to give as complete an account as possible of the psychical organisms on which the production of language depends; and the psychical organism of language in each individual is the aggregate of more or less conscious recollections of words, nay, even of entire phrases, and of their connections with certain ideas, which is lodged in his mind. It is the business of the historian of language to watch and examine these organisms as closely as possible: to describe the elements of which they are composed, and their connection with each other. A state or condition of a language at a particular period could only be described by one possessed of a full knowledge of the psychical conditions at a particular time of all the members of any linguistic community. The more fully such observations as those referred to above are carried out, and the greater the number of individuals thus examined, the more nearly shall we be in a condition to give an accurate description of a state of language. Without a rigidly scrupulous examination such as we have described, it would be impossible to say how much in the language of any individual is common to all or most individuals speaking the same language, and how much is to be set down to individual peculiarity. In every case it will be found that the standard of the language governs to some extent the language of every 5 individual; but in the case of each individual there are likewise elements which do not conform to the standard or normal language, and which are, in fact, individual peculiarities.

In any case, the observation of a psychical organism of language is difficult. It cannot, like the physical side of language, i.e. the sounds actually produced and even the mode of their production, be directly observed; for it lies unseen in the mind, and is only known by its effects.

Of the physical phenomena of linguistic activity, the acoustic are those which lend themselves most readily to our observation. We can make the same individual repeat sounds practically identical as often as we please; and we can note these with more or less accuracy in proportion as our own sense of hearing is exact and developed. But as the transitions between the different sounds are so infinitely small, it follows that it must be a matter of extreme difficulty for the listener to decide whether the sounds are indeed precisely the same in colour, pitch, etc.; while, again, if it be desired to reproduce any sound, the process has to be carried out by orally repeating it and striving to reproduce it by an appeal to another’s sense of hearing.

We register the sounds of a language by mastering and registering the movements of the organs of speech that produce them. Alphabetical symbols are at best but very imperfect pictures of sound-groups: they are used inconsistently in most cases: and in any case even the most perfect phonetic alphabet cannot give a true and exact picture of the countless sounds in speech—sounds which require to be constantly denoted anew in every language. We can only succeed at all in registering such sounds, when we are able to closely observe the sounds uttered by living individuals. But when 6 we cannot do this, we must always think of the sounds which the writing is intended to represent; and the power so to do demands some acquaintance with phonetics, and with the relation between writing and language. Thus a certain special training is necessary before we can hope to be able to gain any real knowledge of even the physical manifestations of linguistic activity.

The psychical factors in linguistic activity lie, like everything else psychical, unseen in the mind, and can therefore only be scrutinised by means of examinations made upon our own minds. In the process of watching other individuals we can never perceive any other than physical results, and thus it happens that in order to acquaint ourselves with the psychical organisms of language in others, we have to watch as closely as possible the processes in our own minds, and then to classify the phenomena which we observe in the case of others by the analogy of what we observe in our own. As we both think and speak in the mother-tongue, our classifications by analogy will be easier when we have to deal with fellow-countrymen; so too, for obvious reasons, with the living subject rather than with what has been committed to writing in the past.

It will, then, be plain that the observation of any given state of language is no easy matter, owing to the manifold and complex way in which groups of ideas associate themselves in the human mind, and owing to the incessant progress of hardly perceptible sound-change. It may easily be gathered that even the most full and perfect of ordinary grammars are quite unable to portray the manner in which different ideas and groups of ideas range and classify themselves. Our grammatical system can give but the most imperfect 7 picture of the relationships existing between different ideas. Certain categories, for instance, are drawn up, and under one or other of these are ranged words under the name of certain parts of speech. As a matter of fact, a large proportion of words is capable of being used to fulfil the function of several parts of speech, and in no language is this more obvious than in English. Again, we are accustomed in grammar to meet—even in the case of the Indo-European group of languages—with the same grammatical term employed to express quite different functions, as when we speak of the Latin future, and call the English future in “I shall” or “I will” do by the same name. Again, we are accustomed, in the case of a language which has passed from the synthetic to the analytic stage, to employ the same categories, regardless of the fact that, in the analytical form of the language, new shades of meaning have found expression as they have also come into being. Again, we often define the meaning of words by their etymology, even though the ordinary speaker may have no knowledge whatever of that etymology, and a new and very different meaning may have attached itself to the word.

The comparison of different epochs in the life of any language will enable us to draw some inferences as to its condition in the past. Of course, in proportion as the foreign factors that have made their influence felt in the regular course of the language are fewer, the simpler and more satisfactory will be the comparison. It would be impossible to reconstruct the sounds of Anglo-Saxon, for instance, from Middle English only; as it would be necessary to remember that Norman, Danish, Celtic, and other influences had been busy with the language between its earlier and later stages.

We now proceed to ask what are the causes of 8 change in language? And how do these causes operate? In the first place, they operate in most instances without the consciousness of the individual. There are, indeed, a few cases in which we may say that conscious intention on the part of the individual is operative, as where a botanist coins a name for some new variety, and forces it upon all the scientific men of his circle. But it must be repeated that changes are for the most part involuntary and unconscious. It is of the essence of the life of language to unconsciously select the forms and sounds which may best serve for conveying the meaning present in the speaker’s mind. The material existing and forming the actual stock in trade of any language may very aptly be looked upon as the survival of the fittest; in this case, of the material fittest to survive. If we now proceed to consider the causes of change in language, we must remember that there is always in language a certain amount of freedom left to the individual, which is quite independent of ordinary linguistic development. As each speaker must have certain psychical peculiarities, so must he express himself differently from every other speaker; and if the sound-producing organs of any given speaker have any peculiarities, he will exhibit corresponding peculiarities in the sounds which he utters by their agency. Again, there are circumstances which must not be overlooked, like the natural tendency to imitation; and the further circumstance that all attempts at imitation must necessarily be imperfect. Again, each individual is prone to modify the sounds which he utters, through carelessness and economy of effort or laziness. Besides all this, we must reckon the effects produced by such factors as climate, which, however gradual in their operation, must still ultimately 9 leave some effects if only time enough is allowed. The result of these displacements, if only the tendency to displacement lasts long enough and operates in one direction, is a displacement of usage. The new usage starts from the individual, and, under favourable circumstances, succeeds in becoming permanent. There are, however, numerous other tendencies to displacement likewise constantly occurring which do not become permanent, because they are not consistent, and because they do not all run in the same direction.

It must, then, be the task of the historian of language to endeavour to settle the relationship between linguistic usage on the one hand, and individual linguistic activity on the other; and in order to arrive at any satisfactory conclusions on this point, it is necessary to classify, as far as we can, the different changes of usage which occur in the growth and development of language. It is, then, his business to trace the relationship between the different classes which he has formed, and to remember that his province is to trace connections where ordinary grammar draws lines of demarcation, bearing in mind that the steps which lead from class to class are very gradual, and that the processes leading up to the smallest variation of usage are in very few cases due to a single cause, but are generally very complicated. The gradual development in the life of language in general may be best studied in individual languages, as when we compare the English of Chaucer’s day with that of our own; and, again, in the relations of individual languages to each other, as when we compare Spanish, for instance, with Italian, and note the different paths taken by these sister-tongues in their development from Latin. 10

Sound-changes come about in the individual partly from the tendencies of his own organs of speech, as when [ii] becomes [ai2] and when one sound is habitually substituted for another, as in the case of the Russian Feodor for Theodore, or the similar substitution, frequent among children, fing for thing. They partly, too, depend upon the influences which each individual receives from others, as when an endeavour is made to substitute a significant for an unmeaning whole, in cases of popular etymology and the like. To this must be added the possibility of imperfect audition, and consequently of imperfect reproduction of sounds. These influences are mostly operative and easiest of observation at the time that language is being learnt, i.e. most commonly during the time of infancy. To watch such processes as a particular language is being learnt must always be very instructive for the explanation of variations in the usages of language in general.

These changes in usage may of course be classified in various ways, but there is one important point which should be noted: the processes may either consist in the creation of what is new or in the disappearance of what is old; or, lastly, in the replacement of the old by the new in a single act, which is the process seen in sound-change. In the case of word-significations, the processes of change consist either in the disappearance of the old or in the appearance of the new. But these processes are in truth very gradual. A word may be perfectly intelligible with a certain meaning in one generation, and in another generation may be obsolete and not understood: but there will none the less have been an intervening generation, some members of which understood 11 the meaning attached to the word or phrase by the former generation, while some only imperfectly understood it.

Again, we may classify changes in usage according to whether sounds or significations are affected. The sounds change without the signification being altered, as in the numerous words in Chaucer which as yet clearly retained their French pronunciation. Again, the signification is affected without any change affecting the sound, as in the case of metaphorical uses of a word, such as a crane, used alike for the bird and the lifting machine; etc. Thus it is that we arrive at the two classes of change: sound-change and change in signification; not that the two kinds are mutually exclusive—they may both occur together, as in our owe, from A.S. âgan, to possess. But the two kinds of change are independent in their origin and their development; neither is caused by the other.

There is, however, an important class of cases in which Sound and Meaning develop simultaneously; these are the original creations of language; and we must suppose the entire development of language to rest upon this primitive combination. We must conceive the original utterances in language to have been the imitation of various natural cries and sounds, aided and interpreted by gesticulation. Then comes a stage in which the sound-groups already existing in language develop on the basis of this original creation. They develop in this way mainly by the influence of analogy, which is itself an imitative faculty and plays a larger part where sound and signification are united than in the department of pure sound. The principles of which we have spoken must be held applicable to all languages at all stages of their development. When once language had originated, it must have developed solely in the 12 way we have indicated. The differences between early and later stages of language are merely differences of degree and not of kind.

It must also be noticed that we must not sharply separate the grammatical and the logical relations of language, as if they were in no way connected. Grammatical rules are simply convenient descriptions of the most ordinary and striking ways in which a language expresses itself at a particular time. But the groups of ideas in the mind of a speaker are constantly forming themselves anew, and finding expression in forms which do not tally with actual and received linguistic expression, and, as they change, give rise to so-called irregularities of grammar. The philologist must therefore discard neither the linguistic processes which are described and registered by grammar, nor the psychical ones which manifest themselves in speaking and hearing, but are not represented in linguistic expression, and yet are always operative in the direction of change in Language. 13

CHAPTER II.
ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF LANGUAGE.

The most elementary study of Comparative Philology teaches us that from a language which, in all essentials, may be considered one uniform tongue, there have frequently sprung several others; and that these, in their turn, have parted into new dialects or distinct languages. This process has been usually compared to that which we see operative in the growth and development of organic nature; and the relationship between various languages has often been expressed by the terms applicable to the human family. Latin, for instance, is called the parent of French, Spanish, Portuguese, and the other Romance dialects; English and Dutch are called sister-tongues, while the last-named pair may be called cousins of German.

The comparison implied by such use of these terms is in the main correct; but it would be more exact to illustrate the relationship between languages from the language of Botany: we might consider the language of each individual speaker as the parallel of the individual plant, and compare the various dialects, languages, and families of languages, to the varieties, species, and classes of the vegetable kingdom. Even then our simile is but partially applicable, and a careful consideration of how far it holds good, and where and 14 when it becomes misleading, will be found instructive to a student of language.

It is now an admitted truth in Zoology as well as in Botany that nothing but the individual plant or animal has any real existence, and that all our species or classes are merely convenient and useful, but always arbitrary, abstractions. The difference between two primroses is not as great as that between a primrose and, e.g., a daisy, it is true; but the differences between these pairs are merely differences in degree, and not in kind. When we classify or arrange in groups, we select some characteristic and thereby give it a certain pre-eminence over others. All individuals that possess this characteristic are accordingly ranged upon one side, and all that do not possess it are ranged upon the other. If the characteristic has been well chosen, our classification will be rational, but will none the less remain arbitrary; and very often—nay, nearly always—the choice of any other quality or characteristic as the principle of classification will be found to involve a different grouping.

It is the same with language. Strictly speaking, there exist as many distinct languages as there are individual speakers. These millions of languages, however, fall naturally into groups, whose component individual parts differ but very little from one another, though no two of them are exactly alike. Now, in order to decide whether the language of any one individual belongs to some particular group, we must select one or more particular characteristics, by which to test its claim; and, our selection made, we shall often find ourselves excluding some language whose inclusion would have resulted from any other test than the one selected. The difficulty is much increased when we come to range our groups into dialects, or to classify 15 the latter among or around languages (using that term again in its conventional sense); and, again, to arrange languages into families.

At no single moment do we find all the individuals of any nation, community, or group of human beings, speaking the same language in the strict sense of the expression; and thus, if we say that a language has broken up or separated into several dialects or into various new languages, we give a very inadequate description of what has really happened. It would be truer to state that amongst any given group of individual languages, the difference, once slight, between its various members has grown to such an extent that we can no longer conveniently class these members together.

In the next place, our comparison will also hold good in the following point. The nature and development of the individual animal depends upon two things—descent and environment. Animals, the offspring of similar parents, resemble one another in all essentials: they are, however, not absolutely alike, and their individual peculiarities and development depend largely on surroundings, such as climate, food, etc.,—influences which, as might be expected, make themselves felt most strongly in infancy.

Again, it is the same in language. Speech is acquired by imitation, and those who speak to the child may be considered its linguistic parents. The special bodily and mental idiosyncrasies of the child take the place of the accidental surroundings to which reference has already been made. No two children hear precisely the same words spoken by the very same persons and exactly the same number of times; no two parents and no two children are, in mind and body, exactly alike. From the beginning there is a difference, small though it may be, between the linguistic 16 surroundings of any two individuals; and the development depends upon personal peculiarities, which, from a linguistic point of view, may be called accidental.

It appears, then, that our attention is engaged at the very outset of our linguistic inquiry, not merely by the fact that differences arise in the language of individuals, but more especially by the question why these differences are not even greater and more rapid in their development than they prove to be. We must seek an explanation not merely of the nature of the forces tending to differentiate the individual languages, but also of those which counteract such forces, and whose influence is exerted towards uniformity and the conservation of such unity as exists.

Yet if our comparison be sufficiently correct in two such important points, we must not forget that in one point at least there is an essential difference between the origin of species in the animal world and the differentiation of languages.

We saw that with descent in the animal world we must compare linguistic descent, which latter term implies that a child’s language is acquired by imitation from the speakers surrounding him. The language of the community in which the child grows up is the parent of his speech. Now, it is evident that in the animal world the influence of descent, powerful factor though it be, is still limited, inasmuch as the direct effect of the parent’s influence ceases at a fixed point. In language, on the other hand, the influence of the linguistic parent is permanently at work: strongest during infancy, it diminishes in force indeed, but never entirely ceases to make itself felt. Again, the animal owes its birth to a single pair only, while in language an indefinite number of speakers co-operate to produce the new individual. Moreover, as soon as a 17 child acquires any speech at all, it becomes in its turn a member of the community and affects the language of others. Its speech is consciously or unconsciously imitated by those from whom it learned and is still learning; and thus, in language, parents may be said to become the children of their own offspring.

Differentiation of language is, of course, impossible unless usage alters; but it would be incorrect to conclude that differentiation must necessarily be greater as the variation in usage is more violent. There is no à priori reason why a large group of individuals, who at any given moment speak what may be considered to be one and the same language, should not alter their usage all in the same manner. Yet, if we remember that each individual has his own peculiarities, and that, while each acquires his speech by imitating others, such imitation is never perfect, we shall readily understand that language must change from generation to generation, even were other causes not present to promote such changes; and, in fact, that differences will and must arise. Alteration and differentiation are unavoidable; and it is intercourse between the members of a community or a nation which can alone keep these within bounds. The alterative forces are more free to exert their influence in proportion as such intercourse is restricted.

If we could imagine a large country where the intercourse between the inhabitants was of perfectly equal intensity throughout, we might expect to find the language of each individual differing but imperceptibly from the respective languages of his neighbours; and, though the tongues spoken at opposite extremities might show a wide divergence, it would be impossible to arrange the individual varieties into dialectical groups; for the speech of each man would 18 be some intermediate stage between the individual tongues on either side. But such equal intensity of intercourse exists nowhere over any considerable area. Geographical, political, commercial influences, separately or combined, erect barriers or overcome them; and peculiarities of speech which, arising at one place, spread over others, are yet confined within certain limits. These peculiarities, then, will clearly distinguish those dialects of individuals which partake of them from such as do not; and consequently we shall have distinct limits for grouping the dialects spoken by separate individuals into those spoken by separate districts—that is to say, into what is most commonly understood when we speak of ‘dialects.’

All would now be simple and easy if lines of demarcation thus arrived at were found to coincide with whatever peculiarities or characteristics we happened to choose for our criteria. But the fact is that groups which would be classed together in view of some special points of resemblance will fall asunder when other points are considered as essential characteristics; for the spread of characteristics derived from intercourse with one district must frequently be checked and thwarted by intercourse with another district that does not share the same tendency.

Thus, if we make use of the letter a to indicate a group of individuals speaking a tongue essentially identical, employing b for another such group, c for a third, and so on, then a and b may very possibly correspond in usage or pronunciation in some point, x, in which both may differ from c, while a and c, but not b, will be found to agree in y. In yet a third point, z, in which they both differ from a, etc., b and c may agree; whilst a, b, c and other groups may very well have points, w, t, etc., in common with one another 19 and with d or e, and in these same points will differ from f. On the other hand, f may agree in some other points with a, in some with b, in some with c, etc.

It is unnecessary to dwell further on this. We see plainly that as different alterations have a different extent and different lines of demarcation, the crossings of groups and resemblances may be expected to become of infinite complexity.

But if, further, we suppose the differentiation between a, b, and c to be already so great that we may regard these as separate dialects, yet it is by no means impossible that a tendency to some alteration should make itself felt in each of them, or that, having arisen in one, the peculiarity should spread over all. It follows from this consideration that any peculiarity shared by all or many dialects of a language is not necessarily older than one which characterises only a few, though, of course, that such will be the case is the natural assumption.

Nor are the most strongly marked characteristics, by whose means we now distinguish existing dialects, and according to which we range them into groups, necessarily older than those which we overlook in deciding these mutual relationships. To instance this, we may refer to the various Teutonic dialects, which undoubtedly had many marked differences long before the process of sound-shifting began. It was some time in or near the seventh century A.D. when some of these dialects commenced to substitute p for b, t for d, k for g; t became ts (z), k became h, p became f or pf, and in some cases b and g were substituted for the sonant fricatives v and g.3 This change or sound-shifting was in progress during something like two 20 centuries, and it is according to the extent of their participation in this that we classify the various dialects as High German, Middle German, and Low German, respectively. We consequently class as Low German three dialects which otherwise present very strongly marked differences: the Frisian, the Saxon, and in part the Franconian, the case of which last is especially instructive.

The Franconian dialect did not as a whole participate in the changes to which we have alluded above. Only the more southern part of the Franconian tribe adopted the sound-shifting, in common with other southern tribes which spoke distinctly different dialects. Consequently, adhering to our above-mentioned principle of classification, we must class the so-called Low Franconian in a group totally distinct from that in which the High Franconian must be placed, notwithstanding the fact that in other respects these dialects have preserved many important resemblances.

It would also be incorrect to regard dialects which have become more strongly differentiated than others as having necessarily become so at an earlier date. The widest divergence is not necessarily the oldest, for circumstances may arise to facilitate the widening of a recent breach, as they may, on the other hand, arise to prevent a slight divergence of long standing from becoming a gap of importance. If two groups, a and b, are differentiated, and yet keep up sufficient intercourse, they may very well remain similar, though not equal, during a very long period; while a subdivision of a, which circumstances only affecting a minority in that group have separated later, may develop a rapidly increasing divergence between its small community on the one hand, and the remaining members of a together with the whole of b on the other. 21

One more lesson resulting from the foregoing consideration is the following. It is too often assumed as a matter of course that the speech of districts lying between others that possess strongly differentiated languages is the result of the contact and commixture of the two latter. Such possibility is indeed not denied; it, in fact, often occurs; but the alternative supposition that the mixture is a survival of some intermediate dialect is equally possible, and must not be forgotten.

It is clear that what we now call languages are merely further developments of dialects; but here once more we may easily err by assuming too much. If we find two distinct languages, it does not necessarily follow that they have passed through a stage in which they were two dialects, distinct indeed, but differing to a less extent than at present. Indicating dialects by a and b, and languages by A and B, we must not conclude, on meeting with the two latter, that A must have inevitably originated from a, and B from b. It is quite possible that both A and B may have arisen from (say) a alone; and of this possibility Anglo-Saxon and its descendant Modern English furnish a clear instance.

The dialect spoken by the invaders differed, if at all, in a very slight degree from the Frisian (a), which followed a regular course of development in its ancestral home. But the language of the invaders (which, in view of its identity or close resemblance with the Frisian, we may also call a) had in the British Islands a different history and a different development. It was rapidly differentiated, and one of its dialects became a literary language, distinct in every point from its sister-tongue. Thus the modern representative of Frisian (A), and our present literary 22 English (B) are found to have sprung from one source (a) alone.

The consideration of this case leads us to our next point. In all the foregoing cases we presupposed that the speakers of the individual language or of the group-languages were on the whole stationary. We need not here indicate at length the effect upon a community of its migration into regions where other languages are prevalent. The result is commonly a mixed language: and the subject of so-called mixed languages we reserve for another chapter: here we need only remind the student that by such migrations the connection of the language of the emigrants with that of other communities of similar speech is loosened, and the action of differentiating forces, which thus acquire free and unrestricted play, must necessarily be augmented.

The criterion for distinction of dialects among a community of individual languages is, and must be, their phonetic character. Vocabulary and syntax are easily and generally maintained, or, if anything new arises, it may possibly spread over wide areas; but differences of pronunciation and peculiarities of utterance do not necessarily result from the borrowing of new terms.

For instance: a community which pronounces a of father as aw (i.e. like a in all) will do so even when borrowing a word from some dialect in which the pure a is usual.

In conclusion, we must not omit to combat an error too often repeated in books on language which enjoy a reputation otherwise well-deserved. It is a common notion that the tendency to differentiation is, as civilisation advances, replaced by one towards unification; in proof of which we are reminded of the one 23 uniform literary language which, among the educated members of a nation, replaces the various provincial dialects. But this literary language is by no means a regular and natural development of the pre-existing dialects.

One of these, favoured by circumstances political or literary, obtains a supremacy which causes its adoption by those who would otherwise ignore it and continue to speak the dialects of their own provinces, counties, or districts. Hence it is in a certain sense a foreign tongue to them, and though in course of time it may come to replace the indigenous dialect of any district, so that scarcely a trace of the latter remains, it would be misleading to say that this dialect has developed into a language before which it has in reality disappeared. 24

CHAPTER III.
ON SOUND-CHANGE.

Language is in a constant state of change; and the changes to which it is subject fall under two very different heads. In the first place, new words find their way into a language, whilst existing words become obsolete and drop out of existence: and, secondly, existing words remain, but gradually alter their pronunciation. It is the second of these phenomena which we have to study in this chapter; and a clear idea of its nature, origin, and progress is indispensable to any real knowledge of philology.

To gain this idea we must carefully consider the processes which occur when we speak. We have to take note of no less than five elements, all of which are present each time that we utter a sound, and these should be carefully distinguished.

In the first place, whether we break silence and begin to speak, or proceed in the course of speaking to any particular sound, our vocal organs must move towards a certain position, in which they must remain during the time of the utterance of the sound. This is equally true whether they are set in motion after a period of rest, or after a position rendered necessary by their utterance of some other sound. Let us take, for instance, the sound which in the word 25 father we represent by the letter a. In pronouncing this WORD we BEGIN by putting our lips, tongue, vocal chords, etc., all in such a position that, on the breath passing through them or coming into contact with them, the sound represented by f is produced; and as long as the vocal organs remain in that position, nothing but f can be pronounced. In order, then, to pronounce the a sound, we must alter the position of our vocal organs: our vocal chords must be approximated, our lips relaxed, our mouth opened wider, until the a position is attained. It is clear that the course which we take to reach our goal depends not merely upon the position of that goal, but likewise upon the point whence we start to reach it. Hence the course whereby we reach this a position will vary constantly and considerably, seeing that in our utterance of the a sound we can and do cause many other sounds to precede it. But all these movements agree in one respect, that they terminate in a certain position, which we maintain as long as the a sound lasts.

Secondly, we must notice that this position is maintained only by a certain balance of the tension in the various muscles of our tongue, throat, lips, etc.; and this tension, though we may not indeed be conscious of it, we feel.

Thirdly, we hear, more or less exactly, the sound which we produce.

Fourthly, this feeling and this sound, like every physical occurrence in which we actively or passively participate, leave behind them in our mind a certain impression. This impression, though it may indeed disappear and sink beneath the level of consciousness, remains nevertheless existent, is strengthened by repetition, and can, under certain conditions, be again recalled to consciousness. We consequently come 26 gradually to acquire a permanent mental impression of both feeling and sound. There is formed in our mind what we may call the memory-picture of the position; and

Fifthly, there is likewise formed ‘a memory-picture’ of the sound.

It will be readily seen that of these five ‘elements’ only the last two are permanent, and that they, and they only, are psychical. In every individual case of sound-utterance, all that is physical is momentary and transitory. We abandon the position; the corresponding tensions make way for others; the sound dies away: but the memory-pictures alike of position and sound remain in our mind. There is no physical connection between our utterances of the ‘same’ sound, or word, or phrase; there is only a psychical connection: and this reposes upon the two elements which we have already called the memory-pictures of sound and position respectively.

A word must be added on the nature of the association existing between these two. This association, however intimate it may be, is external only; there is no necessary psychical connection between any sensation of vibration in our organs of hearing and any other sensation of tension in the muscles of our vocal organs. If we gained the first-named sensation again and again from hearing others speak, yet we should still be unable to imitate them at once, even though, for whatever reason, we had set our vocal organs repeatedly in the same position. But the fact that when we ourselves utter a sound we also hear it, associates the physical sensations of sound with those of position, and this invariably; and it thus happens that the respective memory-pictures of the two are left closely associated in our mind. 27

When we speak of these movement- and sound-pictures as lingering or as existing in our memories, it is not implied that we are necessarily conscious of their existence. On the contrary, the speaker, under ordinary circumstances, is wholly unconscious of them: nor has he anything like a clear notion of the various elements of sound which together make up the spoken word, or it may be the sentence, which he utters. It would seem as though the art of writing and spelling, which presupposes some analysis of the sound of words, proved that the speaker, if capable of spelling and writing, must have at least some notion of those elements. But very little consideration will suffice to prove the contrary. In the first place, strictly speaking, it is absolutely impossible to denote in writing all the various elements of sound which combine to form any word or sentence. A word, however correctly and grammatically spelt, does not consist merely of those sounds which we symbolise in our writing. In reality it consists—or at least the syllable consists—of an unbroken series of successive sounds or articulations, and of this series, even if we spell ‘phonetically,’ our letters represent at best no more than the most clearly distinguished points; whereas, between these sounds so symbolised by our letters, there lie an indefinite number of transition sounds, of which no writer or speller takes any notice.

The above is true in the case of languages like Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and German, where the spelling is more or less consistent: much more is it true in the case of English or French, with their irrational and puzzling inconsistencies. A child which learns that it must represent the sound of the word but by letters to be called respectively bee-you-tea, or the word though by letters nick-named tea-aitch-o-you-gee-aitch, 28 does not receive a lesson in separating the sound-group represented by the letters but into its three, or the sound-group represented by though into its two (or three) elements.

Even in the more correctly spelt languages, there are numerous discrepancies between the spoken and written word, which, until they are pointed out to him, escape the attention of the native speaker or writer. In English, some instances may be here considered. Not a few English people are quite surprised when they are informed that they have two distinct ways of pronouncing th, or of pronouncing x: the th ‘hard,’ as in thin, and ‘soft,’ as in then; the x like ks, as in execution (eksekyushion), and like gz, as in executive (egzekyutiv), exact (egzakt), example (egzampl). And there are fewer still who have ever noticed that in income many pronounce no n at all, but the same guttural and nasal sound as terminates king.

Can is frequently pronounced c^han, with a distinct h sound after the c, without the speaker being aware of it; and the same holds good of similar words. Again, none but the trained observer knows that the k in keen is pronounced differently (more to the front of the mouth) from the k (represented by c) in cool; but the fact that perhaps more than all excites incredulous wonder is that the sound i is no vowel, but a diphthong, as may be proved by dwelling on it. The speakers to whom these facts are new may nevertheless all be perfectly correct speakers: no doubt they pronounce the elements of the word; but they have probably never paid any attention to the nature of these elements, or at least have not begun to do so till long after the utterance became habitual and natural.

If, then, we speak without consciousness of the separate sounds, much more are we completely unconscious 29 of the movements of our vocal organs. It is only very recently that these movements have been carefully investigated, and the results of the science of phonetics are in very many respects as yet sub judice, while even the most superficial knowledge of the subject can only be attained by a conscious and careful effort of attention, and by the exercise of much patience in the observation of our precise actions when speaking. It is only the trained observer who can at all follow these movements as he makes them, and even he does not so follow them generally, but thinks of the sense of his words as he speaks, and not of the way in which they are produced.

Moreover, even assuming that the speaker enjoyed a far higher degree of consciousness, both of phonetic elements and of phonetic movement while he is acquiring the faculty of speech, it would none the less remain true that in the ordinary course of word-utterance these facts remain outside the speaker’s consciousness. A precisely parallel instance can be observed in the case of a pupil learning to play the piano or violin. At first every movement he makes is the result of a separate and conscious act of volition; but soon practice, the repetition of conscious action, so much facilitates the playing of scales, arpeggios, etc., that the rapidity of their execution quite precludes all possibility of the bestowal of separate thought, even of the shortest duration, upon each individual note in succession. It is necessary at the outset to insist on this fact of the speaker’s unconsciousness, both of the elements of sound which make up the word, and of the movements of his vocal organs; for, once fully grasped, it will guard against an error which is too prevalent, viz. that sound-change is the result of conscious volition in those who speak. 30

But though the movements necessary for production of sounds are performed unconsciously, they are by no means beyond control; to illustrate which fact we may once more recur to the parallel instance of the piano-player. Like him, the speaker controls his work by listening to its result: but the player strikes either the right note or the wrong, and, unlike him, the speaker may vary his utterance in one direction or another without serious error; he is not considered to make a MISTAKE unless the difference between his present utterance and that which is usual exceeds a certain limit. In this respect, the violin-player resembles the speaker more closely. They both appeal to their sense of hearing in order to decide on the correctness or otherwise of the sound produced, and the control they can exercise over that sound is exactly proportional to their delicacy of ear. Up to certain limits, the variations are too small to be perceived by the ear, but beyond these, control becomes possible. The slight differences in pronunciation or sound do not yet, however, necessarily expose the speaker (or player) to the charge of incorrect utterance (or performance), and consequently, though he perceives the change, he pays little or no attention to it. He only then corrects himself or guards against repeating the ‘mistake,’ when the change in sound passes those limits which cannot be transgressed without detriment to what in music we term ‘harmony,’ or what in language we term ‘correctness of utterance.’ It commonly happens that these limits are wider than the limits of perception referred to above, more especially in the case of the speaker. A wider licence is accorded to the term ‘correctness’ in speech than is accorded to it in harmony.

While, then, control is theoretically and practically limited, the possibility of variation is unlimited. Take, 31 for instance, the case of the vowels. All the possible sounds and variations from u (pronounced as oo in cool) to i (= ee in feel) may be said to form one uninterrupted series. In this series we distinguish only some of the most important varieties. When we pronounce u, the lips are rounded, and the tongue is drawn back and raised at the back of the mouth: if we pass from u to i, the lips are unrounded, and assume the shape of a narrow and much elongated ellipse, while the tongue is pushed forward with its back depressed and the fore-part (the blade) raised. While this change is going on, the mouth never assumes a position with which we could not produce some vowel or other, but the difference in acoustic quality between any two ‘neighbouring’ vowels would not always be such that we should regard them as distinct or different sounds. On our way from u to i, we pass through the positions for the o (oa) in coal, the ŏ in god, the a in father, the ĕ in net, the e (a) in hare, the ĭ in pit; but between these there lie an indefinite number of possible shades of sound, and every one knows how differently various speakers of the same community pronounce what we call the same vowel. So, too, we need but little attention to notice distinct occasional variations, at different moments, in the same speaker. If, then, one and the same speaker often perceptibly (though unintentionally) varies his pronunciation, we may be perfectly sure that his mode of utterance will vary at different times within those limits where the divergence—though existing—is not noticed. As with the vowels, so it is, though not so completely, with many consonants and series of consonants. The student who is unacquainted with phonetics should pronounce cool and keen one after the other, or better still coo and kee, getting rid of the final consonants. He will have no difficulty in noticing the 32 difference between the two k sounds, the first of which requires a much more backward position than the second for its pronunciation. After a little practice, he will be able to pronounce the first (back) k with the ee vowel, and the second (forward, palatal) k with oo. Now, between these two sounds of k there is a whole series of intermediate ones, and, if this series be followed in the direction of the palatal k and then continued beyond it, we soon reach the articulation of the palatals proper, and pass, without any appreciable gap, to the linguo-dentals: first to the t which, in words like the French métier, sounds so much like q in the form méquier (as the French Canadians actually pronounce it); and next to our own t, and to the usual French t, which is pronounced more to the front with the tip of the tongue against the roots of the teeth.

Similarly, because perfect though slight closure is not remote from extreme narrowing, we can pass in a practically unbroken series from energetic p to laxly uttered f, from k to the guttural fricative of German ach—a sound which English, in its modern form, no longer possesses,—etc.

As we noticed in the instance of k, and as every one more easily perceives in the case of the vowels, two sounds essentially different in articulation and in acoustic character are often, in daily speech, accepted as identical, more especially where the difference is not great enough, or is not of a nature to cause ambiguity of meaning. If, for instance, there existed words in the English language alike in all respects but that the one began with the k of cool and the other with the k of keen, and if these words had different meanings, every Englishman would be aware of the existence of two sounds, which he would most likely indicate by two different letter-signs. As it is, the 33 difference between the two remains unnoticed, and the choice between them depends upon the vowel which follows. If, then, in the ordinary course of speaking, a ‘back’ k is pronounced a little more forward, or a palatal k more to the back, no notice will be taken of it, unless the variation oversteps a certain limit and, as a consequence, the unusual articulation sounds strange. Similarly, for the formation of t, the position of the tongue may be varied to a very great extent, and yet, though something unusual in the sound MAY be apprehended, the result will always be perceived as a t.

We must now once more emphasise the fact that the memory-picture of the sound, and the (unconscious) memory-picture of the movement and position, and these two alone, connect the various utterances of any sound or sound-group, and decide its character, and the appreciation of speaker and hearer to its correctness.

These memory-pictures and their nature and growth are therefore of the highest importance. They are the results of all preceding cases of utterance, of which, however, the last always has the greatest influence. Every variation in pronunciation entails a variation in the memory-picture; and this, small as may be the change, is cumulative and permanent, unless the different deviations happen to balance one another exactly. Now, in the main this will be the case when the speaker finds himself amid his usual surroundings, and where no external causes co-operate to impel his deviations into one direction rather than into another: but let us suppose him transferred to another community, and brought in contact with a certain pronunciation habitual there and novel to him. His memory-picture of the SOUND is made up of his own pronunciation and of what he hears from others. At 34 first the new pronunciation strikes him as new, and two pictures stand side by side in his mind. If, however, the difference be not too great, these soon blend, and, the former one fading while the other constantly gains in force, his pronunciation becomes influenced without his own knowledge; he pronounces more and more like the surrounding speakers, and every time he does so his memory-picture of POSITION gets slightly altered (always in the same direction) until nothing but conscious effort of memory or renewed intercourse with former surroundings can recall the one thus lost.

The same thing happens essentially and effectually, though the change is slower and less violent, where external causes favour deviation in any special direction amongst an entire community. As far as the nature of the effect goes, it can make no difference whether we consider the case of a man entering a new community to find there a pronunciation which differs from his own, or that of an entire community which alters its existing pronunciation. But the process will go on much more slowly in the latter case, since it has to operate in a number of individuals, and the steps by which each of them proceeds are in ordinary cases imperceptibly small.

Of all causes which may tend to alter our pronunciation in any special direction, facility of utterance is the most conspicuous and the most easily understood. There are, in all probability indeed, several others: climate, habits of diet, etc., all seem to have some effect, but no one has as yet been able to explain how they operate. Even ease of pronunciation is not yet thoroughly understood in all its bearings. We must not forget that ease is something essentially subjective, and that the memory-pictures of movement and sound and the attempt at correct reproduction of the usual 35 movement and sound are the main factors, while the striving after facility of utterance is a very subordinate one.

Yet there is no doubt whatever that in a number of instances the new pronunciation is easier than its predecessor: we now say last instead of latst, examples of which earlier form may be found in the Ormulum, for instance. Similarly, best is easier than betst, impossible than inpossible; and we may refer also to the numerous words still written with a gh which is no longer pronounced. In the word knight, the k was formerly sounded before the n, and the gh represents a sound which may still be heard in the German word knecht; and, in fact, all spellings like know, gnat, night, though, etc., with their numerous mute letters, represent older and undoubtedly more laborious pronunciations. That all these sounds have been dropped has unquestionably facilitated the utterance of the words, and there is a similar gain of ease in all the well-known instances of complete or partial assimilation in all languages. So in Italian otto for Latin octo, Latin accendo for adcendo, etc. When, however, we come to estimate the comparative facility of separate single sounds, or even many combinations, we find ourselves as yet without any certainty of result or fixed standard. Much that has been advanced is individual and subjective: all depends on practice; and this practice we acquire at an age when we are as yet wholly unable to form or pronounce an opinion on any question. In fact, most of our facility of speech comes to us in infancy.

But whatever the cause, we now understand that the memory-picture of movement and position is shifting and unstable in its very nature. Unless the majority of pronunciations around us all alter in the same direction, the sound-picture does not alter, and it 36 exerts a retarding control upon the rapidity with which our position-picture, and therewith our own pronunciation, might otherwise do so. Here, however, we must draw attention to the fact that we spoke of the majority of pronunciations around us and not of speakers. For our sound-picture the number of persons from whom we hear a word is immaterial; it is the number of times we hear it pronounced that is alone of importance.

All that we have hitherto said has had reference to changes of pronunciation in the same speaker, and in this case alone can we speak of alteration or change in the strict sense of the word. But when we say that ‘a language has altered,’ we use the term in a wider sense, and include the case when one generation is found to use a new pronunciation in place of one current at a former time; when, in fact, it would be strictly correct to say that an old pronunciation has died out, and that the new one—created instead—differs more or less from that which was its model.

A child, in learning to speak, attempts to imitate the sound it hears; and, as long as the resulting imitation sounds sufficiently correct, any small peculiarity of pronunciation is generally overlooked. In such a case, therefore, the child acquires a movement or position-picture which at once materially differs from that of the former generation. We all know by experience that sounds are difficult to ‘catch,’ and we must remember that the vocal organs may undergo certain variations in position without producing a correspondingly large difference in acoustic effect;4 37 and further, that any sound produced by a particular position of the vocal organs has a tendency to change in a different direction and at a different rate from the course which would seem natural to the same sound if it had been produced by a different position of the vocal organs.

If, then, we speak a word to a child, and if the child utters it (a) with a slightly altered pronunciation, and (b) with an articulation which differs from that which WE should naturally employ to produce the pronunciation which the child gives to the word, then two comparatively important steps upon the path of change have already been taken. And thus it is clear that, though changes in language are constantly and imperceptibly occurring throughout the whole life of the individual speaker, yet their rise is most likely and their progress is most rapid at the time when language is transferred from one generation to another.

The above, however, will not explain all the changes which words have undergone. There are some which have hitherto resisted any other explanation than this: they appear as the results of repeated errors of utterance, which errors, owing to particular circumstances attending each case, must have been committed by several or by most of the speakers of the same linguistic community. Such are—(1) Metathesis, i.e. where two sounds in the same word reciprocally change their positions, whether they are (a) contiguous or (b) separated by other sounds. Of the 38 first kind we have instances in the Anglo-Saxon forms ascian and axian, both of which occur in extant documents, and also survive in the verb ask and the provincial equivalent aks. Cf. also the form brid, found in Chaucer, for bird (e.g. ‘Ne sey I neuer er now no brid ne best.’—Squire’s Tale, 460), and, vice versâ, birde for bride (e.g. Piers Plowman, 3, 14: ‘ðe Justices somme Busked hem to ðe boure ðere ðe birde dwelled’). Again, we may compare the English bourn, Scotch burn, with Dutch bron, German brunnen; A.S. irnan and rinnan, both meaning to run, and irn, as pronounced by a west-countryman, with run.5

Of the second kind of Metathesis (b) we find traces in O.H.G. erila, by the side of elira = N.H.G. erle and eller; A.S. weleras, the lips, as against Gothic wairilos; O.H.G. ezzih, which must have had the sound of etik before the sound-shifting process began, = Lat. acetum; the Italian word, as dialectically pronounced, grolioso = glorioso; and, again, crompare = comprare; M.H.G. kokodrille = Lat. crocodilus. We may also refer to such cases of mispronunciation as indefakitable for indefatigable. These are evanescent, because they meet with speedy correction.

Besides Metathesis, we must class here (2) the assimilation of two sounds not standing contiguous in the word (as Lat. quinque from *pinque; original German finfi (five) = *finhwi, etc.), and (3) dissimilations, as in O.H.G. turtiltûba, from the Lat. turtur; Eng. marble, from Fr. marbre, Lat. marmor; M.H.G. martel with marter, from martyrium; prîol with prîor; and conversely, M.H.G. pheller with phellel, from Lat. palliolum; O.H.G. fluobra, ‘consolation,’ as against O.S. frôfra and A.S. frôfor; M.H.G. 39 kaladrius with karadrius; Middle Lat. pelegrinus, from peregrinus.

We must now conclude this chapter with a few words on the question, Are the laws of sound-change, like physical laws, absolute and unchanging? do they admit of no exceptions? In thus stating the question, we challenge a comparison between physical laws and the laws of sound-change, but we must never forget the essential difference existing between them. Physical laws lay down what must invariably and always happen under certain given conditions; the laws of sound-change state the regularity observed in any particular group of historic phenomena.

We must, in dealing with this question, further distinguish between two closely allied but not identical kinds of phenomena, i.e. between those which come under the law of sound-change in the strict sense of the word, and those which are rather to be considered as instances of sound-correspondence or sound-interchange. When, for instance, some sound happened to be, at any particular stage of some language, identical in the various forms of the same word; and if this sound, owing to difference in its position, or of its accent, or from some other cause, has changed into a different sound in some forms of the word, while in other forms of the same word it has remained unchanged; and if many similar cases are remarked in the same language,—we summarise them in our grammars in a form which, though convenient, is not strictly correct. There are in French, for instance, many adjectives which form their masculine termination in f and their feminine in ve. It is scarcely necessary to point out that in these words the feminine form, derived as it is from the Latin feminine, cannot correctly be described as derived 40 from the masculine in its contemporaneous form: nor yet does the individual speaker, in using the two genders, derive the one from the other; he reproduces both from memory, or, possibly by a process to be discussed in Chapter V., he produces one by analogy with other similar forms.

We nevertheless lay it down in our grammars, that adjectives in f form their feminine by ‘changing’ f into ve. The correspondence of sounds which we thus register, though it is a consequence of phonetic development, does not, strictly speaking, express a law of sound-change; we might call it ‘a law of sound-correspondence’ or ‘sound-interchange.’ The ‘law of sound-interchange’ states in a convenient form the aggregate results of events which have occurred in accordance with some ‘law of sound-change.’ Our question, then, refers to the ‘laws of sound-change’ proper, and not to those of ‘sound-interchange;’ and if we say that a law of sound-change admits of no exceptions, we can only mean that, within the limits of some definite language or dialect, all cases which fulfil the same phonetic conditions have had the same fate: i.e. the same sound must there have changed into the same other sound throughout the language, or, where various sounds are seen to replace one and the same other sound of the older language, the cause for this difference must be sought in the difference of phonetic conditions, such as accent, contact with or proximity to other sounds, etc.

It must be clear, after all that has been said in this chapter, that laws of sound-change, in the correct meaning of this term, must be consistent and absolutely regular. As regards the case of the individual speaker, we have seen that the utterance of each sound depends on the memory-picture of 41 motion and position, and that these pictures exert their influence without the speaker being conscious of it. It will then naturally follow that if these pictures alter gradually in the case of any one sound in any one word, they will do so for the same sound in all other cases where it occurs under like conditions.

It is indeed often stated that the sense of etymological connection of a particular word with others which retain a certain sound unaltered may prevent that sound from taking the same course in that word as it does in other words not so influenced; but the existence and efficacy of some counteracting influence does not disprove the existence of the force against which it operates, and which it overcomes or neutralizes. Nor, again, could the inter-communication between the individual speakers cause occasional suspension of the law of sound-change.

We have seen that the association which arises between memory-pictures of the sound, and of the motion of our vocal organs, etc., for its utterance, is—though but external—nevertheless very close, and that it soon becomes indissoluble. The slight and gradual changes in the utterance of the surrounding speakers alter the memory-pictures of the sound, and the corresponding memory-picture of motion and position follows in the same way. It is, then, only in case of mixture of dialect, i.e. when a considerable group of speakers of one dialect becomes mixed and scattered among speakers of another, that the following generation may adopt one sound from the one dialect and another from the second; thus apparently exhibiting the differentiation of the same sound, under the same phonetic circumstances, into two, of which the one appears as the rule, the other as the exception. But then, again, such a case—though when it has happened 42 we may not always be aware of it, and consequently may not always be able to assign the phenomenon to its true cause—does not prove that the law of sound-change admitted of exception. We merely have the results of two such laws mixed and confused. 43

CHAPTER IV.
CHANGE IN WORD-SIGNIFICATION.

Sound-change is brought about by the repeated substitution of a sound or sounds almost imperceptibly differing from the original. The A.S. hláfmesse is now represented by the English Lammas: though the mm sound is clearly easier to pronounce than the combination represented by fm, generations passed away before the word as we have it in English became the recognised form. In the case of sound-change, we must notice that the rise of the new sound is simultaneous with the disappearance of the old one. In the case of change of signification, it is possible for the old meaning to be maintained by the side of the new one; as when we speak of ‘the House,’ meaning the House of Parliament, we do not exclude the original and proper meaning of the word, but we merely narrow and define its signification. Indeed, change in signification consists invariably in a widening or narrowing of the extent of the signification, corresponding to which we find an impoverishment or an enrichment of the contents. As we saw that the employment of ‘House’ to denote the House of Parliament implied a narrowing or specialising of the extent of the signification of the ordinary meaning of house, so we may take a word like moon, properly and 44 originally applied only to the earth’s satellite, and apply it to a whole class, which we regard in some way as resembling it, as when we speak of Jupiter’s moons. In this case we widen the application of the word by narrowing its contents, but even when thus widened the meaning still includes its original denotation. Frequently such a widened application becomes once more narrowed, by the widening of the contents: an instance of this double process we have, e.g., in the word crane.6 Originally only meaning the bird of that name, it was, by a metaphor, applied to a class of objects similar in some respects to the bird. A process of narrowing this application led to the use of the word as a specific name for a certain machine. The word, in this sense, no longer includes its original meaning, and is transferred. It is only by such a succession of widening and narrowing that a word can assume a signification absolutely different from its original meaning. This transference may be more or less occasional, or become usual. Thus in the case of green for unripe (cf. blackberries are red when they are green) the meaning is in a certain sense an ‘occasional’ one, the real and original meaning being still clearly felt. This original meaning is, however, quite lost sight of when we use grain in to dye in the grain, for ‘to dye of a fast colour’ by means of cochineal, etc., grain here being the name given to fibre of wood, etc.7

Change in signification, however, has this in 45 common with sound-change, that it is effected by individual usage which departs from the common usage; and that this departure passes only gradually into common usage. Change in signification is a law of language; it is a necessity: and change is rendered possible by the fact that the signification attaching to a word each time it is employed need not be identical with that which usage attaches to it. As we shall have to consider this discrepancy, we shall employ the expressions ‘usual’ and ‘occasional’ signification: and by the ‘usual’ we shall understand the ordinary or general signification; by the ‘occasional’ we shall understand that which the individual attaches to it at the particular moment when he uses the word. The ‘usual’ signification means, as we employ it, the entire contents of any word as it presents itself to a member of any linguistic community: the ‘occasional’ signification means the contents of the conception which the speaker, as he utters the word, connects therewith, and expects the listener to connect with it likewise. The word shade, used by itself and without any interpretation from the context or the situation, would suggest to a hearer its USUAL signification of ‘interruption of light;’ but the individual who employs the word may have in mind, as he may easily disclose, the shade of a tree or a lamp-shade.

The ‘occasional’ signification is commonly richer than the ‘usual’ one in content and narrower in extent. For instance, the word in its occasional sense may denote something concrete: while, in its usual sense, it denotes something abstract only; i.e. some general conception under which different concrete conceptions may be ranged. By a ‘concrete’ conception is here meant something presupposed as actually existing, subject to definite limits of time and space; by an 46 ‘abstract’ one is here meant a general conception, the contents of a mere idea and nothing more, freed from all trammels of time and place. The House of Commons is concrete: a house is abstract. This division has nothing to do with the ordinary division of substantives into abstract and concrete. The substantives which in ordinary grammar we call ‘concrete’ often denote a conception as general as the so-called abstract nouns; as in England’s battles: and, conversely, the latter are occasionally used as what we here call ‘concretes’ when they are used to express a single quality or activity defined by limits of space and time; as, The days of thy youth. In the phrase ‘My horse has run well to-day,’ horse is concrete in the sense which we attach to the term: but in the phrase ‘A horse has four legs,’ it is what we call ‘abstract;’ because the statement does not refer to any one definite concrete horse, but to horses generally, and the predicate therefore is associated with the abstract idea of horse.

The greater number of words can be employed in occasional use in either abstract or concrete significations. There are some words, indeed, essentially concrete, such as thou, thine, he, there, to-day, yesterday;—which, however, need individual application to render them immediately and definitely concrete. Words like I, here, there, serve to define some one’s position in the concrete world; but it requires the aid of other words, or of the circumstances in which they are uttered, to render them thus definite. Even our demonstrative pronouns, and the word the, may be employed to denote abstract conceptions; as, The whale is a mammal; it has warm blood. Pity the widow and the orphan. Even proper names, which we might be inclined at first to take as the type of 47 concrete words, as denoting a single object or person, may be used either ‘usually’ as concrete, or ‘occasionally’ as abstract, since the same name may be borne by various people and various localities, as Newton, Brighton: and, indeed, may be applied to objects named after localities; as Stilton, Champagne, etc. Then there is a small class of words which express an object conceived of as existing once and once only, such as God, devil, world, universe, earth, sun. These nouns are concrete both in their ‘usual’ and in almost all their ‘occasional’ meanings; but even they may be regarded as abstract if regarded from a definite point of view. Indeed, a proper name is essentially concrete; if it becomes abstract, this can only be because it has become a generic name, i.e. because it has become a common noun, a common noun being such in virtue of its standing as the name of each individual of a class or group of things. On the other hand, there are some words which from their very nature are abstract; such are the pronouns ever, any; the Latin quisquam, ullus, unquam, uspiam; but the abstract character even of words like these suffers certain limitations in occasional usage; cf. Did he ever (i.e. on any particular occasion) act so, and Should he ever really do it. In these cases ever is in the first instance limited to the past, and in the second to the future.

A more important and deeper-lying distinction between ‘usual’ and ‘occasional’ signification is that a word may have various ‘usual’ significations, but can only bear a single ‘occasional’ one; i.e. in each case of ‘occasional’ use the meaning is one and definite:8 except, indeed, when the word is of set purpose 48 used ambiguously, either to deceive, or to point a witticism; as in ‘If you get the best of port, port will get the best of you.’ It happens in all languages that there occur words identically pronounced which may be understood in different significations: and, for practical purposes, we must regard these as the same word, since whoever hears the sounds of which the word is composed spoken cannot, without the aid of the connection, possibly tell which of the senses is intended by the speaker to be attached to the word. Under this head must be ranged, in the first place, words which accidentally happen to correspond in sound, though they differ in meaning. The English language is particularly full of such words, owing, in some degree, to the coincidence of many words coming from Norman French with words coming from a Teutonic source. Such are mean, intend; mean, common; mean, moyen: match, a contest; match, mèche: sound, son and ge-sund. We have, in these and similar cases, instances of words which usually receive several significations. But besides these we have numerous words in English, as in other languages, which are etymologically identical and which yet have several significations. Such is the word box in English: it means in the first and most common case, ‘a chest to put things in;’ then, ‘a tree,’ ‘a small seated compartment in the auditorium of a theatre,’ ‘the driver’s seat on a carriage,’ ‘a present given at Christmas’ in the combination ‘a Christmas box;’ besides the meaning of a ‘box on the ear,’ which comes from a different source. Such, too, are: post = (1) ‘A stake in the ground,’ (2) 49 ‘a professional situation,’ (3) ‘the system of delivering the mails;’ broom, the shrub, and broom, ‘a besom;’ bull, ‘a papal edict’ and ‘a blunder in language;’ canon, ‘a rule’ and ‘a church dignitary;’ to bait a horse and to bait a hook; a coach in the sense of ‘a teacher’ and of ‘a carriage;’ board, ‘a plank’ or ‘food supplied at lodging-houses:’ so in French, un radical, ‘a root in language,’ ‘a root in algebra,’ ‘a radical in chemistry,’ or ‘a radical politician;’ plume, ‘a feather,’ and plume, ‘a pen;’ Lat. examen, ‘swarm,’ ‘tongue of a balance,’ and ‘examination.’ It is true that the derived meanings in these words spring from a primary one, but it is equally true that it is impossible, without some knowledge of the history of the word, to recognise the original connection between the various significations; and these bear the same relations to each other as if the identity in sound were purely accidental. This is especially true in cases where the primary meaning has entirely disappeared, as in the case of villain, used now only in the uncomplimentary sense which circumstances have affixed to the word, save, indeed, in historical treatises; though even in its early sense it is no longer ‘the man who lives and works on the villa.’ It is the same with pagan, and recreant. Another good illustration is afforded by the word impertinent, which signifies (1) not pertinent (obsolete); (2) having no special pertinency, trifling; (3) rude. Etymology, working by comparison, often serves to detect such disappearances: thus N.H.G. klein, small, has lost its original meaning, that still appears in Eng. clean.

But in many cases, too, where we can still recognise the relationship of the derived to the primary signification, we must nevertheless acknowledge the independence of the derived meaning; especially where, 50 as in the case of ‘post,’ it has become the usual one. The test, in these cases, of the independence of the word is whether a word ‘occasionally’ used in the derivative sense can be understood without any necessity arising for the primary meaning to force itself on the consciousness of the speaker or hearer. There are, further, two negative tests whereby we may judge that a word has not a simple, but a complex signification. The first of these is if no simple definition can be framed, including the whole of its meaning, and neither more nor less; and the second, if the word cannot, if employed ‘occasionally,’ be used in the whole extent of its signification. It is easy to apply these tests to the examples cited above. No simple definition of the word post would be possible; a whole series would be necessary to explain the meaning of the word to a foreigner. Again, any definition of the word post used in the ‘occasional’ sense of ‘a situation’ would leave the other meanings quite unexplained.

Even in cases where the ‘usual’ signification may be regarded as simple, the individual meaning may vary from this and yet may not become concrete, as it may develop on the lines of one of the special meanings included in the general conception. Thus the simple word pin may, in single cases, be understood as lynch-pin, hair-pin, etc.; so bye-law is now always used as if it were a secondary law.9

All understanding between individuals depends upon the correspondence in their psychical attitude. In order that a word may be understood in its ‘usual’ meaning, no more perfect mental correspondence is imperative than such as naturally exists between the members of a single linguistic community who have mastered their own language; should, however, the 51 signification of a word be specialised in ‘occasional’ use, as when we speak of ‘the House,’ and understand thereby ‘the House of Parliament,’ a closer understanding must be supposed to exist among the speakers. The same words may be intelligible or otherwise, or, again, may be misunderstood, according to the state of mind of the person who is addressed; or, again, according to the chance surroundings, whose presence or absence may act as an aid or a drawback to the enforcement of the signification. And it seems well in this place to emphasise the fact that the body of ideas which may at any time be called up by a word is never the same in the case of any two speakers. The ideas will resemble each other less as the speakers are members of social communities more widely separated from each other, or more in proportion as the persons using the words possess similar degrees of cultivation or life-experience. For instance, we may understand all the words of a philosophic discussion, and still it may remain a mere jargon to us. This truth holds good even for the simplest language in its simplest stage. Hence it is that no perfect translation of a literary masterpiece is possible; especially if such be written in the idiom of a civilisation far removed from that of the translator, alike in the circuit of ideas, and in the way in which these ideas present themselves. Every expression is in fact accompanied by a store of associative suggestion, which must suffer loss to a greater or less extent in the attempt to insert an equivalent expression from a stranger tongue. It thus results that the interpreter of the language of a past civilisation must undertake by laborious study to reconstruct and attach to each expression the body of associations which should be its native environment. The aids necessary for understanding words in their ‘occasional’ 52 meaning do not require to be of a linguistic nature at all; although they may, on the other hand, be so. We have seen before that abstract words may be rendered concrete by connecting them with such words as essentially express the concrete, and that the article is one of the chief of these words. Horse is abstract, but the horse is generally, as we have seen, concrete. But even this rule is not absolute, and consequently this aid is not absolutely sufficient; for we have seen that in expressions like The horse is a quadruped, the article has come to express the general conception. Again, there are languages, like Latin and Russian, which have developed no article; and these employ abstract words, with no special mark of denotation, for the concrete.

In any case, whether the reference to the ‘concrete’ is expressly denoted or not, other methods may be adopted to define it more closely. The first of these depends upon the common environment of the speaker and hearer, and upon the perception common to both. The hearer cannot fail to understand the speaker if, in referring to a tree or tower, he means the definite single tree or tower which they both have before their eyes. The speaker may point to the object in question, or may indicate its position by his gaze. Nay, such signs may serve to indicate objects not directly cognisable by the senses, provided that the direction in which these objects lie is known.

Another method whereby the word is made to refer to something definite and concrete is found in the recalling by the hearer of the past utterances of the speaker, or, it may be, in a special explanation which the speaker has given. If the hearer understands that a word is once intended to bear a concrete sense, then this same sense may continue to attach to the word 53 throughout the rest of the conversation. If ‘the Church’ have once been spoken of in the sense of ‘the body of adherents to the Church of England,’ it will be understood that this is the sense in which the word ‘Church’ is to be apprehended for the rest of the conversation. The recollection of the previous utterance will take the place of immediate perception. Again, this reference to the past can be emphasised by words like demonstrative pronouns and adverbs. If, after using ‘the Church’ in a definite sense, I employ a phrase like ‘that Church’ or ‘that Church of which I spoke,’ it is clear that this word ‘that,’ whose function was originally merely to express a perception, serves in its new function to call attention to the individualisation of the signification and to render it intelligible to the hearer.

In the third place, anything is capable of being represented and understood as concrete, when the speaker and the hearer are so similarly circumstanced that the same thoughts naturally rise into the consciousness of both at once. Such agreement or correspondence depends upon such circumstances as common residence, common age, common tastes, business, or surroundings of the speakers. An instance of this is seen in the rhetorical usage commonly known as κατ’ ἐξοχην. If two people live near together in the country in the neighbourhood of a large town, they would both certainly understand by ‘going to town’ the town nearest to where they happen to live. If, on the other hand, they both had their business in London, they would certainly both understand ‘London’ by ‘town.’ Again, words like the town-hall, the square, the market are understood by the inhabitants of a particular town to refer to the town-hall or market of that particular town. Again, such words as the kitchen, 54 the larder, when spoken of by members of a family, refer to the rooms in their particular house, which they know by these names. Thus, again, in speaking of Sunday, we mean the nearest Sunday to the day on which we are speaking; and, in fact, the Sunday can be fixed with perfect precision by merely affixing to the word Sunday a word expressing past or future; as, next Sunday, last Sunday. Words expressing relationship between persons are naturally and without effort transferred to persons who bear such relationship to hearer and speaker alike: and what is more, no doubt can arise from the use of the singular, as long as there is only one person who could naturally bear the description. Thus, if the children of a family speak to each other of ‘father’ or ‘mother,’ this concrete reference is just as intelligible to them as that of ‘the Queen’ or ‘the President’ to the British or the Americans respectively. Nay, even though the relationship exists only upon one side, whether of the speaker or the hearer, the reference may still be equally unmistakable, assuming that circumstances aid in pointing to the person named. If one man says to another ‘The wife is better,’ the hearer would at once understand that the speaker’s own wife was referred to, assuming that her illness had been previously discussed between the two.

In the fourth place, a speaker may employ some more closely defining word, as an epithet, in order to render his meaning more definite and concrete. Thus he might say, That is the old king’s palace, That is the royal castle. But even such defining epithets as these fail to give a perfect definition unless some other aid, like the memory aid of which we have spoken, or the aid of the situation, supports the definition. If the speakers have been conversing about ‘the old king,’ 55 both palace and castle would receive a concrete significance from what had been said before. Thus, the phrase ‘the king’s castle’ comes to mean a single object only, when it is known that the king has only one castle, or if the hearer be referred to a single place, where he must know the castle to lie.

Finally, a concrete word may affect other words connected with it, and may give them a concrete sense as well. In sentences like John never moved a finger; I never laid hand upon him; I took him by the arm; You hit me on the shoulder, the words finger and hand get their concrete meaning from the subject, and arm and shoulder from the object.10 In French, in the sentence, Il sauta dans l’eau, la tête la première, ‘la tête’ acquires its concrete sense from the subject.

Just as general names receive a definite concrete reference, so proper names applicable to different persons come to denote but a single one. It may be sufficient merely to speak of a man as ‘Charles’ in order to sufficiently identify him; and indeed such reference would suffice if he were before us, or had recently been mentioned. Again, even without this, the name ‘Charles’ would sufficiently identify any person within his own family, or within any other circle where no other ‘Charles’ was known. Under other circumstances, we must naturally define him more closely; as, ‘Charles the Sixth of France,’ ‘Charles the First of England.’ Just so, there are many places bearing the same name; but a single name is sufficient to define the place for the neighbourhood, and even for the world at large when the place happens to be the most important of the places called 56 by the name: cf. Melbourne, Brisbane, London, Strassburg: otherwise a nearer definition has to be employed, as Stony Stratford, Newton-le-Willows.

Words are specialised in meaning in the same way as they are defined and rendered concrete, and by the same factors. When we hear a word, we naturally think of the most obvious and common of its various meanings, or else of its primary meaning. In the case of ‘train,’ we think of the means of locomotion: in the case of ‘crane’ we probably think of the bird. Sometimes the two tendencies work together. Should several meanings tolerably common stand side by side, the primary meaning will commonly present itself to the mind of the hearer before the others; as in the case of the word head used in so many metaphorical senses. But this general rule is liable again to be altered by the surroundings amid which the word is uttered. The situation awakens certain groups of ideas in the mind of the hearer before the word is uttered, and itself aids powerfully in fixing the meaning. We affix a different meaning to the word sheet according as we hear it in a haberdasher’s shop, or on a yacht, or at a book-binder’s: as we do to the words ‘to bind,’ according as we hear them in a book-binder’s or in a harvest field. Different trades and professions use the same word and affix their own meaning to it, and no ambiguity arises in their own circle: take such words as ‘a goose’ in the mouth of a tailor; ‘a form’ among hatters. Then, again, the connection in which a word occurs does much to fix its meaning. Observe how the meaning is affected by the connection in such utterances as a good point, a point of view, a point of honour; the bar of a river, the bar of a hotel, the bar of justice; the foot of a mountain, the foot of a table; the tongue of a woman, a tongue of land, the tongue of a balance; 57 a crowded ball, a round ball; a gulf or bay, a bay and a roan; the cock crows, the cock is turned on; ere the king’s crown go down there are crowns to be broke; the train is starting, a train of thought; a bitter draught, a bitter reputation; clean linen, a clean heart; a donkey-engine, John is a donkey; the money goes, the mill goes; to stand still, to stand upon ceremony, to stand at ease.

Cases may, however, occur in which the ‘occasional’ meaning may not include all the elements of the ‘usual’ meaning, while it may contain something beyond and above this. Take, for instance, the words expressive of colour, such as blue, red, yellow, white, black. These words may be used to denote colours which, according to their simple meaning, they are inadequate to denote. Each colour may be mixed with another colour, and there must arise a succession of transition stages for which language has no name. For instance, the northern word blae varies in meaning from the purple colour of the blaeberry to the dull grey of unbleached cottons;11 while the same word in old Spanish takes the form blavo, and is found to mean yellowish grey. Three centuries ago, auburn meant ‘whitish,’ and drab meant ‘no colour at all’ (= Fr. drap, ‘undyed cloth’).

But the widest field for such inadequate application as that which we have been instancing is given by words whose signification consists of a complex assembly of ideas, as is the case, for instance, in metaphorical expressions. Metaphorical expressions are nothing else than comparisons instituted between groups of ideas with respect to what they possess in common. We compare in these only certain characteristics, and we leave the rest out of account. If we say of a man He is a fox, we mean merely that some of 58 the qualities which go to make up the conception of a fox are found in the man as well. We may, indeed, express the point of comparison between the two, as by saying He is as crafty as a fox. On the other hand, we might say more simply He is foxy, in which case the adjective merely denotes such a selection of the qualities of a fox as may be necessary to characterise the man sufficiently: and, finally, we may say He is a fox, whereby we merely mean that he is in several respects like a fox. In this case, then, the words foxy and fox have passed beyond the limits of their proper signification. They have come to denote a single quality only, instead of a group of qualities, and this signification has come to be usual.

A word may, again, pass beyond the limits of its strict signification by the operation of what rhetoricians call synecdoche, or naming a thing by some prominent or characteristic part of it; as, ‘A fleet of twenty sail;’ ‘All hands to the pumps;’ ‘They sought his blood.’ In this case, something connected spatially, or temporally, or causally with the usual meaning is understood with the word when it is spoken.

When a word passes beyond the limits of its usual signification, it is liable to be misunderstood, unless, indeed, some impulse be present to serve as a sign-post to the sense in which it is intended to be used. We are naturally inclined to use a word in its ordinary meaning and in no other, unless, indeed, we are reminded by something that its ordinary sense is impossible. In simple cases, such as the proverb, Speech is silvern, but silence is golden, we think of the predicates as used metaphorically, simply because it is impossible to think of them as used in any other sense. But when Shakespeare talks about the majesty of buried Denmark, each principal word in the combination 59 serves as a sign-post to the sense in which each other word is to be used, and we are enabled to guess the sense which we are to attach to each word.

Repeated departures from the usual meaning—in other words, the repeated employment of the occasional meanings of words—end in a true change of signification. The more regularly these departures occur, the more, of course, do individual peculiarities approximate to common use. The test of the transition from an ‘occasional’ to a ‘usual’ meaning is whether the employment of the ‘occasional’ meaning brings into the mind of the speaker or hearer a previous usage with which he was familiar, and in which he will naturally understand the word. When such recollection naturally presents itself to the mind, and when the word is employed, as well as understood, with no reference to the original signification of the word, then the word may fairly be deemed to have accomplished its transition of meaning. But it is clear that there may be many gradations between the two usages. If I speak of sweet memories or of a bright future, there may or may not be any recollection on the part of the speaker or hearer that these expressions are metaphors from the use of the word sweet and bright in a physical sense.

It must further be remarked that it is difficult for the occasional meaning of a word to pass into the usual by the aid of an individual, unless those to whom he speaks reciprocate the influence which he has exerted upon them. Milton, for instance, uses such words as expatiate and extravagant in their Latin sense, and hear in the sense of ‘to be called;’ thus, again, Chaucer and others use copy (copia) in the sense of plenty: but these words were not taken up by a sufficiently large number of persons to enable their 60 ‘occasional’ use to become ‘usual,’ even though introduced by such authorities as these.12

Words have a strong tendency to change their meaning when they pass into the mouth of a new generation. A child fixes the meaning of a word by hasty and imperfect generalisations; and not by means of descriptive or exhaustive definitions. The simple and unreflecting mind of childhood identifies objects on very imperfect grounds, and stays not to consider whether there be any basis for such identification or not.13 And thus it is that, from the very first steps in the process of acquiring language, the child employs the same word to define several objects, and these not objects which really resemble each other, but which have the appearance in any degree of doing so. Of course this whole proceeding implies that no clear conception can exist of the contents and extent of the usual meaning. A child conceives of a word as covering an extent sometimes too narrow, sometimes too wide; more commonly, however, too wide than too narrow, and the more so as the extent of his words is the more limited. He will include a sofa under the name of a chair; an umbrella under that of a stick; a cap under that of a hat; and this repeatedly. Another cause of inexact appreciation of meaning is the fact that the speaker, when indicating to a child certain objects, connects them in his own mind with certain other objects; the child may fail to understand the limitations of meaning to be placed upon the word when it is parted from the idea as a whole. Take, for instance, such a word as congregation. In the mouth of a clergyman, this word might be used as an inseparable 61 adjunct of a church, but he will still speak of the congregation as distinguished from the church, and as forming a distinct though necessary connection with the idea of ‘Church.’ The child, generalising faultily, may apply the word congregation to a collection of politicians, or of traders, or of animals; and it may be long before he is in a position to correct his wrong conception. The adult, again, constantly has to encounter the same difficulties as the child, when he meets with words of rare occurrence or denoting technical or complex ideas; and, supposing that he learns such words by their occasional application only, he is exposed to the same errors as the child. Thus the word insect has come to be so commonly used to mark the distinction between insects and other animals, that we read on labels, This powder is harmless to animal life, but kills all insects.

These inaccuracies in the case of the apprehension of the usual meaning are, taken singly, of little account, and are commonly corrected by the standard or ordinary usage which the speaker will naturally hear from the mouths of the greater part of the community. At the same time, in cases where a large number of individuals unite in a partial misapprehension or in investing simultaneously a word with an ‘occasional’ meaning, it will happen that this, though only partially corresponding with the meaning which was usual amongst an older generation, will be substituted.

Such, among others, are the significations attaching to certain terms, expressive of qualities ennobled by Christianity, such as humility, faith, spiritual, ghostly, etc.

Commonly speaking, the older generation gives the main impulse to change of meaning, controlling, as it does, the whole usage of language. But the younger 62 generation has great power in aiding the process of change, from the fact that the very first time that a word has presented itself to one of its members, the word may have been used in an ‘occasional’ sense, which would by him have been taken to be its regular use. Thus, a child might often hear a horse spoken of as a bay, or a dolt as an ass. In such cases he understands the secondary meaning only; nor does he even mentally connect this meaning with any other.

The change in ‘usual’ signification, then, takes its rise from modification in the ‘occasional’ application of the word. The most common case of change in signification owing to such modification, is where the meaning of the word is specialised by the narrowing of its comprehension and the enrichment of its contents. In the English word stamp we have a good instance of the difference between ‘occasional’ and ‘usual’ specialisation. The word may be employed of any object used as a particular mark. It may be used for a receipt stamp or for a bill stamp, or, again, metaphorically, as the stamp of nobility. These are instances of ‘occasional’ specialisation. But, while it requires some definite situation to make us think of stamp in its other significations, it immediately occurs to us to think of it as a postage stamp, and we then think little, if at all, of the general idea of stamping, but rather of an object of definite shape and construction and used for the definite purpose of franking letters. We must thus admit that this meaning has parted from the more general meanings, and stands independently as a special meaning; in fact, that it is specialised and ‘usual.’ Other examples are the use of frumentum for ‘corn’ in Latin; fruit for the produce of certain trees as distinguished from ‘the fruits of the earth;’ pig, originally the young of animals;—in Danish, 63 pige, a young girl. Corn, in English, is restricted to ‘wheat,’ and, in America, to maize, or Indian corn; while, in German, korn denotes any species of grain: fowl, in English, means specially ‘a barn-door fowl;’ a bird means, in the language of sportsmen, ‘a partridge;’ a fish, ‘a salmon:’ ὄρνις, in the conventional language of Athens, as disclosed by the Comic poets, means ‘a barn-door fowl:’14 and a special usage of this kind is seen in the names of materials themselves employed to denote the products of materials; as, glass, horn, gold, silver, paper, copper,—as when we talk of paper in the sense of paper money, etc.

Proper names owe their origin to the change of the ‘occasional’ concrete meanings of certain words into ‘usual’ meanings. All names of persons and places took their origin from names of species; and the usage κατ’ ἐξοχήν was the starting-point for this process. We are able to observe it distinctly in numerous instances of names both of persons and of places. Such ordinary names as the following are very instructive for our purpose: Field, Hill, Bridges, Townsend, Hedges, Church, Stone, Meadows, Newton, Villeneuve, Newcastle, Neuchâtel, Neuburg, Milltown, etc. Such names as these served in the first instance merely to indicate to neighbours a certain person or town: and they were sufficient to distinguish such person or town from others in the neighbourhood. They passed into regular proper names as soon as they were apprehended in this concrete sense by neighbours too far removed to judge of the reasons why they received their special name: cf. names like Pont newydd: and names like Bevan, Pritchard, from ab (son) Evan and ap Richard. There are, no doubt, beside these, many 64 place-names which began by resembling real proper names, in so far as they are derived from names of persons: such are Kingston, St. Helens.

There is also one kind of specialising process which begins to operate as soon as ever a word comes into use. Instances of this may be seen in the case of words which may be derived at will, according to the ordinary laws of any language, from other words in common use, but which are not employed till a special need calls them into play. Such words as these are sometimes found, in the first stage of their descent from the root-word, to bear a more special meaning than the derivative, as such, would naturally bear. Thus the substantive formations in -er (A.S. -er, -e)15 denote properly a person who stands in some relation to the idea of the root-word—commonly speaking, expressing the agent: but in the case of single words thus terminated the most varied instances of specialisation are found.16 The ‘pauser’ reason (Macbeth, II. iii. 117) would naturally mean reason that pauses or halts; but Shakespeare uses it as the ‘reason that makes us pause;’—similarly, there is no reason why the word scholar (M.E. scolere), an imitation of Lat. scholaris, should not signify ‘he who schools or teaches;’ but, as a matter of fact, it always seems to have borne its present sense. In English, indeed, it bears the special sense of ‘a student enjoying the benefit of a foundation.’ A poulterer is one who vends poultry: a fisher is one who tries to catch fish; a burgher, one who dwells in a burgh; a falconer, one who trains falcons, or one who hawks for sport: while a pensioner is one 65 who receives a pension. Take, again, the case of verbs derived from substantives, like to butter, to head, to top, to badger, to earwig, to dust, to water, to pickle, to bone (a fowl,) to skin, to clothe, to book (a debt). In many of these cases, the meaning of the verb is derived from a metaphorical sense of the substantive. In this case, too, the usage can only be formed gradually, and according to the general fundamental conditions of language.

When language demands the expression of a conception hitherto undenoted, one of the most obvious expedients is to choose a word expressive of the most prominent characteristics of the conception, as to name the horse ‘the swift animal’ (Sans. açvas), or the wolf the ‘grey animal’ or ‘the tearer.’ Many substantives have arisen in this way (cf. the old terms ‘a grey’ and ‘a brock’17 for a badger), but we must not therefore conclude that there was any general rule for such formation; such as, for instance, that all substantives proceeded from verbs.

The second principal kind of change in signification is the converse of the kind already spoken of. It is where the application of the term is limited to one part only of its original content, though such reduction on one side is commonly accompanied by amplification on another.

The great number of phenomena occurring under this head renders it hard to classify them: but certain ones of marked peculiarity may be mentioned. In some cases we name the object from its appearance to our sight: as in the case of the eye of a potato, the head or heart of a cabbage, the arm of a river, the cup 66 of a flower, the bed of a river. A statue or a picture is named after what it represents; as, an Apollo, a Laocoon, the Adoration of the Magi: or, again, a work of art is named after its executor; as, a Phidias, a Praxiteles. In all such cases the original signification has been limited in one direction and amplified in another. For instance, in the case of ‘the bed of a river,’ we exclude from consideration other beds, such as beds for sleeping on; but, on the other hand, the word may be applied in its novel sense to as many rivers as flow and have beds. We call a part of one object after the part of another object which corresponds to it in position; we talk of the neck or belly of a bottle, of the shoulder of a mountain, the foot of a ladder, the tail of a kite. The different uses of caput are mostly reproduced in our own use of head; as, caput urbis; capitolium; caput fontis, fountain head; caput montis, κορυφή; caput conspirationis; Ital. capo; caput arboris; caput libri, chapter, κεφάλαιον; caput pecuniæ, capital; cape. We call a measure by the name of some object which in some way resembles it in dimensions; as, a cubit, an ell, a foot, a barley-corn. A pen or feather writes: and so ‘a pen’ and ‘une plume’ may mean a steel pen. We transfer words expressive of conceptions of time to conceptions of place, and vice versâ, as in long and short; before, after; behind, before: and thus in the case of many other adverbs and prepositions. We transfer the impressions made on one sense to those made on another, as in the cases of sweet; beautiful; loud (originally applicable to hearing alone), in the phrase ‘loud colours;’ and the Fr. voyant, in such a phrase as une couleur voyante, originally applicable to the sense of sight alone. Words which in their proper sense denote sensual and corporeal ideas only, are transferred to the denotation 67 of ideas spiritual and intellectual: as in the cases of apprehension, comprehension, reflection, spirit, inclination, penchant, appetite, penser (lit. peser = to weigh, etc.). Consider, again, the various applications of such words as to feel, to see; bitter, lovely, fair, mean, dirty, great, small, lofty, low, warm; taste, fire, passion; to sting, to thrill, etc. Words which properly denote one species only are given a wider extension; as, cat, crab, apple, rose, moon (as in Jupiter’s moons), fishery (as in whale-fishery, lobster-fishery, after the analogy of the herring-fishery, etc.), le sanglier (l’animal solitaire, singularis), le fromage (lac formaticum, milk made into shape), le baudet (O.Fr. bald, baud, the spirited animal,—originally the male ass). We make proper names pass into class names, as when we speak of a Cicero, a Nelson, a Cato; an Academy, from Plato’s gymnasium near Athens, called Ἀκαδημία; Palace, from Palatium, the seat of Augustus’ Palace. Thus, again, we actually talk of a wooden house as being dilapidated. And we have such further development as a martinet; a cannibal; a vandal; Tom, Dick, and Harry; John Doe and Richard Roe. Such adjectives as romantic, Gothic, pre-adamite, may also serve as illustrations of the development, which is also manifest in the case of sehr, ‘very,’ formerly meaning ‘painful,’ of Eng. sore, with the like use in ‘sore afraid.’ So compare schlecht (schlechterdings, schlichten) with slight, primitive signification ‘plain;’ silly with selig, etc. The transference in the case of verbs is seen in such cases as ‘I was sorry to find you out when I called;’ ‘He enjoys poor health,’ etc. This development is similar to that illustrated above by apprehension, reflection, etc., to which we may add understand, verstehen, ἐπίστασθαι, transpire.

The third principal division of change in meaning 68 is the transference of the idea to what is connected with the fundamental conception of the word by some relation of place, or time, or cause.

The simplest sub-division of this is when a part is substituted for the whole—the figure called by rhetoricians synecdoche, and referred to before on p. 58. The part is, in such cases, always a prominent characteristic; it suggests, as a rule, that aspect of the whole which it is desired to bring into prominence for rhetorical effect. Thus, ‘all hands to the pumps;’ ‘they sought his blood;’ ‘the blade,’ for ‘the sword;’ ‘a maid of twelve summers.’ The German word Bein (leg) = Eng. bone, has been thus used by synecdoche: it retains its older value in Gebeine, Elfenbein. Persons and animals are named after characteristic features in the body or the mind; as, grey-beard, curly-head, thick-head, red-breast, fire-tail; a good soul, a bright spirit: in French blanc-bec, grosse-tête, rouge-gorge, rouge-queue, pied-plat, gorge-blanche, mille-pieds: esprit fort, bel esprit. Names, again, are given to objects from some prominent feature with which they are commonly connected: such are those taken from garments; as, blue-stocking, green-domino, a red-coat, a blue-jacket; cf. the use of un cuirassier. Other names are transferred from one object to another included in it: such as the town, for ‘the talk of the town;’ the smiling year, for ‘the spring;’ the cabinet, the church, the court, etc. Conversely, we find the idea transferred from the object to its surroundings, as in the Round Table, the Porch, the Mountain, the Throne, the Altar, etc. Sometimes the name of a quality is transferred to the person or thing possessing the quality, as in the case of age, youth, plenty:— ‘The people’s prayer, the glad diviner’s theme,
The young man’s vision and the old man’s dream,’
69 as Dryden calls the Duke of Monmouth:18 cf. also desert, bitters. Other examples of this are—his worship, the Godhead, your highness, his majesty, his excellence, his holiness, etc. It will thus be seen that collective names take their rise in this way as well as the names for single persons or things; we can speak of their worships, meaning the magistrates. But these words do not always form substantives.

Nouns of action suffer the same transference as names of qualities. By nouns of action we mean names denoting activities generally, and conditions which are derived from verbs, such as overflow, train, income, government, providence, gilding, warning, influence. In the instances given, the name of the action has been transferred to its subject: but it is equally capable of being transferred to its object, if ‘object’ be taken in the widest sense. Thus, it may be transferred to a consequence or result of the verbal activity: such as rift, spring, growth, a rise, assembly, union, education: or to an object affected by the activity, such as seed, speech, doings, lamentations, bewailings, resort, excuse, dwelling. Writings are denoted by the name of their author; as, ‘Have you read Shakespeare?’ A person is named after some favourite word of his own; as, Heinrich jasomir Gott: ‘Cedo alteram’ (Tacitus, Annals, book iii.):19 animals are named from their utterances, in nursery language, as a bow-wow; or from those used to appeal to them, as a gee-gee: besides these, we may add the names of such plants as puzzle-monkey, noli me tangere, forget-me-not, etc.

The different kinds of change in meaning may follow each other, and thus unite. Thus the word rosary has on one side gained in comprehension, since 70 it is now used of a necklace composed of beads employed for a sacred purpose; but, on the other, it has lost all connection with roses. A horn is a wind instrument which may be, but is not commonly made of horn: the name may equally apply to an instrument made of other materials.

It frequently happens that some idea foreign to the essence of a word, and connected with it merely by accident, becomes absorbed into its signification as a mere accessory: and this is then thought of as the proper meaning, the primary meaning being forgotten: thus names of relations of time and place gradually pass into causal words; as, consequence, purpose, end (to the end that), means, way.

Seeing that the unit of language is the sentence, and not the word—in other words, that we think in sentences,—it is natural that the change in meaning should affect, not merely the separate words, but also entire sentences. These sentences may receive a meaning which is at the outset merely ‘occasional,’ but which by repetition may become ‘usual’—a meaning not implied by the combination of words as we hear it for the first time. Take, for instance, such phrases as A plot is on foot; The business has come to a head; He has come to the front; I have a man in my eye; and such combinations as the following, in which the word hand plays a great part: well in hand, off hand, hands off, at hand, etc. We cannot say that in these cases special meanings of the word hand have developed: rather, these meanings have become obscured by the attention which we have come to pay to the phrase as a whole. English is full of such terms of expression. In many of these the sense can only be derived from the meanings of the several words by the aid of an historical knowledge of the language in which such combinations 71 occur. Take such cases as, to dine with Duke Humphrey; to tell a cock and bull story; all his geese are swans; to stuff one up; to give one the sack; to be half seas over: in French—il raisonne comme un tambour; sot comme un panier (for un panier percé); triste comme un bonnet de nuit; donner une savonnade; faire une jérémiade.

Language is incessantly engaged in an endeavour to express the entire stock of ideas in the human mind. But it is met by the difficulty, in the first place, that the ideas of each individual in any society differ widely from those of the other individuals in the society: in the next place, by the difficulty that the ideas of each individual are liable to a constant process of expansion or contraction. The consequence is that the ideas which language is constantly endeavouring to express are necessarily coloured by individual peculiarities; though it is equally true that these peculiarities are unimportant in ordinary definitions of the meanings of single words or groups of words. For instance, it is no doubt true that the word horse has the same meaning for everybody, in so far as everybody refers it to the same object: but, on the other hand, each man in his own particular line, a hunter, a coachman, a veterinary surgeon, or a zoologist will connect with the idea a larger quantity of conceptions than one who has nothing to do with horses. A father would be differently defined by a lawyer and a physiologist: but the points which in the thoughts of these make up the essence of paternity are absolutely wanting to the consciousness of the infant who uses the name of ‘father.’ The differences in the judgments applied to feelings and ethics are very great, and for obvious reasons. What different individuals understand by good and bad, virtue 72 and vice, is impossible to bring under one definition, indisputable and undisputed.

The sum of the words at the disposal of any individual connects itself with his ideas: and it thus follows that the entire store of words forming the stock of any community must adapt itself to the whole stock of ideas belonging to any community, and must change as these change. The meaning of the words, again, must adapt itself to the standard of culture attained from time to time by each nation. New words must be created for new objects and new relations and kindred, though novel meanings must become attached to the old words—as in the case of steel pen, properly, ‘a steel feather.’ And again, a quantity of unobserved changes are constantly passing on language which are hardly remarked as such, and are the immediate result of a change in the whole culture of a nation. Such are the words humility, talent, faith, spirit, and the numerous other words referred to before, to which Christianity has given a deeper and more spiritual significance. Then, again, progressive skill may have worked striking changes in objects essentially the same: we call a Roman trireme, a Chinese junk, and a British man-of-war by the same name, ship; but we must admit that the ideas attaching to it have changed considerably. And thus it is with all objects capable of improvement by skill, and again with purely mental or intellectual conceptions, which change according to the changing conditions of culture of the community which possesses them. 73

CHAPTER V.
ANALOGY.

All the ideas consciously or unconsciously present in the human mind are directly or indirectly connected with one another. No thought, no conception, is so independent of all others as not to suggest some other idea or ideas in some way cognate or related. Thus, for instance, if we think of the action of walking, it is physically impossible not to call to mind, with more or less distinctness, the idea of a person who walks. And again, the idea of walking is likely also to evoke the idea of some of the varieties of that action, which we commonly indicate by such words as (to) go, run, step, stalk, stroll, stride, etc.

Thus it is clear that our ideas associate themselves into groups; and, as a natural result of this, the words which we employ to express these ideas come similarly to associate themselves in our minds.

Words, then, which express related ideas, form themselves into groups. Another source, though not equally prolific, of such association, is similarity in sound. Thus the word book may remind us of brook, as it in fact reminded Shakespeare; the word alarms, of ‘to arms!’ the word hag, of rag or tag; the word blue may remind us of few. Such groupings are, however, but very loose and ineffectual, unless a more or 74 less close association (based on reality or fancy) co-operates in order to make them strong and suggestive. This may be seen by taking as examples the associations existing between brook and book, blue and few, on the one hand, and those existing between alarms and ‘to arms!’ and hag, tag, and rag, on the other. There is no similarity of meaning, no similarity of contents between the words book and brook; the association, therefore, in this case is a very loose one, looser than that existing between foot and boot, for instance. On the other hand, the connection between the ideas of alarms and ‘to arms!’ is more obvious: a sudden surprise, as in the case of an attack by an unexpected enemy, might often be connected with the idea of a call ‘to arms!’ Similarly, hag and rag are ideas which often present themselves to our mind in connection with one another, and consequently the association between these two words is stronger than that, for instance, existing between hag and flag.

Correlation in the ideas, coupled with correlation of their contents, especially if accompanied by similarity of sound, makes the association most inevitable; and the closer the correlation, or the greater the similarity, the stronger will be the tie which binds the members of the group.

It is necessary to the more exact classification of these groups, that we should first obtain a clear conception of the difference between what we may call the material contents of a word, on the one hand, and the formal or modal contents, on the other.

For this purpose, let us look at the two words father (singular) and fathers (plural). Both these words indicate a person or persons who stand in a certain and well-defined blood-relationship to some 75 other person or persons. This meaning, common to both, we call their material contents. But the one form is used to indicate one such individual; the other, to indicate any number more than one. This, the unity or singularity of the one, the plurality of the other, makes up the formal or modal contents of each. This modal part of the contents, in most of the languages of the Indo-European stock, is left without separate expression in the singular: in the plural, however, it is generally expressed or indicated by some change in form; this change being, in most cases, made by the addition of some termination—in the example we have chosen, by the addition of s.

Before passing to another example, it is well to point out that the modal contents of a so-called “singular-form” by no means invariably imply unity; nor, again, is the plural always, as in the case cited, formed from the singular. In such a sentence as A father loves his child, the idea expressed relates, or may relate, to more than a single father; in fact, it may be taken as a statement made correctly or incorrectly of all fathers universally; and, with regard to the second point mentioned, Welsh, among other languages, has many words in which the plural is expressed by the shorter collective form, and the single individual is indicated by a derivative, e.g. adar, birds; aderyn, a bird: plant, children; plentyn, a child: gwair, hay; gweiryn, a blade of hay, etc.20

We can now come back to our point, and fix our attention on two such words as (I) speak and speech.

Both these words evoke the thought of some well-known and familiar activity called into play by our 76 vocal organs. This constitutes the material contents of both alike. The former, however, conveys the idea that the action is being performed at the time the word is uttered; the other is the name of the result or product of that action. This, the modal part of their contents, is left unexpressed; or, to speak more accurately, we cannot divide the words so as to be able to say that one part serves to express the material contents, and another the modal,—a division which we could make in the case of fathers, and which we might make in, e.g., speak, speaking; speech, speeches; book, books, booklet; etc.

It will now be clear that, among associations based on correlation or on similarity of IDEA, this similarity may exist between the material contents of the words grouped together, or between their modal contents. We therefore are now in a position to distinguish between MATTER-GROUPS and MODAL-GROUPS.

To sum up, there exist association-groups based on— 1. Similarity in sound only. 2. ” ” meaning only. 3. ” ” both sound and meaning. These two latter classes (nos. 2 and 3) are subdivided, as to the part of the meaning in which they agree, into (a) matter-groups and (b) modal-groups.

Instances of all these are numerous, and will readily suggest themselves; a few may suffice to illustrate further what has already been said.

If we were to set down in a vertical column the complete conjugation of some verb—say, of to walk,—and, parallel to this, with equal completeness and in the same order, the conjugation of the verbs to write, to go, and to be, we should then have in our vertical 77 columns four matter-groups. Taken horizontally, the separate tenses would form so many modal-groups, each divisible into smaller groups of singulars as against plurals, or of first persons as against second and third persons, etc. We should then, at the same time, have illustrated the fact that in many cases similarity of contents is accompanied by, or perhaps we should say expressed by, similarity in sound, and that it often happens that similar change of modal contents is accompanied by similar change in form or in termination.

Now, this fact, though far from holding good in all cases, is of the greatest possible importance for the development of language.

In order to realise this, let us for a moment suppose a language in which no such ‘regularity’ held good: in which ‘I love’ was expressed by amo; ‘thou lovest’ by petit; ‘he loves’ by audivimus; and that thus for every thought, every shade of meaning, every modal variation of material contents, there existed a new word in no way related to the others which indicate associated ideas. The language would in this case be more difficult of acquirement for those born in the country where it was indigenous than Chinese writing and reading is to the Chinese, and would almost defy the efforts of a foreigner to master it. Like the Chinese, the natives would only by dint of long-continued study be in a position to collect a scanty vocabulary, which, in the case of the foreigner, would prove more scanty still. The picture here given of such a language is, indeed, nowhere fully realised; but some languages of savage tribes, in certain of their features, approximate to the condition we have sketched. Thus, for instance, in Viti, the number AND the object numbered are expressed together in a single word, 78 varying for each number in each word; thus, buru signifies ten cocoa-nuts, koro a hundred cocoa-nuts; whilst sclavo signifies a thousand cocoa-nuts.21

Strange and far-fetched as this method of forming language may seem to us, and indeed is, it is after all merely a much exaggerated example of what we find in all modern languages, and, e.g., in English, which, side by side with the normal terminations to indicate gender, as in lion, lioness, preserves such pairs as bull, cow; stag, hind; cock, hen; etc.

Now, why should a language constructed on such principles be so difficult to master as we have assumed it to be? Or, to put the case differently, why should a ‘regular’ language be more easily acquired than an irregular one? To discuss this may seem superfluous; but just as, in Algebra, some of the most important theorems are deduced from a thorough discussion of the principles of simple addition, so it will aid us in language to have a clear grasp of this point, to possess a full comprehension of the meaning of Analogy and its influence.

In our hypothetical language, every word would have to be acquired by a new and unaided effort of memory. In actually existing languages, this is not the case. Whether by precept or by observation, consciously or unconsciously, whether in the process of acquiring our own language in childhood, or in our study of a foreign tongue, we associate not only words but also parts of words with one another and with parts of material or modal contents of our thoughts. A child that learns to call a single book book, and more than one, books, and to proceed similarly in a large number of cases, comes unconsciously to connect the s, written or spoken, with 79 the idea ‘many of them.’ The child attaches regularly this sound or its symbol s to any word whose plural it needs to express; and (perfectly correctly as far as the logic of its case is concerned) says one foot and two foots, after the model of one boot, two boots. The child does not know that the form foots is contrary to established usage, while the form boots is in harmony with it; a series of corrections on the part of those who know the established usages will gradually imprint on its memory the usual form; but until this correction has occurred sufficiently often, the form foots will recur in the child’s vocabulary. The sound or symbol s, or rather the habit of adding such a sibilant to a word or words which state something about more than one object, in order to denote plurality, leads sometimes to its being used in cases where ‘correct’ grammar omits it. A child will form words by a simple process of analogy, which seem curious enough to us, but are really quite simple and natural formations. Thus, e.g. a little one spoke of two-gas-lits, on seeing two gas-jets lit one after another; and—to add a parallel instance of another frequent termination—another child, when urged to ‘come on,’ replied, ‘I cannot come quickerly.’

Such formations have been represented as the result of a kind of problem in linguistic proportion, somewhat like this:—

Given the knowledge of the formation soon, sooner; large, larger; etc., what is the value of x in the equation:—

Soon: sooner: :quick: x? Answer, quicker.

Next, given the knowledge of large, largely; nice, nicely; etc., what then is the value of x which satisfies:— 80

Large: largely: :quick: x? Answer, quickly.

When combined, these two problems yield a compound proportion sum, thus:—

Large: larger }
Large: largely } : : quick: x.

To this, the answer would be quickli-er or quick-er-ly, and logically either answer is perfectly correct; they only differ in the practically all-important, but logically totally indifferent accident that the one happens to be usual, while the other is opposed to the normal usage.

In order to fully realise how readily such forms, whether ‘correct’ or ‘incorrect,’ may be coined, we must likewise bear in mind that for the apprehension of a child our divisions of sentences into words do not exist at all. The sentences which a child learns to understand are, at all events in the first instance, to its conception one and undivided, nay, apparently indivisible aggregates of sound, conveying somehow or another a certain notion. The infant answers to such a catena of sounds as go-to-papa, or don’t-do-that, and run-away, long before it has the faintest conception of the meaning of such sentences as, e.g., go that way. It is only the incessant variations of the surroundings of a word, while that combination of sounds itself remains unaltered, which, by a very gradual process, brings to our consciousness the fact that the whole sentence is made up of separate elements, and enables us to distinguish the word as an unit of expression. This process, however, of the discovery of such units comes about unconsciously and tentatively; whilst by all children and many adult speakers the extent of meaning attached to such units is very vaguely appreciated.

There is, therefore, in the linguistic history of each 81 speaker, a period in which such a sound-group as, e.g., noisier, seems to consist as much or as little of two words as the group more noisy, etc. The question then presents itself, why, at a later period, we distinguish two words in the latter group, while we continue to regard the former group as one? The answer to this is found in the fact that both the sounds, noisy and more, are found to occur frequently alone or amid totally different surroundings; they occur, however, consistently maintaining the same meaning; whilst of noisier, the first part only is used alone, and the sound represented by er—whilst employed with many other words to express a similar variation of idea—can never, like more, serve independently to indicate that variation, unaccompanied by the sound which expresses the thought which it is desired to vary. And the same remarks hold good for other cases.

It would, no doubt, be going too far to assert that the usual division of words in our written language is wholly fanciful and unnatural. But it is nevertheless true that the division is not made in speaking, nor is it always equally present in our consciousness while we are uttering our thoughts. The less educated the speaker—in other words, the less he has been taught to bring reflection into play—the less active and operative is this consciousness.

If, then, we represent the formation of such a word as quicker in the shape of a solution of a proportion problem, the identity between the linguistic and algebraical processes must not be too closely insisted on. Similarly, we must not exaggerate the idea of clearness and distinctness present to the consciousness of the speaker who expresses the idea ‘rapid in movement’ by quick, and a higher degree of rapidity in the movement by the addition of the word more before it, 82 or er after it. The fact is that no comparison is an absolute identity. Both our descriptions of the process by which many of our words arise in our minds, viz. the proportion, and the composition of the two elements, are inexact in some respects; and in some respects one, in other respects the other, will prove less faulty. If in a formation like quick, quicker, it is more likely that the two syllables in quick-er maintain a certain independence of signification, still no such explanation could possibly apply to such a form as brang, heard from a child or a foreigner, instead of brought. No simpler way of describing this process can be found than the equation—

Moreover, this is doubtless the process adopted by our reasoning in acquiring a foreign language. We are taught that To speak is to be rendered by parler; I speak, by Je parle; I was speaking, by Je parlais, etc.; and our teacher expects (and naturally) that, possessing this knowledge, we shall be able, when he proceeds to inform us that porter means ‘to carry,’ to find the as yet unknown and unheard forms Je porte, Je portais, etc. At a later period, when we have read and spoken the language frequently, we form many similar tenses and persons of many verbs never or rarely encountered previously; and no speaker could certainly affirm whether he owes the utterance of the word to his memory recalling it into renewed consciousness, or to a process of automatic regulation by analogy after the model of other similar and more familiar forms.

From the above examples it may be seen that 83 analogy is productive, not merely of abnormal forms, but also, and even to a larger extent, of normal forms. The operation of Analogy, however, attracts most attention when its influence leads to the formation of unusual forms, and this fact has prevented due credit being given to its full power and importance. It was once usual to speak of all forms employed by any speaker in conformity with normal usage as ‘correct;’ and of others, formed on the model of other examples, but deviating from normal usage, as ‘incorrect;’ in other words, as mistakes, or as formed BY FALSE ANALOGY. From what we have said it will be clear that this last term is wrong and misleading, and can only be applied as expressing that the analogy followed by the speaker in a certain case ought, for some reason or another, not to have been accepted as the norm.

Analogy, then, in most cases acts as a conservative agent in language by securing that its propagation and its continuity shall be subject to some degree of regularity. On the other hand, this very tendency to promote regularity and uniformity often makes itself felt by the destruction of existing words or flections which deviate from a given goal; and it is mainly when its destructive powers are manifest that its effects are deserving of separate discussion.

So long as a speaker employs or a nation continues to use the ‘correct’ form,—gradually, regularly, and naturally developing it according to the regular laws of phonetic change and growth to which it is subject for the time being,—it is immaterial for the student of language whether, in any particular case of the employment of a word, this regularity is due to memory or to analogy. It is when analogy produces forms phonetically irregular that its operation becomes of importance; and it is from the study of such 84 ‘novelties’ amongst its productions, that we can alone derive full information about its nature. As long as we find that the A.S. stánas remained stánas, or even that this form was gradually changed into stones, we are not tempted to call in the aid of Analogy, nor are we challenged to prove its operation. Similarly, as long as the plural of eáge remains eágan, or eáge changes into eye, and forms its plural eyen, no temptation presents itself to inquire into Analogy or its operation. Even in this case, however, we cannot help remarking that Chaucer might conceivably have formed his plural eyen by analogy with other plurals in en. But it is when the form eyen is replaced by eyes, that we naturally inquire whence comes the s? And since no phonetic development can change n into s, we know that analogy with other substantive plurals is and must be the reason of the appearance of this otherwise inexplicable form. Thus the French mesure could and did become the English measure; but the French plaisir could not, according to the laws of phonetics, develop into pleasure. We can only explain the latter form by assuming that it is founded on the analogy of the older forms measure, picture, etc.23

We ascribe to Analogy those cases of change in form of words, in syntactical arrangement, or in any other phenomenon of language, such as gender, etc., where the existing condition has been replaced by 85 something new modelled upon some pattern furnished by other more numerous groups. Thus, for instance, we find that the Latin feminine nouns in -tas, -tatis, have developed French derivatives in -té, all of the feminine gender. Why, then, is été masculine, though equally derived from a feminine Latin æstatem? The answer lies in the fact that printemps, automne, and hiver, being all masculine, the feeling set in that the ‘names of the seasons’ should be masculine: just as names of trees are feminine in Latin, and this possibly under the influence of arbor. Thus été followed the example of the others, and was classed with them. The affinity in signification here caused the difference in gender to be felt as an incongruity, and the less strong came to be assimilated to the stronger and more universal type. Similarly, such words as valeur seem to have become feminine after the analogy of Latin abstracts in -ura, -tas, etc. In the former of these particular instances we had to deal with a ‘MATTER-GROUP’ of four cognate ideas, viz. ‘the seasons;’ in which group, as three of the terms agreed in another accidental peculiarity, viz. that of gender, this peculiarity was imposed likewise upon the fourth member, so as to produce a more complete uniformity in every respect.

In other cases we find, perhaps indeed more frequently, MODAL groups thus extending their domain. Thus the comparative forms, which nearly all end in er, create the feeling that if a word expresses a comparative degree it may be naturally expected to end in er; and more from mo, lesser instead of less—nay, even worser for worse is the result. In the case of more, its very form led to the supposition that mo was a positive form.

Similarly, the existence of the plurals in s in Anglo-Saxon, aided no doubt by the frequency of s plurals in 86 French, has caused this way of expressing the plural to embrace almost all English nouns; or, at all events, to embrace their formation to such an extent that the older methods (such as vowel modification, e.g. mouse, mice; foot, feet; formations in en—ox, oxen, etc.) now appear as exceptions, themselves needing explanation; and, again, as in the case of more, when once the rule was formulated which laid down that if a word expresses the plural it must end in s, the conclusion was drawn that, if a word ending in s be used as a plural, this s is the termination, and must be omitted in the singular. It thus happens that to the analogy of fathers as against father, trees as against tree, etc., we owe the sets Chinese used as a plural noun with its newly coined singular Chinee; Portuguese with its singular Portuguee; cherries (Fr. cérise), cherry; pease (Lat. pisum), pea. Nay, it is not even always necessary that the s form be used in a plural signification to cause the s to be ‘removed’ in order to express the singular; a raedels was perfectly good Old English, but as two riddles was right, the conclusion was natural that one riddles was wrong. Two chaise would not give offence, but it seemed natural to write and say one shay.

The modal group, again, consisting of such formations as despotism, nepotism, patriotism, etc., created the feeling that tism was the correct ending instead of ism, and so has manifested a tendency to supplant it. Thus the correcter form egoism has made way for egotism. Thus it is to the pianist, machinist, violinist, that the tobacconist owes his n, to which he has no right; he ought, properly speaking, to appear as tobaccoist.

The most widely reaching result of the operations of analogy is where modal and matter groups, in their 87 cross classifications, unite to cancel irregularities created in the first instance by phonetic development. Thus the Anglo-Saxon form scæd (neuter) exists side by side with another form, sceadu (feminine). The Gothic form skadus proves the latter to belong to the u declension. But even in Anglo-Saxon this declension was but sparingly represented, most words originally belonging to it being declined according to the far more common scheme of words, like stán, stone; dóm, doom, etc.; others varying in their declensions between the feminines whose stem ended in wâ, or like those in â. In both these declensions the nominative ended in u; an example of the wâ declension being— Nom. beadu, Gen. beadwe,
and of the â declension— Nom. giefu, Gen. giefe.
Our word sceadu long oscillated between these two paradigms, and we consequently meet with a Gen. sing. sceade, as well as an Acc. plur. sceadwa. This termination, where w was maintained, developed into our present termination ow, seen in shadow; whilst the form shade is, properly speaking, a nominative form. Analogy, however, depending upon other nouns in which all cases in the singular had become identical in form, caused the form shadow to be used in the nominative as well as in other cases, and extended the use of shade over those cases which were declined. Similarly, the two forms mead and meadow are due, the one to a nominative, the other to the inflected cases of the same word, the A.S. mǽd. In these cases both forms survived, and the meanings became slightly differentiated; it more frequently happens that one succumbs. Thus the A.S. Nom. plur. of the pronoun for the second person gé developed into ye, the 88 inflected case éow into you. The latter has now almost completely ousted the once correct nominative ye, which survives only in dialects or in elevated language, where, in its turn, it frequently supplants the accusative and dative you.

The regular development of preterite and past participle in many verbs, together with the dropping of the prefix ge, which in several Teutonic languages has become specialised as a mark of that participle, caused both these forms to converge into one. This has in its turn been the cause why, in the case of many verbs, where regular phonetic development kept preterite and participle asunder, one of these forms was made to serve for both.

The A.S. verb berstan was, in its preterite, conjugated thus:— Indic. Bærst Subj. burste ” burste ” burste
” bærst ” burste ” burston ” bursten ” burston ” bursten ” burston ” bursten and its past participle was borsten. Thus the u was present in four of the six forms in the indicative, and in six subjunctive forms. The first effect of the operation of Analogy was to abolish this useless and cumbersome irregularity, and the u supplanted the æ, not long after this æ had become a (barst). Then the process set in which we explained above, and the past part. borst (en) was replaced by burst.

It would be easy to multiply these instances ad infinitum. Enough has, however, been said to explain the working of Analogy and to show how wide its application is. The student who has mastered this 89 sketch, should proceed to study carefully the corresponding chapter in Paul’s ‘Principles of Language,’ and the pamphlet, cited above, by Professor Wheeler, where many illustrations will be found taken from English and many other languages. One of the main points which are clearly brought out in the latter work is that the phenomena of folk-etymology show that these groupings are effectual in modifying form only in so far as a supposed likeness of contents or idea is associated (erroneously) with the resemblance of form.

Before concluding our remarks, we must, however, add a few words on the operation of Analogy where it works neither as a conservative nor as a destructive agent, but simply as a CREATIVE one.

In the cases hitherto discussed, the forms called into being have survived to the prejudice of older material which perished for lack of vitality. In the struggle for existence it succumbed. A new form, in order to survive, had necessarily to replace some unusual and inconvenient older one, or it was a necessary condition that several speakers, for some other reason, should concur in creating the same novel form.24 That ‘irregular’ forms should continue to exist in the case of some of the commonest verbs, and in the pronouns, is explicable by the fact that these words occur with sufficient frequency to gain enough strength to resist innovation. The frequency of their occurrence induces familiarity. Any new form which some innovating speaker might create on the basis of some analogy is, in those words, too strongly felt as a 90 novelty; the speaker too frequently hears or reads the ‘correct’ form to permit the survival of the new candidate for general usage. The novelty is a ‘mistake,’ remains a ‘mistake,’ and succumbs in the struggle for existence. Frequency of use in the case of any particular word may assist its phonetic development and increase its impulse in that particular line, and its rate of speed on the road to phonetic decay:—this is as yet, however, a point of dispute among philologists, and a question which claims attention from all students of language. But there can be no doubt that the more frequent the occurrence of any particular form in ordinary speech, the more capacity it must gain for resisting the levelling tendencies, the absorbing influence of other more numerous but less common groups. It is, however, not true that all the offspring of Analogy is thus exposed to the struggle for existence. Where new ideas are to be expressed, Analogy guides us in our choice of terms, and even where the idea is not strictly new, but no term for it exists in the vocabulary or in the memory of a community, or even in that of the majority of such community, the new form will be adopted with little reluctance; nay, often without being felt as a new creation at all. In this way the language is always being enriched by new forms created on the analogy of existing ones. Where many instances might be given, a few will suffice.25 The termination y of mighty, guilty, etc., was added to 91 the nouns earth, wealth, etc., to form wealthy, earthy,—nay, even used to form such hybrids as savoury, spicy, racy. After the model of kingdom, heathendom, etc., were formed princedom, popedom, etc. The group winsome, blithesome, etc., gave birth to venturesome, meddlesome, etc.; and whilst sorrowful, thankful, baleful, shameful, are found in A.S., no such antiquity can be claimed for blissful, youthful, faithful, merciful, respectful, etc.

It has been well remarked26 that a perfect grammar would be one which admitted no irregularities or exceptions; and if all the operations of Analogy in forms and syntax could be thoroughly mastered and reduced to rule, exceptions and irregularities would be far less common than they are. 92

CHAPTER VI.
THE FUNDAMENTAL FACTS OF SYNTAX.

A SENTENCE must be looked upon as the first creation of language. The SENTENCE is THE SYMBOL WHEREBY THE SPEAKER DENOTES THAT TWO OR MORE CONCEPTIONS HAVE COMBINED IN HIS MIND; and is, at the same time, the means of calling up the same combination in the mind of the hearer. Any group of words which accomplishes this is a sentence, and consequently A SENTENCE NEED NOT NECESSARILY CONTAIN A FINITE VERB, as is sometimes alleged. In Latin, and in the Slavonic languages, the word answering to is is very commonly suppressed; and in Latin epistolary language whole sentences appear in which no copula occurs. Such combinations as Omnia præclara rara; Suum cuique; are perfectly intelligible. In English we often employ sentences like You here? I grateful to you! This to me! Your very good health! Long life to you! Three cheers for him! Why all this noise?—and, again, such proverbs as Oak, smoke; Boys, noise; Ash, splash: and these are just as much sentences as The man lives.

Language possesses the following means of expressing and specialising such combinations of ideas:—

(1) The simple juxtaposition of the words corresponding to the ideas; as, All nonsense! You coward! Away, you rogue! 93

(2) The order of the words; as, There is John, as contrasted with John is there; John beats James, as against James beats John.

(3) The emphasis laid upon these words; as in ‘Charles is not ill.’

(4) The modulation of the voice; as when Charles is ill is stated as a mere assertion, and ‘Charles is ill?’ in which case the same words are turned into an interrogative sentence by the mere change of pitch during the utterance of the last word.

(5) The time, which commonly corresponds with the emphasis and the pitch; the words in the previous sentences which are emphasised or spoken in a higher pitch respectively, will be found to occupy a longer time in utterance than the words composing the rest of the sentence.

(6) Link-words, such as prepositions, conjunctions, and auxiliary verbs.

(7) The modification of words by inflection, in which (a) the inflectional forms may, without other aid, indicate the special kind of combination which it is desired to express, as in patri librum dat; his books; father’s hat: or (b) the connection between the words may be denoted by formal agreement; as, anima candida, la bonne femme.

The method of combining ideas by means of link-words and inflections is one which could only have set in after a certain period of historical development, for inflections and link-words are themselves of comparatively recent appearance in language; the other methods, on the contrary, must have been at the disposal of speakers from the very first development of language. It should, however, be noticed that 2-5 inclusive are not always consistently employed to 94 represent simply the natural ideas as they present themselves, but are capable of a traditional development and, consequently, conventional application. For instance, in the Scandinavian languages the method of intonation is a purely artificial one;27 and in Chinese, homonyms are distinguished by lowering or raising the voice.

In Chinese the tones are five: a monosyllable may be uttered with (1) an even high tone; with (2) a rising tone, as when we utter a word interrogatively; with (3) a falling tone, as when we say, Go!—with (4) an abrupt tone, as of demand; or with (5) an even low 95 tone. These are the tones of the Mandarin dialect, which is the language of the cultivated classes; and, in their application, they are limited by euphonic laws, so that they cannot all be used with all syllables.28

The idea, or the nature of the combination intended to be expressed by the speaker, need not be completely represented by words in order to render fully intelligible the thought present in the mind of the speaker. Much less than a complete expression will often suffice.

If a sentence is the means of inducing a certain combination of at least two ideas in a hearer’s mind, a complete sentence must necessarily consist of at least two parts. We shall later discuss those sentences in which only one of the two parts is expressed in words, and shall here confine our attention to the complete sentence. Grammar teaches us that a complete sentence consists of a subject and a predicate. Now, these grammatical categories are undoubtedly based upon a psychological distinction; but we shall soon see that it does not necessarily follow that the grammatical and psychological subject, or the grammatical and psychological predicate are always identical. The PSYCHOLOGICAL SUBJECT expresses the conception which the speaker wishes to bring into the mind of the hearer; the PSYCHOLOGICAL PREDICATE indicates that which he wishes him to think about it. This, and no more than this, is required to impart to any collection of words the nature of a sentence.

In grammar we commonly attach a much more restricted meaning to the terms ‘subject,’ ‘predicate,’ and ‘sentence.’ For instance, when the predicate is a noun, we demand that the normal sentence should express the comprehension of the subject in a wider class; as, John is a boy: or that it should express 96 some quality of the subject; as, John is good: or, lastly, that the subject be identical with the predicate; as, John is King of England. But in reality we have, in many sentences, noun-predicates which show us relations of quite another kind, expressed by the mere collocation of subject and predicate, as in many proverbs and proverbial expressions; e.g., One man, one vote; Much cry and little wool; First come, first served; A word to the wise; Like master, like man; Better aught than naught; Small pains, small gains. This is the way in which children make themselves intelligible; as, Papa hat, for Papa has a hat on: and this is the way in which even adults endeavour to express their meaning to foreigners when the latter have not mastered more of the language than perhaps a few nouns, viz. by mentioning the objects which they wish to bring under the notice of their companions, and trusting to the situation to enable these to understand their meaning. We say, Window open, and we are understood by the foreigner to mean that the window is open, or that we wish it open, as the circumstances may show.

Originally, there was only one method of marking the difference between subject and predicate, viz. stress of tone; as, e.g., in the instance which we just gave, of ‘Window open.’ If these words are pronounced with a great stress on ‘window,’ we at once perceive them to mean, The thing which is (or which I wish to be) open is the window. If, on the other hand, we exclaim, ‘Window OPEN,’ with stress on ‘open,’ we at once convey the sense, The window is (or must be) open, not closed. This shows that, in the case of such isolated instances, the psychological predicate has the stronger accent, as being the more important part of the sentence, and the part 97 containing the new matter. Again, the place held in the sentence by the subject and predicate respectively, may have afforded another means of distinction between the two. Different views have been held as to the respective precedence of subject and predicate in the consciousness of the speaker. The true view seems to be that the idea of the subject is the first to arise in the consciousness of the speaker; but as soon as he begins to speak, the idea of the predicate, on which he wishes to lay stress, may present itself with such force as to gain priority of expression, the subject not being added till afterwards. Take, for example, the opening of Keats’ Hyperion— ‘Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat grey-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.’
In this case, the superior emphasis gained by the position of the predicate in the first place causes the speaker to set it there, and is indicative of the superior importance which he attaches to it.29

Similarly, the subject is sometimes expressed first by a pronoun, whose relation only becomes clear to the listener when expressed more definitely at a later period; as— ‘She is coming, my dove, my dear.’
(Tennyson, Maud.)
‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.’
(Wordsworth, The Lost Love.)
‘She was a staid little woman, was Grace.’
(Dickens, Battle of Life.)
This construction is extremely common in French; 98 as, ‘Elle approche, cette mort inexorable;’ ‘Mais ce qu’elle ne disait point, cette pauvre bergère.’

The transposition, then, of subject and predicate may be considered an anomaly; but it is an anomaly of frequent occurrence, and is based on the importance which the predicate assumes in the mind of the speaker.

We have seen that single words may possess concrete and abstract significations,30 and it is the same with sentences. A sentence is concrete when either the psychological subject or the psychological predicate is concrete; as, This man is good. But as far as the mere form goes, concrete and abstract sentences need not differ; for instance, an expression like The horse is swift (which, when it does not refer to any particular horse, is an ‘abstract’ sentence) is identical in form with the expression The horse is worthless, which obviously refers to some particular horse, and is therefore ‘concrete.’ It is the situation and circumstances alone which mark the different nature of the sentences. There are, however, sentences which, with a concrete subject, have a partially abstract meaning. If, for instance, on hearing a lady sing, one remarks, She sings too slowly, the sentence is entirely concrete; but the same words may be used to express that the singer is in the habit of singing too slowly, in which case the predicate becomes abstract. Such sentences may be called ‘concrete abstract.’

It was stated that at least two members are necessary to make up a sentence. It seems, at first sight, a contradiction to this statement that we find sentences composed of merely a single word, or of a group of words forming a unit. The fact is that, in this case, one member of the sentence is assumed 99 and finds no expression in language. Commonly this member is the logical subject. This subject may, however, be completed from what precedes, or is sufficiently clearly indicated by the circumstances of the case; or, again, in conversation, it is often necessary to take it from the words of the other speaker. The answer is frequently a predicate alone; the subject may be contained in the question, or the whole question may be the logical subject. If I say, Who struck you? and the answer is John, the subject is, in this case, contained in the question, and the answer is, ‘The striker is John.’ If I say, Was it you? the whole question is the logical subject, and the answer, Yes, No, Certainly, Surely, Of course, etc., is the logical predicate, as if the reply had been, ‘My being so is the case.’ Many other similar words may serve as the predicate to a sentence spoken by another, such as Admittedly, All right, Very possibly, Strange enough, No wonder, Nonsense, Stuff, Balderdash, etc.

In other cases, the surrounding circumstances, or what is called ‘the situation,’ forms the logical subject. If I say, ‘Welcome!’ and at the same time stretch out my hand to a new arrival, this is equivalent to saying, You are welcome, and welcome is the logical predicate. In exclamations of sudden astonishment and alarm, such as Fire! Thieves! Murder! Help! it is the situation which is the logical subject. Challenges are instances of the same kind, e.g. Straight on or not? Right or left? Back or forward? When the poet sings— ‘A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast,’
the situation, again, is the logical subject. 100

It should be noticed that, in the case of sentences expressed by a single member, the word which for the speaker is the psychological predicate becomes for the hearer the subject. A man, seeing a house on fire, cries ‘Fire!’ for him the situation is the subject, and the idea of fire is the predicate. The man who hears ‘Fire!’ cried before he himself sees it, conceives of fire as the subject, and of the situation as the predicate. Sentences may, however, occur in which both speaker and hearer apprehend what is uttered as the subject, and the situation as the predicate. Supposing, for instance, that two persons have agreed that the fire shall be extinguished before they go out, and one of them, observing the chimney smoking, cries out, ‘The fire!’ in this case the fire, the logical subject, is alone denoted, and the predicate is gathered by the person addressed from the situation, which is evident from the speaker’s gestures. If, again, two friends are travelling, and one remarks that the other is without his umbrella, the mere exclamation, ‘Your umbrella!’ suffices to make the latter complete the predicate. The vocative, again, pronounced as such, and intended to warn or entreat, suggests a psychological predicate which it lacks in words. On the other hand, by the side of a verb in the second person without subject pronoun, the vocative may be apprehended as the subject to the verb. If I say, ‘Come!’ the vocative (the person addressed) may be apprehended as the subject to this verb; if it be Charles, the meaning is, Charles should come.

It is a question much disputed, and not yet decided, whether impersonal verbs should be regarded as lacking a subject or not. If we regard the grammatical form alone, we cannot doubt that sentences like It snows, It freezes, It is getting late, have a 101 subject. But there is no reason for alleging that this subject (it) can be treated as a logical subject; a logical subject must admit of a definite interpretation, and it is difficult to give one in this case. Again, in the case of impersonal verbs, like the Latin pluit, the Greek ὕει, the Sanscrit varśati, (it rains), and the Lithuanian sninga (it snows), the formal subject may be found in the ‘personal’ termination, which is supposed to be the remnant of a word signifying he, she, or it. And it seems natural to recognise a formal subject in this case, but, at the same time, to notice that this formal subject stands apart from the psychological subject. It seems probable that an older stage of language existed, in which the bare verbal stem was set down; just as in Hungarian at the present day, where the third person of the present singular has no suffix, the first and second terminating in -ok and -s respectively. In Anglo-Saxon we find passive and other impersonal verbs used absolutely, without any subject expressed or understood; thus, þám ylcan dóme e þé démoð eów byð gedémed (= With the same judgment that ye judge, to you (it) shall be judged); him hungrede (= N.H.G. es hungerte ihn).31 The psychological subject is, then, as little expressed in the sentence It is hot, as in the sentence Fire. But although it is not expressed, it would be unsafe to assume its non-existence, for here, as well as everywhere else, we have two ideas conjoined, in the same way as when we exclaim, Fire! In this case there is, on the one side, the perception of a concrete phenomenon; on the other, the abstract idea of burning or of fire: and just as that perception is brought by our exclamation under the general idea of burning, so in the statement It rains, the perception 102 of what is going on is by our words ranged under the general notion of water falling in drops from the sky. Our conclusion, therefore, is this: sentences like Fire! as well as those like It rains, have both psychological subject and predicate; but in the former case no subject is expressed, whereas in the latter a formal subject is employed, which, however, does but imperfectly, if indeed at all, correspond to the psychological one. This holds good unless we conceive of the formal subject, It, as standing for that which we see or that which is happening now. In this case, the peculiar nature of the impersonal verbs would be restricted to the difficulty, but not the impossibility, of explaining their subject.

We have defined the sentence as the expression for the connection of two ideas. Negative sentences may seem, at first sight, to contradict this, since they denote a separation. But the ideas must have met in the consciousness of the speaker before judgment can be pronounced whether they agree or disagree. In fact, the negative sentence may be defined as the statement that the attempt to establish a connection between the ideas has failed. The negative sentence is, in any case, of later date than the positive, and though, in all known languages, negation now finds a special expression, it is possible to imagine that negative sentences might be found in some primitive stage of language, wherein the negative sense was indicated by the stress alone and the accompanying gestures. Cf. such sentences as ‘I do this?’ or ‘Eine ego ut adverser?’ (Ter., And., I. v. 28.)32 At all events sentences of assertion and sentences of demand border on each other very closely, and can be expressed by the same forms of language. The different shades of meaning 103 attaching to the words can be recognised only by the different tones conveying the feeling meant to be indicated.

Wishes and demands, again, touch each other very closely; and it is natural to suppose that, in an early state of linguistic consciousness, a wish would have been equivalent to a demand. A sentence like ‘Heads up!’ expresses a demand or wish, but it might equally convey an assertion. We can say perfectly well, ‘They entered, heads up,’ or ‘erect;’ and we hear quite commonly, Heads up! meaning, ‘Hold your heads up!’ And indeed such sentences of demand, or imperative sentences, would naturally be the first to present themselves to primitive mankind, whose utterances, like those of children nowadays, would naturally take the shape of requests that their immediate needs might be satisfied. We employ many such sentences at the present day, such as Eyes right! Attention! Hats off! This way! All aboard! Joking apart; An eye for an eye; Peace to his ashes! A health to all good lasses! Away with him! Out with him! Then, again, there are sentences composed of a single linguistic member; such as Hush! Quick! Slow! Forward! Up! Off! To work!

Two kinds of interrogatory sentences must be distinguished: (1) those that put in question one only of the members of which they are composed, and (2) such as contain nothing affirmative, but are purely interrogatory in their nature. No satisfactory names have as yet been given to these two classes, but a study of one or two examples will show that the difference is real, and will tend to illustrate it. Such a sentence as Who has done this? or Where did you get that? no doubt asks a question as to the name of the doer of a certain deed, or the place where a 104 particular object was obtained, but, at the same time, certainly assumes that the interrogator takes for granted that a certain deed was done by some one, or a certain object obtained by the person addressed. In fact, the form of the interrogation is to some extent affirmative. No such affirmation, however, is present in such questions as Can you speak French? Will you come? Have you money? etc.

Of these two classes of questions, the former are certainly of the more recent origin, for they demand the employment of an interrogative pronoun or adverb, with which the latter can dispense. It is noteworthy that in I.E. languages these interrogative words are at the same time indefinite; and it is hard to decide which of the two meanings should be regarded as the original. On the one hand, it is easy to conceive how a word bearing an interrogative meaning could assume an indefinite one. If we are accustomed to employ the word who when we wish to know who a person is, but are uncertain, we may easily proceed to apply this word in a case where we are uncertain (or wish to appear so), though we do not ask for information. A who-person has done this, is not and has never been an English method of expressing, ‘Some one has done it.’33 But it is conceivable that, at some stage of the I.E. languages, our linguistic ancestors may have adopted a similar mode of expression. On the other hand, it is as easy to imagine that a word expressive of uncertainty, or absence of knowledge or information, should be used to indicate the desire for it. In fact, we actually do employ a method akin to this when we use the indefinite any to show that we desire to know; e.g., if, upon entering a dark room, we ask, Any one 105 here? This, of course, is not, and never has been, in English, equivalent to ‘Who is here?’—but still it is quite conceivable that at some early linguistic period this transition has actually been made. Could it be demonstrated that it ever actually was made, the transition from the questions in our second category, to those falling under our first, would be explained. For suppose the question Is any (one) here? (an order of words to which we now are bound, but which, as we shall see, was not always the necessary order) to be put as Any (one) is here? the proximity of this sentence to Who is here? is at once evident.

Questions with an interrogative pronoun stand nearer still to questions with an indefinite pronoun where a negative answer is expected, as appears when we set What can I answer? by the side of Can I answer anything?—Who will do this? by the side of Will any one do this?—Where is such a man? by the side of Is there such a man? The question to which the simple answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is expected is in many languages expressed by a special particle. Thus ne in Latin serves to mark an interrogation, and the stress is laid upon the word to which the interrogative particle is affixed. At present, the Teutonic and Romance languages almost universally express interrogation by the order of the words; but this inverted order by no means necessarily involves interrogation, and in former times was very frequently employed in affirmative clauses. Thus, for instance, in A.S.— ‘Ne hýrde ic cymlîcor ceól gegyrwan:’
Not heard I comelier keel to have been prepared
= I never heard ... (Beowulf, 38).
‘Saegde se ðe cûðe’ (ibid., 90):
Said he that knew = He ... said.
‘Waes seó hwíl micel’ (ibid., 146):
Was the time great = The time was long.
106 Even now we have many interrogations in which the stress or tone alone marks their nature; as, Any one there? All right? Ready? A glass of beer, sir? (spoken by a waiter). We can thus conceive it possible that, for a long time, sentences may have existed without any sign except the tone to indicate their interrogative nature.

Simple interrogative sentences hold in some ways a middle position between positive and negative sentences of assertion. They may, in fact, be thrown into a positive or a negative form at choice; the positive form naturally presenting itself as the simpler, while the function of the negative form is to modify the question pure and simple. Such modifications may, indeed, cause the interrogation to take something of the character of the sentence of assertion. We may, for instance, mention a fact and expect it to be confirmed by another. In this case, we may employ a negative interrogatory sentence; as, Were you not there? I thought I saw you! Or we may employ a positive interrogatory form of sentence, showing by the tone of query alone the nature of the sentence; as, You were there, I think? You are quite happy? We thus see, by examples taken from both the positive and negative side, how nearly the sentences of interrogation touch the sentences of assertion.

Another way in which sentences of interrogation and assertion approach one another is in the expression of admiration or surprise. To express such feelings we may employ either (1) the interrogative or (2) the assertive form of sentence, marking the latter, however, by a tone expressive of interrogation. Thus we may say, Is Francis dead? or express the same idea by saying, Francis is really dead? emphasising the word really and raising the voice at the last word. 107 Thus, too, we can ask the direct question, Are you here again? or employ the assertive form, You are here again?34

Sentences expressive of surprise without a verb, may be classed either with the interrogative form, or with the assertive form with the interrogatory tone. They occupy a neutral ground between the two. Thus, You my long lost brother? What, that to me? What, here already? So soon?35 And infinitival clauses are similarly used; as, I to herd with savage races! etc. (Tennyson, Locksley Hall); Mene incepto desistere victam? (Vergil, Æneid, I. 37). This use is very common in French; cf. Moi vous abandonner! (Andrieux); Et dire qu’à moi seul je vins à bout de toutes ces prévisions! (Daudet). We find, also, expressions of surprise in which the psychological subject and predicate are connected by ‘and:’ So young and so worn out? A maid and be so martial? (Shakespeare, 1 Henry VI., II. i.).36 The expression of surprise is sometimes weakened into a mere conventional formula for opening a conversation; as, Always in good spirits? Busy as always? Busy yet?

The primitive form of expression without any finite verb is especially common in the indignant repudiation of an assertion; as, I a liar? ‘She ask my pardon?’ How! not know the friend that served you? Ego lanista? Io dir bugie?

What is vaguely known as the rhetorical class of 108 questions arises from a desire, on the part of the interrogator, to make the person addressed reflect upon and admit the truth of information indirectly contained in the interrogation. Such are the questions in some catechisms, and those in the ‘Guide to Knowledge;’ e.g., Do not mulberry trees often bear two crops of leaves in a year? Must not every substance be prepared before it receives the colour? This use of the interrogation and interrogative form is, of course, of much more recent date than the other common usages.

The foregoing consideration of the sentence in its simplest form, as consisting of simple subject and predicate only, will have prepared us for the study of the development of all other syntactical relations from this the only primitive one. For all other extensions of the sentence—with the single exception of the copulative union of two simple ones—arise from the repetition of the relation between subject and predicate.37 The copulative extension is now commonly indicated by means of conjunctions or other particles; e.g., ‘John wrote and Alfred was reading:’ but even now mere co-ordination is sufficient; as, John wrote, Alfred read; He came, he saw, he conquered; One rises, the other falls; Men die, books live; etc. It is therefore easy to imagine that, at one time, this mere juxtaposition, which seems to us an exceptional usage, may have been the regular one.

Among the other extensions, two main cases are to be distinguished, as either (1) two equivalent members combine in the same clause with another (i.e. two subjects with one predicate, or two predicates with a single subject); or38 (2) a combination (a) of 109 subject and predicate becomes, as such, the subject or predicate of some other word or combination (b), which latter is then the predicate or subject to (a) the former.

It is not easy to illustrate these extensions by instances drawn from modern English: nay, it is impossible if we insist upon invariably framing sentences which the present state of our language would regard as admissible. But we must remember that we are now attempting to trace the probable development of our syntactical relations, or rather of our method of expressing the various syntactical relations, as it proceeded during a very primitive stage of the history of language. At this period the speakers were struggling to find intelligible utterance for their thoughts, which were themselves but primitive, confused, childish. All the examples which we have given heretofore should be regarded therefore merely as illustrating processes common in very remote linguistic periods, and not as instances of what is usual at the present period. We have found it necessary on previous occasions to illustrate our arguments by combining English words in a way which is not and has never been English,—the advantage of such illustration being that it aided us to understand, at least in a certain measure, the mode in which our linguistic ancestors of ages long past thought. To this artifice we shall find it necessary to revert somewhat largely, as the analytical character of modern English, with its necessarily fixed order of words, has effaced most traces of this primitive state of language.

We should have an instance of the first main case of extension mentioned if, after saying, e.g., John reads, we remembered that Alfred too was reading, and then merely added this second subject. We have 110 shown that we must not suppose that originally the order of the words was, as is now invariably the case in modern English, (1) subject, (2) verb: so that John read (without inflection, read being a mere name of the action) was just as correct as read John, but not more so. If we clearly grasp this, we can fully understand that such a combination as John read Alfred (or, indeed, John, Alfred read) might once have been intelligible for what we should now express by John and Alfred are reading.

Similarly, a little linguistic imagination will suffice to enable us to conceive of the production by those primitive language-makers of a sentence like Sing(ing) John dance(ing) to express John sings and dances. Such constructions of two equal parts in combination with a third might be symbolised. Thus we might put s for subject, p for predicate, then the symbolisation would run sps, ssp, psp, or spp, etc., or a + b + a.39

In the first fictitious example, the two subjects stood BOTH IN PRECISELY THE SAME RELATION to the predicate, and in the second the two predicates stood in exactly the same relation to the subject. In such cases, the facts may be described just as correctly and just as completely by a sentence consisting of two parts only, viz., a compound subject, consisting of the two joined by a copula, + the predicate (or subject + 111 compound predicate). Of these two modes of expression, closely allied as they are, the one appears to us strange and, indeed, impossible,—the other so familiar that we can hardly imagine a state of language in which both alike may have been regular. On the other hand, we have no difficulty in seeing how the two systems have become confused.

All traces, therefore, of the construction which we have now lost are interesting and worth studying. A sentence like Cicero’s Consules, prætores, tribuni plebis, senatus, Italia cuncta a vobis deprecata est (= Consuls, prætors, tribunes of the plebs, the senate, all Italy implored of you) is constructed much upon the model of the method now obsolete. In this case, however, the construction seems to us less unnatural, because the subject last named in the sentence, viz., Italia, may be considered to include all the others and to stand alone in their stead: hence it is that we find the verb in the singular, and hence the feminine gender of deprecata (implored). In another passage Cicero says, Speusippus et Xenocrates et Polemo et Cantor nihil ab Aristotele dissentit. This would be a perfect instance of ssp were it not for the insertion of et, which (due, as it is, to confusion with the compound subject in the sentence consisting of two parts only) would lead us to expect that the verb would be placed in the plural. It is, however, precisely this fact that the verb stands in the singular which demonstrates that it belongs as predicate to each subject separately, and not to the group indicated by the enumerated subjects jointly. In M.H.G. we meet with such constructions, especially those where one part—as the subject, for instance—is placed between the two others; as, Dô spranc von dem gesidele her Hagene alsô sprach = ‘Then sprang from the seat hither Hagen thus spoke.’ 112 In A.S., too, we find occasionally a somewhat similar construction, as in Beowulf, 90-92: Saegde se ðe cúðe ... cwæð ðæt se Ælmihtiga = ‘Said he who knew ... spoke that the Almighty.’ If we change the order, and add and, we transform this sentence into one of two parts: SUBJECT, he who knew; PREDICATE (compound), said and spoke. Even in modern language this construction is not wholly without parallels. Cf. Another love succeeds, another race (Pope, Essay on Man, iii., line 130); cf. also, Dust thou art, to dust returnest (Longfellow).

Or, again, we find sentences where the two equal parts both follow or both precede. He ðæs frófre gebád, wéox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum ðáh (He received consolation [compensation], grew up under the clouds [= on earth], increased in fame) (Beowulf, 7); He weepeth, wayleth, maketh sory cheere (Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 3618); Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? (Shakespeare, Richard II., Act III., ii., 141); Of ðære heortan cumað yfele geðancas, mannslyhtas, unriht-hæmedu, forligru, stale, léase gewitnyssa, tællíce word (Matt. xv. 19).

But it is also quite conceivable that (REMEMBERING THE EXTENDED MEANING WHICH, FOR THE PRIMITIVE STAGE OF LANGUAGE, WE MUST ATTACH TO THESE TERMS) two subjects should come into the consciousness as related to the same predicate, even though that RELATION is OF a very DIFFERENT NATURE in the case of the one from that in the other. To illustrate this, let us remember that the noun must once have been uninflected, or, at least, no definite system of inflection had been evolved; the verb had a much vaguer and less definite meaning than at present; the order of words had not yet begun to be significant; that John strike, as well as strike John, or words 113 equivalent in meaning, could stand for John strikes, or John has been striking; nay, even, if only accompanied by appropriate gestures, for John was struck, or John is being struck.

Even at present, in the case of a verb like to smell, the relation between the subject and predicate differs essentially when we say, I smell the flower; or, The flower smells. An effort on the part of our linguistic imagination is again needed, but the effort need not be very difficult, in order to enable us to realise that in a sentence like John smell flower, or John strike Alfred, BOTH nouns may once have been felt as standing in the subject relation to the predicate; so that, again, in the latter sentence, gestures or circumstances were needed in order to make it clear who was the acting subject and who the suffering subject, whereas, in the former sentence, no such confusion could arise.

If we take a sentence like ‘Give him a book,’ we feel both the person and the thing as objects of the action; and observation of this fact will enable us further to understand still more clearly that, at an older period of language, two subjects may have stood in the same sentence with the same predicate, though the relation between them and that predicate was not the same. It may further aid us to understand how, when once one of these subjects had developed into the grammatical category of OBJECT, the possible relations of such objects were so varied that the differentiation into various grammatical categories of accusative, dative, etc., becomes intelligible and natural.

The object, when once developed, may and often does become, by the nature of its relation to the predicate, a mere limitation or definition of such predicate, instead of remaining a member of the sentence equivalent in importance and weight with the subject, as it is, 114 e.g., in such sentence as John strikes Alfred: whilst in a sentence like John runs a mile, the object is a mere attribute to the predicate, and the sentence can no longer be looked upon as tripartite, but must be regarded as consisting of two parts, i.e. (1) the subject, and (2) the predicate with its extension. These two cases, however, are not separated by any clear line of demarcation.

And just as the predicate may receive such a defining word, so may the subject and the object developed from it. These now commonly occur in the shape of attributes, whether substantival or adjectival, and genitives of substantives; as, The cattle are the farmer’s best; The cattle are beautifully fat. This could not be expressed at all in languages which have as yet developed no inflections: these could merely employ the defining word in juxtaposition to the word defined; as, in Chinese, T’su sin heu sin t’u ye, literally meaning ‘Origin Sin prince Sin spring final part,’ i.e. ‘Originally the prince of Sin sprang from Sin,’ i.e. ‘was born of a woman of the Kingdom of Sin.’ The fact that the determinant attached to the subject is not a predicate can then only be discovered by the presence of a third word which is detached from the two words that together make up the subject by a greater stress or, it may be, by a slight pause. Thus, if we say, liber pulcher, it is impossible to say whether pulcher is a predicate or merely the attribute to liber, unless we add some verb like est or habetur, or unless the custom of the language leads us to apprehend pulcher, from its position, as a predicate.

In truth the determinant, in this case ‘pulcher,’ is nothing but a degraded predicate, uttered not so much for its own sake, i.e. for the information it conveys, as in order to assign to this group of subject and determinant 115 a further predicate, which predicate then conveys the real information; as, Liber pulcher nobis gaudio est: Hæc res agetur nobis, vobis fabula (Plautus, Captivi, Prologue.)

We have stated that the determinant is merely a degenerate or degraded predicate. The meaning of this statement may be most easily apprehended from cases in which the finite verb is affected by this degeneration, so that of the two predicates one might be logically replaced by a relative sentence; as, There is a devil haunts thee (Henry IV., Pt. I., Act II., iv.); I have a mind presages me (Merchant of Venice, I. i.); He groneth as our bore lith in our stie (Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 7411); And was war of a pistel stood under a wal (Tale of Gamelyn); I’ll have none shall touch what I shall eat (Massinger, City Madam, I. i.); I can tell you news will comfort you (ibid., III. i.); The price is high shall buy thy vengeance (Middleton, Spanish Gipsy, V. i. 443).

A similar construction was found in the older stages of the Romance languages; cf. O.Ital. Non vi rimasse un sol non lacrimassi (‘There remained none did not cry’); O.Fr. Or n’a baron ne li envoit son fil (‘There is no baron does not send him his son’). Nor must we suppose that this construction is one peculiar to the Indo-European languages, and entirely inherited from an early stage in their development. Its use in Teutonic languages becomes more general towards the end of the Middle Ages than before that time. But even in Semitic languages like Arabic, we meet with expressions such as ‘I passed by a man slept.’

In the above instances, we have seen that the finite verb could sink into the position of a mere attributival determinant. In other words, in such a 116 sentence as ‘There is a devil haunts thee,’ the very words show that the important word, in which the chief information lies, is devil, while the verb haunts might almost as well be expressed by an adjectival attributive, as ‘haunting.’ It is plain that if a verb could thus easily lose its predicatival character, a predicate bearing no distinguishing marks of its verbal character could, with even more facility, be similarly degraded. The border-land between meus in ‘liber meus’ (= the book is mine) and liber meus amittitur is a very narrow one.

It is very necessary to distinguish between the various functions of the determinant—the differences in which, however, commonly remain undenoted by us by any corresponding verbal difference, though they are, logically speaking, of the greatest importance. The determinant may leave the extent of the subject untouched; in other words, the epithet may apply to all the objects or ideas which the substantive by itself, or limited as it is by other circumstances, denotes: this is the case in mortal man; the almighty God. On the other hand, it may serve to restrict the meaning of the substantive; as when we say, old houses, an old house, a (or the) son of the king, the journey to Paris, Charles the Great. Similarly, if we say, the old house, meaning to contrast it with the new one, it is obvious that we individualise the meaning of house: while the expression would come under the first head in a sentence like Lo, the place where I was born! Humble as it is, I love the old house. In the latter class of instances, the determinant must be expressed, because without it the predicate is meaningless or untrue. If we say, A journey obliges us to cross the channel, we ascribe by these words to all journeys what is true of some only, e.g., of a journey to Paris. In the first category, in 117 considering the epithet, we may notice that it may already be known as commonly attached to the word to which it is appended, as in This red wine (the speaker holding it up) I prefer to many more expensive ones; or it may tell us something new, as in the case of That poor man has no children, where the sentence without poor would state the same fact, the word poor conveying additional information. In this case it approaches the nature of a true predicate, and we often employ a relative sentence to express it: thus, instead of saying, Poor Charles has had to emigrate; if we wished to emphasise the adjective, we should say, Charles, who was poor, etc. Again, the determinant need stand in no direct relation to the predicate, as in our above example, where the fact that the man has no children is independent of his being poor; but it may also stand to the predicate in the relation of cause and effect, as in The cruel man would not listen to his victim’s prayers, where the determinant ‘cruel’ is applied owing to the fact mentioned in the predicate.

We have now seen that attributes are degenerated predicates. There are sentences in which the determinant has, as yet, a somewhat greater independence than is the case with the ordinary attributes, and which, therefore, may be said to represent a transition stage. In a sentence like He arrived safe and sound, the determinant safe and sound is still predicate, in the wider sense of the term, to he, but subordinate to the other predicate arrived, which alone in present grammar would bear this name. Safe and sound are, IN COMPARISON WITH arrived, a mere attribute to he, and nowadays such determinants are, for the linguistic consciousness, what has been very correctly termed PREDICATIVE ATTRIBUTES. These are distinguished from ordinary attributes by a greater freedom in the 118 place they may occupy in the sentence, and thereby manifest their greater independence.

Predicative attributes are very frequently, but not always, adjectives: we might, e.g., replace the one in our example by a prepositional phrase like in safety and in good health. In Modern High German, where the attributive adjective is declined in agreement with its noun, the near affinity of this construction to the predicate shows itself in the use of the uninflected form of the adjective as in the case of the predicate. Thus we say, Er is gesund nach Paris gekommen: just as we say, Er ist gesund.

When once all these various determinations have been developed from original subjects or predicates, the sentence may become further complicated, (1) by a combination of a determined and a determining element becoming determined by a new element,—as in All good men (i.e. good men + all); John’s eldest daughter (i.e. either eldest daughter + John’s or John’s daughter + eldest, according to circumstances); He falls easily into a passion,—to be understood, He falls into a passion + easily: (2) this combination may itself serve as a determinant,—as in Very good children (i.e. children + very good); An all-sacrificing love (i.e. a love + all sacrificing); He speaks very well (i.e. He speaks + very well); or (3) several determining elements may be joined to one determinate,—as in Bad gloomy weather; He walks well and fast: or (4) several determinate elements may be joined to a single determinant, just as several subjects may be joined to one predicate, or several predicates to a single subject,—e.g., John’s hat and stick; He hits right and left.

These constructions are not always distinctly separable: for instance, a phrase like big round hats may be understood as hats that are big and that are 119 also round (constr. No. 3,) or we may take it as round hats that are big (constr. No. 1). Though the results of both constructions would be the same, the ways in which these results are obtained are logically distinct; just as the result of 3 × 5 is identical with 5 × 3, though the genesis of that result varies according as we have groups of five and take three of such groups, or as there are groups of three and we put five of them together.

We have now considered the simple sentence and its extensions according to the formula a + b + a (see p. 110) in all their bearings and consequences. We said, however, that besides extensions on this plan, there were others in which some combination of subject and predicate became itself the predicate or subject to another member of a sentence.

This we may symbolise by (a + b) + a.40

We here enter on the ground covered by the complex sentence; but if the reader has understood what has been already said, he will see that, if we consider this division into simple and complex sentences from a historical and psychological point of view, no clear line of demarcation is to be found. It is indeed true that, as long as we agree that no set of words shall be called a sentence unless it contains a finite verb, a definite criterion exists. If, however, we fully realise that a combination of noun and adjective, for instance, is as much subject and predicate as noun and verb (cf. homo vivus with homo vivit), we shall likewise feel that ‘The good man lives’ is a complex sentence, one predicate of which has degenerated: it must accordingly be admitted to differ in degree, but not in kind, from ‘The man who is good lives’, where, again, the complexity is of precisely the same nature as in the 120 phrase round straw hats, if we were to say, for instance, ‘Round straw hats are pretty, but round felt hats are ugly.’

Combinations on the plan (a + b) + a are common enough: I think you are mistaken; The doctor saw I was not well; Remember you owe me sixpence: in which cases the subject and predicate (a + b) serve as object to another predicate.

There are, however, other constructions conceivable which would be more strictly conformable to the scheme; such as I owe you sixpence is true, or You are in danger grieves me; where we now use the so-called conjunction that, which is originally a pronoun standing as a repetition or a resumption of the subject—‘That I owe you sixpence is true’ being originally ‘I owe you sixpence; that is true.’

To find such constructions as I owe, etc., is true in actual use, we must go back to older stages of language, e.g., to Hans Sachs, the German shoemaker—poet—dramatist (1494-1576), who framed such sentences as A couple (man and wife) lived in peace for seventy years vexed the devil, for A couple lived, etc., and this vexed, etc.;41 The afflicted woman stabbed herself tells Boccaccio. In the former of these the sentence is subject, in the latter, object. A sentence (a + b) serving as actual predicate we might illustrate by remembering that in Latin Imperator felix may mean ‘The emperor is happy,’ and then using Imperator qui capite est operto for the emperor’s answer in the well-known anecdote—‘The emperor is he who has his hat on his head.’

Remembering this, and always carefully remembering the extended meaning of the terms subject and 121 predicate, we realise that in the common construction like You are always grumbling, a bad habit, we have really, in the so-called apposition a bad habit, a predicate.

In this way we can follow up the development of the sentence from its simplest to its most complex form. After thus studying the hypotaxis in all its bearings, we need only touch briefly on the subject of parataxis.

Though, of course, it may occur that we have reason to make in immediate succession two or more statements which are absolutely independent of one another, this will be naturally rare; and, when it happens, we are not likely to combine these statements into one compound clause. Even in the nearest approach to such a case, where we enumerate different but analogous or contrasting facts, the sentences are not absolutely disconnected and independent: cf. She is crooked, he is lame. Here, undoubtedly, more is expressed by means of the parataxis than the mere enumeration of the two facts; an additional significance being given to each by the very analogy between the two cases. Similarly in He is laughing, she weeps, where the contrast is an additional fact expressed by the coupling of the sentences. Still, the approach to independence is here undoubtedly very close. We already depart a step further from mere co-ordination in the case where—in grammatically absolutely identical manner—two or more sentences are co-ordinated in a story; as, e.g., I arrived at twelve o’clock; I went to the hotel; they told me there was not a single room to be had; I went to another hotel, etc., where each sentence to a certain extent expresses a cause or defines the time of occurrence of the fact which is mentioned in the next. Now, though this additional meaning is clearly there, 122 it is a meaning which at the moment of uttering each clause is not necessarily, nay not probably clearly present in the speaker’s mind: we might more fully and perhaps more correctly, though undoubtedly very clumsily, express the course of thought by: I arrived ..., and when I had arrived, I went ..., but when I had gone to the hotel, they told ..., and because they told ... I went to another, etc.

We have, then, in our example a combination of independence with interdependence which is the first step on the road towards subordination of one member to the other.

Instead of the clumsy method of repetition which, if ever, is of course but very seldom employed, we give partial expression to this mutual relationship by demonstrative pronouns or verbs. (1) I arrived ..., then I went ..., there they told ..., etc. (2) I met a boy; he told me.... (3) He bought a house; that was old. (4) He told a lie; that was a pity. A careful study of these examples,—in the third of which the demonstrative pronoun refers (as in the second) to one part only of the preceding sentence, whilst in the fourth it relates to the whole statement made in the former part,—will show (a) the method of development of demonstrative into relative pronoun; (b) that of demonstrative pronoun into conjunction—It was a pity that he told a lie; (c) the concomitant change from parataxis to hypotaxis—from He bought a house, + that (house) was old, to He bought a house that was old = ‘which was old.’

A peculiar kind of paratactical subordination occurs where an imperative or interrogative clause loses its independence and becomes an expression of condition; e.g., Go there yourself, (and or then) you will see that I am right, or Do you want to do it? then make haste. 123

CHAPTER VII.
CHANGE OF MEANING IN SYNTAX.

We have considered, in Chapter IV., the different ways in which words change their meanings: and have remarked that change of meaning consists in the widening or narrowing of the scope or application of each word. We wish, in this chapter, to point out that these processes are not confined to words, but that whole syntactical combinations are constantly undergoing changes of meaning of a similar nature. It may be well to give at the outset an instance illustrative of such difference. Let us take the sentence, ‘The book reads like a translation.’ In this sentence the meaning which we attach to the word book has developed from that attached to A.S. bóc, a beech tree.42 The word read has been specialised in meaning from the more primitive signification ‘to interpret.’ In the same way, translation meant originally nothing more than a transference of any kind, but has been specially applied to a transference of the ideas expressed by one language into those of another. Such, then, are examples of changes of meaning which have occurred in words.

But besides these changes, it is obvious that we have here a sentence in which the relation between 124 the subject and predicate differs considerably from that which is the usual one. We do not in the aforesaid sentence mean to say that the subject book performs the action reads, but we wish to assert that the subject is of such a nature as to admit of some person performing the action in question. This usage of the subject and predicate, though, when employed circumspectly, it need cause no obscurity, yet is an exceptional usage, or, as we have elsewhere called it, an occasional one. Such a construction might, however, easily spread, and become habitual or usual. In that case we should have to admit that the meaning of the general syntactical relation between subject and predicate connected by a verb in the active voice had widened in extent, and contracted in content. Instead of stating that the subject does the action, we should now have to adapt the statement to the wider but more indefinite relation—the subject either does or admits of the action. We shall have occasion to return to these and similar phrases later on.

Now let us take the phrase ‘He reads himself into the mind of his author.’ In this case we shall find that the meaning of reads is the same as that which we usually attach to it; the peculiar meaning lies not in the separate words, but in the phrase taken as a whole. The particular, occasional use of the accusative himself, together with the combination of the words, is what expresses the whole thought implied; and thus we have here an instance of a specific construction in which the force of the accusative connected with the word is different from the force of the case in more common usage. Though the application of the accusative in the way we have just mentioned must originally have been an occasional one, yet the phrase, though it has indeed become specific, has become so common, 125 that we may in this combination call its meaning usual. We have, then, in studying change of meaning in syntactical relations, besides the classification of occasional and usual, another distinction to draw; that between (a) a change of meaning in a general relation, without reference to the individual terms which happen to stand in that relation (such as subject and predicate, verb and object, noun with accompanying genitive, preposition and its régime), and (b) a change in meaning of a case, or other syntactical relation, with regard to a specific word or expression, in connection with which it has come to express a new shade of thought. These two classifications are independent of each other, and cross one another. It is further to be noticed that, just as it is impossible to draw a hard and fast line of distinction between the occasional and usual in the meaning of a word, so it is impossible to always clearly formulate when the change in meaning of a syntactical relation is general or special; nay, it would in many cases be difficult to decide whether a change of meaning in a group of words is owing to a change of meaning in the words, or in their syntactical relations. Yet it is necessary to keep the distinction in view.

Instances of these syntactical changes are common in all languages. We might take, as a simple instance, from the Latin, the syntactical change which is brought about in the relationship of the transitive verb and its accusative. Transitive verbs commonly take the accusative of the direct object; as, Grecia capta ferum victorem cepit. But many words not originally transitive become so when composed with a preposition; as, accedere, præcellere, transgredi, just as to forego in English is transitive, while to go is intransitive. This construction was then felt as usual. But besides these we find a quantity of verbs strictly intransitive 126 employed with the accusative; as, ambulare maria, (to walk the seas: Cicero, de Finibus, ii. 34); ludere Appium (just as we say, to play the fool: Cicero, ad Quint. Fratr., ii. 15); saltare Cyclopa (to dance the Cyclops dance: Horace, Sat. I. v.); stupere donum, (Vergil); etc. It was felt that the relationship between ambulare and maria, e.g., was closely enough related to that of regere currum on the one hand, and to that of ambulare super maria on the other, to enable analogy to become widely operative in extending this use. The result was that some of the constructions passed into regular usage; some stood out longer, and must always have appeared as exceptional or occasional; as, sudare mella (Vergil, Eclogue iv. 30).

One of the most ordinary changes brought about by relations in syntax is that due to the relationship of what is commonly called the governing word and its case. The signification, for example, borne by an accusative standing in the relation of object to a verb may cause the verb to bear a meaning more special than its ordinary meaning. Thus, in the case of such a phrase as I beat, it is clear that in to beat a dog, to beat the enemy, to beat the air, different values are attached to the meaning of the word ‘(to) beat,’ and the word thereby is narrowed in its definition and correspondingly enriched in its contents. It seems natural to examine a little more in detail the relationship borne by the cases to the word which governs them: there seems no objection to the use of the word governs, provided only that it be understood with due limitations; that certain particular forms are commonly devoted to the expression of certain ideas or relationships, and that the idea be not entertained that there is anything in the nature of the meanings of the words indissolubly connected with a particular form. 127

To deal with the Cases first. It is impossible to set together the different uses of the genitive, and to draw from these by induction any certain proof of the functions which this case fulfilled in the primitive Indo-European languages. For instance, the use of the genitive when it depends on verbs seems to have nothing in common with that of the same case when connected with substantives. In the former case, for instance, in the Classical languages, we find merely a few isolated instances of the genitive regularly governed by verbs, especially those verbs which signify ruling over, remembering, lacking, etc. The genitive with nouns, on the other hand, seems most probably to have been used in Indo-European for the expression of any relation between two substantives, as indeed it was in classical Greek, and, to a less extent, in Latin; cf. such different usages as Cæsaris horti; docendi gratia; reus Milonis; urbis instar; me Pompeii esse scio (Cicero, Fam., ii. 13); Germanicus Ægyptum proficiscitur cognoscendæ antiquitatis (Tacitus, Annals, xi. 59); hoc præmii; ut adhuc locorum (Plautus, Captivi, 382). In modern English, on the contrary, the function of the genitive in connection with substantives is greatly restricted. Many usages possible in Anglo-Saxon are at the present day obsolete; for instance, Criste is ALLRE kinge king (Orm., 3588), MÁDMA mænigo (Beowulf, 41), ðaer wæs MÁDMA fela (ibid., 36), RINCA manige (ibid., 729), he ÐAES WÆPNES onláh sélran sweord-frecan = he lent the weapon to the brave hero (ibid., 1468-69), tó gebídanne ÓÐRES YRFEWEARDES = to expect another heir (ibid., 2453,) he ʒef Horse MÁDMES inoʒe (L.I. 163, Fiedler and Sachs, ii. p. 277).43 The genitive at the present day is confined to certain characteristically special usages, and possesses 128 several apparently independent significations. It must, however, be noticed that the true inflectional genitive in English is that which characterises the possessive case; as, John’s hat. In other cases in Modern English, we have commonly dropped the inflection, and are accustomed to render the genitival relation by a periphrasis with the preposition of. Using the word genitive in this sense, we may say that the typical usages of the genitive in modern English are the possessive genitive (the man’s brother), the partitive genitive (a cup of wine), and the genitive denoting that the governing substantive is what it is in virtue of what depends upon it (the writer of the work). This last division falls naturally into two sub-divisions in the case of nouns of action: the subjective genitive (surly Gloster’s governance—Shakespeare, 2 Henry VI., I. iii.) and the objective genitive (the government of the country). These usages have survived the various original methods of the application of the genitive, and they must thus be counted amongst genuine grammatical categories.

The relation of the accusative to its governing verb resembles the relation of the genitive to its governing substantive. The most general definition of the meaning of the accusative might be that it denotes any and every kind of relation that a substantive can bear to a verb, except that of a subject to its predicate. It is, however, true that, in English, we are unable to employ it in every case to denote such relation: nor, indeed, does this use seem to have been permissible in the original Indo-European languages; though it is true that the accusative was used more freely and commonly in old Greek and Latin, for instance, than in later times: cf. such constructions as ἄπορα πόριμος (Æsch., Prom. Vinctus); Quid tibi hanc rem tactio est? (Plautus, Pœnulus, 129 V. v. 29), humeros exsertus uterque (Statius, Thebais, v. 439). Hence, in considering the different uses of the accusative, we must at the very outset place those meanings side by side which have gradually become independent.

The first distinction which we must remark in the use of the accusative is that between the free accusative, or accusative which is independent of the nature of the verb which it follows,—as, to buy a hat,—and the attached accusative, which is connected with a few verbs only by a close tie, and in each case with a restricted signification,—as, to blow a gale, to row a race. The free accusative is more freely used in English than in French or German; many of the relations which in those languages are expressed by the genitive and dative are in English expressed by the case under consideration.

One of the original usages of the free accusative was the expression of an extension over space and time; and in this case, it is not always found with verbs. We have in Latin, Cæsar tridui iter processit (Cæsar, Bell. Gallic., i. 38); Unguem non oportet discedere (Cicero, ad Att., xiii. 20): and, in English, such uses as To write of victories next year (Butler, Hudibras, II., III., 173); My troublous dream this night (Henry VI., Part II., Act. II., ii.); where the dative was usual in Anglo-Saxon (see Koch, ii., p. 94; Mason, p. 147). As instances of the attached accusative, we must especially consider the accusative of such substantives as are ETYMOLOGICALLY CONNECTED with the verb; as, to fight a hard fight; to see a strange sight; sangas ic singe (Ps. xxvi. 7).44 This ‘cognate accusative’ most probably furnishes the cue to such constructions as Come and trip it as you go, where it seems 130 to replace some noun, as, e.g., tripping. Once established, this use of it instead of a cognate noun in the accusative, would easily be extended to cases like to foot it for to dance a dance, where the use of the verb to foot is but an ‘occasional’ one, and apparently too unusual to admit of the formation of the noun footing in the sense of dance. We must, then, suppose that the word it stands for a dance, i.e. for an accusative not cognate with the verb actually used, but with another and synonymous verb. The use of the accusative of towns in Latin, in answer to the question Whither?—as, Ire Romam, Tarentum, etc., further illustrates the attached accusative with which we may compare expressions in English, as to go west; flying south, etc.

The usage, now common in English, whereby a predicative adjective is connected with an intransitive verb seems to be of later origin. Cf. to cry one’s eyes red; to wash one’s forehead cool; to eat one’s-self full; to dance one’s-self tired; to shout one’s-self hoarse. In these cases the predicatival force of the accusative must be regarded as a widening of the signification. No doubt, however, special factors must have aided to bring this construction into use: such as the survival of the memory of the general signification of the accusative, as representing the goal of the verbal action; and, again, the analogy of such cases as to shoot a man dead; to buy a man free; to strike a man dumb; to beat black and blue;—where the accusative serves to define the verb, and indeed, almost enters into composition with it, as it in fact actually does in many cases in German, like tot schlagen; cf. the English dumb-foundered. There are a large number of colloquial phrases which are similar,45 such as to talk a person’s head off; to worm one’s-self into another’s confidence; to 131 read one’s-self into an author; to laugh a man down, etc.

There is, next, the case of the accusative after compound verbs, where the simple verbs are intransitive or govern a different kind of accusative from that taken by the verb when compounded. Such are circumdare and præcellere in Latin, and, in English, to forego, to underrate, to withstand, to outlast; or, A.S. ofer-swimman, forestandan, etc.; e.g., (hé) oferswam sioleða bigong—He swam across the sea (Beowulf, 2368): Wið ord and wið ecge ingang forstód—He withstood entrance against sword and spear (ibid., 1550).46 These are on the border line of ‘free’ and ‘attached’ accusatives.

There are certain verbs composed with certain prefixes which, in virtue of their composition, receive a transitive force; as, belabour, begrudge, bewitch, belie, befleck, etc., and which, in some cases, receive in addition the power of adopting a different kind of object, generally calling in the aid of metaphor to extend their meaning; as, embody, encompass, enthral, overrule.

An ‘attached’ accusative, or one properly attached adverbially, in a defining and qualifying sense,47 to one definite individual verb, has, as a rule, only one single meaning, limited by use. But sometimes we find that in this case, too, several applications have set in; such may have been in some cases original, and in others due to the fact that the one ‘usual’ signification has extended by ‘occasional’ transgression. Take such cases as to blow a gale, to blow a sail, to strike a blow; to 132 strike a man, to strike terror; to run a race, to run a man down; to stone a man, to stone cherries; pacing the ground, the morrice pacings; to keep a man from harm, to keep harm from a man; to stick a man with a knife, to stick a stamp; and in Latin, defendere aliquem ab ardore solis, defendere ardorem solis ab aliquo; prohibere calamitatem a provincia, prohibere provinciam calamitate; mutare equum mercede, mutare mercedem equo. So, too, in Greek: ἀρκεῖν τινα ἀπὸ κινδύνου; ἀρκεῖν κίνδυνον ἀπό τινος.

Poetry has a strong tendency to aid such ‘occasional’ constructions to become ‘usual:’ for it is a part of the technique of poetry to produce strong impressions by using its material in a fresh and striking way: thus we find in Latin, vina cadis onerare (Vergil, Æneid, i. 199: a variation for cados vinis); liberare obsidionem (Livy, xxvi. 8), instead of liberare urbem obsidione; vina coronant (Vergil, Æneid, iii. 526) instead of pocula vinis coronant: δάκρυα τέγγειν = ‘to stain tears,’ instead of ‘to stain with tears’ (Pindar): αἷμα δεύειν = ‘to stain blood,’ instead of ‘to stain with blood’ (Sophocles). Thus, in English, we have The Attic warbler pours her throat (Gray); to languish a drop of blood a day (Shakespeare, Cymbeline, I. ii.) The relation expressed by the accusative may in itself be more than a single one; and thus the connection of a single verb with several accusatives to express different ideas is quite natural.

It seems hardly true to state that the Indo-European prepositions governed any particular case. The case which followed the preposition was actually referred to the verb; the general meaning of the verb was still felt and was merely specialised by the preposition; whence it comes that the same preposition is followed by different cases, each bearing its own 133 special meaning. The Greek language offers good examples of this, and seems to stand nearer the original state, as far as usage goes. Take, for instance, a preposition like πάρα. Its general meaning may be defined as ‘from:’ when followed by the genitive it signifies ‘proceeding from;’ when followed by the accusative, ‘to,’ reference to the source not being overlooked: similarly with κατά, μετά, etc. In English, more than in most European languages, the tendency has been to multiply the use of prepositions, and to employ them independently of any feeling for the case. The case has thus become more and more independent of the preposition: the connection of the latter with the case has become merely matter of custom; and the consciousness of the original signification of the case has become fainter. With regard to the Latin prepositions which govern one case only (like ex, ab), or which govern more than one without affecting the sense (like tenus), the employment of the case is merely traditional, and no value can be attached to it. Between the absolute fixity of the one use and the original freedom of the other use stands the employment of in, sub, and super, sometimes with the ablative, sometimes with the accusative, but with different meanings for the respective cases.

The changes that have appeared in Syntax in the case of prepositions are very well exemplified in English, in which language their use has so greatly spread, and plays such an important part. They were, in the first place, prefixed to the verb, which they qualified adverbially,48 forming, in fact, a compound with it; as, ‘to overtake,’ ‘overreach,’ ‘overlook.’ They were next detached from the verb, but not prefixed to the noun; as, ‘to take over,’ ‘to reach over,’ ‘to look over;’ 134 and the difference in meaning between these three pairs of phrases will show us how the preposition came to lose memory of the proper signification of the case. In a later stage still, they appear prefixed to nouns, and serve to particularise the relations of actions to things—relations which, in the inflected state of language, were expressed by the case endings of nouns; cf. Bigstandað me strange genéatas (Cædmon) = ‘Stout vassals bystand me;’ He heom stód wið (Layamon) = ‘He them stood against;’ or Again the false paiens the Christens stode he by (P. Langtoft) = ‘Against the false pagans the Christians he stood by;’ i.e. ‘He stood by the Christians.’

We sometimes find the partitive use of the genitive replaced by apposition. The simplest and most natural example of this is where the apposition is made up of several members which are collectively the equivalent of the substantive to which they are appended; for instance, ‘They went, one to the right, the other to the left;’ ‘Postero die terrestrem navalemque exercitum, non instructos modo, sed hos decurrentes, classem in portu, simulacrum et ipsam edentem navalis pugnæ ostendit’ (Livy, xxix. 22). ‘Duæ filiæ harum, altera occisa, altera capta est’ (Cæsar, Bell. Gallic., i. 53); ‘Diversa cornua, dextrum ad castra Sammitium, lævum ad urbem tendit’ (Livy, x. 41); ‘Capti ab Iugurtha, pars in crucem acti, pars bestiis objecti sunt’ (Sall., Iug.). But the same appositional construction appears when the whole apposition represents only a part of the expression or phrase of which it is the expansion; as, ‘Volsci maxima pars cæsi,’ (Livy): ‘Cetera multitudo decimus quisque ad supplicium lecti’ (Livy); ‘Nostri ceciderunt tres’ (Cæsar); ‘My arrival, although an only son, unseen for four years, was unable to discompose, etc.’ (Scott, Rob Roy, i.); ‘Tuum, hominis simplicis, pectus 135 vidimus’ (Cicero, Phil., ii. 43). This is also the case where the subject is expressed only by the personal termination of the verb; as, ‘Plerique meminimus’ (Livy); ‘Simoni adesse me quis nuntiate’ = ‘Tell Simo, one or the other of you!’ (Plautus). Similarly, in the case of the designation of materials, we find an apposition taking the place of the partitive genitive; thus we find, in Latin, ‘aliquid id genus’ for ‘something of that kind;’ ‘Scis me antea orationes aut aliquid id genus solitum scribere’ (Cicero, Att., xiii. 12); ‘Pascuntur omne genus objecto frumento maxime ordeo’ (Varro, de Re Rustica, iii. 6);49 ‘arma magnus numerus’ (Livy). Thus, ‘He gained the sur-addition Leonatus’ (Shakespeare, Cymbeline, I. i.).

This more simple and primitive appositional construction is very common in modern xml:lang; as, ein stück brot, ein glas wasser: in Middle High German it was rarer; in modern Scotch it is common in such instances as a wee bit body, a curran days (a number of days): it was common in Anglo-Saxon; as, ‘scóp him Heort naman’ (Beowulf, 78); Emme broðer ðe queene (Robert of Gloucester); The Duke of Burgoys, Edmonde sonne (Wa., i. 87); David Kingdom (R. of G., i. 7.):50 and is found in Chaucer,—Gif us a busshel whet or malt or reye (Canterbury Tales, 7328); half a quarter otes (ibid., 7545): and has survived even in modern English, in such cases as The Tyrol passes (Coleridge, Picc., i. 10); Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss (Scott, Lay of Last Minstrel, i. 21). We must regard this method of apposition as the most primitive in language; the two words in apposition are simply placed side by side like two Chinese roots, and must be looked upon as the simple stems without any inflection. 136

Even the subject of a verb may deviate from previous usage in the way whereby it denotes a relation: cf. such phrases as The cistern is running dry; The roof drips with water; The trees drop honey. Thus we can say, The river is running over; The wood is resonant with song; The window will not shut; The fire will not draw; The kettle boils; This sample tastes bad; The hall thick swarming now with complicated monsters (Milton): in Italian, Le vie correvano sangue (Malespini): in Spanish, Corrieron sangue los rios: Sudare mella (Vergil, Ecl. iv., 30); cf. also, the use of sapere, in Latin, in such cases as cum sapimus patruos (Persius, Sat. i., 11); sentir, in French, as Cela sent la guerre. In these cases we should expect the subject and object to be inverted.

A similar departure from ordinary usage occurs in the case of what we commonly speak of as ‘transferred’ epithets; i.e. adjectives referring to merely indirect relations with the substantive to which they are attached. Such are expressions like wicked ways; quiet hours; in ambitious Latin (Carlyle, Past and Present, ii. 2); the blest abodes (Pope, Essay on Man, iii. 259). Many of these linguistic licences have become quite usual, and it is forgotten that the epithet attached to the word does not strictly fit it: thus we speak quite commonly of the happy event, a joyful surprise, happy hours, a learned treatise, an intoxicated condition, in a foolish manner, a gay supper, a bright prospect, etc.; and we can even say, He gives us an unhealthy impression, a stingy gift, etc. The word secure in English, like sûr in French, refers in the first instance to a person who need not be anxious; in the second place, to a thing or person about whom no one need be anxious. Thus we can say, I am safe in saying that he is safe. As soon as these freer combinations 137 are apprehended as an ordinary epithet applied to its substantive, we may state that a change in word-meaning has occurred.

Such licence occurs in the case of the participles and nouns in -ing even more than in that of adjectives; thus we can say, in a dismantled state (Dickens, Pickwick, 2); a smiling answer; this consummation of drunken folly (Scott, Rob Roy, 12); a dazzling prospect; the selling price; the dying day; a parting glass; writing materials; sleeping compartment; dining room; singing lesson; falling sickness; waking moments; the ravished hours (Parnell, Hesiod, 225). So, too, we speak of a talented man; cf. also the common French expressions, thé dansant, café chantant. Tacitus has such uses as Muciano volentia rescripsere (Hist., iii. 52) for volenti, etc.

We may probably compare with this use that of the so-called ‘misrelated participle,’ a freely attached predicatival attribute, which is indeed condemned as ungrammatical and careless, but which still occurs very commonly in even the best authors. Cf. ‘When gone we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion’ (Goldsmith, Vicar of Wakefield, 13); ‘Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair’
(Milton, Paradise Lost, ii. 142);
‘Amazed at the alteration in his manner, every sentence that he uttered increased her embarrassment’ (Miss Austin, Pride and Prejudice, ch. xliii.).51 We are, indeed, accustomed to say that in this case we must supply a subject, and that the full expression would be ‘Amazed as she was,’ in the last instance cited. But 138 if we use such an expression as ‘a pitying tear,’ we might maintain as well that it is necessary to explain this as, ‘with a tear, shed in sign of his pity.’ The fact is, that these loosely appended predicatival attributes answer to a need felt in language, just as much as such words as regarding, during, vu que, instar, supply a requirement in the prepositional category.

In the case of participial constructions, the participle expresses formally the time-relation in which the condition or action denoted by the participle stands to the finite verb. Thus, ‘Being frightened he runs away’ expresses formally nothing more than the temporal relation between the fright and what follows it. It is, however, possible to understand different relations as implied by this participle; thus there would, in this instance, be a connection of cause and effect. There are many cases in which, were we to extend the participial construction into a separate sentence, we should have to employ different conjunctions; sometimes those denoting the reason,—as, ‘Since he was frightened he ran away;’ sometimes we should have to employ such conjunctions as denote an opposition,—as, ‘Notwithstanding that;’ thus, supposing that the sentence in question ran, ‘Being frightened he did not run away,’ this would naturally be broken up into ‘Notwithstanding that he was frightened, he did not run away.’ Sometimes, again, the participle expresses a condition, as in such common cases as ‘Failing an heir, the property passes to the crown.’

Still it is unnecessary to assert that the participle, as such, denotes these different meanings—such as cause, condition, opposition, etc. These relations are only accidental and occasional. When, however, we have dependent sentences introduced by a temporal conjunction, like quum, since, the accidental relation of this 139 conjunction to the governing sentence may come to attach itself and become permanent; in this case, the conjunction will experience a change of syntactical meaning. Take the case of since, formed by the adverbial genitive suffix es, from sin = sithen (from sið, þ̱am, after that). While, again, from meaning ‘the time that’ (a thing occurred,) has come to denote ‘in spite of the fact that,’ in such phrases as ‘While you pretend that you love me, you act as though you did not.’ In the case of the modern German weil, the temporal signification has completely disappeared; and in the same way prepositions, such as through and by, which possess strictly speaking a local or temporal meaning, pass into a causal meaning.

The instances given above may serve to show the way in which changes are constantly occurring in syntax, and will aid in pointing out how language is constantly aiming at supplying, in an economical fashion, its needs as they successively present themselves. 140

CHAPTER VIII.
CONTAMINATION.

We have discussed, in Chapter V., the force of analogy and its effect. We have now to study a phenomenon of language which may be called ‘contamination,’ and which, though widely differing from analogy in the most characteristic instances of both, is yet so closely allied to it as to render it a difficult matter to draw any hard and fast line of demarcation between the two.

We call the process ‘contamination’ when two synonymous forms or constructions force themselves simultaneously, or at least in the very closest succession, into our consciousness, so that one part of the one replaces or, it may be, ousts a corresponding part of the other; the result being that a new form arises in which some elements of the one are confused with some elements of the other.

Thus, for instance, to take an imaginary case, a person seeing a book on the table might wish to exclaim, ‘Take that thing away!’ Just, however, as he is uttering the word thing, the consciousness that it is properly called a book forces itself upon him, and he utters the word thook. Of course such a form is a mistake, and a mistake so palpable and, indeed, so absurd that the speaker will at once correct it. Every one, however, who is in the habit of watching closely 141 the utterances of others, and indeed of himself, will be aware that such slips of the tongue are extremely common; and it is clear that, though such formations are, in the first instance, sudden and transitory, and generally travel no further than the individual from whom they proceed, yet they may, by repetition on the part of the same individual, or, it may be, by imitation, conscious or unconscious, on the part of others, end by becoming ‘usual.’

Contamination manifests itself not merely in the form of words, but also in their syntactical combination. In the case of such a curious mixture of two words as that which we took for our example, the very grotesqueness of the result would probably bar the way to the spreading of the word, though, as we shall see, traces are to be found of cases hardly less grotesque than this. In syntactical combinations, however, the results have far more frequently proved permanent; or, in any case, the results do not commonly appear in such jarring contrast to received usage as to challenge immediate correction, and, consequently, instances can be more easily found in literature of syntactical than of verbal contamination; some cases of such contamination pass into language and become ‘usual;’ some are refused admission into normal language and are set down as the peculiarities of the individual writer or speaker, or, it may be, as his mistakes.

We saw that formation by analogy manifests itself as the alteration of one form in compliance with a rule more or less consciously abstracted from a number of examples drawn from a group to which that form does not, strictly speaking, belong. Contamination is the alteration of one form on the model of another synonymous form. The difficulty of distinguishing between 142 the two arises from this—that the contaminating form or construction often derives additional force from being associated with other members of its group, so that it may be doubtful whether the rule or the one synonym gave the impetus to the new formation. Nevertheless, we may lay it down that for analogy we must demand a sufficient number of examples on which to base a rule; while for contamination, a single form or construction may suffice. If we bear in mind these main points of distinction, we shall commonly find no difficulty in deciding to which of the two classes we should refer any particular case.52

Among the results of contamination in single words, we must naturally expect that those have the best chance of becoming permanent which least deviate from the correct form; i.e. where the synonymous53 forms confused resembled each other, and the form due to their contamination consequently bore sufficient resemblance to both to enable it to arise repeatedly in the mouth of several speakers, and, when formed, to escape observation. Thus the word milt (the soft roe of fishes) is a substitute for milk (it appears in Swedish as mjölke); this was probably due to contamination with milt (spleen), which is a different word.54 Again, the English combination ough is due to the contamination of three distinct forms, viz., ugh (A.S. -uh), -ogh (A.S. -áh), -oogh (A.S. -óh); whilst, at the same time, the loss of the gh has affected the 143 quality of the preceding vowel by the principle of compensation. Thus the word through should have appeared as thrugh, A.S. *ðruh (for ðurh); but it has been altered to through, as if from A.S. *ðrúh, or else to *thurgh (A.S. ðurh), which has been lengthened to thor(ou)gh.55

A.S. byrðen, ‘a load,’ became burthen, and is now burden, the change being assisted by confusion with burden (Fr. bourdon), ‘the refrain of a song.’56 The word anecdotage is a wilful contamination of anecdote + dotage, with a side glance at age (time of life), though in dotage the suffix age has no connection with the noun of same sound. Another-gaines, which was used by Sydney in his Arcadia (1580) seems to have resulted from the confusion of anotherkins (of another kind), which survives in the Whitby dialect, and anothergates (of another gate, manner). On these instances, see Murray’s Dictionary, s.v.

In this and similar instances, where the fact that the word occurs in more than one meaning is due to confusion or misconception, it is often difficult to say whether we have to deal with contamination proper, as we defined it and illustrated it by the example on page 140. There exist, however, in many languages words and forms which can be explained in no other way. Such is the O.Fr. form oreste, a contamination between orage and tempeste; and again, the O.Fr. triers seems to be a contamination between tres (trans) and rier (retro).57

The confusion was rendered easier in the case of forms which may easily pass into a grammatical paradigm. Thus, from the Italian o of sono and the perfect termination in -ro (= runt), the o was transferred 144 to the other third person plural forms; whence such forms as old Tuscan fecérono (modern furono) are contaminations between the forms fecéro and amano.

The confusion of words belonging to the same etymological group is more common: an instance may be seen in the Italian trápano (τρύπανον), whose form seems to have been affected by traforare.58 In Old French the form doins is due to a contamination between dois and don. In Provençal, the form sisclar seems a contamination between sibilare and fistulare.59 The English yawn represents a fusion of two Anglo-Saxon forms, géonian and gánian.60 The word minnow is a contamination between M.E. menow and the O.Fr. menuise. Both of these are ultimately from the same base, min (small),61 but underwent a different development. We might add as an instance the jocular coinage squarson = Squire + Parson.

Our word ache offers a further curious illustration. There was in Anglo-Saxon a verb ácan with past tense oc, past participle acen, which gave us the verb ake (to hurt)—now erroneously spelt ache, but still correctly pronounced. The noun in Anglo-Saxon was æce, in which the k sound was palatalised into the sound of ch (in church), whilst it remained k in the verb.62 Accordingly we find still in Shakespeare the distinction between the verb ake and the noun ache (pronounced with tch as in batch, etc.). The confusion began about A.D. 1700, when the verb began to replace the noun in pronunciation, and occasionally the spelling ache was used for both noun and verb. 145 The prevalence of this spelling at present is mainly due, it appears, to a mistaken derivation from the Gr. ἄχος;—the pronunciation to confusion, or to contamination of the noun by the verb.

We reach the borderland of ‘Analogy,’ if we do not actually enter it, in those cases where a word—under the influence of a modal group with a synonymous function—assumes a suffix or prefix whose modal significance was already expressed by the word in its simpler form. Thus it has been considered a case of contamination of the comparative worse with the modal groups of the other comparatives in er, when we find the double comparative worser. Similarly, the Latin frequentative iactare (iacio) was extended into iactitare under the influence of the modal group composed of words like volitare, etc.: again, in English, the form lesser has, as an adjective, almost entirely superseded the form less; just as, in the colloquial language of the uneducated, we find leastest by the side of least. There is, in Gothic, a superlative aftuma, beside which we, however, find even there the double superlative aftumists. This appears in Anglo-Saxon63 as æftermest, M.E. eftermeste, and in Modern English as aftermost; where the o in the last syllable is due to the mistaken idea that the whole word was a compound of most, though, as we have seen, it was really another instance of a double suffix.

Contamination plays a far more important part in the area of syntax. It is easy to cull from the pages of authors of repute instances of anomalies which have no permanent influence on language: cf. ‘Amazed at the alteration in his manner, every sentence that he 146 uttered increased her embarrassment’ (Miss Austen, Pride and Prejudice, ch. 43,64—a confusion between ‘She was amazed at the alteration,’ etc., and ‘Amazed as she was.’) There are many similar constructions in Shakespeare: cf. ‘Marry, that I think be young Petruchio’ (a confusion of ‘That I think is’ and ‘I think that be’—Romeo and Juliet, I. v. 133); so, again, ‘Why do I trifle thus with his despair is done to cure it’ (a confusion between ‘Why I trifle is to cure’ and ‘My trifling is done to cure,’—Lear, IV. vi. 33).65 The following are instances of syntactical contamination from various quarters:—‘Showering him with abuse and blows’ (Mary L. Booth, Translation of ‘Abdallah’ by Laboulaye, p. 4,—from ‘Showering abuse and blows upon him’ and ‘Overwhelming him with abuse and blows’). ‘Let us once again assail your ears....
What we have two nights seen.’
(Hamlet, I. i. 31),
(from ‘Let us once again tell you’ and ‘Let us assail your ears with what we....’). ‘Jhone, Andrew, James, Peter, nor Paull
Had few houses amang thame all’
(Sir David Lyndsay, The Monarche, Bk. III. i. 4541-42),
(from ‘John, Andrew, etc. and Paul had few houses among them all’ and ‘Neither John, Andrew, etc. nor Paul had many houses’). ‘Thare ryches, rentis nor tressour
That tyme, sall do thame small plesour’
(Ibid., Bk. IV., 5504-5; see Skeat, ‘Specimens,’ iii.),
(from ‘Riches, rent, and treasure shall give small 147 pleasure’ and ‘Riches, rent, nor treasure shall give much (or great or any) pleasure’). ‘What with griefe and feare my wittes were reft’
(Cf. Th. Sackville, Mirrour for Magistrates—Skeat, Specimens, iii., p. 287—stanza 18),
(from ‘What with grief and what with fear my wits’ and ‘With grief and fear my wits, etc.’).

‘She was not one of those who fear to hurt her complexion’ (W. Besant, The World went very well then, ch. 26). ‘What Castilla insists’ (= What Castilla pretends + upon which Castilla insists),—Ibid. ‘If our eyes be barred that happiness’ (= If our eyes be debarred from that ... + If (to) our eyes be denied that happiness),—Comus, 343. ‘On attempting to extract the ball, the patient began to sink’ (= On attempting ... ball, the doctors saw that the patient, etc., + when the doctors attempted, ... the patient began, etc.),—Nichol and M’Cormick, p. 56. ‘I must insist, sir, you’ll make yourself easy on that head’ (She stoops to conquer, ii. 1,—a confusion between ‘I must insist upon your making yourself easy,’ and ‘I hope, or demand, that you will make, etc.’). ‘Was ever such a request to a man in his own house?’ (ibid.,—a confusion between ‘Was ever such a request made to a man?’ and ‘Did ever you hear such a request to a man?’). ‘A very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with’ (ibid.,—A very troublesome fellow this + As troublesome a fellow as ever I met with). ‘There can be no doubt but that this latest step ... has been the immediate result of ...’ (President’s Address, Mechanical Section, British Association, Manchester;—a confusion between ‘There can be no doubt that’ and ‘It cannot be but that’). ‘I prefer to go to London rather than to Paris,’ (a 148 confusion between ‘I prefer going (to go) to London to going to Paris,’ and ‘I would go to London rather than to Paris’).66

In many cases the contamination has become usual. We say in English, I am friends with him, from ‘I am friendly with him’ and ‘We are friends.’ The Danish popular idiom is similar: Han er gode venner med dem (He is good friends with them). Compare too, the following expressions: ‘a friend of mine;’ Fare thee well (a confusion between ‘Keep thee well’ and ‘Fare well’). On my behalf arose out of a confusion of the A.S. on healfe, ‘on the side of,’ with a second common phrase be healfe, ‘by the side of.’67 In Greek we find expressions like ὁ ἥμισυς τοῦ χρόνου, a confusion between ὁ ἥμισυς χρόνος and τὸ ἥμισυ τοῦ χρόνου, etc.; in Spanish, muchas de virgines, instead of muchas virgines or mucho de virgines: in Italian, la più delle gente (Boccaccio). We have a similar instance of contamination in the case of the Latin gerund: Pœnarum solvendi tempus (Lucretius), from Pœnarum solvendarum and pœnas solvendi; nominandi istorum quam edundi erit copia (Plautus, Captivi, IV. ii. 72). Cicero, again, writes, Eorum partim in pompa partim in acie illustres esse voluerunt, in which there is a confusion between eorum pars and ii partim. Occasionally, a contamination results from the confusion of the active and passive constructions; e.g., I care na by how few may see (Burns’s song, ‘First when Maggie was my care’).

Sometimes an inaccuracy arises owing to the idea of a word which might have been used displacing the word which actually was used by the writer. Thus, for instance, the idea of the inhabitants displaces that of the town or the country: cf. Θεμιστοκλῆς φεύγει ἐς 149 Κέρκυραν, ὢν αὐτὼν εὐεργέτης (Thuc., 1. 136): Auditæ legationes quorum (Tacitus, Annals, iii. 63). Cf. The revolt of the Netherlands (for the Netherlanders) from Spain; ‘That faction (for the partisans) in England who most powerfully opposed his pretensions’ (Mrs. Macaulay.)68 Here belongs the pleonastic use of pronouns, common in English: cf. ‘I bemoan Lord Carlisle, for whom, although I have never seen him, and he may never have heard of me, I have a sort of personal liking for him’ (Miss Mitford, Letters and Life, 2nd Series, 1872, vol. ii., p. 160).69 In Latin and Greek we often find the relative referring to a possessive pronoun, as if the personal pronoun had preceded: cf. Laudare fortunas meas qui natum haberem (Terence, And., I. i. 69);70 Τῆς ἐμῆς ἐπεισόδου, ὃν μήτ’ ὀκνεῖτε (‘The approach of me whom neither fear ye’—Sophocles, Œd. Col., 730).

We have next to note confusions of the comparative and superlative manner of expression, resulting in combinations like ‘Hi ceterorum Britannorum fugacissimi’ (Tacitus, Agricola). Cf. ‘The climate of Pau is perhaps the most genial and the best suited to invalids of any other spot in France’ (Murray, Summer in Pyrenees, vol. i., p. 131). ‘Mr. Stanley was the only one of his predecessors who slaughtered the natives of the region he passed through’ (London Examiner, Feb. 16, 1878, p. 204).71

A case of contamination sometimes results from the idea of the past time rising into memory simultaneously with that of present time: cf., in Latin, the use of iamdudum when joined to the imperative; as 150 iamdudum sumite pœnas (Vergil, Æneid, ii. 103),—a confusion between iam sumite pœnas and sumite pœnas iamdudum meritas, i.e. between the thoughts ‘pray take’ and ‘you should long ago have taken.’ Cf. Those dispositions that of late transform you from what you rightly are (Lear, I. iv. 242), and He is ready to cry all the day; cf., also, such instances in Latin as Idem Atlas generat and Cratera antiquum quem dat Sidonia Dido (Vergil, Æneid, ix. 266), where the effect of the action once performed is intended to be brought out by the use of the present.

We often find in English an interrogation with the infinitive, where we should expect a finite verb; as, I do not know what to do; where we should rather have expected I do not know what I should do. This construction seems a confusion between cases in which the infinitive was directly dependent on the verb without any interrogative, as, Scit dicere (He can say); Il sait dire: and such constructions as What to say? I do not know. Other instances are Shelley, like Byron, knew early what it was to love (Medwin’s Memoirs of Byron, p. 9); How have I then with whom to hold converse (Milton); then sought where to lie hid (ibid.); hath not where to lay his head. This construction is common in the Romance languages; as in French,—je ne sais quel parti prendre; Italian,—non ho che dire; Spanish,—non tengo con quien hablar; Latin,—rogatus ecquid haberet super ea re dicere (Aul. Gellius, iii. 1).

Another form of syntactical contamination is when an interrogative sentence is made dependent on a verb, and, at the same time, the subject of this interrogative sentence is made the verb’s nominal object; as, I know thee who thou art: You hear the learned Bellario what he writes (Merchant of Venice, IV. i. 167): cf., also, Lear, I. i. 272. This usage is common in 151 Latin; as, Nosti Marcellum quam tardus sit (Cicero): in Italian an instance occurs in tu’l saprai bene chi è (Boccaccio).

Similarly, we have cases in which the subject of an objective clause introduced by that becomes a nominal object of the principal verb; as, All saw him, that he was among the prophets: so, too, the object of some subordinate clause may be also object of the main verb; e.g., They demanded £400, which she knew not how to pay.

We find in English such phrases as ‘Such of the Moriscoes might remain WHO demeaned themselves as Christians’ (Watson’s Life of Philip III.)72 We find in common use such phrases as such as I saw side by side with the same which I saw, or that I saw. Bacon writes such which must go before; and Shakespeare, Thou speakest to SUCH a man THAT is no fleering tell-tale (Julius Cæsar, I. iii). So Fuller: Oft-times SUCH WHO are built four stories high are observed to have little in their cockloft. In Latin, we similarly find idem followed by ut, as in eadem sunt iniustitia ut si in suam rem aliena convertant. In English, again, we find sentences like— ‘But scarce were they hidden away, I declare,
Than the giant came in with a curious air’
(Tom Hood, Junr., Fairy Realm, p. 87);
It is said that nothing was so teasing to Lord Erskine THAN being constantly addressed by his second title of Baron Clackmannan (Sir H. Bulwer, Historical Characters, vol. ii., p. 186, Cobbett). We say ‘each time when’ and ‘each time that’ (similarly, in French we find ‘au temps où,’ and, at an earlier period, ‘au temps que’); ‘the rather because,’ as well as ‘the rather that.’ 152

In English we frequently find constructions like ‘Mac Ian, while putting on his clothes, was shot through the head’ (Macaulay, History of England, vii., p. 24); ‘I wrote an epitaph for my wife though still living’ (Goldsmith, Vicar of Wakefield, ii.). In these cases, the predicatival attribute has the same function as a dependent sentence introduced by a conjunction; and consequently the circumstance described is rendered more exact by the placing of certain conjunctions before the simple adjective. So, in French, we say, Je le fis quoique obligé; and, in Italian, benchè costretto. Similarly, in Latin, many conjunctions are placed before the ablative absolute; cf. quamvis iniqua pace, honeste tamen viverent (Cicero): etsi aliquo accepto detrimento (Cæsar).

Conversely, the fact that dependent sentences and prepositional determinants may have the same function, causes prepositions to be used to introduce dependent sentences. This use is especially common in English: cf. Except a man be born (St. John iii. 5); For I cannot flatter thee in pride (Shakespeare, 2 Henry VI., I. iii); After he had begotten Seth (Genesis); sometimes this usage extends to cases where the strict written language hesitates to accept it as usual; as, ‘without they were ordered’ (Marryat); ‘I hate him for he is a Christian, but more for that—he lends’ (Merchant of Venice, I. iii. 43). Till and until are specially common in this use. Indeed, the prepositional use of these words has almost died out in Modern English, but is frequent in the literature of the Elizabethan age; cf. Shakespeare, ‘From the first corse till he that died to-day’ (Hamlet, I. ii. 105), where he should, strictly speaking, be him. Other instances are quoted by Abbott, § 184. It must, however, be particularly noticed that the constructions for that, after that, etc., 153 may be used instead of for, after, when these words are used as conjunctions. A preposition also stands before indirect questions: cf. ‘at the idea of how sorry she would be’ (Marryat): ‘the daily quarrels about who shall squander most’ (Gay).

The result of contamination in syntax is often a pleonasm. Thus, in Latin, we frequently meet with several particles expressive of similarity; as, pariter hoc fit atque ut alia facta sunt (Plautus): and, again, we find expressions like quasi si; nisi si.73 Thus, in English, we meet with the common but incorrect expression like as if. We can connect a preposition either with a substantive or with a governing verb: we can say, the place I am in, or, the place in which I am. The two even occur in combination: cf. That fair FOR which love groaned FOR (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I. v., chorus), and, In what enormity is Marcus poor in...? (Coriolanus, II. i. 18). Nay, we often find such expressions as of our general’s (Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, I. i. 1), instead of of our general or our general’s; ‘If one may give that epithet to any opinion of a father’s’ (Scott, Rob Roy, ch. ii.); ‘He is likewise a rival of mine, that is my other self’s’ (Sheridan): cf. also the common pleonasm of ours. Sometimes, to adverbs of place—themselves denoting the direction whence—is added a preposition with a similar meaning; as, from henceforth (Luke v. 10): cf. ‘I went from thence on to Edinburgh’ (Life of George Grote, ch. ii., p. 187).

Other instances of pleonasms arising from syntactical contamination are: ‘He saw that the reason why witchcraft was ridiculed was because it was a phase of the miraculous, etc.’ (Lecky, History of Rationalism, vol. i., p. 126); ‘The reason why Socrates was condemned 154 to death was on account of his unpopularity’ Times, February 27, 1871).74

Double comparatives and superlatives pleonastically resulting from syntactical contamination are not unusual in English: cf. ‘Farmers find it far more profitable to sell their milk wholesale rather than to retail it’ (Fawcett, Pauperism, ch. vi., p. 237): ‘Still it was on the whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take the directest means of seeing Dorothea rather than to use any device,’ etc. (Middlemarch, vol. iii., bk. vi., ch. lxii., p. 365). Thus we have in Shakespeare, more kinder, more corrupter, and most unkindest (Julius Cæsar, III. ii. 187); and thy most worst (Winter’s Tale, III. ii. 180). In poetry, again, we find adjectives with a superlative sense compared; as, perfectest, chiefest (Shakespeare), extremest (Milton), more perfect (English Bible), lonelier (Longfellow).75

In Latin and Greek, we find the comparative where we should expect the positive; as, ante alios immanior omnes (Vergil, Æneid, iv.); αἱρετώτερον εἶναι τὸν καλὸν θάνατον ἀντὶ τοῦ αἰσχροῦ βίου (Xenophon). In Scotch it is usual to say He is quite better again for He is quite well again. We find the positive where we should expect the comparative, as in St. Mark ix. 43; Καλόν σοι ἐστί ... ἤ (It is good for thee than, etc.). We also find the superlative used where the comparative would be regular: cf. Theocritus, xv. 139: Ἕκτωρ, Ἑκάβας ὁ γεραίτατος εἴκατι παίδων.76

Pleonasm arising from contamination occurs most extensively in the case of negations. Cf. ‘There was no character created by him into which life and reality were not thrown with such vividness that the thing 155 written did not seem to his readers the thing actually done’ (Forster’s Life of Dickens, vol. ii., ch. ix., p. 181). In older stages of English, as of German and French, this usage was very common. Cf. Parceque la langue française cort parmi le monde est la plus délitable à lire et à oir que nulle autre (Martin da Canale);77 Wird das hindern können, dass man sie nicht schlachtet? (Schiller). In Chaucer and Shakespeare the use of the double negative is common: First he denied you had in him no right (Comedy of Errors, IV. ii. 7). You may deny that you were not the cause (Richard III., I. iii. 90).78 With this we may compare the redundant negative in Greek after verbs of denying: οὐκ ἀπαρνοῦμαι τὸ μή; and, in Latin, non dubito quin: cf. also the use of the double negative in Plautus, neque illud haud objiciet mihi (Epid., V. i. 5). In these cases a negative appears with an infinitive where the main verb itself contains a quasi-negatival force: numerous instances may be found in Shakespeare; cf. Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds (Pas. Pilgrim, 9).

So we find a contamination of the two constructions: ‘not—and not’ and ‘neither—not’ in cases like Shakespeare’s ‘Be not proud, nor brag not of thy might’ (Venus and Adonis, 113), = Be not ... and brag not + neither be ... nor brag.

Compare also, ‘I cannot choose one nor refuse none’ = I cannot choose one and I can (or may) refuse none + I can neither choose one nor refuse one.79

A pleonastic negation occurs in French and other languages after words signifying ‘without:’ cf. 156 Mätzner, Fr. Gr., § 165: Sans NUL égard pour nos scrupules (Béranger); Elle ne voyait aucun être souffrant sans que son visage N’exprimât la peine qu’elle en ressentait (Bernardin de St. Pierre).80 A curious pleonasm of the article occurs in the following sentence: No stronger and stranger A figure is described in the modern history of England (Justin McCarthy, History of our own Times, vol. i., ch. ii., p. 31); a contamination between There was not a stronger figure, and No stronger figure.

NOTE TO PAGE 148.

A very interesting and useful little book has been published by Professor Nichol and M’Cormick on English Composition. It came too late into our hands for us to make use of the many instructive and often amusing examples it contains. We subjoin one (from p. 76).

‘The curses of Mr. A. B., like chickens, will come home to roost against him’ (a contamination of ‘will be brought up against him,’ and ‘will come home to roost’).

Contaminations will account for many irregularities noted by the authors. 157

CHAPTER IX.
ORIGINAL CREATION.

We must not suppose that the conditions under which language was originally created were different from those which we are able to trace and to watch in the process of its historical development. We must not suppose that mankind once possessed a special faculty for coining language, and that this faculty has died out. Education and experience must have developed our faculties no less for the creation of language than for other purposes; and if we have ceased to create new materials for language at the present day, the reason must be that we have no further need to do so. The mass of linguistic material which we have inherited is, in fact, so great that it is scarcely possible for us to conceive a new idea for which, in the existing language, we could not find some word or form either ready to our hand, or capable of being made more or less suitable to express it, or at least able to supply some derivative for the purpose. On the other hand, we must admit that the process of new creation has never wholly ceased in language; and even in English we find a certain quantity of words whose derivation is unknown, and which seem to be unconnected with any Indo-European language; e.g., dog, rabbit, ramble, etc.81

Again, we must not suppose that the history of 158 language falls into two parts—a period of roots, and another period when language was built up of roots. At first, indeed, every idea to be expressed demanded the creation of a new term; and even when the stock of existing words had already become considerable, new thoughts must constantly have arisen for which, as yet, there was no expression. Still, as the existing vocabulary grew larger, the necessity for absolutely new words, not connected with or derived from others already existing, grew less and less; and it would therefore seem as if the need for such formations would have gradually disappeared completely. But a little consideration will suffice to show that, at all stages in the history of language, there must have existed a certain necessity for new creations to express new ideas; and we have a right to assume that in later times, as civilisation grew more complex, the degree in which new creations were necessary remained a considerable one.

The essence of original creation consists in the fact that a group of sounds is connected with a group of ideas, without the intervening link of any association already existing between a similar, related sound-group, and a similar, related idea. When the Dutch chemist, Van Helmont, conceived the novel idea of a category which should embrace all such substances as air, oxygen, hydrogen, etc., he invented a new term, ‘gas,’ which, unless the fancied connection with the word ‘geest’ (ghost) was indeed present in his mind, was a ‘new creation.’ If, on the other hand, some one were now to invent some entirely new process of treating gases, or of treating other substances with gases, and to indicate such an operation by some such form as gasel, the word gasel would no doubt be quite new, but we should not speak of it as an ‘original creation’ 159 in the sense in which we use the words in this chapter. It would be a new derivative.

Original creation is due, in the first instance, to an impulse which may disappear and leave no permanent traces. It is necessary, in order that a real language may arise from this process, that the sounds should have operated upon the mind so that memory can reproduce them. It is further necessary that other individuals should understand the sounds which thus constitute a word, and should be able to reproduce them as well.

We find that the new is named in language after what is already known; in fact, the old and the new stand related to each other as cause and effect: in other words, the new is not produced without some kind of connection with the old. This connection generally consists of some pre-existing association between cognate words and cognate ideas. In the case, then, of original creation, the essence of which we declared to be the absence of that link, some other connection must exist; and this will generally be found in the fact that the sounds and their signification suggest each other. The sounds in that case will strike the generality of hearers as appropriate to the meaning intended to be conveyed, and the speaker will be conscious that those sounds are peculiarly fitted to express the idea which is in his mind. As an instance, we might take the barbarously constructed word ‘electrocution,’ now in use in America to denote the new method of inflicting the death penalty in that country. The word electric is understood; and so is the word execution: the barbarous new word is the effect of our previous comprehension of these two words. Such appropriateness will secure the repetition of the new creation by the same speaker, and make probable the 160 spontaneous creation of the same term by various speakers living in the same mental and material surroundings, both which effects are essential conditions for the common acceptance of the new expression.

The most obvious class of words to illustrate this connection between sound and meaning is what is known as ‘onomatopoietic;’ i.e. names which were plainly coined in order to imitate sounds. The most common of these are such as seem to be imitations of noises and movements. Such are click, clack, clink, clang, creak, crack, ding, twang, rattle, rustle, whistle, jingle, croak, crash, gnash, clatter, chatter, twitter, fizz, whiz, whisk, whiff, puff, rap, slap, snap, clash, dash, hum, buzz, chirp, cheep, hiss, quack, hoot, whirr, snarl, low, squeak, roar, titter, snigger, giggle, chuckle, whimper, croon, babble, growl.82 Those with the suffix le are used to express iteration, and so to form frequentative verbs. These suffixes are specially noticeable in words of imitative origin, such as the list given in Skeat, English Etymology, p. 278. Some verbs denote at once a noise and an explosion, like bang, puff; French, pan, pouf: others a noise and motion, as fizz, whirr. These are words which appear to date from comparatively modern English. There would be no difficulty in gathering from Greek and Latin parallel instances, namely of words imitative of sounds, which seem to be new creations and have no apparent connection with any other Indo-European language, such as gannire, χρεμετίζειν.

It would seem, therefore, that, as far as we can 161 judge, the original creations of language must have consisted in words expressive of emotion on the one hand, and of sounds on the other.

Because, in such words as we have been considering, we recognise an intimate affinity between the sound and the signification, it does not however follow that all these words must necessarily have been in their origin onomatopoietic. There are some cases in which the words have been consciously modified so as to imitate the sound; as, hurtle, mash, smash. Some may thus, perhaps, only seem to be ‘new creations,’ but it is very unlikely that this is generally the case. Nay, we may say it is certain that most of such words as we have been considering are ‘new creations,’ and we are further strengthened in this conviction by the fact that we frequently find words of similar meaning, and very similar forms, which cannot, according to the laws of sound, be referred to a single original; such are, e.g., crumple, rumple, crimp; slop, slap, slip; squash, gash; grumble, rumble. These seem to support the idea that they were formed as imitative of sound.

Strictly speaking, however, the only absolutely certain original creations are interjections. True interjections, at least those usually employed, are as truly learnt by tradition as any other elements of language, and it is owing to their association that they come to express emotion. But, as reflex-utterances to sudden emotions, they essentially belong to the class of words we are now considering. Once existing, they become conventional, and hence it is that we see different sounds employed to express the same emotions in different languages. Thus we have in English to express surprise, Dear me!—in Greek, Παπαί—German, Aha! The Englishman says Hulló with rising, where the Portuguese would say Holà, with 162 falling intonation. To express pain, we have Alas! Welladay! Woe’s me!—in German, Ach! Weh! Au!—in French, Oh! Hélas! Ciel!—in Gaelic, Och! Och mo chreach! To express joy, we have in English, Hurrah, Good!—in German, Heida! Heisa! Juch! Juchheisa!—in Greek, Εὖγε!—in Latin, Evax!—in French, the old expression, Oh gay! (Molière, Mis., Act. I., sc. iii.). Hence it is, too, that individuals employing the same dialect employ different interjections to express the same emotion. Thus, different individuals in the same linguistic community might employ, to express disgust or disbelief, Pshaw! Fudge! Stuff! Nonsense! etc.

Of the interjections cited above, it may be noticed that some, like Pshaw! and Pooh! seem to be a primitive and simple expression of feeling. Most interjections, however, seem to be made up of existing words or groups of words; cf. farewell, welcome, hail, good, welladay, bother, by ‘r Lady, bosh: and this is the case in the most various languages. In many cases, their origin is quite concealed by sound changes; as in hélas, which is really derived from the natural sound hé, and las, ‘weary,’ and has come to be pronounced ‘hélas.’ Other instances are Welladay! Zounds! (i.e. God’s wounds), Jiminy (i.e. Jesu Domine). Some of these have been assimilated by popular etymology to words existing in the language; such as Welladay! into which meaningless expression the old form wellaway (A.S. wá lá wá = wo! lo! wo!) has been turned. Other instances are harrow, in Chaucer, from N.F. haro; goodbye, from God be wi’ ye; palsangguné = par le sang béni (Molière); cadedis, in Gascon, (= cap de Dieu = caput Dei). Some, again, have come to be used as expressions of emotion, being in their origin foreign words whose signification is partially or wholly 163 forgotten; such are Hosannah!83 (Save, we pray), Hallelujah!84 (Praise ye Jehovah).

There seems, however, to be a certain number of words which owed their origin immediately to reflex movements, and which come to be employed when we happen to again experience a similar sudden excitement. Such words as these are bang, dash, hurrah, slap, crack, fizz, boom. There are, probably, ‘interjections’ which, in single cases, are natural productions, and in all cases lie near the field of natural production; e.g., the sign of shuddering, or shivering with cold, horror, fright (often written ugh!). It accompanies the shiver of the body and is itself the result of an expulsion of air from the lungs through the vocal passages where all the muscles are in a state of sympathetic contraction. Aau! may also be, in single cases, a natural production. Aautch is a sort of diminutive of it. Again, the sound used in clearing the throat is a purely natural production. Coupled with closure of the lips, forcing an exit by the nasal passages, it assumes the form hm!—or hem! as commonly written. As commonly appearing preparatory to speaking, it comes by association to have value in attracting attention.

Many of these words are, at the same time, substantives or verbs as well; and in this case it is often difficult to say whether the interjectional use, on the one hand, or the nominal and verbal on the other, is the original. For us, however, this is at present immaterial; as long as in the one we have a real ‘original 164 creation,’ the other meaning may be a derived one. Duplication and triplication of sounds is often employed, and often the vowel sounds belonging to the different syllables are differentiated by ablaut. Thus chit-chat, ding-dong, snip-snap (Shakespeare, Love’s Labour’s lost, V. i.), tittle-tattle, kit-kat (in ‘the Kit-kat Club’), sing-song, see-saw, gew-gaw, tick-tack; French, clic-clac, cric-crac, drelin-drelon, cahu-caha (used to express the jolting of a vehicle). Words used as substantives only, are formed in somewhat similar pairs as hurly-burly, linsey-woolsey, hotch-potch; and so also are adverbs such as helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy. Old language material, too, is often employed in the formation of such words as sing-song, ding-dong, boohoo, rub-a-dub, zig-zag. We may compare also such formations as ring-a-ching-a-chink-chink. There are other words due to the same imitative impulse, which, however, are formed according to the regular laws of language. Such are combinations of several words echoing the sound, and differing only in their vowels: such as flicker and flacker, crinkle-crankle, dinging and donging.

Nursery language. Most nursery language is imitative of natural sounds, and reduplication plays an important part in the words in this; cf. bow-wow, puff-puff, gee-gee, etc.85 This language is not invented by children, but is received by them like any other, and welcomed by those who have to teach infants, as facilitating the efforts of the teacher. The relation of the sound to the meaning which often still exists therein, facilitates the acceptance of the word by the child to be taught. Indeed, the words of the language of culture are 165 sometimes actually compounded with words of nursery language, as in the case of moo-cow, baa-sheep, coo-dove. It must further be remarked that, when a language has developed into a state of culture and finds it necessary to create new words, these words accommodate themselves to the forms already existing in the language, and undergo processes of formation similar to those which have operated on the words already existing in the language. They appear with the derivation and flection syllables common in the language at the time when they were created. For instance, supposing cackle and chuckle to be words of this sort, cack, and chuck or chugh are the only parts due to original creation;—the termination le seems a regular iterative form, and the words have come to be classified with others of the same formation, and treated in the same way. Similar instances are αἰάζω (αἰαί) οἰμώζω (οἶμοι), etc.

Roots. We are led to see, then, from such forms as cackle, that what we regard as a root need not necessarily ever have existed as a bare root, as an independent element; but immediately upon its appearance, it is naturally provided with one or more suffixes or prefixes in accordance with the exigencies of the language. Thus, for instance, in the Middle ages a belfry was called clangorium. And further, the function of new creations is determined by the analogy of other words existing in the language; and thus the new words, as soon as they appear in the language, conform to the laws of language, and an element appears in the words which does not depend upon original creation. So φεῦ forms a verb in Æschylus, Agamemnon: τί ταῦτ’ ἔφευξας (1194; see also line 960); cf. ächzen in N.H.G., and the use of such words as crack, crackle, crackling. 166

In what has been said hitherto, we have mainly considered the form in which language appears; but neither in this nor in its syntax must we suppose that the first creations with which language began were operated upon by any such influences as analogy. We must suppose them to have been entire conceptions, condensed sentences, as when we cry out Fire! Thieves! They are really, it will be seen, predicates; and an impression unspoken but felt by the speaker forms their subject. The impressions made by noises and sounds would be those that would naturally strike first upon man’s consciousness; and to express these he creates the first sounds of language. The oldest words, therefore, seem to have been imperfectly expressed conceptions partaking of an interjectional character.

Again, it must be remembered that the new creations of primitive man must have been made with no thought of communication. Until language was created, those who uttered the first sounds must have been ignorant that they could thereby indicate anything to their neighbours. The sounds which they uttered were simply the reflection of their own feelings, or when they came by observation to associate with their neighbours’ feelings. But as soon as other individuals heard these reflex sounds, and at the same time had the same feelings, the sounds and feelings were in some way connected, and must have passed into the consciousness of the community as in some measure connected as cause and effect. We must also suppose that gesture language developed side by side with the language of sounds: and, indeed, it is not until language has reached a high degree of development that it can dispense with gesture language as an auxiliary. The Southern nations, which use most interjections, employ 167 also most gesticulations. The Portuguese language, for instance, is exceedingly rich in interjections, and moreover these interjections are in common use, to an extent which at first strikes a foreigner as excessive and almost unpleasant, but which he soon learns to appreciate. Conversation in Portuguese often derives a peculiar charm and picturesqueness from the frequency with which one of the speakers expresses his meaning, quite clearly, with some interjection (e.g. ora) and some gesticulation.86

We must further remember that, as soon as a speaker has recognised the fact that he can, by the means of language, communicate his thoughts, there is nothing to prevent the sounds uttered consciously as the vehicles of communication from attaching themselves to those which are merely involuntary expressions of feelings. Whether the group of sounds so produced shall disappear or survive must depend on its suitability to fill a need, and on many chance circumstances.

It should also be noticed that we must suppose the original human being, who had never as yet spoken, to have been absolutely unable to reutter at his will any form of speech which he had chanced to produce. He would slowly and gradually, after repeatedly hearing the sound, acquire the capacity for reproducing it. The children of our own day hear a certain number of definite and limited sounds repeated by persons in whom identical motory sensations have developed.

We are driven, therefore, to assume that language must have begun with a confused utterance of the most varying and uncertain articulations, such as we never find combined in any real language. We may thus 168 gather that the consistency in motory sensation necessary to a language must have been very slow in developing.

The result, then, at which we arrive is that no motory sensation can attain to a definite form and consistency except for such sounds as are favoured by their natural conditions. The sounds most open to be acted on by such conditions are those immediately resulting from the attempt to express natural feelings; in the endeavour to express these, nature, which prompted the feelings, must have prompted some uniformity of utterance. The traditional language must at its outset have contented itself with comparatively few sound signs, even though a large quantity of different sounds were, on different occasions, uttered by the different individuals.

The process of utterance must have been long and tedious before anything worthy to be called a language could come into existence. A language cannot be produced until individuals belonging to the same linguistic community have begun to store up in memory the product of their original creations. When they can draw upon their memory at will, and can count upon reproducing the same sound-groups to represent the same ideas, and can likewise count upon these sound-groups being understood in the same sense, then, and not till then, can we speak of language in any true sense.

If this be the true test of the existence of a language, it is no doubt true that we must admit that many beasts possess language. Their calls of warning or of enticement are clearly traditional, and are learnt from those around them. They utter the same cries to express the same emotions, and this consistently. But the language of beasts suffices only for the expression of a 169 simple and definite feeling. The language of man consists in the grouping of several words so as to form a sentence. Man thus develops the power of advancing beyond simple intuition, and of pronouncing judgment on what is not before him. 170

CHAPTER X.
ON ISOLATION AND THE REACTION AGAINST IT.

The process of forming our modal and material groupings of ideas, and of the terms which we use to express those ideas, is essentially a subjective one, and is, as such, productive of results which would seem at first sight to be incapable of scientific generalisation. Within the limits, however, of any given linguistic community, the elements of which such groups can be formed are identical, and—with all possible divergence of width and depth of intellectual development in the members of that community—there is a certain uniformity in the manner in which each individual member employs that part of the common stock of ideas and terms of which he is master. Hence it inevitably follows that the groups which are formed will, IF THE AVERAGE be taken, prove about equal, and we are thus justified in abstracting from the individual, and in generalising concerning such grouping at any given period, in exactly the same manner as we do in speaking of the language of a community or of the pronunciation of a given word by a community. In this process, we may for our purpose neglect individual peculiarities or deviations from that abstract and always somewhat arbitrary norm.

And just as the language of any two periods of 171 time shows that differences arise which permeate the whole, so, if we compare the groupings of which we can prove the existence in former times by the influence they exerted on the preservation or destruction of different forms in the language with those we can observe at present in our own linguistic consciousness, or with those which were prevalent at any other period of time, we notice (1) that what formerly was naturally connected by every member of the linguistic community is no longer felt to belong together, and (2) that what once formed part of different and disconnected groups has been joined together.

It is the former of these two events which we have to discuss in this chapter:87 its chief causes are change in sound and change in, or development of, signification. The effects of the latter in isolating more or less completely some word or some particular use or combination of any word from the group with which, owing to parallelism in meaning, it was once connected, we have already illustrated in Chapter IV. Sound-change has or may have similar effects, and even the influence of analogy, which, as we have seen in Chapter V., is mainly effectual in restoring or maintaining the union between the members of a group, sometimes contributes to the opposite effect when any one particular member happens, from whatever cause it may be, to be excluded from its operation.

Thus, for instance, our present word day is found in Anglo-Saxon as— Nom. and Acc. Sing. dæg Plur. dagas Gen. ” dæges ” daga Dat. ” dæge ” dagum, 172 where æ was pronounced as the a in man, hat, etc., and a as a in father: æ is therefore a ‘front-vowel,’ like the a in fate, ee in feet, etc., while a of dagas was a ‘back-vowel,’ as are o or u.

The phonetic development of final or medial g differs according to the vowel which preceded it. If this was a front-vowel the g became y (vowel),88 if it was a back-vowel the g became w. Thus, e.g., A.S. hnægan, E. neigh; A.S. wegan, E. weigh; A.S. hálig, E. holy: but A.S. búgan, E. (to) bow; A.S. boga, E. bow; A.S. ágan, E. to own. Accordingly dæg, etc., in the singular became day, whilst in the plural we find in M.E. dawes, etc. As soon, however, as analogy had established the ‘regular’ s plural to the sing. day, plur. days, the verb (to) dawn, A.S., dagian was thereby isolated completely, and no speaker who is not more or less a student of the history of English, connects the verb with the noun.

Another instance maybe found in the word forlorn.

To understand the history of this word we must know what is meant by Verner’s law.

Among the first illustrations of the regular correspondence of the several consonants in Latin and in the Teutonic languages are such pairs as mater, mother; pater, father; frater, brother; tres, three; tu, thou: in all of which a th is found in English where the Latin shows a t. This and other similar regular interchanges were generalised by Grimm and formulated by him as a law, part of which stated that if the same word was found in Latin, Greek, and Sanscrit, as well as in Teutonic, a k, t, p, in the first three languages appeared as h, th, f in Low German, of which family English is a representative. 173

All our sets of examples seem to illustrate and confirm this law. If, however, we trace the English words back to older forms, we see that this absolute regularity is disturbed. In Middle-English almost invariably, and in Anglo-Saxon invariably, we find fader, moder, brother, A.S. fæder, módor, bróðor, in perfect agreement with O.S. fadar, môdar, brothar, and Goth. fadar, brothar (cf. Mod. Ger. vater, mutter, but bruder). It was Karl Verner who explained this irregularity, and proved that it was connected with the place of the accent in the Teutonic languages, not as we find it now, but as it can be proved to have existed in those languages, where it corresponded generally with the Greek accents, or more closely still with the accent in Vedic Sanscrit. There we find that in the corresponding forms pitar, mâtar, and bhratar, the accent or stress lay on the FIRST syllable in bhratar, but on the LAST in pitar and mâtar. Verner proved by numerous examples that only where an ACCENTED vowel preceded the p, t, k, Teutonic showed the corresponding f, th, h; but that, on the other hand, where the preceding vowel was UNACCENTED, instead of f we found b, and d instead of th, g instead of h. And also, instead of s, which was elsewhere found both in Latin or Sanscrit as well as in Teutonic, z was found, which z further changed into r in Anglo-Saxon.

Thus—to give one more instance—the suffix ian, used to form causatives in Teutonic, once bore the accent, which afterwards was placed on the root-syllable. Accordingly, the causative of the verb rís-an (to rise) was once rás-ian,89 which, with z, and, later on, r, instead of s, changed into rǽr-an, Mod. Eng to rear. 174

The so-called Grammatical change in Anglo-Saxon (and other Teutonic languages) now becomes clear: The verb in past sing. plur. p. part. céosan (to choose) has caés curon coren sniðan (to cut; Scotch, sned) snáð snidon sniden téon (to drag) has téah tugon togen and all this series of regular sound-change depends upon the fact that in the past plural and in the past participle the accent fell ORIGINALLY on the termination. Similarly, (for) léosan,—léas,—luron,—loren, from which last form we have our word forlorn, meaning, therefore, ‘completely lost.’ Already, however, in Anglo-Saxon, in very many verbs all traces of this grammatical change have disappeared, and the history of the strong conjugation in Middle-English shows the gradual supersession of the consonants in the past plural and past participle by those found in the present and past singular. Hence those forms in which these older consonants remained were more and more isolated from the groups with which they are etymologically connected; and as little as in popular consciousness to rear is grouped with to rise, so little is the adjective forlorn thought of as a member of the group to lose, lost, etc.

We have had already more than one occasion to point out that not only words, but also syntactical combinations and phrases can and do form matter groups. Nay, even the various meanings of a syntactical relation are thus combined.

Such a relation, for instance, is that expressed by the genitive. Though we employ—and formerly employed more generally than now—this case with various meanings, all these meanings are more or less 175 (rather less) consciously felt as one, or at least are closely related—and they continue to be so felt, i.e. the grouping remains a close one—as long as these various usages remain general and what we may call living. When, however, any one of these usages becomes obsolete, and the relation indicated finds another form of expression in some other syntactical arrangement, some few examples of the older mode of expression, strengthened as they are by, e.g., very frequent employment, remain, but cease to be felt as instances of that relation.

Thus, though the meaning of the genitives in This is my father’s house, and in God’s goodness is essentially different—the one expressing an ownership of one person with regard to a material external object, the other the relation between a being and an immaterial inherent quality,—both are felt as one kind of relation; nay, the superficial thinker has some difficulty in fully realising that they express really TWO meanings. More easily felt is the difference between the Latin and French ‘genitivus subjectivus’ and ‘genitivus objectivus:’ amor patriæ, l’amour de la patrie (the love for our fatherland, ob. gen.), and amor matris, l’amour de la mère (the love which our mother feels for us, sub. gen.). Yet, once more, even this difference is not always realised by every one who uses both constructions. Another use of the genitive once was to form adverbs. As long as any genitive could be thus employed, we may be sure that the ordinary speaker will have grouped, when thus using it, not only the particular form with other cases of the same noun, etc., but also the genitives, as such, with other genitives. When, however, other modes of forming the adverbs prevailed, the old genitival adverbs which remained were no longer felt as 176 genitives, and became isolated and no longer productive as examples for other formations. A remnant of this genitive survives in needs, and perhaps in Shakespeare’s Come a little nearer this ways (Merry Wives, II. ii.; ed. Collier);90 in straightways, and certainly in M.E. his thankes, here unthankes (libenter, ingratis), or A.S. heora ágnes ðances (eorum voluntate). It further survives in adverbs derived from adjectives: else (from an adj. pron. el) unawares, inwards, upwards, etc.

Similarly the preposition of, which early began to serve as a substitute for the genitive, has been employed in some adverbial and other expressions. This usage, however, if it ever was really “alive,” is now completely dead. We find I must of force (Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV., II. ii.) and my custom always of the afternoon (Hamlet, I. v.); and still can say of an evening; all of a sudden; but not, e.g., of a moment. Nor should we now imitate Shakespeare’s not be seen to wink of all the day (Love’s Labour’s Lost, I. i. 43); Did you not of late days hear (Henry VIII., II. i. 147), though we still have of late, of old.

Many other prepositions offer in their constructions illustrations of isolation. Thus, e.g., the combination of any preposition with a noun without an article was exceedingly common in the older language, and we still possess a numerous collection of such combinations in almost daily use. Thus we find indeed, in fact, in truth, in reality, in jest, etc., a construction which perhaps may yet be considered a living one when the noun is an abstraction. Adverbs of place, however, such as in bed, in church, are no longer formed at will: no one would say in house, in room.

So, again, we have at home, at sea, at hand, but 177 not at house,91 at water, at foot. We can throw something overboard, but not over wall or over river. We can stand on shore, on land, on foot, on board, but do not speak of standing on bank, on ship. We can sit at table, not at sideboard. One may come to grief, to ruin, but cannot omit his or her in come to ... death. We can say by night, by day, by this day week, but not by spring, by winter. Lastly: we travel by land, by sea, by water, by rail; we send a packet by parcel delivery; we communicate by letter, or by word of mouth, but should not ask for information by saying, Let me know by line (instead of by a line), will you?

In the isolation of the genitives, which we discussed above, and in all similar syntactical isolations, it would perhaps be correct to distinguish two phases of development, or—as they are not necessarily chronologically separated—two sides of the same process. For while in course of time, as we have seen, one of the SYNTACTICAL MEANINGS OF THE GENITIVE CASE became isolated from the other relationships expressed by that same case, we must, on the other hand, also remember that this involved an isolation of certain formal or modal groups (in this case, of —s forms) from their historical nominatives, which in most cases in its turn caused, or was accompanied by, a more or less clearly marked separation in development of meanings. When the genitive case was no longer generally employed to form adverbs from nouns and adjectives, words like needs, straightways, else, upwards, were no longer felt as genitives, and we now feel that the adverb needs is not in our consciousness grouped with the noun need, in the same way as, for instance, the nom. plur. needs with the sing. need; nay, if we carefully examine the meaning of the adverb, we find that its material 178 meaning no longer completely coincides with that of the noun.

The various meanings of the NOUN need are urgent want, poverty, position of difficulty, distress, necessity, compulsion; the ADVERB answers only to the last two: He must needs go could not be used for He must go on account of urgent want, or as a consequence of poverty or distress, but only for He must go of necessity, indispensably, inevitably.

Such formal isolation, then, is almost always at the same time a material one. Thus, we may say that the noun tilth is not so intimately connected with the group I till, tilling, well tilled, etc., as, e.g., writing is connected with to write, etc.; and this because the suffix -ing is a living and productive one, i.e. one which still forms verbal nouns at our will, whenever the need arises, and from whatever verb; whilst the suffix th is no longer so used, being at the present day comparatively rare in English (health, wealth, strength, length, breath, width), and, indeed, more often occurring as an adjectival than as a verbal suffix.

The closest groups are naturally always those consisting of the different inflected forms of the same noun or verb, and the ties connecting the members of such a group are undoubtedly stronger than those between words of different functions, etymologically connected, but whose mode of formation or derivation is not so vividly realised by the ordinary speaker. This is so true, that the same form, when used as present participle, must be said to be more closely connected with the other parts of the verb than when used as an adjective; and this can be proved by the fact that often such an adjective has undergone changes in meaning in which the verb and even the present participle, as such, has not participated. Thus, e.g., 179 the present part. living, in ‘he is living,’ whether we mean this for ‘he is alive’ or ‘he is dwelling in ...’ has the same usage as the verb he lives, and no more. This is, however, no longer true of the ADJECTIVE living, in a phrase like ‘I give you living water.’ To realise this we need but replace the adjective by a relative clause, ‘which lives,’ when we at once feel that we extend the use of the verb in an unusual way. Thus, again, the NOUN writing, in ‘These are the writings of ...’ for ‘These are his (perhaps printed) works,’ has an application which we could not give to the verb to write.

This illustrates the fact that a development in meaning of a derivative is not necessarily shared by or transferred to the primary word, whilst any extension of usage of such parent-word is likely to spread to its derivatives. The same is of course true of simple and compound words. Hence the process of isolation of derivative from primary, or compound from simple, generally originates in change of meaning in the former of each of these groups. Thus, the noun undertaker is isolated from the verb to undertake in consequence of a restriction of its meaning to the person who makes it his profession to undertake the management, etc., of funerals. So, again, though the noun keeper = guardian, watchman, protector, is applied to a certain gold ring, we could hardly say that such a ring keeps the others. A beggar, originally ‘one who begs,’ is now one who ‘habitually begs and obtains his living by doing so,’ while, if ever we do apply the term in the wider and older sense, we often indicate—in writing at least—the closer connection with the verb to beg by using the termination er, the characteristic termination of the nomen agentis begger. There is, in German, a very interesting word which illustrates 180 this fact to an extent which it would be difficult to parallel completely in English. By the side of the verb reiten, ‘to ride,’ a noun ritter exists, of which the original meaning was merely a rider. Like our word ‘beggar,’ this ritter was specialised in meaning, and applied to one who rides habitually and as a profession, i.e. a warrior who fights on horseback. When these warriors began to form a privileged body (an order to which many were admitted who never, at least professionally, rode) the noun attained a meaning to which no verb could correspond.

Again, some adverbs, especially such as emphasise our expressions, have developed in meaning often much further than the primary adjective has followed them. Thus very, as adverb a mere emphatic word, has, as adjective, retained much more fully its original meaning of true: cf. this is very true, very false, with, a very giant. It is the same with the adverb awfully, now indeed common, but noted by Charles Lamb as a Scotticism, and with the adjective sore, and the adverb sorely.

It is, however, not always the derivative which, in its isolation, assumes the modified signification. The primitive may change, and the derivative remain stationary. Thus the English shop, as a place for retail trade, has been displaced in America by store, while shop comes to have the value of work-shop, machine-shop, etc. Yet the derivative shopping, a much-used word in America, retains a reminiscence of the older value of shop.

To return for a moment to the example which we gave from German: the verb reiten (pronounced with a vowel sound closely resembling that of i in to ride) and the noun ritter (i nearly like i in rid, or, more correctly, like ee of need, but shortened), show a 181 gradation of vowel-sound, of the same nature and origin as that in such pairs as write, wrote; sing, sang; give, gave. This change in vowel-sound without doubt co-operated in effecting the isolation, and so facilitated the change in meaning in the one form; a change in which the other did not participate. Thus, speaking generally, phonetic development, by creating numerous meaningless distinctions, loosens the modal and material groups, and serves to forward isolation of meaning. Thus, again, the special meaning which we now attach to the verb to rear would have been more likely to transfer itself to the primary verb to rise, or—vice versâ—the meaning of the primary to rise would have almost certainly prevented the special development of to rear, if the etymological connection had not been obscured by the phonetic development which we formulate as Verner’s law, i.e. if the grouping had not been loosened.

It is, moreover, clear that if, from whatever cause, an interchange of certain sounds becomes less frequent in a language, those words which do preserve that interchange become ipso facto more strongly separated. Thus, e.g., the umlaut, i.e. the change of u (sounded as oo) to ü (sounded as u in French, the Devonshire u; more like English ee than like English u), or of a (a as in father) to ä (sound much like a in fate, but without the ee sound which in English follows it), etc., is in German so common that in no case is its presence or absence alone sufficient to effect the isolation of any form from its related group. In English, this interchange has almost completely disappeared, and the few traces of it which we preserve in the plural formation (foot, feet; tooth, teeth; mouse, mice; man, men, etc.) are only preserved as so-called ‘irregularities,’ and no longer form a model or pattern for other formations. 182 Hence in English, where, besides umlaut, we have difference in function (e.g. adjective and noun), the isolation has often been complete. Thus, no ordinary speaker groups the adjective foul with the noun filth; and the connection, though still felt, between long and length, broad and breadth, is undoubtedly less clearly felt than between, e.g., long and longer, or broad and to broaden, high and height: similarly, the difference in vowel between weal and wealth, (to) heal and health, has facilitated isolation of these forms.

If phonetic development were the only agent in the history of language, we see that, shortly, an infinite variety of forms, absolutely unconnected, or at best but loosely connected, would be the result. But here, as always, we have action and counteraction.92 This counteracting influence is chiefly exerted by analogy, as we explained in Chapter V. It is, however, not always analogy which brings about the readjustment or unification.

We have already had occasion to point out that our word-division, though undoubtedly based on real and sufficient grounds, is not consistently or even commonly observed in SPEAKING. Our thoughts are, indeed, expressed not in words but in word-groups; and letters, even though they stand at the end or at the beginning of words, have often had a special phonetic development, in cases where these words occurred in very frequent or in very intimate connection with other words. The differences so created have very commonly, though not by any means universally, found expression in writing. As an instance of a differentiation of which the written language takes no cognisance, we may take the French 183 indefinite article. Few are unaware that when un stands before a consonant the n is not pronounced, leaving in the spoken word only a trace of its existence in the fact that the vowel is nasalised. When un comes before a vowel, on the other hand, the vowel is much less strongly, if at all, nasalised, and the n is clearly pronounced. Thus (using the circumflex to indicate the nasal quality of the vowel and ö for the sound of u in un), un père = ö̂ père, but un ami = ön ami or ö̂n ami. The corresponding difference which exists in English is expressed in writing: a father, an aunt.

Just as the article is closely connected with the noun, so preposition and noun, or preposition and verb, are very intimately connected in pronunciation. Hence—though many, who have never carefully observed either their own pronunciation or that of others, may dispute or deny the assertion—in ORDINARY conversation, in the phrases, in town, in doors, we employ the n sound; but when the word in stands before Paris and Berlin, we use an m sound, just as we say impossible by the side of interest. Similarly, we pronounce generally ‘in coming’ with ng for n, just as we speak of a man’s ingcome. This differentiation of the pronunciation of the preposition in into three forms—in, im, ing—is not, however, consistently expressed by us in writing. The Greeks, on the other hand, who similarly differentiated the terminal consonants of the prepositions in their spoken language, but on a much larger scale (accustomed as they were to a far closer correspondence between their spoken and their written language than the Englishman observes), did actually, in many cases, write as they spoke: κάδ δὲ,—κὰκ κεφαλὴν, κὰγ γόνυ—κὰπ πεδιόν, etc., instead of employing the normal form of the preposition, κατά. So we find in inscriptions τὴμ πόλιν, τὴγ γυναῖκα, τὸλ λογόν, ἐμ πόλει, etc. 184

The first step on the road towards unification is frequently that the external reason which caused the difference in form, disappears or loses force, and one form is found in connections where, historically or phonetically speaking, the other is correct. We may instance this by the common mistake of children when they say, e.g., a apple instead of an apple. In this case, however, the correct form is so very frequently heard that the encroachment of a on the domains of an is not likely to lead to permanent confusion. Where, however, circumstances are less favourable to the preservation of the historically correct usage, it happens that either form encroaches on the domain of the other, or else it may result that the encroachment is reciprocal,—when, after a period of confusion in which both forms are used indifferently, one becomes obsolete and falls into oblivion, not without often leaving some striking form or phrase to testify to what once existed. Thus, for instance, our word here, Old High German hier, or hêr, was, in the period of transition from Old to Middle High German, differentiated in accordance with a phonetic law of that time, viz. that final r was dropped after a long vowel. If not final however, r remained untouched, and this whether it stood in the body of a word or within a group of intimately connected words. Of the two forms hie and hier, the former, as the form employed when the word was used independently, was in Middle High German often set before words beginning with a vowel; and we find hie inne (= here-in) or even, by contraction, hinne, for hier-inne. On the other hand, it is probably owing to the frequency of combinations similar and equivalent to our here-in, here-upon, etc., that the form hier encroached successfully upon the domain of hie, and finally supplanted it. Hie, however, remained, singularly 185 enough, in the one expression hie und da (here and there), where the form without r is not and has never been, phonetically speaking, correct. An excellent example of this differentiation is furnished by one, an.

The best example of the process is furnished by the history of the working of Verner’s law, and of the gradual disappearance of its effects. We have before (pp. 172, 173) explained this law and quoted instances of forms created in agreement with it, which have now been replaced by others. To repeat this explanation here with other examples would be superfluous; to give a full history, even confining ourselves to an enumeration of all the various ways in which it has been operative and the areas of its influence, would transcend the scope of this work. To carefully note all instances of its occurrence and its neglect, and to closely investigate the possible courses of the latter, is a task which may most usefully challenge the attention of philologists. We will illustrate the truth of this by a single example: (though even this we cannot discuss exhaustively). The forms which we employ at present as the past tense of the verb to be—sing. was and plur. (with grammatical change according to the law) were, belong to a root which in old English and Anglo-Saxon furnished a complete verb: pres. wese, past. wæs, p. part. wesen. Now we should naturally expect that in a time when the grammatical change was still preserved in freóse, fréas, fruron, froren, (to freeze) etc. ceóse, céas, curon, coren, (to choose) seóðe, seáð, sudon, soden, (to seethe, to boil) we should also find that change here, and that accordingly the past participle should be *weren. That such 186 a form once existed is proved by the past participle forweorone (cf. Sievers, Anglo-Saxon Grammar, § 391). Everywhere, however, in Anglo-Saxon, in the past participle of this verb and in that of all similarly conjugated, such as lesan, læs, lesen; genesan, genæs, genesen, etc., the s has once more been fully established. The fact that these past participles had already so far proceeded on the road to unification, while the others as yet remained isolated, may be explained in this way,—the latter, IN ADDITION to the differentiation in accordance with Verner’s law, showed a difference of vowel-sound, which in the case of others did not exist. Hence the forms differentiated in two distinct ways were able to resist the tendency towards unification long after those which differed only in one respect had succumbed. In fact, of the former we still have such remnants as forlorn, from to lose; sodden, from to seethe. We may formulate the result which we have illustrated, thus: The greater the phonetic distance of two differentiated forms, the greater is the power of resistance against unification and equalisation.

But the ORDER in which we see the traces of the working of Verner’s law disappear one after another, and the study of such few remnants as still exist, brings out two other general truths concerning unification. We may without hesitation affirm that, close as is the etymological connection between the various tenses of the same verb, or, to speak perhaps more correctly, that clearly as that connection is felt by the speech-making community, it is still more strongly felt as between the various forms of the same tense, or the various cases of the same noun. Now, it is against the differentiation between the members of these most intimate groups that unification first takes place. In the declension of the noun, where nothing but the operation of 187 Verner’s law had separated the various cases, the re-assimilation first took place, and though we can prove that, in this case also, the differences actually once existed—in the historic periods of the Teutonic dialects almost all traces thereof have been obliterated. In the past tenses of the verbs they are still at first found, supported as the differentiation had been by that other force—the gradation of vowels (the ‘ablaut’).93 But again: unification between the singular and plural of the past tense took place first in cases where the vowels were alike in both, and next in those where the vowels differed—and again, this occurred before the unification of the past participle with the whole group. In agreement with this same rule, that very difference of vowel-sound has completely disappeared in all past singulars and plurals, even where—as, e.g., in German generally—the past participle still preserves the ‘ablaut.’

We can then lay it down as a second rule, that the closer the etymological connection is between differentiated forms, the sooner will unification be effected; whilst a consideration of such rare instances as the preservation of the interchange of s and r in I was, we were, which is clearly due to the very exceptional frequency with which these forms must always have been used, and the consequent firmness with which they are impressed on every speaker’s memory, exhibits a third law, viz. that the greater the intensity with which differentiated forms are impressed upon the minds of the community, the greater will prove their power of resistance against unification.

It is further evident that in cases where the differentiation 188 of form had been accompanied by one in meaning, the tendency towards unification was counteracted, or rather can never have existed. Thus, the pair of words glass (etymologically = the shining substance) and glare (to shine) is separated once and for ever. We have seen the plur. dawes re-united to sing. day; the verb to dawn has not followed suit.

Though thus much is clear, and when once apprehended, almost self-evident, we must acknowledge that much is as yet obscure and unexplained. It is often already very difficult to find any reason why in one case unification has taken place and not in another, which apparently presented the same conditions: it is generally harder still to find an answer to the question why in any given case one form has prevailed over another, instead of the converse having happened. Omniscience alone could answer all such questions: but here, again, a few general observations may serve to explain some points, though, as we have said, much as yet remains inexplicable. Thus, for example, when unification replaces the confusion which followed differentiation, members of the same formal or modal group (that is to say, for instance, the same parts of speech) are likely to follow in the same direction. Thus, e.g., in the original Teutonic, when the suffix no was preceded by a vowel, that vowel varied in the different (strong and weak) cases of the declensions of nouns, adjectives, and participles, according to fixed rules, between u and e. This u developed into o or a, and e into i. Soon unification took place, in some cases in one, in others in another direction, so that we find, for instance, in Gothic a form like ðiudAns (king) by the side of maurgIns (morning), whilst now, the past participles (formed with this same suffix) all have ans throughout; such participles as became pure adjectives 189 or nouns have often ins, e.g. gafulgins (adj. ‘secret’), past participle, of filhan, ‘to hide,’ with fulhans as past participle, = hidden; aigin (neuter, hence without s in nom.) = property, is past participle of aigan, ‘to have.’

Sometimes—as, for instance, in the singular and plural of past tense in strong verbs—a differentiation coincides with difference in function, though its origin was independent of any such functional divergence. This, of course, strengthens the phonetic differentiation, and, if such a coincidence affects simultaneously a formal group of large extent, and thus becomes a model for analogical formations (Chap. V.), the originally meaningless phonetic divergence may become indissolubly associated with difference of function, and so become expressive of the latter.

Thus, for instance, the words tooth, foot, and man form their plural teeth, feet, and men by umlaut, and by umlaut alone. This modification of the vowel is, then, here expressive of plurality. Originally, however, it was not so. In Anglo-Saxon the declension was— Singular Nom. and Acc. fót tóð mann Gen. fótes tóðes mannes Dat. fét téð menn Plur. Nom. and Acc. fét teð menn   fóta tóða manna   fótum tóðum mannum When once the combined force of nominative, accusative, and genitive had ousted the modified vowel from the dative singular, the whole singular exhibited ó (a) in contrast to the nominative and accusative plural with é (e). This caused the transference of the latter to the genitive and dative plural also, and thus 190 invested the modification with a force originally quite foreign to it.

In English, no doubt owing to the mixed influence upon that language of two very different grammatical systems (the Teutonic of Anglo-Saxon, and the Romance of Norman-French), unification has proceeded to a far greater length than in most other Teutonic dialects. In German, e.g., the history of the umlaut and the origin of plurals in er—of which English has no trace but the provincialism childer, or the “correct” form children—furnish examples of what we have said; and students of German will find a careful investigation of that history both interesting and instructive. 191

CHAPTER XI.
THE FORMATION OF NEW GROUPS.

The effect of sound-change is to produce differences in language where none previously existed; but it likewise tends to cancel existing differences, and to cause forms originally distinct to resemble each other or actually to coincide. Now, symmetry and uniformity are clearly an aid to the memory, when attained by the abolition of useless and purposeless differences. It is, for instance, in English, far simpler to state, and far more easy to remember the statement, that all plurals are formed by adding s to the singular, than that some are formed in -n, or -en, or by such modifications as man, men; foot, feet; etc.: and it is therefore a gain to language when such forms as shoon, eyen, etc., disappear in favour of such forms as shoes, eyes, etc. On the other hand, the cancelling of such differences when they serve to mark different functions is naturally disadvantageous and tends to obscurity. When a sound which marked such a functional difference disappears, or when of two words or forms which had different meanings one becomes obsolete, and the other is employed to do service for both, it is clear that language cannot but be the loser by dispensing with an important aid to clearness and distinction. Thus, of the two forms mot and moste, the former has now 192 disappeared, and the latter, in the form must, serves to indicate both the present and the past tense. The effect of this ambiguity is that where we wish to clearly indicate the past of must, we have to employ some idiom in which must has no place; as ‘was obliged to,’ ‘had to,’ ‘was constrained to,’ etc. Similarly, the loss of the plural s in very many French nouns (which s, though still written, is seldom sounded) would create ambiguity were it not that the difference of the article attached to the noun marks the difference, and to a large extent remedies the evil; cf. l’ami, les amis.

The remedy, however, for such obscurity is not always to be found in the context. Sometimes, indeed, the evil brings its own cure; changes arise which enable the necessary distinctions to be once more felt and maintained, creating new forms by analogy with other forms (see Chapter V.): but, on the other hand, it frequently occurs that the evil remains, and a confusion follows in the grouping of the words; which grouping, as we have seen, is all-important in the life history of the members of the group.

We must in this chapter endeavour to study some of the results of this confusion, and consequent re-arrangement in the groups; and to distinguish the cases where similarity caused by phonetic development affects the matter-groups from those where the modal-groups are influenced.

I. i. There are many cases where words connected neither by etymology nor by signification fall into the same form.

Still, in spite of this similarity in form, the words remain perfectly distinct in the linguistic consciousness of a speaker of ordinary intelligence. Such are, e.g.,—

1. a. Hale, in such a phrase as hale and hearty. 193 This word is of Scandinavian94 origin (cf. Icelandic heill), and represents the Anglo-Saxon hál, to which word we owe the misspelt word whole. b. Hale, ‘to drag,’ found in Middle-English as halien.

2. a. Whole = A.S. hál; see above. b. Hole = A.S. hol, ‘a cave.’95

3. a. Grave (A.S. gráfan). b. Grave (Fr. grave, Lat. gravem).96

4. a. Cope (O.Fr. cape). b. Cope (Dutch koopen = to bargain, to chaffer, to buy, to vie with).

5. a. Stile (A.S. stigel). b. Stile (commonly misspelt style, Lat. stilum).

6. a. Well, adverb (A.S. wel). b. Well, noun (A.S. wella).

7. a. Arm (Lat. arma). b. Arm, the limb, cognate with Ger. arm.

8. a. Lay (A.S. lecgan). b. Lay (O.Fr. lais, ‘song’).

9. a. Pale (Fr. pal, Lat. pāum). b. Pale (Fr. pâle, Lat. pallidum).

10. a. Elder, the tree (A.S. ellarn). b. Elder, ‘older.’ 194

It would, of course, be possible to extend this list to almost any length; but this would be useless for our purpose, which is to investigate solely those cases in which similarity causes confusion. This happens where the difference in origin and meaning is lost sight of. It is naturally impossible to draw a hard and fast line of demarcation between the case just discussed and that which we are about to exemplify, as one speaker may keep distinct what another may confuse or treat as identical. Still, no one, we may fairly say, unless he be a student of language, or unless he has been expressly informed, is aware that in a phrase like The ship is bound for London, the word bound employed by him has absolutely no connection with the past participle of the verb to bind. In the first case, bound is of Scandinavian origin, and meant originally ready, prepared; cf. the Icelandic verb búa, perf. part, búinn, ‘to prepare.’ Similarly, few ordinary speakers can explain, or indeed realise, the existence of the distinction in meaning between shed, ‘a hut’ (a doublet of shade), and shed in water-shed, when derived from the A.S. scéadan; or that between sheer, allied to Icelandic skærr, ‘bright,’ and sheer, akin to Dutch scheren, ‘to shave.’ Thus, again, many might suppose that some etymological connection existed between hide, ‘a skin’ (A.S. hýd, akin to Ger. haut), and hide, ‘to conceal’ (A.S. hídan); while others, when told that hide also served as the name for a certain measure of land, might naturally even suspect some allusion to the famous legend of the foundation of Byrsa or Carthage. The A.S. noun setl (a seat) and the verb settan survive both in the word settle and in to settle. In employing, however, the word in ‘to settle a dispute,’ we have a word of very different origin: the A.S. sacu, ‘a quarrel,’ ‘dispute,’ ‘lawsuit’ (surviving in ‘for my sake’, etc.), 195 existed side by side with a verb sacan, ‘to strive,’ or ‘dispute:’ akin to this, we find saht, a substantive which owes its meaning, ‘reconciliation,’ to the development lawsuit, adjustment by lawsuit, etc. Again, derived from this we have the verb sahtlian, ‘to reconcile,’ which, at a later period, occurs in the forms saztlen and sattle.97 When this verb ceased to be understood, confusion with the other verb to settle = to fix, to arrange, arose, and the two forms ‘flowed together, just as two drops of rain running down a window-pane are very likely to run into one.’98 Another instance of this nature is discussed by Professor Skeat, s.v.; viz., sound = A.S. sund, akin to the Ger. (ge)sund; sound, ‘a strait of the sea,’ and sound’ M.E. soun, Anglo-Fr. soun or sun, Lat. sonum.

ii. Such forms, where phonetic development brought about merely a close resemblance without producing perfect similarity, and where, as a next step, one or other of the set of words underwent some change more or less violent in consequence of its supposed connection with the rest, are peculiarly instructive, proving as they do the confusion which arose in the minds of the speakers who thus combined what was distinct and unconnected. In these cases we have entered upon the domain of ‘popular etymology,’ to which we have already incidentally alluded.

It does not, however, always follow that the supposed connection in meaning—in other words, the coalescence of elements of different origin into a single material group, brings about the further change in form; at this period nothing but the linguistic consciousness of the speaker can decide whether the 196 ‘popular etymology’ is or has been at work. Of course, as long as the etymology of the different words in the set is clearly understood by the speaker, there can be no question as to the connection, but when one or more of the members of the set is no longer understood in its historical bearings, it is possible for a new grouping to arise.

Let us take, as an instance, the word carousal. This bore originally the sense which it bears in the Parisian name of the Place du Carrousel, viz. a tournament or festival. It was confused with the word carouse (Ger. gar-aus = properly ‘quite out,’ i.e. ‘empty your glasses’); and at present our word carousal represents both. The Anglo-Saxon word bonda meant a boor, or householder. His tenure appears expressed in Low Latin by the word bondagium, and it is only to a supposed, but wholly erroneous connection with bond and the verb to bind, that our present word bondage owes its sense of servitude.

The Fr. sursis gave us, before its final s had ceased to be pronounced, our verb surcease, which most speakers now look on as a compound of cease (Fr. cesser).99 Wiseacre, really derived through the Dutch from the Ger. wízago (A.S. witega, ‘a prophet’), was already, while on its way to England, misunderstood in Holland, and taken to be a compound of wise. In Dutch, a verb wys-seggen and a noun wys-segger (‘to speak wisely’ and ‘a wise sayer’) were formed, 197 and modern German as well possesses the word weissagen, ‘to prophesy.’ This wys-segger, when it reached England, could no longer be understood as a derivative from the verb secgan, which in English had already lost its guttural and had become (to) say; and thus popular etymology altered the second part of the supposed compound into the meaningless acre. The Fr. surlonge, the piece of meat ‘upon the loin’ (Lat. super, Fr. sur, and Lat. *lumbea, from lumbus, Fr. longe), became in English the surloyn in the time of Henry VI. This was no longer understood; the word was accepted as a compound with the word sir, and thus the fable was invented of the ‘merry monarch’ knighting the loin.100 The berfroit or belefreit of Old French is of German origin, and signifies a watchtower. The word had ceased to be understood, and its origin was forgotten; but, as many towers contained a bell or a peal of bells, a supposed connection with these bells caused the word to be changed into belfry. The spelling is affected in sovereign, where the g is due to a supposed connection with to reign (régner, regnare); the real derivation being from soverain (superaneum), and the word being correctly spelt sovran by Milton. Further instances are lance-knight (= lanz-knecht = landes knecht = ‘the knight, i.e. the man-of the land,’ ‘the servant of his country’); cray-fish (= écrévisse); shamefaced (really shamefast, like steadfast), etc.

In other cases of rarer occurrence than those which we have discussed, a significant part of a compound assumes the form of a mere derivative. This has occurred in the case of the word righteous, taken to be a derivative from some French adjective in -eux, Lat. -osus, though really due to right-wise, a compound like otherwise. It is natural that Proper nouns, where 198 there is no connection or only a fanciful one between the word and its meaning, should be more liable to such transformations than others; so the Rose des quatre saisons appears as the quarter-sessions rose, the asparagus appears as sparrow grass, the ship Bellerophon becomes the Billy ruffan,101 the Pteroessa, the tearing hisser. We may perhaps add here a word like liquorice, which, though the name, rightly understood, is descriptive, has become a mere proper noun. Originally from liquiritia, itself a corrupt form of glykyrrhiza = ‘a sweet root,’ it has, as its spelling shows, become connected with liquor,102 while those who deemed this impossible preferred to explain the word as connected with to lick.103

II. Important, then, as the part played by phonetic development is in bringing about the formation of new material-groups, it has made its influence felt more widely still in the modal grouping of the various systems of inflection.

Here, again, two cases should be distinguished: (1) when forms which have had identical functions come to coincide: (2) when such coincidence occurs in the case of forms that have had different functions.

1. The cancelling of diversities in form or in inflection when such inflection indicated no difference in function must obviously on the whole be set down as a gain to language: simplicity is gained thereby without any loss in clearness. This gain, however, is only effected 199 when the abolition is complete; should the abolition be partial only, simplification may be gained at the expense of a new confusion.

We have an example of such a complete process of cancelling in the terminations er and est in the comparative and superlative of adjectives. In Gothic the comparative was formed either with the suffix iz or ôz, the superlative with ist or with ōst; and, except, indeed, that the forms in iz and ist were more common than those in ôz and ôst, and that the latter are found only with stems in a, no rule can be given for their occurrence. Thus mānags (an a stem) has in its comparative managiz-a, superlative managists; alðeis (ja stem) alðiza, alðists; hardus (u stem), hardiza, hardists; but frôðs, frôdôza, frôdôsts; arms, armôza, armôsts.104 In Old High German there was a similar uncertainty. Here the z of Gothic appeared as r in the comparatives,105 and while salîg has for its comparative salîgôro and its superlative salîgôsto, we find (h)reini, (h)reiniro, (h)reinisto.106 In Anglo-Saxon we find already but a single termination for the comparative, viz. ra; but the two forms of superlative are still extant in ost and est; earm, earmra, earmost; heard, heardra, heardost; but eald, ieldra (with umlaut or modified vowel),107 ieldest. Our forms hard, harder, hardest; old, older, oldest; silly, sillier, silliest, etc., are clearly a further step in the right direction of simplicity in system.

The convergence is, however, not always complete: sometimes it happens that two systems coincide; and 200 this coincidence may be (1) in ALL FORMS but only in SOME WORDS belonging to each system; or, again, (2) it may manifest itself in ALL WORDS but only in SOME FORMS; and, lastly, this coincidence may affect (3) only SOME WORDS in SOME FORMS of two converging systems.

In the case of (1) the convergence is complete and irrevocable, and words which formerly belonged to one system have simply parted company with it, and have definitely joined the other to which they were assimilated. In the cases, however, of (2) and (3), confusion must arise, and further development must be looked for. We find a good illustration of this confusion and of its development in the history of the Teutonic declensions. In the case of these, as of other Indo-European languages, the declensions differed as the stems of the words terminated in a consonant or a vowel; and amongst the latter, again, we must draw distinctions between the declension of stems in a, (o), i, and u. In the a declension, again, a subdivision arose for pure a, ja, wa, and long ā stems. These different terminations of the stems are, for instance, clearly preserved in Gothic dat. and acc. plur. dags, dagam, dagans; gasts, gastim, gastins; sunus, sunum, sununs; and (with Gothic ō instead of ā) gibā, gibōm, gibōs. In the oldest forms of Scandinavian, the so-called Ur-Norse, also, we find the vowels preserved in the nominative singular, holingar, erilar, etc., gastir, staldir, etc., haukoður, warur:108 but even in these, the oldest forms of the Teutonic dialects accessible to us, the various systems were confused; and it is the study of Comparative Grammar that we have to thank for the distinction between the different classes; and, again, it is only owing to the light shed on the subject by the comparison with Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit cognates, 201 that we are enabled in some instances to decide to which of these classes any given word belongs. The ‘wearing down’ of the various terminations produced here identity, elsewhere close resemblance of many cases in many words, while in other cases the influence of the preceding letter made itself felt, and a difference in declension arose for the a stems: this difference depending on whether the a was preceded by a consonant i (j) or w. Where phonetic development had caused some of the cases to agree, other cases soon followed suit, and thus we find, for instance, that even in Gothic the entire singular of i declension has already become identical with that of the a stems:—

    a stem. i stem. Sing. Nom. dags balgs   Gen. dagis balgis   Dat. daga balga   Acc. dag balg   Voc. dag balg Plur. Nom. dagôs balgeis   Gen. dagê balgê   Dat. dagam balgim   Acc. dagans balgins.

As a consequence of this, numerous words which cognate languages prove to belong to the i declension are nevertheless entirely declined like a stems in Gothic; and even in the very few Gothic texts which we possess, and though these are derived from one source only, we meet with words evidencing the fact that Ulfilas himself (or, it may be, his copyist) was sometimes confused as to the declension usually followed by some word in his own language. Thus, in case of wêgs (a wave), we find norm plur. wêgôs, but dat. plur. wêgim; so too, the dat. plur. of aiws is 202 aiwam, while the accus. is aiwins. In Old High German the coincidence in termination between these two schemes goes further, and extends over all cases; but since—in such words as had a, o, or u, in the preceding syllable—umlaut had been produced in the plural by the i of the stem, only those words whose stem vowel would not admit of umlaut or modification became throughout identical with the a declension. Where the reverse was the case, the words naturally remained distinct in the plural, and a further development arose; viz. that this umlaut in the plural began to be regarded as a sign of that number, and to be used for the purpose of marking it even in words whose etymology afforded no justification for the change, e.g. in hand, hände, which word originally belonged to the u declension. See also our remarks in Chapter V. pp. 87 and foll.

2. So far, in every case which we have discussed, we have had to do with similarity arising from phonetic development of forms with identical functions: one or more cases of one system converged with the same cases in another system. Often, however, this same phonetic development creates a similarity between forms which were originally distinct and served distinct purposes; and we have a good instance of this in our personal pronouns, and one which is instructive as to the consequences of this phenomenon:— The Gothic ik meina mis mik   ðu ðeina ðus ðuk   weis unsara uns uns   jus izwara izwis izwis already shows no difference in the forms of accusative and dative plural; but in Anglo-Saxon we find that a further stage has been reached:— 203 In ic mín mé mé   ðú ðín ðé ðé   wé úser ús ús   gé eówer eów eów we see (though separate forms for accusative still occur) that dative and accusative have become identical throughout, and so it is in the modern language with— I mine me thou thine thee we our us ye (you) your you The double form of the nominative ye (you), and more especially the history of the pronoun for the third person, illustrate one of the consequences of such coincidence, viz. that the language-producing community becomes accustomed to use the same form for certain sets of functions, and transfers this similarity to cases which it would not reach—or, at least, has not yet reached—by the aid of phonetic development alone. Let us consider first the pronoun of the third person. In Anglo-Saxon we find— Sing. Masc. Fem. Neuter. Nom. hé heó hit Gen. his hire his Dat. him hire him Acc. hine hí hit. The forms which we now use for the plural are derived from a different stem,109 which in Anglo-Saxon gave us the following plural for all three genders:— Nom. ðá Gen. ðára, or ðǽra Dat. ðǽm Acc. ðá 204 and here we find distinct forms for dative and accusative, the latter of which has now disappeared, so that here, too (as in the case of the other personal pronouns), we use one form only (the original dative form) for both dative and accusative. But we have only reached this stage after a period of confusion and uncertainty, during which the historically correct form of the accusative and the new form (that of the old dative) strove for permanence.

It is the very marked difference between ic (I) and me (accus.), ðu (thou) and ðe, we and us, which has protected the members of these pairs from becoming identical in form, notwithstanding the important fact that such a process had long since identified the nominative and accusative of all nouns and adjectives. To this influence, indeed, ye and you (both of which, when unemphatic, become ye, where e is pronounced as in the before a consonant) have succumbed.

Not only in this way, moreover, does such convergence of forms with different functions show its effect: it also causes the ordinary speaker to lose sight of such difference in function altogether. As students of Latin, and especially teachers of that language, know by sad experience, it is extremely hard for the untrained English mind to realise the function of the accusative case; and the difference between this case and the dative may be fairly described as non-existent for the Englishman who has not learnt it from the study of other languages. This, again, influences syntax, so that a phrase like I showed him the room can be turned in the passive into The room was shown (to) him, etc., or He was shown the room, etc. 205

CHAPTER XII.
ON THE INFLUENCE OF CHANGE IN FUNCTION ON ANALOGICAL FORMATION.

The careful consideration of such a form as I breakfasted will lead us to understand another phase in the life history of our words, and in the development of their syntactical combinations. It is well known that the word (to) breakfast is really a compound of the verb to break and the noun fast (ieiunium). Accordingly, we find, about the year 1400 A.D., ‘Ete and be merry, why breke yee nowt your fast;’ in 1653, Izaak Walton wrote, ‘My purpose is to be at Hodsden before I break my fast;’ and as late as 1808, Scott writes in his Marmion, ‘and knight and squire had broke their fast.’110 In these and similar cases, the words have retained their full and original meaning of ‘to put an end to fasting by eating;’ and the natural apprehension of this compound when employed as a noun was in the sense of the meal whereby this process is effected after the night’s fasting, i.e. the first meal taken in the day. When once the verb had thus acquired the meaning of ‘to take the first meal in the day,’ and was next applied even in cases where so little food had been taken before that meal as to be hardly worth considering a ‘meal,’ the meaning of 206 ‘breaking the fast’ had been effaced by the new sense of eating the first IMPORTANT meal of the day. The change of meaning, coupled with the change in function, disconnected the compound from the linguistic groups to which it had hitherto belonged, and so it came about that, after the analogy of other verbs formed from nouns, to breakfast was conjugated as a weak verb. Thus, in 1679, Everard writes, After breakfasting peaceably; and about a century later, the word is used transitively in the sense of ‘to entertain at breakfast,’ e.g., They will breakfast you, or I was breakfasted.111

This and all the following examples to be discussed in this chapter illustrate the point that, in the unconscious grouping of our words into material and modal groups, it is mainly the function of the word which causes such grouping; and that a change of function, entailing, as it does, a change in the grouping, will often expose the word which has thus altered its meaning to the influence of analogy with other groups, though as long as it preserved its original meaning it stood quite apart from them. No doubt, however, similarity of form conduces also sometimes to this end. The group to which the word once belonged will then follow its own path of development, while the detached member will go on its new way.

We have a similar instance in vouchsafe: The king vouches it SAUE (Robert of Brunne, early in fourteenth century), where we should now say: The king vouchsafes. The verb to backbite is most probably a derivative from the compound nouns back-biting (of which the earliest instance dates from 1175) and backbitter (which is found as early as 1230); while in the Early English Psalter (A.D. 1300) the past tense 207 is still formed bac-bate. Gower (1393) already formed the past participle back bited.112 Again, the noun browbeating (from ‘to beat one’s brows,’ i.e. ‘to lower the brows,’ ‘to frown’), found as early as 1581,113 became, from a compound noun, a simple one with the meaning of scolding or teasing; and gave rise to a verb to browbeat, of which the earliest known instance dates from 1603. It is, however, doubtful whether this verb has hitherto been definitely separated from the group to which etymologically speaking it belongs. The past participle brow-beat (1803; Jane Porter, Thaddeus) occurs, it is true, but the more usual form is as yet browbeaten.

The most ordinary results of this process are, of course, all the numerous formations from nouns that have been pressed into the service of verbs; as, I box, He boxed; (to) dust, (to) soap, (to) dog, etc., etc.: in the case of all which, the change of function must have preceded all forms due to analogy with the groups into which the word entered solely in consequence of that change. So, again, as long as a word has an adjectival function, and even when it is used substantively, but retains its original attributive meaning, it is, in English, not declined: as the POOR men; the POOR ye have with you always; the BLUE hats. When, then, only certain individuals belonging to the class designated by the adjective have to be indicated—and not, as in the case of the poor,—all the individuals possessing the quality of poverty,—we resort to the addition of the word ones: as, I do not like those green hats; I prefer the blue ONES. As soon, however, as the word loses its real signification, and passes into a proper noun, it is at once declined: as, the Grays, the 208 Pettys, the Quicklys; the Blues, the Liberals, the Conservatives, etc.114

It may happen that the position of the accent aids to produce change of function, as in the case of prófecto (pró facto), and in the very interesting case of igitur, which has been shown to be the enclitic form of agitur, originating in the common Plautine phrase (Quḯd agitur) Quíd igitur.115

The case is similar with the adverbial termination -ment in French and -mente in Italian, from the Latin mente. Cruellement (crudeli mente) and fièrement are intelligible formations; but solidement, lourdement, etc., are formed upon their analogy. At first applied only to adverbs of manner, the termination was transferred to adverbs of time and space; as, anciennement, largement. Our English termination -ly (from like) is a familiar instance of the same degradation of the final syllable: cf. godlike, by the side of godly.

The word self was originally an adjective meaning in Anglo-Saxon and Middle-English ‘the same,’ and declined in apposition with the noun or personal pronoun to which it was attached to mark emphasis. It then stood in the same case, number, and gender, he selfe, his selfes, him selfum, hine selfne, etc., gen. and dat. sing. fem. hyre selfre, etc. The history of the development from this usage to our present one is not quite clear; but we should remember that the terminations of the adjective were among the first to wear off completely, or at least to become confused and indistinct; and, further, that the accusative of the personal pronouns, was at an early date merged into 209 the dative. We thus obtain the following schematic declension:—

Singular.

Nom. I self thou self he, she, it self Gen. my self thy self his, her, his self Acc. }
Dat. } me self thee self him, her, him self

Plural.

Nom. they selve Gen. their selve Acc. }
Dat. } them selve

Now, if we bear in mind that in these combinations the accent fell upon the word self (or selve), and that consequently the proclitic forms my, me, and thy, thee, in the genitive and dative had the same sound respectively,—and, further, that in the feminine of the third person singular (herself), these two cases were also alike,—it does not seem strange (1) that these two cases (genitive and dative) became confused, and (2) that the word self became a noun, as exemplified in such phrases as I said it to herself. Once having changed its function, the word assumed the flection of the new group to which its new function had attached it, and a plural form, as of a noun, arose—themselves, ourselves, theirselves.116 When once a single form served in three (genitive, dative, accusative) of the four cases, it not unnaturally succeeded in ousting the last, and succeeded all the more easily as I self was, of course, wrong, if self was a noun.

It is not, however, an invariable rule that the new 210 associations into which a word enters in consequence of its change of function entail a change of form in the word. In Latin the word frugi was originally the dative case of a word frux, gen. frugis, meaning fruit, profit, advantage; and is actually employed by Plautus, with the full consciousness of its origin, in the phrase bonæ frugi esse (Asin., III. iii. 12). In fact, this use is exactly parallel to the use of usui in bono usui estis nulli, in Plautus, Curculio, l. 499; but in this case, usui, owing to its frequent occurrence, preserved the memory of its origin fresh. Cicero, however, treats frugi simply as an indeclinable adjective: Homines et satis fortes et satis plane frugi et sobrii (In Verrem, v. 27). Instances are also frequent where a change in meaning brings about a change in syntactical construction. Thus, for instance, in Latin we find that the nominative quisque is coupled with the reflective pronoun in the plural almost in the signification of singulatim.117 In Plautus we find præsente testibus (Amphitruo, II. ii. 203), and, in Afranius and Terence, absente nobis (Eunuchus, IV. iii. 7); in these cases the participles approach the characteristics of prepositions. A similar development gave to the present participle considering its present prepositional force. Macte is used similarly. Age! in Latin is used as generally as Come! in English, irrespective of the number of persons addressed; cave is used in the same way. Paucis is used for ‘a little’ in ausculta paucis (Terence, Andria, 536). Hélas is used in French by women equally as by men; φέρε, ἰδού, in Old Greek, are addressed to either one or many persons indifferently. In the same way, in late Greek, ὤφελον and ὤφελε were employed simply as conjunctions, without any consideration of number or person, 211 the original construction having been Ὀλέσθαι ὤφελον τῇδ’ ἡμέρᾳ = ‘Would that I had perished on that day!’ In English albeit is used simply as a conjunction, and may be, in the sense of perhaps, is showing a tendency to fuse into one word, as it is actually written in American conversational language mebbe.

In German we find expressions like Heb hinten über sich das glas, ‘Raise your glass high’ (Uhland, Volkslieder) instead of über dich. In the same way we find in Latin suo loco, etc.; and in Latin law formulæ, Si sui juris sumus, where we should expect Si nostri juris sumus (i.e. ‘If we stand in our own rights’). In Old Norse a middle and passive is formed by the aid of a reflective -sik (sese), which is, of course, properly applicable to the third person only: it appears later as -st; thus, at kalla, ‘to call;’ at kallast, ‘to be called.’ In the same way, we have in English the words (to) bask and (to) busk,118 where the proper meaning of the termination has so completely died out that it is possible to write busk ye. The passive is similarly formed in the Slavonic languages.

Again, change of meaning influences the construction in the case of numerous verbs in Latin, which are properly intransitive, but are used as transitives. Such are perire,119 deperire; demori, used in the sense of ‘to be mortally enamoured of;’ stupere, ‘to marvel at;’ ardere, ‘to love with fire:’ the last-mentioned two words approximate in sense to mirari and amare respectively, and hence the instinct of language employs them in the same government.

The verb to doubt, in the etymological signification of hesitating between two beliefs, was, and is still 212 constructed with whether. If, however, Spenser (Faëry Queene) says— ‘That makes them doubt their wits be not their aine,’
it is because the word is employed in this case, as indeed it frequently is in Shakespeare, in the sense of ‘to fear.’

The verb to babble, originally used intransitively, means to prattle or to chatter. When, however, it is employed in the sense of ‘to speak foolish words.’ or of ‘to reveal by talking,’ it is used with an object in the accusative case, and a passive is formed of it; e.g., Griefs too sacred to be babbled to the world. Again, compound words, as long as they are felt as such by the speakers, are naturally treated as such; cf. the Latin word respublica, which, though we write it as a single word, was declined in both its parts, respublica, reipublicæ, etc. But, when it had once become an indivisible unit—when the form république in French, or the English word republic, was formed with its various meanings, all closely resembling, but not identical with, that of the original compound, the word came to be treated after the analogy of other nouns, and the same derivatives are formed from it as from a simple form; cf. republican, etc. This fact is, again, instanced by such forms as high-spirited (high-spirit + ed, and not high + spirited), gentleman-like (gentleman + like, not gentle + manlike), good-natured (goodnature + ed, not good + natured).

Similarly, the Latin compound i (a demonstrative pronoun) + pse was at first declined as eumpse (e.g., Plautus, Truc., I. ii. 64), eampse, eopse, eapse, etc., all which forms are found in Plautus.120 When, however, 213 the word came to be looked on as a simple word, it was declined as such: ipsum, ipsam, ipso, ipsa, etc.

In German there are many instances of words compounded with adverbs of place which are specially instructive as to the way in which a word may become detached from its previous use by a change of meaning. For instance, in modern German the usage is to say wirken AUF etwas, and not IN etwas, which was the usage even in the last century. In the same way, we speak of influence over as much as of influence on, showing that we have forgotten the significance of in.121

The word welcome in such phrases as I made them welcome is employed as an adjective, as, indeed, it is commonly apprehended to be. It was originally a substantive, and was derived from the infinitive mood of the verb, its meaning being pleasure-comer. The word is popularly supposed to derive from well and come; but the first element in the compound is really related to will—the true sense being the will-comer, i.e. he who comes to please another’s will. (Cf. Ger. willkommen.) The change in meaning seems due to Scandinavian influence, for in the Scandinavian languages the word is really composed of the adjective well and the past participle come; cf. Danish velkommen (welcome).122

The expression Quin conscendimus equos (Livy, i. 57) is properly Why do we not mount our horses? but is understood as Let us mount our horses; and in accordance with such usage quin may take after it an imperative, as quin age; or a hortative subjunctive, as quin experiamur? The sense of cur in some cases approximates to that of quod; and hence we find the word followed by a similar construction, in Horace, 214 Ep. I. 8. 9;—irascar amicis, Cur me funesto properent arcere veterno. The O.Fr. car underwent a similar change. Derived from quare it meant, in the first instance, then; as, Cumpainz Rolond, l’oliphant KAR sunez (Chanson de Roland), i.e. Compagnon Roland sonnez DONC l’oliphant;123 it next came to be used like que or parceque after phrases like la raison est; and it then comes to be used with the conditional and imperative in the sense of utinam (cf. Diez, iii. 214).

In O.Fr. the word par (Latin per) was used for much. It took this sense from its use in combinations like perficere, perraro, etc., but it was detached from the verb, and was habitually used in O.Fr. in such combinations as par fut proz = il fut très preux; and in some cases coupled with other adverbs, like moult and tant; as, tant par fut bels = il était si beau, literally tant beaucoup (Chanson de Roland). The phrase survives in par trop.124

The Greek οὐκ οῦν, originally not therefore, like the Latin nonne, serves to introduce a question expecting an affirmative answer. It then comes to be used to introduce direct positive assertions; thus, οὐκοῦν ἐλευθερία ἡμᾶς μένει; from meaning ‘Does not, then, freedom await us?’ comes to mean simply ‘Therefore freedom awaits us.’ The word nanu in Sanskrit has gone through a similar development. Ne in Latin, properly the interrogative particle, comes to be used as the correlative of an:—faciatne an non faciat; or even faciat, necne. Similarly, in Russian, the interrogative particle li comes to be used as the correlative of ili (or); as ugodno-li vam eto? (‘Is this agreeable to you?’); but we then get combinations like dyélaet-li, ili ne dyélaet (‘whether he does it or no’). 215

The accusative with an infinitive could originally only stand in connection with a transitive verb as long as the accusative of the subject was regarded as the object of the finite verb, as audio te venire; but the accusative and infinitive came to be regarded as a dependent sentence with the accusative as its subject, and then we find the construction after words like gaudeo, horreo (Livy, xxxiv. 4. 3), doleo (Horace, Odes, iv. 4. 62), etc., which can properly speaking take no accusative of the object connected with them; as gaudere, dolere, infitias ire; nay, we find it after combinations such as spem habeo, etc. The accusative and infinitive construction then passes into sentences which depend on another accusative and infinitive, as (1) into relative sentences loosely connected; e.g. mundum censent regi numine Deorum—ex quo illud natura consequi (Cic. de Fin., iii. 19, § 64): (2) into sentences of comparison; e.g. ut feras quasdam nulla mitescere arte sic immitem ejus viri animum esse (Livy, xxxiii. 45): (3) into indirect questions; e.g. quid sese inter pacatos facere, cur in Italiam non revehi (Livy, xxviii. 24);125 (4) into temporal and causal sentences; e.g. crimina vitanda esse, quia vitari metus non posse (Seneca, Epist., 97. 13). A similar extension of the use is found in Greek.

The possessive cases mine, thine, his, her, its, our, your, their have passed into the category of adjectives, as in the case of Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? (1 Henry IV., III. iii. 93). The instinct of language regarded mine, thine, etc., as the equivalents of of me, of thee, etc.; and marked the function by the addition of the possessive preposition of, as in this inn of mine. Thus, again, a gerund like killing,126 from having the 216 same form as the participle, can be used in expressions like the killing a man, instead of the killing of a man.

We not only find that the word which changes its function undergoes the consequent changes in form or in syntax, but it also often happens that, owing to functional changes participated in by a certain group of words, such a group becomes detached, and thereby gains independence enough to influence other words that have cognate meanings. There are in Old English, as in German, many adverbs which are in their origin the genitives singular of strong masculine and neuter substantives, such as dæges (by day); but the origin of the termination has been forgotten, and the s has come to be looked upon as a merely adverbial termination. Consequently we find the adverb nihtes (by night), though niht is really feminine, and its genitive case is properly nihte. Similar formations are hereabouts, inwards, othergates (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, V. i. 198), towards, whereabouts, etc. In the same way, the genitive plural of Anglo-Saxon substantives in -ung (later -ing) could be used adverbially; as,—án-ung-a, án-ing-a, (altogether), genitive plural of ân-ung, a substantive formed from án (one): after this analogy others were formed: as, hedling, afterwards altered to headlong; darkling, etc. 217

CHAPTER XIII.
DISPLACEMENT IN ETYMOLOGICAL GROUPING.

We have already more than once had occasion to point out that, in our individual vocabularies, two classes of words are inextricably confused. In the first place, we employ such words and derivatives of words as we REPRODUCE by the aid of MEMORY, which recalls to us what we have frequently heard from those with whom we have intercourse. In the second place, another part of our stock of words and verbal derivatives is FORMED by us on the MODEL OF OTHER FORMATIONS of the first class.

Only in a very few cases is it possible for any speaker to decide, with absolute certainty, whether any particular form which he may employ with perfect familiarity belongs to the former or the latter group. If, for instance, we hear the simple sentence, ‘He is walking,’ there is nothing which can help us to determine whether the speaker is merely reproducing the word walking just as he has learnt it from others, or whether he is forming the present participle of and from the word ‘(to) walk’ after the model of other similar derivatives. In the chapter on Analogy, we considered principally cases falling under the second class, in which the result of such a process as we have described proved at variance with other forms already 218 existing in the language, i.e. where Analogy brought about certain changes. The cases in which the result was the mere production of what we should have reproduced by the simple aid of memory, we considered as of very small importance for the purpose of illustrating the operations of Analogy.

But it is far from true that they have no significance. Every time that we consciously or unconsciously form words ‘by analogy,’ our habit of doing so is strengthened, and our confidence in the results is increased; and the more we enter upon domains of thought where we are comparative strangers, the more confidently and the more consciously do we proceed ‘to make our own words.’ In this process of word-making, we follow certain models; in fact, we derive one form from others which exist in our own vocabulary.

In words and forms reproduced by memory (though only in the case of such as these) it is, strictly speaking, correct to say of each form—tense, person, singular or plural, or of each case—that it is derived, not from what our grammars call the standard forms (such as infinitives or nominative-singulars), but from the corresponding older form of that tense, person, etc., in the language as it existed before.

In words and forms produced, not from memory, but by analogy, i.e. by derivation according to a certain model, and from words which already exist in our own vocabulary, even where our result does not differ from what we might have produced by memory, it does not at all follow that our process of derivation has been the same as that by which former speakers reached their results.

For instance, suppose that there exists a class of adjectives really derived from verbs. In the course of 219 development of the language, these verbs approach in form to the cognate nouns, or—for whatever reason—some of the verbs become obsolete. The effect will be that, in the consciousness of the ordinary speaker, the adjective appears as derived from the noun.

It is our object in this chapter to study the phenomenon of such displacements in the etymological connections and the consequences which follow therefrom.

A good instance may be found in the history of the suffixes ble, able, and their application.127 Both these suffixes we owe to the French language, which, in turn, derived them from Latin.

In this latter language we find the suffix bili-s, bilem, forming verbal adjectives. Where the stem of the verb ended in a consonant, the connecting vowel i was inserted: vend-e-re, vend-i-bilis. Where the stem ended in a vowel this insertion was of course unnecessary: honora-re, honora-bilis, dele-re, delebilis, (g)no-scere no-bilis, etc. By far the greater number of these words in ble were derived from verbs in are, of which the present participle ends in ans, antem. Hence, though the words in ble were in reality not immediately derived from this participle, a feeling arose that such a connection existed. Among ‘the matter-groups’ in French their existed numerous pairs, such as aimant, aimable, etc. In time, all present participles in French came to end in this termination ant, after which an adjective in able, derived from such participles, nearly always supplanted the older and correcter forms in ible, etc. Hence came forms like vendable, croyable, etc.

The suffix able, introduced into English in enormously preponderating numbers, was there at first 220 confined to words of French origin, but soon, by analysis of such instances as pass-able, agree-able, commend-able, was treated as an indivisible living suffix, and freely employed to form analogous adjectives, being attached not only to verbs taken from French, but finally to native verbs as well, e.g., bearable, speakable, breakable. These verbs have often a substantive of the same form, as in debat(e)-able, rat(e)-able, etc. Owing to this, a new displacement such as we are here studying occurred, and such words, treated as if derived FROM THE NOUN, became the models for others where able is added to nouns, such as marketable, clubbable, carriageable,128 salable.

Another suffix, the history of which affords an instance of similar displacement is ate as verbal formative.129

We find in French several past participles, some due to regular historical development of the popular language, others to deliberate adoption by the learned classes, all of which differ only from their Latin prototypes in having lost the termination us: e.g., confusus, 221 Fr. confus; contentus, content; diversus, divers. This analogy was widely followed in later French in introducing new words from Latin, and, both classes of French words (i.e. the popular survivals and the later accessions) being adopted in English provided English in its turn with analogies for adapting similar words directly from Latin by dropping the termination. This process began about 1400 A.D., and the Latin termination atus gave English at, subsequently ate, e.g. desolatus, desolat, desolate. The transition of these words from adjectives and participles to verbs is explained by Dr. Murray by a reference to the fact—

(a) That in Old English verbs had been regularly formed from adjectives: as, hwit, hwitian (‘white,’ ‘to whiten’); wearm, wearmian (‘warm,’ ‘to warm,’); etc.

(b) That with the loss of the inflections, these verbs became by the fifteenth century identical in form with the adjectives, e.g., to white, to warm.

(c) That, as in Latin, so in French, many verbs were formed on adjectives; whence, again, English received many verbs identical in form with their adjectives, e.g., to clear, to humble, to manifest.

These verbs, though formed immediately from participial adjectives already existing in English, answered in form to the past participles of Latin verbs of the same meaning. It was thus natural to associate them directly with these Latin verbs, and to view them as their regular English representatives. This once done, it became the recognised method of Englishing a Latin verb, to take the past participle stem of the Latin as the present stem of the English, so that English verbs were now formed on Latin past participles by mere analogy and without intervention of a participial adjective; e.g., fascinate, concatenate, etc. These English verbs in ate correspond generally to 222 French verbs in er,—e.g., separate, Fr. séparer; this, in turn, gave a pattern for the formation of English verbs from French,—e.g., isoler (Ital. isolare, Lat. insulare), Eng. isolate, etc.

To this lucid and apparently adequate explanation we must, however, add another fact, which has demonstrably aided in the formation of the enormous number of English verbs in ate. From the fourteenth century onward, we find again and again such pairs as action (1330), to act (1384);130 affliction (1303), to afflict (1393); adjection (1374), to adject (1432); abjection (1410), to abject (1430), etc.131

Such pairs led to the supposition that the verbs were derivable from the nouns in tion by merely omitting the ion, and this was done with many nouns in ation even where another verb (itself the ground-word for that form in ation) existed by the side of it. Thus we find, e.g., aspiration (1398), to aspire (1460), the verb aspirate (1700); attestation (1547), to attest (1596), to attestate (1625); application (1493), to apply (1374), to applicate (1531).132 223

The suffix full forms adjectives from nouns: baleful, A.S. bealofull from bealu (woe, harm, mischief); shameful, A.S. sceamfull from sceam (shame). This ending was also added to nouns of Romance origin; e.g., powerful, fruitful. In both classes, however, the word might, in very many cases, be just as well derived from a verb as from a noun, so that, e.g., thankful, which originally undoubtedly was = full of thanks, could equally well be apprehended as he who thanks; respectful, as he who respects; etc. It is similar with such words as harmful, delightful, etc. That such a grouping has actually been made, is proved by the occurrence of such forms as wakeful, forgetful, and the dialectical urgeful; so also the form weariful seems more likely to be interpreted as that which wearies, than as a derivative from the adjective weary as Mätzner seems to take it.133 So, again, the form maisterful, found in Lydgate and Chaucer,134 seems more likely to be taken as ‘he who is always mastering,’ than ‘as he who is full of master,’ which gives no sense. The suffix less, originally and still as a rule only added to nouns, could not have been used with the verb to daunt (—O.Fr. danter, Modern French, dompter, Lat. domitare, ‘to tame,’) if in such compounds as restless, sleepless, hopeless, useless, the noun had not been identical in form with the verb. 224

The history of the suffix ness, is also especially instructive for our purpose. If we go back to the oldest records of the Teutonic languages, Gothic, we find a noun, ufarassus, literally ‘overness,’ used in the sense of ‘abundance,’ ‘superfluity,’ from ufar, ‘over:’ similarly formed was ibnassus, ‘equality,’ from ibns—‘even,’ ‘equal.’ This suffix assus was very frequently added to the stem of verbs which, in their turn, were derived from nouns. Thus, for instance, besides the noun—

lekeis (leach), we find lekinon (to cure), lekinassus (leachdom). shalks (servant), ” shalkinon (to serve), shalkinassus (service). gudja (priest), ” gudjinon (to be priest), gudjinassus (priesthood). frauja (Lord), ” fraujinon (to rule), fraujinassus (dominion). ðiudans (king), ” ðiudanon (to be king), ðiudinassus (kingdom).

In all these and similar cases, however, etymological consciousness might equally well operate otherwise. It might, for instance, derive a noun meaning kingdom from another noun denoting king, or one meaning priesthood from one denoting priest. That this has been done is proved by the fact that the n has coalesced completely with the suffix assus, forming nassus, or, in its more modern form, ness. Even in Gothic, this coalescence has already been powerful enough to produce vaninassus (want) from vans (adjective = ‘wanting,’ ‘less;’ found, e.g., in wanhope = ‘lack of hope,’ ‘despair:’ wanton, = ‘uneducated,’ ‘untrained,’ ‘unrestricted,’ ‘licentious:’ and wane = ‘to grow less’).

In Anglo-Saxon, adverbs were formed from adjectives by means of the termination e: for instance, heard, hearde, (‘hard’) ; sóð, sóðe, (‘true,’ cf. soothsayer and forsooth); wíd, wíde, (wide). Adjectives in lic were formed first from nouns: eorð, eorðlic, (‘earth,’ ‘earthy’); gást, gastlic, (‘ghost,’ ‘ghostly’), etc.; and 225 then, also, from other adjectives, as heard-heardlic, æðele-æðelic, (for æðel-lic), etc.

By the side of these adjectives, we naturally find adverbs in lice, normally formed from them by the addition of e; as, æðelice, etc.; but as soon as, owing to phonetic decay of the terminations, the adjectives and adverbs in both sets of words (both in those with and without lic) came respectively to coincide,—when, for instance, heard and hearde had both become hard, and adjectives in lic and adverbs in lice had both come to terminate in ly,—then the adjective that had never ended in lic came also to be grouped with the adverb in lice, or rather ly, and ly became the special and normal adverbial termination: as in prettily, carelessly, etc. Thus were produced a great quantity of adverbs, the adjectives corresponding to which never had the termination ly.

Modern English possesses remnants of all the above original formations; as, for instance, the adverbs (with loss of adverbial e) hard, in ‘to hit hard,’ loud, in ‘to speak loud,’ etc.; or, again, the adjectives heavenly, earthly, kingly, goodly, etc. 226

CHAPTER XIV.
ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF MEANING.

Language develops by the development of the vocabulary of individual speakers in the same linguistic community: their tendency is to produce synonymous forms and constructions in addition to those already at their disposal. Each individual is, in fact, constantly engaged in increasing the number of synonymous words, forms, and constructions in the language which he speaks. One source of this superfluous development depends on analogical formation: as when in English the imperfect is assimilated to the participle, or the participle to the imperfect; as where forms like spoke and broke appear beside spake and brake or held, beside holden.

A second source of the same superfluity depending on synonyms arises from the fact that of two words, each may develop its meaning on its own lines, and the meanings may come to converge so as to become one and the same. Thus, for instance, the two words relation and relative, the former originally the abstract verbal noun, the latter an adjective, have converged in the meaning ‘a related person;’ and it has thus happened that owing to this process there arise two terms for one and the same idea. To the above a third source may be added; viz., the acceptance 227 of a foreign word into a language where a native word already exists to express the same idea. Of course English is especially rich in words of this kind, owing to the large number of Norman-French words imported at the Conquest and maintained as an integral part of the language; though the process of borrowing from French has been also active since the epoch of the Conquest: such are the pairs nude, naked; pedagogue, schoolmaster; poignant, sharp; peccant, sinning; sign, token: other familiar instances are tether, derived from the Celtic at an old date; and loot, adopted from the Hindi, by the side of plunder. The case is, of course, similar where a synonym is adopted from another dialect, as vetch by the side of fitch, vat beside fat (a vessel), etc.

But though such superfluities in language are continually appearing, they have a constant tendency to disappear on the earliest possible occasion. Language is a careful housewife, who is constantly endeavouring to keep nothing on hand but what she can use, and carefully to retrench the superfluous. We must, of course, never suppose that any body of speakers combine to admit a word into the common language which they employ, and that then, finding that the word or form has its meaning already expressed in their language and is therefore unnecessary, they proceed to discard it. These new words and forms proceed in each instance from individuals, who overlook the existence in their own language of a term already in use for some meaning which they need to express, and so introduce a new form: this is then employed by others, who, hearing the new form and the old, employ both alike indiscriminately. Superfluity in language, then, must be regarded as spontaneously arising, and without the aid of any voluntary impulse on the part 228 of any individual or individuals. The language of common life is, as might be expected, most ready in freeing the vehicle of ordinary communication from superfluities, and in the differentiation of synonyms. The language of poetry and, in a less degree, of written prose, demands a store of synonyms, on which an author may draw at will, thereby forming an individual style and avoiding monotony. It is as useful, nay, as indispensable to the poet that he should have a store of words with similar meanings which he may employ for the purposes of his artificial style, as it is for the ordinary speaker or writer to have a distinct shade of meaning attached to each of the synonyms which he employs. And as poetry makes greater demands upon the taste and powers of an author than prose, we find that the language of poetry preserves archaic forms and words which in prose have been practically obsolete. In fact such words become the stock in trade of all writers of poetry, appearing, of course, most frequently in those who seek to invest their work with a peculiarly archaic caste. Thus, the diction of Spenser must have appeared almost as archaic to his contemporaries as to ourselves.135 Poetry will also maintain constructions which have a tendency in prose to become obsolete: as, meseems; Time prove the rest. The metaphors employed in old Norse poetry are very instructive on this head. They have been treated at great length in the ‘Corpus Poeticum Boreale’ by Vigfusson and York Powell, from whose work136 we cite the following instances. The breast is spoken of as the mind’s 229 house, memory’s sanctuary, the lurking-place of thought, the shore of the mind, the bark of laughter, the hall of the heart. The eye is the moon or star of the brows, the light or levin of the forehead, the cauldron of tears, the pledge of Woden. Herrings are the arrows of the sea, the darts, the tail-barbed arrows of the deep. Ships are characterised by a host of metaphors; as, the tree or beam, the sled, the car, the beam or timber of the sea or waves; the steeds of the helm, oars, mast, sail, yard: and numerous other specimens of ‘pars pro toto.’

The most simple and obvious case of retrenchment in language is where, out of several similar forms and phrases, all disappear and are disused except a single one; as where to grow is used instead of to wax; to go, instead of to fare, etc. We must look upon these retrenchments in language as mainly due to individuals; each speaker expresses himself more or less unconsciously with a certain consistency, and uses, generally speaking, what we may properly call his own dialect. It is owing to such individual influence that the distinctions in language which we call dialects arise, and thus the different opportunities for choice form a main source of the distinctions of dialect.

In addition to this negative process of simply dropping what is useless, there is the positive process of utilising what is superfluous in language by differentiation of meaning in the case of synonymous words and phrases. This process is no more the result of conscious purpose than the other. Since each individual has gradually to learn the different senses of words, inflections, particles, etc., it is clear that when there are several synonyms in use—each of which has several shades of signification—he will almost certainly hear one of them used in one, and another in another of these meanings. If, for instance, we represent the 230 full meaning of a word in its different shades by the letters A + B + C + D, and, similarly, that of its synonym by a + b + c + d, the probability almost amounts to certainty that when a learner first hears the former word, the shade of meaning (say B) in which it happens to be employed will differ from that (say d) in which he first learns the use of the latter. He will then inevitably, though perhaps unconsciously, attach by preference these particular shades of meaning to the two words; and will continue to do so, unless stronger impulses, such as frequent use in other meanings by surrounding speakers, force him to discard the differentiation which he has established. But from the moment when he begins to use, and as long as he uses the word consistently in one sense, he will influence others in the same linguistic community, and lay the basis for definite acceptance of the word in a particular or special sense.

Nor, again, must we assume that a differentiation in sound was purposely and consciously made by speakers with a view to differentiate meanings. Cases taken from modern languages may serve to show the unreasonableness of such assumptions. Especial attention has been paid by writers on Romance Philology to the ‘doublets’ occurring in their own languages. By ‘doublets’ we mean the double derivative forms of one and the same word (such as raison, ‘reason,’ and ration, ‘allowance,’ both coming from rationem): forms commonly appearing in a language at two different periods in the history of the language, and invested, in spite of their common origin, with distinct and special senses. The name of ‘doublets’ was first applied to them by Nicolas Catherinot, who, as early as 1683, published a list of those which he had observed in French, but without giving the reasons for 231 the phenomenon. How imperfect the philological knowledge of his day was may be seen from the following specimens of ‘doublets’ which he gives: from BATTUERE, Low Latin for ‘to fight,’ he derived both battre (to fight) and tuer (to kill): from GRAVIS (heavy), grave, serious; brave, brave: from MARMOR (marble), marble, marble; marmot, guinea-pig.137 A. Brachet has collected many other specimens in the work cited below: Coelho has made a collection from the Portuguese in the Romania, II. 281, sqq.138

It must, however, be noticed that many of the doublets cited in these works stand outside of the class of those with which we have to deal, and such cannot be taken as real cases of differentiation. For instance, a loan word may immediately upon its introduction have been accepted in a sense different from that borne by the word of the same origin which already existed in the language: as in the case of chantée (sung, fem. past part.) and cantata (cantata, a piece which is sung, as distinguished from a sonata, a piece which is sounded or played), borrowed from the Italian by the French; of sexte (term in music and ‘the sixth book’) with its doublet sieste (the hour of rest) borrowed from the Spanish siesta, both derived from the Latin sextam; of façon (manner) with its doublet fashion, borrowed from the English, both from Latin factionem, ‘a making.’ Thus, again, the French 232 chose (a thing) and cause (a cause) alike owe their origin to the Latin causam, but the meanings were not differentiated in France: cause was borrowed as a law-term long after chose had developed into the general meaning of thing. It is the same, moreover, with such English doublets as ticket, etiquette: army, armada: orison, oration: penance, penitence. Such doublets as these, and guitar, zither, cithara may be called pseudo-doublets, producing as they do the effect of differentiation, but serving really as labels to designate a foreign idea or object. Nor, again, must we include cases in which a word became grammatically isolated and then received a special meaning; such as where ‘bescheiden,’ in German, is now employed with the signification of ‘modest,’ while ‘beschieden’ is used as the true participial form, and never means, or has meant, ‘modest.’ Similarly, in French, we have savant (a scholar) originally used as synonymous with present participle sachant (knowing) but in modern French as an adjective or noun only, whilst sachant has always remained present participle and no more: amant, the present participle of amare (to love) is used as a substantive only.139

There are, however, other cases in which words are really differentiated; that is to say, cases in which two words, whose meaning we know to have been identical, have come to be accepted in different meanings. This is a genuine process of economy in language. In French s’attaquer à and s’attacher à at one time were used with identically the same meaning and employed indifferently. Attaquer is used in the sense of ‘attacher’ in this line of the fourteenth century—Une riche escarboucle le mantel ataqua (‘a rich carbuncle attached (= held) the mantel’) 233 (Bauduin de Sebourc, i. 370). On the other hand, attacher is used in the sense of ‘to attack:’ as in the following passage, quoted by M. Brachet140 from a letter of Calvin to the regent of England,—Tous ensemble méritent bien d’estre réprimés par le glayve qui vous est commis, veu qu’ils s’attaschent non seulement au roy, mais à Dieu qui l’a assis au siège royal, = ‘All together deserve to be put down by the sword which has been entrusted to you, seeing that they attack not merely the King, but God who has set him on the royal seat.’ (Lettres de Calvin recueillies par M. Bonnet, ii. 201). In modern French attacher is used exclusively in the sense of ‘to attach’ ‘to fasten;’ attaquer = ‘to attack.’ Another instance is found in chaire and chaise, both of which words came into French from cathedram, and both of which once signified the same thing (Theodore Beza, in 1530, complains of the faulty pronunciation of the Parisians who say chaise instead of chaire). At the present day, of course, chaise means ‘chair,’ and chaire is confined to the signification of ‘pulpit’ or ‘professor’s chair.’ In English, shoal and shallow seem to have been used synonymously, and to have become differentiated.141 Other instances are of, off; naught, not; assay, essay; upset, set up; Master, Mister (Mr.); Miss, Mistress, Mrs. (pronounced Missus). In these cases, the differentiation took place within the given language; and such cases should be carefully distinguished from those cases in which the differentiation 234 was made outside of the language. For instance, in squandered and scatter, both of which seem to have signified the same thing, simply ‘to disperse’; cf., squandered abroad (Merchant of Venice, I. iii. 22). Indict and indite seem to have borne the same meaning, but are now differentiated.

To these may be added the German doublets reiter (a rider) and ritter (a knight), which may be paralleled by the use of the English squire and esquire; of which the latter word has lately come into use simply as a title of society, whereas both forms were once used as in Scott’s nine and twenty squires of fame. Other instances are scheuen, ‘to fear,’ and scheuchen, ‘to scare:’ jungfrau, ‘maiden,’ and jungfer, ‘virgin.’

Double forms arising from the confusion of different methods of declension are often used in different senses, as in the case of the Latin locus, whose plurals loca and loci mean ‘places,’ and ‘passages in books’ respectively: the German Franke, the Franconian franken, ‘a franc’ (9½d.): this difference is utilised, together with a difference of gender, in the German der lump, ‘the worthless fellow;’ die lumpe, ‘the rag;’ etc. The difference of gender cannot be utilised in English, but is thus utilised—in German—in such cases as DER band, ‘volume;’ DAS band, ‘ribbon:’ DER see, ‘the lake;’ DIE see, ‘the sea:’ DIE erkenntniss, ‘the act of judging;’ DAS erkenntniss ‘the judgment:’—in French, UN foudre de guerre, ‘a thunderbolt of war’ (personified); UNE foudre, ‘a thunderbolt:’ UN critique, ‘a critic;’ UNE critique, ‘a criticism:’ UN office, ‘a duty;’ UNE office, ‘a pantry:’ LE mémoire, ‘memorandum;’ LA mémoire, ‘memory:’ LE politique, ‘politician;’ LA politique, ‘politics:’ LE Bourgogne, ‘Burgundy wine;’ LA Bourgogne, ‘Burgundy:’ LE paille, ‘straw colour;’ LA paille, ‘the straw.’ To these 235 must be added the cases in which double plural formations are differentiated, as in English clothes, cloths; brothers, brethren; cows, kine (poetical); pence, pennies:—in German, Band, ‘bond’ and ‘ribbon;’ Bande, ‘bonds:’ Bänder, ‘ribbons:’ Bank, ‘bench’ and ‘bank;’ Bänke, ‘benches;’ Banken, ‘banks:’ Gesicht, ‘face’ and ‘vision;’ Gesichte, ‘vision;’ Gesichter, ‘faces:’ Laden, ‘shop’ and ‘shutter;’ Läden, ‘shops;’ Laden, ‘shutters:’ etc.142 In French, we have l’aïeul, ‘the grandfather;’ les aïeux, ‘ancestors;’ and aïeuls, ‘grandfathers:’ les travaux, ‘works;’ and les travails, ‘a minister’s reports:’ l’œil, ‘eye;’ les yeux, ‘eyes;’ and les œils (small oval windows commonly called œils de bœuf). The singular appât means ‘bait;’ les appas signifies ‘charms,’ and has a doublet, les appâts, meaning ‘baits.’ In Russian, the accusative plural is the same as the nominative in the case of inanimate objects: it is in the case of animate beings identical with the genitive form. In Dutch, the plurals in -en and -s are used in the case of some words indifferently, as vogelen and vogels, ‘birds:’ in the case of some others, one alone is commonly used, as engelen, ‘angels,’ but pachters, ‘farmers:’ again, in the case of others, both forms are used, but with different meanings; thus hemelen, ‘the heavens;’ but hemels, ‘canopies of a bed:’ letteren, ‘letters,’ or ‘literature;’ letters, ‘letters of the alphabet;’ etc. From the Danish, we may cite skatte, ‘treasures;’ skatter, ‘taxes;’ vaaben, ‘weapons;’ vaabener, ‘armorial bearings.’ From Italian, we may instance braccia, ‘the two arms of the body;’ bracci, ‘arms of the sea;’ membra, ‘the members of the body;’ membri, ‘the members of an association.’ Similarly, in Spanish the neuter of the second declension takes in many cases a feminine form 236 in the plural; and in Portuguese this manner of differentiation is more common than in any other European language: cf. serra, ‘saw,’ ‘mountain ridge;’ serro, ‘a high mountain;’ etc. In Russian, synovya means ‘descendants’; synui, ‘sons;’ etc. The words (to) purvey and (to) provide have arisen from the same original form, as have respect and respite; deploy and display; separate and sever.

The word as, like also, took its rise from the A.S. ealswâ; it is simply a short form of also; and an intermediate form exists in O.E. alse and als. In Maundeville, p. 153, we find the two forms used convertibly: As foule as thei ben, als evele thei ben = so evil they are; and again, als longe as here vitaylles lasten, thei may abide there, p. 130.

Than and thanne were used in Chaucer’s time where we should use then: Now thanne, put thyn hond down at my bak (Chaucer, Cant. Tales, 7721); and in comparisons then was used where we should employ than, as: ‘I am greater then (i.e. than) you.’

In German, the word verdorben means ‘spoiled’ in a material sense: verderbt is employed in a moral sense only. It is the same with bewegt, ‘moved,’ and bewogen, ‘induced.’ In English we employ aged mostly as a participle proper, but agèd as an adjective; cf. also molten and melted.

The words formed with the suffixes -hood, -ness, -dom generally cover the same ground in English as in Anglo-Saxon. There are, however, here also, a few cases in which differentiation seems to have set in. Such are hardihood and hardiness; humble-hede, humble-ness, humility: young-hede, youth. In German, kleinheit and neuheit were used convertibly with kleinigkeit and neuigkeit: now the former = smallness, newness, the latter = trifle, novelty. 237

In the case of adjectives, we may see the same process in mobile, movable: and in German, in ernstlich and ernsthaft which were once used convertibly, but are now differentiated.

Sometimes a word originally of a different meaning encroaches on the domain of another word, and gradually arrogates the latter’s meaning to itself. Thus, in French, the meaning of en, the form taken in French for the Latin in, has been encroached upon by the preposition à, and by the adverb dans (O.Fr. denz = de intus), and dans has completely ousted the prepositional meaning of dedans. Molière could still write dedans ma poche = ‘in my pocket.’ Böse, in German, is now almost restricted to the sense of ‘morally bad’ by the encroachments of schlecht (originally ‘smooth,’ ‘straight’) English slight. The English word sick, once the general word for ill, has been restricted in meaning by the encroachments of the latter word.

Sometimes a newly formed word encroaches on the domain of meaning covered by a word in existence, as to utilise on to use; serviceable upon useful; gentlemanly upon genteel and gentle; magnificence on munificence:143 mainly is encroached upon by chiefly, pursuer by persecutor and prosecutor: and sometimes it practically ousts it from its previous meaning, as in the case of methodist, naturalist, purist, etc.

The above examples may serve to show us some of the main factors in the differentiation of meaning, and with how little conscious design on the part of the speakers they were carried out. 238

CHAPTER XV.
CATEGORIES: PSYCHOLOGICAL AND GRAMMATICAL.

The divisions into which grammarians have distributed words, such as gender, number, and, in the case of verbs, voice and tense, are based upon the function which each word discharges in the sentence. Now, these functional differences rest ultimately upon psychological categories: that is to say, upon differences which depend upon the view taken by our mind of the natural grouping and classification of ideas. In other words, the divisions formed by grammarians depend ultimately upon the classification of the relations in which the ideas suggested by words stand to each other, as it appears to our imagination. Grammatical classification was, in fact, originally nothing but an attempt to express and group the order and connection of ideas as they were conceived of by the human mind. Immediately that this influence of imagination has made itself felt in the usage of language, it becomes a grammatical factor: and the groups which it forms become grammatical categories. But the action of the psychological category does not cease when it has thus produced the grammatical; and the difference between the two kinds is that, whereas the grammatical categories become, so to speak, stereotyped and fixed, those created by the imagination are ever changing; 239 just as the human mind itself is ever changing its ideas. Besides this, changes in sound-groups are always occurring, and are constantly operating to prevent the grammatical categories coinciding with the psychological. Then, as a tendency makes itself felt to bring about a coincidence of the two categories, the grammatical category suffers a displacement, whence arise what we are accustomed to call grammatical irregularities. A consideration of the way in which these irregularities arise may help us to understand the origin of the grammatical categories, to which we now proceed.

Gender.

The foundation of grammatical gender is the natural distinction between the sexes in mankind and animals. Fancy may endow other objects or qualities with sex; but sex, whether fanciful or real, has no proper connection with grammar. The truth of this may be well seen from the English language, in which we have in most cases discarded the use of grammatical gender. In order, therefore, to study the conditions of gender, we have to turn to languages more highly inflected than English.

The test whereby we now recognise the grammatical gender of a substantive is the concord existing between the substantive and its attribute and predicate, or between it and a pronoun representing it—Domus nigra est, ‘The house is black;’ Domus quam vidi, ‘The house which I saw;’ It is the moon; I ken her horn (Burns); etc. The rise, therefore, of grammatical gender is closely connected with the appearance of a variable adjective and pronoun. One theory to explain this is, that the difference in form, before it yet marked the gender, had become attached to a particular stem-ending: 240 as if, e.g., all stems ending in n- admitted the ending -us—as bonus, ‘good,’—and all those in g- the ending -ra—as nigra, ‘black;’—and that the ending may have been an independent word which, while yet independent, had acquired a reference to a male or female.144 Gender appears in English, in the first place, as an artificial and often arbitrary personification, as when the sun and moon are spoken of as he and she respectively, under the influence of the ideas attaching to Sol and Luna: Phœbus and Diana, etc.: and, again, as an expression of interest in objects or animals, it frequently occurs in the language of the people and of children; though it sometimes enters into the language of common life, as when a dog is referred to as he and a cat as she, in cases where sex is not spoken of. (See Storm, die lebende Sprache, p. 418.)

In the pronoun, as in the adjective, the distinction of gender may appear in the stem-ending: as ‘une’ (‘one,’ ‘a’); ‘quæ,’ (‘which’). It may, however, also be expressed by distinct roots, such as er, sie; he and she. It is, indeed, probably in substantive pronouns that grammatical gender was first developed, as in fact it has longest maintained itself; as in English, where, in adjectives and nouns, it has almost entirely disappeared.

Grammatical gender probably corresponded originally to natural sex. Exceptions to this rule must gradually have come about, partly through changes of meaning setting in,—as where a word is used metaphorically, like love (neuter, abstract), love (masc. or fem.—‘the beloved object’); or where it has ‘occasionally’ modified its meaning, like Fr. le guide, strictly ‘the guidance,’ and so used in Old French; 241 your fatherhoods (Ben Jonson). Consequently we find natural sex again influencing the genders as fixed by grammar. Thus, in German, Die hässlichste meiner kammermädchen = ‘the ugliest of my chambermaids’ (Wieland), where the article die is of the feminine gender, though the word kammermädchen, being a diminutive in chen is, like all others of that class, neuter. In French, we have UNE (fem.) brave enfant, ‘a brave girl.’ The word gens, again, is, properly speaking, feminine, like the word la gent, which still survives in the restricted sense of ‘a race:’ but in combinations like ‘tous les braves gens’ (‘all worthy people’) the grammatical gender is neglected; and this neglect is fostered by the use of such a word as braves, which in form might apply to either sex. On the other hand, in combinations like ‘les bonnes gens,’ (‘good people’), where an adjective with a specifically feminine termination is joined to the substantive, the grammatical gender maintains itself. Cf., also, instances like ‘un enseigne’ (‘an ensign’), ‘un trompette’ (‘a trumpeter’); and, in Provençal, ‘lo poestat,’ for ‘the magistrate’ (‘il podestà’). In Latin and Greek, these so-called violations of the concord in gender are very common; we are familiar with them as constructions πρός σύνεσιν, i.e. according to the sense; cf. Thracum auxilia (neuter) ... cæsi (masc.) (Tac., Ann., iv. 48), ‘The Thracian auxiliaries were killed;’ Capita (neut.) conjurationis virgis cæsi (masc.) ac securi percussi (masc.) (Livy, x. 1), ‘The heads of the conspiracy were slain and their heads cut off;’ Septem millia (neut.) hominum in naves impositos (masc.) (Livy, xl. 41), ‘Seven thousand men put on board ships;’ Hi (masc.) summo in fluctu pendent ... tres Notus abreptas (i.e. naves—fem.) in saxa latentia torquet (Vergil, Æn., i. 106-8), ‘Some (of the ships) 242 hang on the crest of the waves ...; three, swept away, the South wind whirls upon hidden rocks.’ In Greek, ὦ φίλτατ’, ὦ περισσὰ τιμηθεὶς (masc.) τεκνον (neut.) (Eur., Tro. 735), ‘O dearest, O much honoured child;’ τὰ τέλη (neut.) καταβάντας (masc.) (Thuc., IV. xv. 1), ‘The magistrates having descended:’ and similar instances frequently in Thucydides.

We next find cases where the grammatical gender has completely changed. Thus, in Greek, masculine designations of persons and animals are turned into feminines by simply referring them to female objects: thus, we have either ὁ or ἡ ἄγγελος (‘messenger’), διδάσκαλος (‘teacher’), ἰατρός, (‘healer’), τύραννος (‘ruler’), ἔλαφος (‘deer’), ἵππος (‘horse’ or ‘mare’), etc. In Christian times, a form ὁ παρθένος (‘an unmarried man’) was constructed (Apocal., xiv. 4), translated into Italian by Vergine. Neuter diminutives in German readily become masculine or feminine when the diminutive meaning has been obscured: as, e.g., the occasional construction die Fräulein, ‘the young lady;’ cf., also, in Latin, Glycerium mea, Philematium mea (Plaut., Most., I. iii. 96), mea Gymnasium (Plaut., Cist., I. i. 2). In English, there are a great number of words which would, in the first instance, be thought of as masculines, as containing a suffix commonly associated with masculine words. These are, however, very frequently used as feminines; and, in some cases, even when a feminine termination exists side by side with the masculine one—as, She is heir of Naples (Shakespeare, Tempest, II. i.): others are enemy, rival, novice, astronomer, beggar, teacher, botanist, etc. Cf. she is a peasant (Longfellow); The slave loves her master (Lord Byron); His only heir a princess (Temp., I. 2); She is his only heir (Much Ado, I. i.); The daughter and heir of Leonato 243 (ibid., I. iii.); She alone is heir to both of us (ibid., V. i.); etc.

If collectives or descriptions of qualities become descriptions of persons, the result may be a change of gender. The Fr. le garde (‘the watchman’) was once identical with la garde (‘the watch,’ vigiliæ); cf. further, in Spanish, el cura (‘the priest’), el justicia (‘the magistrate’): the Old Bulgarian junota (‘youth’), as a masculine, means ‘a youth.’ The Russian Golova means ‘a head,’ and, in the masculine, ‘a conductor.’ Portuguese furnishes numerous instances of this; as, a bolsa (fem.), ‘the purse,’ ‘exchange;’ o bolsa (masc.), ‘the treasurer:’ a corneta, ‘the cornet;’ o corneta, ‘the trumpeter:’ a lingua, ‘the tongue;’ o lingua, ‘the interpreter:’ etc.145 In Italian, podestà (‘magistrate’) is an instance of this. Feminine surnames, again, are frequently added to masculine personal names: cf. Latin Alauda, Capella, Stella; Ital. Colonna, Rosa, Barbarossa, Malespina, etc. So, in French, we find names like Jean Marie.

A word often takes a particular gender from the fact that it belongs to a particular category. The gender of the type of the species, in fact, fixes the gender for other members classed with it. Thus, in English, the word for beast comes from the O.Fr. beste (bête), which is feminine: but this word, and the names of beasts generally, are treated in poetry as masculines, because the Teutonic usage is to treat beasts generally as masculine. Cf. The beast is laid down in his lair (Cowper); And when a beste is deed he ne hath no peyne (Chaucer, Cant. Tales, 1321); The forest’s leaping panther shall hide his spotted hide (Bryant). Numerous other instances are given by Mätzner.146 It is probable that personification aids in fixing the gender in these 244 cases. Similarly, in French, été (‘summer’), from æstatem, has become masculine because the other seasons of the year were masculine. Minuit (‘midnight’) has followed midi (‘midday’); val (‘valley’) has followed mont (‘mountain’), font (‘fount’) fontaine (‘fountain’); aigle (‘eagle’) is masculine because oiseau (‘bird’) is masculine; brebis (‘wether’) is feminine because ovis (‘sheep’) is feminine; sort (‘lot’) is masculine because bonheur (‘happiness’) is masculine; art (‘art’) is masculine because métier (‘profession’) is masculine: mer (‘sea’) is feminine because terra (‘land’) is feminine. In German, again, the names of Tiber and Rhone have followed the model of most German river names, and appear as feminine. In Greek, many names of plants and trees have become feminine, following the model of δρῦς (‘tree’) and βοτάνη (‘grass’); cf. ὁ κύανος (‘steel’), ἡ κύανος (‘the corn-flower’), so called from a fancied resemblance between the plant and the metal. Towns, again, in Greek, show an inclination to follow the gender of πόλις, ‘a city:’ cf. ἡ Κέραμος, from ὁ κέραμος, ‘clay;’ ἡ Κισσός, from ὁ κισσός, ‘ivy;’ ἡ Μάραθος, from ὁ μόραθος, ‘fennel.’

In other cases formal reasons have brought about a change in gender. We have a striking example of this in the feminine gender assumed by abstract nouns in -or in the Romance languages, to which flos (‘flower’) has also added itself. The fact was felt that most abstract substantives were feminine, e.g. those terminating in -tas, -tus, -tudo, -tio, -itia, -ia; and, especially, the feminine termination -ura sometimes was employed as an alternative to -or; cf. pavor (‘fear’), Ital. paura. Again, in Latin, words in -a, when these were not, like poeta, the names of males, were commonly feminine. Consequently, we find that 245 Greek neuters in -μα appear in popular Latin as feminines, a gender which they have in many cases preserved in the Romance languages. Examples of this are seen in schème, dogme, diademe, anagramme, énigme, épigramme, etc. In the same way, in Modern Greek, the old Greek feminines in -ος have in many cases became masculine, as ὁ πλάτανος, ὁ κυπάρισσος, ‘the plain,’ ‘the cypress.’

Sometimes the termination appears altered to suit the gender; thus the Lat. socrus (‘a father-in-law’) produces the Spanish word suegra (‘a mother-in-law’): and, again, sometimes the traditional was the natural gender; and this was an additional reason why the word should alter its termination, instead of being modified by the gender,—thus, in Greek, the α stems which have become masculine, like νεανίας (‘a youth’), have adopted the characteristic s of the masculine nominative.

The way in which natural gender, as viewed by imagination, has affected grammatical gender may be well seen in English. The personal pronouns give the only real traces of grammatical gender left in English, he, she, it; his, her, its, etc. On the other hand, substantives are very commonly referred to one sex or another by writers, and to some extent personified. In these cases sometimes a faint tradition of their Anglo-Saxon gender seems to have lingered, as when, for instance, mammals and reptiles are in poetry spoken of as masculine; e.g., Like the roe (A.S. rá, fem.) when he hears (Longfellow); I have seen the hyena’s (Lat. and Fr. fem.) eyes of flame, and heard at my side his stealthy tread (Bryant). Birds, on the other hand, are treated very often as feminines, irrespective of the grammatical gender possessed by their Anglo-Saxon or French original; cf. But the sea-fowl 246 has gone to her nest (Cowper); A bird betrays her nest by striving to conceal it (Byron); Jealous as the eagle of her high aiery (ibid.); The raven flaps her wing (ibid.); A hawk hits her prey (Halliwell, s.v. ruff); The swan rows her state (Milton).

We must mention one more point which ought not to be overlooked, though, owing to the scanty survival of grammatical gender in modern English, it cannot easily be illustrated by English examples. We have indicated some of the causes which have been active in producing a change of gender; but, besides these, there is a negative one, viz., the absence of impediment to such change, which, in a certain sense, may be said to have contributed to the same effect. The distinction in gender which is even yet marked in French and German by the different forms of the singular article (le, der, masc.; la, die, fem.; das, neut.) has long since disappeared in the plural. We find les, die for all genders. And hence it is clear that such words as were most frequently used in the plural were least closely associated with a particular gender, and were therefore more especially amenable to the influence of any force tending to group them with words of a gender different from their own. For instance, most feminine nouns in German form their plural by adding -en to the singular, while few masculine and only six or seven neuter nouns do the like; as a result of which many nouns, formerly masculine, are now feminine, and this especially applies to cases where the plural was in frequent use.

The neuter, the sexless, owes its origin as a grammatical category merely to the development and differentiation of the two other genders. 247

Number.

As in the case of gender, so, before number passed into a grammatical category, concord must have been developed. Even in languages which, like English, would naturally express the plural by some plural termination, we find words denoting a plurality, and, indeed, a definite number, conceived and spoken of as a unity. Such are a pair, a leash, a brace, a triplet, a trio, a quartette, a dozen, a score.

We find similar cases in the most varied languages: cf. the Fr. une dizaine (‘a collection of ten’), une douzaine (‘a dozen’), centaine (‘a collection of a hundred’), etc.; Ital. una diecina, dozzina, etc.; trave, in Danish, means ‘a score of corn sheaves;’ schock, in German, means ‘sixty;’ tchetvero, in Russian, means ‘a set of four.’ We may add, the curious Latin word quimatus, ‘the age of five years.’

Thus, in like manner, so-called collective nouns are simply comprehensive singular designations of plurality. Now, the speaker or writer may choose to think of the collective of which he is speaking as a unity or as a plurality, and the way in which he chooses to regard it may affect the concord; nay, it may even affect the gender.

The most common case is where a plural verb follows a singular collective noun: as, ‘The whole nation seem to be running out of their wits’ (Smollett, Humphrey Clinker); ‘The army of the Queen mean to besiege us’ (Shakespeare, 3 Hen. VI., I. ii.);147 cf. ‘Even until King Arthur’s table, man by man, had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord’ (Tennyson, Idylls of the King); ‘Pars perexigua, duce amisso, Romam inermes delati sunt’ (Livy, ii. 14) = ‘A very small part, 248 their leader lost, were brought unarmed to Rome;’ ‘Cetera classis, prætoria nave amissa, fugerunt’ (Livy, xxxv. 26) = ‘The rest of the fleet, with the loss of the prætorian ship, fled (plur.).’ Sometimes there is a mixture of singular and plural, e.g. ‘Fremit improba plebes (sing.) Sontibus accensæ (plur.) stimulis’ (Stat., Theb., v. 488) = ‘The impatient people murmur (sing.), inflamed (plur. part.) etc.:’ cf. the following examples from the Greek—Μέρος τι (sing.) ανθρώπων οὐκ ἡγοῦνται (plur.) θεούς (Plato., Leg., 948) = ‘A portion of mankind do not believe in gods;’ Τό στράτευμα ἐπορίζετο (sing.) σῖτον, κόπτοντες (plur.) τοὺς βοῦς καὶ ονους (Xen., Anab., II. i. 6) = ‘The army provided itself with food (by) cutting up (plur. part.) the oxen and asses.’

In A.S., when ðæt or ðis is connected with a plural predicate by means of the verb ‘to be,’ the verb is put in the plural: ‘Eall ðæt sindon micle and egeslice dæda’ (‘All that are great and terrible deeds.’) Conversely, where we should say ‘each of those who hear,’ the idiom in Anglo-Saxon was to say ‘each of those who hears:’ as, ‘Ælc ðára ðe ðás míne word gehyrð’ (= ‘Each of those who hears these my words’, where the verb is made to agree, not with ðara ðe, but with ælc. Cf. Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Reader, p. xci.).

We find many words so commonly combined with the plural, that we more naturally apprehend them as plural than as singular; such a word is the English ‘people,’ which we instinctively connect with a plural verb. In such cases, we sometimes even find that the grammatical form actually assimilates itself to the psychological number, as when we speak of folks; cf. also sheeps in Shakespeare (Love’s Labour’s lost, II. i.); while from the French word gent, which was used in Old French with the plural, we find formed, in the same way, the word gens: in Italian we find genti beside gente. In 249 Anglo-Saxon, -waru denotes ‘a nation,’ ‘a defence:’ the plural -ware, ‘citizens;’ as Rómware, ‘the men of Rome;’ Cantwáre, ‘the men of Kent,’ etc. In Gothic, there is a collective neuter fadrein, which we may illustrate or parallel, though not exactly translate, by the word ‘fathership.’ In the singular (genitive) it is used in the meaning of ‘race’ or ‘family’ (Eph. iii. 15), thus showing its original abstract and then collective sense; and again it is found (Luke viii. 56) still singular but with a plural verb: jah usgeisnodedun fadrein izos = and were-astonished fathership (i.e. PARENTS) her = and her parents were astonished. We even find the singular noun with the article (i.e. demonstrative pronoun) in the plural: Andhofun ðan im ðai fadrein is jah qeðun = Answered then to him those fathership his and said = Then answered his parents and said (John ix. 20). It is, thus, this plural meaning which caused the word to be used in the plural form, exactly as we use folks quoted above, while the etymological meaning as abstract collective was overlooked. For example: Ni auk skulun barna FADREINAM huzdjan, ak FADREINA barnam = not eke shall bairns for FATHERSHIPS hoard, but FATHERSHIPS for bairns, i.e. For the children shall not hoard for the parents, but the parents for the children (2 Cor. xii. 14).148

The converse of this also happens. A plural expression receives the function of a singular when the 250 parts thus indicated are thought of as a whole. Thus we can talk of another sixpence, another hundred yards; or even use phrases like There’s not another two such women (Warren); this seven year (Shakes., Much Ado, III. 3.); What is six winters? (Rich. II., I. iii.). Amends, gallows, sessions, shambles are plurals, but are generally treated as singulars; e.g., a shrewd unhappy gallows (Love’s Labour’s lost, V. ii. 12). So, too, works, scales, etc.: e.g., that crystal scales (Rom. and Jul., I. ii. 101); Stoppage of a large steelworks (Weekly Times and Echo, August 19, 1888); Fire in a Liverpool chemical works (Liverpool Daily Post, June 30, 1884, p. 7); This is good news; etc. Finally, such plurals become singular, not only in sense, but even in form, and are treated and declined as such. Thus, in English, we talk of an invoice (Fr. envois, plur.). In Latin, castra (plur.) sometimes formed a genitive of singular form, castræ:149 the plural litteræ, in sense of ‘an epistle,’ has passed into the French lettre as singular, with a new plural, lettres; the Latin plural vela, ‘sails,’ into French une voile: minaciæ has become the French menace, ‘threat,’ and the Italian minaccia: nuptiæ, ‘nuptials,’ has become, in French, noce, ‘a wedding,’ as well as noces: tenebræ, ‘darkness’ has become, in Spanish, tiniebla, as well as tinieblas; deliciæ, ‘delights,’ in French, délice, as well as délices. Pâques, ‘Easter,’ Athènes, ‘Athens,’ are used as singulars.

Pronouns referring to abstract expressions stand sometimes in the plural; as, Nobody knows what it is to lose a friend till THEY have lost him (Fielding). Again, the predicate may stand in the plural;150 as, Quisque suos PATIMUR manes (Verg., Æn., 743)—‘We each suffer our own ghostly punishment,’ where quisque 251 ‘each’ in singular, but the verb patimur is plural. Similar are uterque educunt (Cæs., C., iii. 30); uter ERATIS (Plaut., Men., 1119); neuter ad me IRETIS; Every one of these letters ARE in my name (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, II. v.); Neither of them ARE remarkable (Blair); Every one to rest THEMSELVES BETAKE (Rape of Lucrece, 125); when neither ARE alive (Cymb., IV. ii. 252). Most Indo-European languages possess pairs of pronouns, in each of which sets one properly denotes the singular, the other plurality; as in English all, every; or each, and any: and these are readily interchanged; e.g., without all doubt (Shakes., Hen. VIII., IV. i. 113), less attemptable than any the rarest of our ladies (Cymb., I. iv. 65). Thus, even in Latin, the singular omnis is used where we should have expected omnes; as, militat omnis amans (Ovid, Amor., I. ix. 1). Tu pulses omne quod obstat (Hor., Sat. II., vi. 30). Thus totus has passed into the French tout, ‘all.’ We find both in Shakespeare, connected with the singular; Both our remedies within thy help and holy physic lies, i.e. the remedy for us both (Rom. and Jul., II. iii. 51). Thus, also, autrui, ‘others,’ in French, really the oblique case of autre, is in fact a singular, but is looked upon as a plural; as, la rigueur envers autrui (Massillon).

Number, in the sense of singular or plural, cannot, again, be properly predicated of the simple names of materials. We do not think of them as individuals, except in connection with form as well as matter,—in fact, till we think of substances as divided as well as divisible. Hence it is that the names of materials occur mostly in the singular number; the fact being that if there were a neuter number, i.e. a grammatical form expressive of neither plural nor singular, we should naturally employ it. 252

But the name of a material is readily used as that of an individual object, and, on the other hand, the name of an individual object may easily come to be the designation of a material. The imagination supplies or withdraws, as it may be, the form and definite shape which, as we have seen, is essential to number. Take such instances as hair, grass, bloom, fruit, weed, grain, cloth, stone, wood, field, meadow, marsh, heath, earth, land, bread, cake, etc. Similarly, when we talk of fowl as a viand, we individualise and give form to a general conception; as, in French, when we talk about du porc, du mouton. In the same way, we have in Latin such expressions as leporem et gallinam et anserem for ‘the flesh of the hare, the fowl, and the goose;’ and fagum atque abietem for ‘the beech tree and the fir-tree’ (Cæsar, Bell. Gall., v. 12). In the same way, we must explain the singular in cases like The enemy is approaching; The Russian is within hail. Similarly, Livy uses the singular, as Romanus for ‘the Romans,’ Poenus for ‘the Carthaginians,’ eques for ‘the cavalry,’ pedes for ‘the infantry,’ etc.; nay, he even goes as far as to combine Hispani milites et funditor Balearis (xxvii. 2).

Thus, too, Horace ventures on the combination miles nautæque (Sat. I., i.). Vergil has plurima mortis imago, ‘many an image of death’ (Æn., ii. 369); in Seneca, we even find multo hoste, ‘many an enemy.’

In German, the singular of many words stands constantly after numerals; as, tausend mann, ‘a thousand men,’ zehn stück Pferde, ‘ten head (lit. pieces) of horses.’ Similarly it was usual to write in English such expressions as many score thousand: twenty score paces.151 The fact is, that there is no need for any special designation of plurality to follow a number; the plurality 253 is already sufficiently denoted by the number itself.152 We thus see that the form taken by such a word would naturally be numberless, or absolute, in fact, would be treated in the same way as it would have been treated before the rise of grammatical number.

Tense.

It is the function of the various ‘tenses’ to express the temporal relation of an event, when considered with regard to a certain moment. At the outset, however, we must observe that the tenses actually existing in any given language do not by any means perfectly correspond to the varieties possible and logically distinguishable in these relations. We will first consider what would be indispensable to a logically complete system.

Any event whatever must necessarily be anterior, contemporary, or posterior, to the moment with respect to which it is considered; and this moment must itself be past, present, or future. Hence, according as the moment of comparison is varied, we get the following sets:—

I. Moment of comparison Present.

The event is stated as—

(a₁) NOW past.
(b₁) NOW present.
(c₁) NOW still to come.

II. Moment of comparison Past.

The event is stated to have been—

(a₂) THEN already past.
(b₂) THEN present.
(c₂) THEN still to come.

254

III. Moment of comparison Future.

It is stated that the event—

(a₃) will THEN be past.
(b₃) will THEN be present.
(c₃) will THEN be still to come.

The above nine subdivisions exhaust all possibilities as long as we employ but a single ‘moment of comparison’ in each case; and it is so important that this point should be fully realised, that, simple as it appears, we proceed to illustrate each division as follows:—

It is at once apparent here that in some of these cases we are forced to have recourse to periphrasis, and that in some we use tenses which might also serve in other divisions. This, for instance, may be seen by comparing b₂ and a₁, or, at any rate, c₁ and c₃. But before discussing these points we must pay a little more attention to the above scheme, not, indeed, as it actually exists, but as it might conceivably exist.

It is by no means inconceivable, and quite in accordance with logic, that we should wish to employ two moments of comparison instead of one, especially in some of the cases falling under II. and III. In c₂, for instance, the event might be then still to come, but now α) past, (β) present, (γ) even yet to come. 255

This at first seems fanciful; but while the example we employed to illustrate c₂ does not necessarily convey as much, still most hearers would naturally interpret it as follows: “When I entered, his speaking was still in the future, but now (unless some hindrance, as yet unstated, has intervened) it belongs to the past.” Again, if, on the other hand, we take a sentence like He has promised to do so; in the first place, it is found to STATE that the promise was given in the past, when as yet the action of fulfilment belonged to the future; and, secondly, to IMPLY that this action of fulfilment belongs to the future still.

Further, it is logically possible, and often necessary, to make a statement about some event without any reference to time; when, for instance, a statement is true at any time, or at no time at all. The form employed in such cases ought, in strict agreement with our definition of ‘tense,’ to be called ‘tenseless’ or ‘absolute;’ but it is well known that, in English and all Indo-European languages, the ‘present’ is the tense employed. In Man is mortal the copula is cannot justly be called ‘present’ tense, for the statement is wholly abstract, and applies equally to past, present, and future; yet it is customary and convenient to apply the term ‘present’ even to the word is as thus used.

This use of the present sometimes gives rise to a certain ambiguity. If, in speaking of a child, we say He is very troublesome, the statement may mean He is at this moment very troublesome, in which case the verb is is present tense proper; or it may mean He is a troublesome child, whence the sentence becomes abstract-concrete153 and the verb is tense absolute.

If, as in the case of grammatical gender and 256 number, these distinctions of form are to be regarded as later developments in the case of the grammatical tenses of the verb, we must assume (i.) that the same form must once have served indifferently for all tense relations, and (ii.) expect that the tenses actually differentiated will (a) correspond only incompletely with the scheme of logical distinctions, (b) will in various languages show various deviations from the ideal scheme, and (c) will, in the same language at different periods of its history, show similar variations in those deviations.

i. Though the conclusion under head i. is actually inevitable, it seems, at first sight, improbable and doubtful; but, in addition to the use of the present tense discussed and exemplified above, there is much in modern English which may help to illustrate and enable us to realise it, while older languages afford much more material for the same purpose. A usage closely akin to that of the present tense for tense absolute occurs when the present is used for the future, and more especially when some other word in the sentence definitely refers the event to the future. Thus, in I am going to London to-morrow, we actually employ that specially English periphrasis which is never used in the absolute sense, but, as a rule, emphatically expresses that the action belongs to the present time.154 Nay, where circumstances are sufficiently unequivocal to absolutely preclude the meaning of the present tense, the addition of such words as to-morrow, etc., is not even needed. If two friends, for instance, were speaking about some coming holidays, and the one had said, I think I will go to Wales, the other might answer, I don’t care for Wales, I am going to 257 London; or, again, without such explanatory circumstances, or any special words, the present in a subordinate clause can stand for a future event, provided that the main clause grammatically expresses the future; e.g., I will call you when he comes.

We also sometimes use the PRESENT TENSE FOR THE PAST. This we do (a) where the event is equally true of the past as of the present; e.g., I know that = I know it, and knew it some time ago—a case in which the present tense expresses past AND present together: or (b) where the event belongs, indeed, entirely to the past, but the result is represented as actually present. Of (b) these are instances: ‘Master sends me to tell you,’ ‘He tells me that he is going away,’ ‘I hear he is better now.’ This usage approaches closely to a third (c), the so-called Historic present, which, however, we should probably not consider as a present tense expressing the past, but as a simple present, whose use is due to the vivid imagination of the speaker, when it leads him to regard the past as actually present.

We have said that the consciousness of the result of an action sometimes causes the use of a present tense for a past event. The same cause may also lead to an exactly opposite usage, viz., that of a past tense for an event in the present. Thus, as the result of seeing is knowing, it came to pass that a form originally signifying I have seen acquired the meaning I know; the Ger. Ich weisz means ‘I know,’ but is derived from the same root as the Lat. Video, ‘I see.’ Thus, again, the root which we find in Lat. gno-sco (= I begin to learn, I get to know) appears in the English I can, which, exactly as the Lat. novi (for *gnovi, cf. agnovi for ad-gnovi), meant I have got to know (= I know), has developed its present meaning, I am able, from one expressive of something like I have 258 become able, or I have learned. It is thus that arose the so-called ‘præterito-presentia,’ can, must, will, shall, etc., which still betray, one and all, their origin from a former grammatical past tense, by absence of s as a characteristic termination of the third person singular—a termination which we add to the stem in the case of all other present tenses.

Logically, the relation between some tenses of the same verb, as, e.g., the present TENSE cognosco (‘I get to know’) and the perfect TENSE novi (‘I have got to know’), which is used as a present tense to express the result, is identical with that between many sets of verbs. In fact we might translate cognosco by I learn, and novi by I know. Similar sets are to step, to stand; to fall, to lie; etc. But here, again, this distinction need not to be expressed, or, at least, is not always expressed; the same form may serve for both. Not to refer to dead languages or obsolete forms, it is sufficient to quote the well-known schoolboy’s expression, He stood him on the form, for He made him stand on the form. So, also, He stood the candle on the floor (Dickens).155

Now, all this confusion of past for present, present for past, effect for cause, cause for effect, present for future, present for every relation, causes in practice, as we have already seen, little or no ambiguity. If we remember this, it becomes easy for us to realize how conversation and intelligible statement may once have been quite possible without further aid than that afforded by what we call the tense absolute, i.e. a form of the verb expressive of the action only, without any indication of its time. A glance at a tense system very different from our own, will enable us to do this 259 even more fully, and at the same time will to some extent illustrate our statement that, in different languages, the actually existing tenses correspond variously with the logical scheme. In Hebrew, the verb has three different forms, called respectively (a) imperative, (b) perfect, (c) imperfect; which terms, however, might be replaced for the occasion by (a) command tense, (b) finished tense, (c) unfinished tense, lest they should mislead readers who have not studied Hebrew. Instead of ‘tense,’ we might as correctly call them ‘moods.’

The context is the sole guide as to whether the event spoken of belongs to past, present, or future. In narrative, the perfect and imperfect serve very much the same purposes as the tenses similarly named in Latin; but the imperfect, as tense or mood of unfinished action, serves also for our present and future, while a future which is to represent something as certainly expected, is supplied by the perfect or finished tense. Again, the imperfect serves for the optative (wish mood), and also sometimes replaces the imperative, since the latter is essentially a mood of action as yet unperformed. In this latter use of the imperfect there is sometimes a slight differentiation of form.

ii. a. The fact that the grammatical tenses correspond very incompletely with the logical distinctions, has already been very fully illustrated by all we have said in this chapter, and it only remains to add a few words on what are termed in our grammars ‘the compound tenses.’ Strictly speaking, these are not tenses at all of the verbs to which they are said to belong: of tenses, i.e. forms derived from the verb itself, and expressive of definite relations of time, there are but two in English—the present, and the past or imperfect. The enumeration of the so-called compound 260 tenses amongst the tenses proper is due to a confusion between logic and grammar, only slightly removed from the fiction which gave us the still lingering potential mood (I can write), or which might with equal correctness have given us an obligatory mood (I must write), a desiderative mood (I like to write), an obstinate mood (I am determined to write), etc., etc. In English we now employ various periphrases for all relations but the present and that indicated by the imperfect; and the line which separates a ‘future tense’ I will write, from a phrase like I have the intention of writing, is a perfectly arbitrary one.

ii. b. Our short and necessarily very incomplete discussion of the Hebrew tenses furnished an instance of what we stated under ii. b, p. 256; and there is no need to further illustrate this, especially as any reader acquainted with a foreign language knows how much care is requisite in translating the various English tenses in their different applications. Any student of, say, French or German will recognise this; while, in the case of those who know English alone, no amount of illustration of the point in question could raise their knowledge above mere acceptance on authority, or belief at second hand.

To illustrate ii. c, we shall only give a few instances of (α) the use in English (Modern English and Anglo-Saxon) of a present tense where we should now employ a future (which latter was then, as now, non-existent as a tense, the only difference being that the present periphrasis had not then yet become customary), and of (β) the use of a simple past tense where we should now employ the plu-perfect:—

α. Æfter ðrím dagon ic áríse = ‘After three days I arise’ (Matt. xxvii. 63); Gá gé on mínne wíngeard, and ic sylle eow ðæt riht bið = ‘Go ye into my vineyard 261 and I give (= shall give) you what right is’ (Matt. xx. 4).

β. Hé mid ðám léohte his gást ágeaf ðam Drihtne ðe hine to his ríce gelaðode = ‘He with the light his spirit gave-up to the Lord who him to his Kingdom invited (i.e., had invited)’ (Ælfric; cf. Skeat, Anglo-Saxon Reader, i., p. 86): Hé ne grétte hi oð ðæt héo cende hyre sunu = ‘He not knew her until that she brought forth (= had brought forth) her son.’

In our preceding remarks, we have had occasion to mention that, in Hebrew, the categories of tense and mood are scarcely differentiated. Similarly—to some extent—in Sanscrit, the distinction between what we call tenses and moods is less clearly defined than in, e.g., Latin or Greek. Of this confusion, or rather absence of distinction, we preserve some traces in modern usage. Thus, as the imperative is essentially significant of something still to come, we can understand how a future TENSE can come to be employed instead of an imperative MOOD. Such a phrase as You will do that at once, especially when aided by accent or emphasis, can be used for ‘You shall, etc.’ Nay, the future is occasionally used as OPTATIVE; e.g. Sic me di amabunt, = So the gods will love me, for May the gods love me: and even as DUBITATIVE, as in the Scottish Ye’ll no be o’ this country, freend? (Scott, Mannering, ch. i.) = ‘You will not be of this country,’ i.e. ‘I suppose you are not, etc.’

Voice.

We have seen that what in formal grammar appears as the ‘object’ of a verb is often, from a psychological point of view, the subject of a sentence (cf. Chap. VI.). The use of the passive voice enables us to do away with this incongruence: the object of the 262 action becomes the subject of our sentence, and the grammatical construction is thus made to harmonise with the psychological instinct. For instance, if, in answer to the question Whom does he prefer as companion? we say John he would prefer, we overcome, by a construction somewhat alien to the genius of the English language, the difficulty of expressing that John, the object of the verb to prefer, is in our mind the subject of a statement: John is the person whom he would prefer.

But such an inversion as John he would prefer is not always possible; while such an extension as John is the person whom he would prefer, though, indeed, always a possible construction, would be felt as very awkward and needlessly lengthy. This difficulty is evaded by the use of the passive voice: and the use of this voice serves to give clearness and elegance to style.

It is, however, perhaps not superfluous to point out that, whether we employ the active or the passive voice, the ACTUAL relation existing between the subject and object of our sentence remains the same. Whether we say John loves Mary, or Mary is loved by John, the person John is in either case described as the agent; the person Mary is the object of the feeling expressed by the verb. It is the form only of the two sentences which differs; it is the syntactical, and not the real relation of subject and object which varies. Hence we may say that the distinction of voice in the verb is to some extent purely syntactical in its nature. It is, moreover, clear that the distinction implied in voice could not arise before the distinction between the grammatical subject and object had been established. Until such was the case, mere juxtaposition of substantive and verb must have served 263 equally as the expression of the active and of the passive relation between subject and predicate.

A somewhat similar phenomenon, possibly a survival of this prehistoric stage, is observable in the nominal forms of the verb, which, though indeed already specialised in the earliest stages of those languages with which we are acquainted, contain nothing in their actual formation which can assign them to either voice. And, again, if we consider fully the Latin genitives known in grammar as objective and subjective, we find a similar indefiniteness of expression prevalent as to relationship active or passive. Amor patris (‘love, father’s’) can, according to the context, signify either the love which the father feels, or that which is felt for the father by some one else.

The present participle, now always called active, is even yet sometimes used in a passive meaning, and this use was formerly much more common. We hear, even at the present day, such phrases as Do you want the tea making? I want my coat brushing, etc.156 Again, we have expressions like One thing is wanting, common now as in Shakespeare’s time;157 so much is owing, etc. Other instances not less striking have become obsolete: as, his unrecalling crime (Rape of Lucrece, l. 993) for unrecalled = ‘not to be recalled;’ and his all-obeying breath (Ant. and Cleop., III. xiii. 77) = his breath obeyed by all. We find, also, Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears (= pleased ears) in Rape of Lucrece, l. 1126. 264

In Gothic there is a remarkable and indeed unique instance of this use (Mark xv. 15): Atgaf Jesu usbliggvands, i.e. (Pilate) gave Jesus scourging = gave up Jesus to be scourged, or for being scourged.

The so-called gerundives in Latin have commonly a passive meaning; thus, amandus usually means ‘fit to be loved.’ But here, again, we meet with exceptional uses which prove that what is now regarded as the ‘regular’ meaning is in reality but accidental and adventitious. Oriundus means ‘arising’ and, in somewhat older Latin, we find forms like pereundus, ‘perishing,’ placendus, ‘pleasing,’ etc.

Little as the distinction of voice is expressed in the nomen actionis, it is equally little inherent in the infinite. In such a sentence as I gave him a good beating, the meaning of beating is active; in the sentence He got a good beating, it is decidedly passive. Similarly, in such a sentence as I can read, the infinitive is active, but this is owing to the context: for instance, in such a sentence as This is not easy to read, it is clearly passive. Yet no one would call these phrases ambiguous. We can therefore easily imagine that infinitives may have existed long before they were differentiated into separate forms to mark the two voices. We still employ many infinitives which might be called neuter, neither active nor passive: such as, for instance, ‘Is it better to say yes or to say no?’ ‘fair to see;’ ‘a marvel to tell.’

In Gothic, however, we find many instances of infinitives which, being commonly employed as actives, are conveniently considered as belonging to that particular voice; but which, in special sentences, have a very clearly defined passive sense. Thus, qêmun ðan môtarjôs daupjan = Came then publicans (to) baptise = to be baptised (Luke iii. 12); Untê sunus mans 265 skulds ist atgiban in handuns mannê = For (the) son (of) man due is (= must) deliver into hands (of) men = shall be delivered into. (Luke ix. 44); Varð ðan gasviltan ðamma unlêdin jah briggan fram aggilum in barma Abrahamis = (It) happened then (to) die (to) the beggar and (to) bring from (= by) angels into (the) bosom (of) Abraham = It came to pass that the beggar died and was carried, etc. (Luke xvi. 22); du saihvan = to see = for being seen (Matt. vi. 1), etc.

Though, then, in these and similar cases we find infinitive forms with unquestionably passive meanings, it would not be quite correct to assign them in formal grammar to the passive voice.

A grammatical passive is only acknowledged in cases where that passive has been formed from the same stem as the active, and has been marked off from it by a special method of formation, as in such cases as amo, ‘I love,’ amor, ‘I am loved.’ The relation of an intransitive verb to its corresponding causative, resembles that of a passive to its active, as in such cases as to fall, to fell; to drink, to drench; to sit, to set: and the pairs from roots etymologically unrelated, to make, to become; to kill, to die. In the case of the intransitive verbs, however, as compared with that of the grammatical passive, we do not dwell so much in thought upon an operating cause as constituting the difference between active and passive. But this distinction is so slight, that we actually find intransitive verbs used with a sequence such as we should expect after a passive, as in He died by the hand of the public executioner; He fell by his own ambition. On the other hand, we can see the transition from the passive to the active in the case of the Russian—where the active form is employed to express a passive sense,—and of the so-called deponent verbs. We have to 266 translate a form like the Latin verti by ‘to turn,’ employing the middle voice. A case like Jam homo in mercaturâ vortitur, ‘The man is now busy with merchandise’ (Plautus, Mostellaria, III. i. 109) may serve to show how nearly allied is the middle or passive voice to the deponent proper. No doubt a true deponent differs from a verb used in the middle voice, by the fact that the deponent takes an accusative after it; but how nearly the two touch one another, may be gathered from such instances as that given above, by the side of adversari regem (Tac., Hist., iv. 84,), ‘to oppose, or to oppose one’s-self to, the king.’

One of the most common ways, in which the passive takes its origin, is from the middle voice, which is sometimes seen to be formed from the composition of the active with the reflective pronoun. We have in English two examples of this method of formation, in the words (to) bask and (to) busk: to bask means ‘to bathe one’s-self;’ to busk, ‘to prepare one’s-self,’ or ‘get ready.’158 The sk stands for sik, as it appears in Icelandic, the accusative case of a reflective pronoun of the third person. The Russian often, in like manner, employs a reflective form in -sya instead of the passive, just as does the French; thus, Tavárni prodáutsya, les hardes se vendent, ‘The goods are sold,’ lit. ‘sell themselves:’ cf. Rien ne s’y voyait plus, pas même des débris (De Vigny).159 ‘Nothing more was to be seen, not even the ruined remains.’

In these cases, one element of the signification of the middle voice is discarded. The middle voice denotes that an action starts from a person, and returns to him. In I strike myself the action ‘strikes’ 267 starts from the speaker, but visits him again with its effects; in I am struck the action is visited upon the subject, but does not originate therewith. There are some reflective combinations, even in English, where the consciousness of the activity of the subject has practically disappeared: as in How do you find yourself? I bethought me; He found himself in an awkward position: but these, it will be seen, approach more to the use of the simple intransitive, by means of the relationship which this bears to the passive; cf. s’exciter with être excité; ‘to be excited:’ moveri, with se movere, ‘to move.’ There are certain uses of the verb, in French and German, in which the operation of the subject is almost effaced: as, sich befinden, in Wie befinden sie sich (‘How are you?’); cela se laisse dire (‘that may be said’). 268

CHAPTER XVI.
DISPLACEMENT OF THE SYNTACTICAL DISTRIBUTION.

The reader who remembers and fully apprehends the wider meaning, which in Chapter VI. we assigned to the terms (Psychological) ‘subject’ and ‘predicate,’ must realise how comparatively seldom the grammatical categories of the same name coincide with the corresponding parts of the thought to which the sentence is to give utterance. We defined the subject as the expression for that which the speaker presupposes known to the hearer, and the predicate as that which indicates what he wishes the hearer to think or learn about it. Hence, as we saw, the sentence theoretically consists of two parts; but, as each of these parts may be extended, we get—if we indicate subject and predicate by the letters S and P respectively, and the extensions by a, b, c, etc.—the following scheme for a simple sentence: Sabc + Pdef.

Now, in such a sentence, the grammatical subject, with all its extensions, will correspond with the psychological subject, and the grammatical predicate and its extensions with the psychological predicate, only in case the extensions of the subject are really no more than additions made in order to specify the known or presupposed, and if the predicate contains nothing which serves any further purpose than to convey the 269 thought about that subject. But as soon as to the subject-noun, for instance, an adjective is added which conveys new thought about the subject; or, again, as soon as the object is indicated by a noun accompanied by a similar ‘additional’ qualification, then these additions or extensions become ipso facto psychological predicates, and the sentence, grammatically simple, becomes a psychologically complex one. Thus, suppose a good Charles and a wicked Charles have been spoken of, and the latter is known to have done something with his thick stick to the speaker; then, and then only, can a sentence like The wicked Charles has beaten me with his thick stick be a psychologically simple one. In this sentence then, The wicked Charles is subject, has beaten is predicate, and with his stick extension, and the psychological and grammatical divisions coincide completely. But suppose that it was known that the same person had beaten the speaker, but that the instrument was not known; or that the action and the instrument were known, but not the recipient of the blows: in this case the sentence, though remaining a simple one, would at once cease to correspond in its grammatical parts to the psychological divisions of (a) Charles has beaten me (subject) + with his stick (predicate), or, (b) Charles has beaten with his stick (subject) + me (predicate). In fact, if we wished to make the grammatical form correspond to the divisions of that psychologically simple statement, we should have to adopt a form grammatically complex; such as The instrument with which Charles has beaten me is his thick stick, or, The person whom Charles has beaten with his thick stick is I, according to the circumstances of the case.

In any of the cases enumerated above, the psychological subject and predicate were simple. But 270 suppose that the hearer was not aware that anything had happened, nor could be supposed to have any predisposition to call the individual in question ‘wicked.’ Then, though the sentence remains grammatically a simple one, we really get the following complex PSYCHOLOGICAL analysis:— 1. Subject: Charles
Predicate: is (in my opinion) wicked.
2. Subject: The wicked Charles
Predicate: has beaten.
3. Subject: The object of that beating
Predicate (with copula): is I.
4. Subject: The instrument with which that beating was inflicted upon me
Predicate (with copula): is a stick.
5. Subject: That stick
Predicate (with copula): is thick.
While, therefore, the scheme could grammatically be symbolised aS + Pbc, we should have to symbolise the psychological analysis somewhat as follows:—

At first sight this may seem far-fetched and uselessly refined, but the student will find that it is desirable to force himself in some such manner to fully realise the absolute inadequacy of our grammatical terms and distinctions when we apply them to 271 psychological questions: and to realise, also, the vagueness with which long habit has taught us to be satisfied in our modes of expression, and in our constructions for various thoughts, differing essentially, though perhaps not always widely.160 It is the full conception of the somewhat haphazard nature of our constructions which will help us to understand how uncertain and how different in various speakers must, on the one hand, be the correspondence between the grammatical and psychological subject and predicate; and, on the other, how vague must often be the distinctions between the parts of our sentences, and how varying the grouping of these parts, as we more or less consciously conceive of them as connected or as ‘belonging together.’ All is here fluctuating and indefinite. Thus, as a rule, the word is in sentences like He is king, He is subject, is mere copula, and king the real predicate; though, when we utter the same words in order to state that he and no one else occupies the throne, he becomes psychologically predicate, and king, or rather is king, becomes subject, whatever the 272 grammatical form of the sentence may seem to prove to the contrary. Again, in He IS king (i.e. now, and not only going to be so), he as king is subject, is (now) predicate.

Psychologically, the idea of the copula as mere link between subject and predicate is far more extensive than ordinary grammar admits. Thus, in What is the matter with him? He has got the toothache, the predicate of the latter sentence is the toothache, has got is copula.

In Will he be quick, do you think? Oh yes, he was running very quickly, the words was running are a mere copula, unless, emphasised by stress of accent, they are made to convey the specially desired statement that the person spoken of ran, and did not walk slowly or ride, etc., in which case they are a true predicate.

We have here illustrated how one of the means for distinguishing the predicate from the other parts of the sentence is found in accent or stress.

But we do not invariably thus emphasise our predicate. An interrogative pronoun, for instance, is always a psychological predicate. If we ask Who has done this? we usually lay our stress on done or on this, though these words, being mere expressions for the observed and known fact, contain the psychological subject, and the unknown person indicated by who is the predicate sought for by the questioner.

There exist other elements of speech which are regularly subjects or predicates; for instance, a demonstrative referring back to a substantive previously expressed and commencing a sentence, is necessarily a psychological subject, or part of it: I know those men are my enemies: them I despise. A relative pronoun, of course, has the same function: 273 there is a man whom I respect highly. Again, every element of a sentence whose connection with the rest is denied by means of a negative particle is generally a psychological predicate; as, Yield not me the praise (Tennyson) = ‘The person to whom praise is due is not I.’ But not to me returns day (Milton, Par. Lost, iii. 41) = ‘Day returns to many, but among those is161 not I.’

This, of course, includes any words expressing the contrast with the negatived element: Give not me but him the praise = ‘The person to whom praise is due is not I, (but) he.’

Besides emphasis, we have, in so-called inverted constructions, the means of characterising any part of a sentence as subject or predicate. Thus: One thing thou lackest (Mark x. 21) = ‘One thing there is which thou hast not.’ ‘No pause of dread Lord William knew’ (Scott, Harold, v. 15) = ‘Not a pause of dread existed which Lord William knew’ = ‘Not a pause of dread was made by Lord William.’

A means of establishing correspondence between the grammatical and psychological predicate has been incidentally illustrated in the foregoing discussion. It is the periphrastic construction with is, of which instances are very numerous. It is to you, young people, that I speak; What I most prize in woman, is her affections, not her intellect (Longfellow); It is thou that robbest me of my Lord (Shakespeare, 2 Hen. VI., IV. ii.); It was not you that sent me hither, but God (Gen. xlv. 8).

This construction is quite common in many other languages: French—C’est a vous que je m’adresse (= ‘It is to you that I myself address’); German—Christen sind es, die das getan haben (lit. ‘Christians 274 are it, that that done have’ = ‘It is (the) Christians that have done this’).

In English, another construction often serves the same purpose: As to denying, he would scorn it; As for that fellow, we’ll see about him to-morrow. Or (with the psychological subject simply in the nominative, without any verbal indication of its connection with what follows), Husband and children, she saw them murdered before her very eyes; My life’s foul deed, my life’s fair end shall free it (Shakespeare, Rape of Lucr.); The prince ... they will slay him (Ben Jonson, Sejanus, III. iii.); That thing, I took it for a man (Lear, IV. vi. 77). Antipholus, my husband ... this ill day a most outrageous fit of madness took him (Com. of Errors, V. i. 138). When, in this construction, the words which head the sentence stand for the same thing as the subject pronoun of the following clause, the result, of course, is not a readjustment of the parts, but an (often useless) emphasis: cf. John, he said so; The king, he went, etc. When the psychological subject would, in the simpler constructions appear as a genitive, this is indicated by the pronoun standing, in that case, e.g., ’Tis certain every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his head (Henry V., IV. i. 197). That they who brought me in my master’s hate, I live to look upon their tragedy (Rich. III., III. ii. 57); And vows so born, in their nativity all truth appears (Mid. Night’s Dream, III. ii. 124).

In Chapter VI. we have discussed the point that in reality an adjective is psychologically a predicate: an expression like The good man containing, in fact, a statement that the man is good. There is a construction, however,—and one, too, not unfrequent,—in which the adjective contains the psychological and logical subjects; e.g., The short time at my disposal prevented 275 me from calling upon him—‘The shortness of the time prevented,’ etc. Though this construction may perhaps be due to a contamination between, say, The shortness of the time prevented and The short time did not allow, it still remains certain that in the construction, as it stands, a displacement has occurred.

It might a priori be expected that all this uncertainty and vagueness would cause parts of a sentence which grammatically belong together to cohere but loosely, and eventually to get separated, whilst other grammatical connections, which at first did not exist, would thereby arise. It is clear, for instance, that in the sentence I sit on a chair, the preposition on is as closely connected with the verb to sit as with the noun a chair. Nay, it may be said that the ties which connect it with the noun in this and similar cases must once have been, and perhaps in the linguistic consciousness of some speakers still are, stronger than those between the preposition and the verb. This would appear from the fact that the various prepositions used to govern in English—as they still do in German, for instance—various cases, while these ties would be strengthened by the common occurrence of the preposition with a noun, unaccompanied by any verb; e.g., That book there on the chair; The man in the garden, etc. It is, however, evident in many constructions that the noun has separated from the preposition, and that the latter has entered into closer connection with the verb. We owe to this, e.g., the Latin and German ‘compound verbs,’ as excedere, ‘to go out from,’ anliegen, ‘to be incumbent on,’ etc., which used to govern, or still do govern the case which would have followed the preposition if used immediately before the noun and detached from the verb. In English, this or a similar displacement has given rise 276 to such constructions as And this rich fair town we make him lord of (K. John, II. i. 553); a place which we have long heard of; Washes of all kinds I had an antipathy to (Goldsmith); Logic I made no account of (Smollett, Rod. Random, 6); This house I no more show my face in (She stoops to conquer, IV.); The false paiens stood he by (P. Langtoft).

A careful study of the above examples will show that in these and several of the following, the construction has the effect and is most likely due to a desire of bringing the psychological subject to the head of the sentence. It is at present chiefly employed in relative and interrogative clauses, and in sentences in the passive voice: The intended fire your city is ready to flame in (Coriolanus, V. 2); An idle dare-devil of a boy, whom his friends had been glad to get rid of (Green, Short History, p. 732); Stories of the lady, which he swore to the truth of (Tom Jones, bk. xv., ch. 9); He was such a lover, as a generous friend of the lady should not betray her to (ibid., xiii. 2); A pipe in his mouth, which, indeed, he seldom was without (ibid., ii. 2): The eclipse which the nominal seat of Christianity was under (Earle, Anglo-Saxon Liter., p. 25); Such scruple of conscience as the terrors of their late invented religion had let them into (Puttenham, Arte of Poesie, Arber’s reprint, p. 24); An outrage confessed to on a death-bed (Liv. Daily Post, Aug. 1, 1884, p. 5, col. a.); He was seldom talked of, etc. What humour is the prince of? (Hen. IV., II. iv).162 277

In the sentence I will never allow you to read this book, there is no doubt that every speaker feels this book as object of read, and read this book as object of allow. If, however, in order to make this book if it is psychological subject, appear also as the grammatical subject, we say This book I shall never allow you to read, we can very well understand how a speaker’s linguistic sense may come to connect this book directly as object with the entire group allow to read, nay more, with the verb allow; as if it stood for I will never allow you this book to read. This may arise all 278 the more easily that, in a clause like I have to read this book, the words this book are historically the object of have and not of the infinitive to read, and that, in the form this book I have to read, the noun is in close proximity to its historical government I have. Hence, such transference of government from the infinitive to the group finite verb + infinitive and finally to the finite verb has occasionally really taken place, as can be shown by the way in which such clauses have sometimes been turned into the passive voice. A sentence like The judge allowed them to drop the prosecution can, strictly speaking, be turned into the passive only in one or other of the following ways: They were allowed to drop the prosecution, or, The judge allowed that the prosecution should be dropped; in each of which cases, the object of the verb has become the subject of the same verb in the passive voice. If, however, aided by such constructions as The prosecution which the judge allowed them to drop, the object (prosecution) of the verb to drop becomes, first, object of the syntactical combination allow to drop, and, finally, in the illogical thinker’s consciousness or linguistic sense, object of the verb to allow,—there may arise a passive construction something like the following: The prosecution which was allowed to be dropped. This construction is indeed incorrect in English, but its parallel may be occasionally heard from careless speakers, and a careful study of it will illustrate and make intelligible such phrases as the German, Hier ist sie zu spielen verboten, literally = ‘Here is she (i.e., Minna v. Barnhelm, i.e., the play of that name) to play forbidden’ = ‘Here it has been forbidden to play her (sc. it),’ as passive of ‘They have forbidden to play it here;’ Die stellung des fürsten Hohenlohe wird zu untergraben versucht = ‘The position 279 of the Prince Hohenlohe is to undermine attempted’ = ‘An attempt is being made to undermine the position, etc.;’ or again, the Greek χιλίων δράχμων ἀπορρηθεισῶν λαβεῖν (Demosthenes), lit. ‘One thousand drachms having been agreed to receive’ = ‘It having been agreed that I should receive one thousand drachms.’ Similarly, the Latin Librum legere cœpi = (‘I begin to read the book’) is turned into the passive, Liber legi cœptus est = (‘The book to be read has been begun’), the perfect parallel of our somewhat fictitious English example.

In our examples, ‘He has got the toothache,’ etc., we saw that the grammatical predicate often has, in reality, no other psychological function than that of mere copula, or, as it is often called, connecting word. The regular and constant use of certain words in that manner has led some grammarians to group these together as a separate grammatical category, a grouping or distinction to which many others vigorously object. The view which one takes in this question is mainly influenced by (a) what we call a ‘connecting word,’ and (b) a clear distinction between the grammatical form and the function of a word. Now, a connecting word is a word which serves to indicate the connection between two ideas or conceptions, and which accordingly can neither stand alone, nor have any definite sense if placed with only one such conception. Such a connecting word between subject and predicate we have in the verb to be, the copula, in most of its uses. It is said by some that the word is never has any other function than that of true predicate, and that the predicatival adjective or noun is always to be considered a determinant of the predicate. This, whilst true as to grammatical form, is certainly incorrect as to function. In 280 the first place, we have already discussed (Chap. VI.) how sentences like Borrowing is sorrowing, contains no less, but also no more than Borrow sorrow, in which the latter word contains the true psychologic predicate. Further, if we were to attribute to the word is in such sentences the same force as, for instance, in God is, i.e., God exists, we should necessarily have to explain a sentence, This is impossible, as ‘This exists as something impossible;’ which every one will at once perceive to be nonsense.

We must recognise in sentences like Borrow sorrow an original construction, by the side of which there sooner or later arose clauses truly denoting existence, such as God is, or even God is good, in which, at first, is had its full meaning of exists, and good had consequently such the function of an adverb. When once, in the latter and similar sentences, a displacement and redistribution of the function began to take place, and the adjective good (or, e.g., the noun king in He is king) acquired the force of a true logical predicate, the fuller construction with the copula is more and more frequently ousted the shorter one, which had no such link between subject and predicate. The reluctance of some grammarians to admit this is perhaps partially due, also, to the fact that the copula has always retained the full inflectional forms of a true predicatival verb. Hence they did not so easily realise the displacement which had occurred—a displacement which, in other sentences, where the part thereby affected is flectionless, is easier to demonstrate.

We shall first discuss one more instance of how a displacement affects inflected parts of speech, and then one or two in which the words concerned have no longer any inflection to connect them with other forms, and to protect them from isolation and change of function. 281

In the sentences I make him and I make a king, we have two accusatives of slightly different functions: the one indicating the OBJECT of the action (him), and the other indicating the RESULT of the action (a king). If the two statements be now combined, then, applied as they are to convey to the hearer the two distinct pieces of information as to the object and as to the results of the action, both of which were previously unknown to him, we have undoubtedly one verb with two distinct and equipoised accusatives. But assuming that either the object of the action or the result is already known, it is then only the other member of the pair which has the full predicatival force, whilst the former inevitably enters into a closer relationship with the verb. The member which retains the full force of a predicate becomes predicate to the group; nay, even—as in our example, where the verb cannot be taken in its literal meaning—the one noun becomes almost a predicate to the other, I make him king being very similar in meaning to He becomes king through my agency. If this is the correct explanation of the origin of similar constructions, we must perhaps consider the use of an adjective as second accusative as due to analogy with this use of the noun. We must not forget, however, that the line of demarcation between adjective and noun was once very much more vague and indefinite than it is now.

In a similar way, the sentence I teach him to speak and I declare him to be an honest man must be a combination, with consequent displacement of relation, of two independent clauses—the one with a noun, or the equivalent thereof, and the other with an infinite as object. It is thus we explain the origin of the Latin accusative with infinitive.

An example of displacement, or re-arrangement of 282 relations, is next furnished by the origin and history of our correlatives either, or, both, and. Either means originally (A.S. ægðer, contracted from æghwæðer = á + ge + hwæðer) one of two, so that either he or you is really = one of the two; you or he, where the word either, as it were, sums up or comprehends the whole of the following enumeration. It stands, therefore, in syntactical relation to both the members of the clause which are connected (or contrasted) by or; but is now usually felt as connected with the first only, the sentence being divided as either he + or you. Similarly, both means two together. Hence both you and I originally had the full force of the two together, i.e., you and I. The word which stood in syntactical relation with the pair has therefore, as in the former case, become co-ordinate with the word and, which once formed part of the group it governed, and we now feel and explain expressions like our examples as consisting of the two groups, both you + and I.

In the last two examples the words are now flectionless, and have become, when used in such constructions, connecting words, a change entirely owing to such displacement of relationship between the parts of the sentence as we have been studying in this chapter.

In the discussion of our example on page 270 we noticed how even a grammatically simple clause might in reality be a logically complex one. Vice versâ, a clause logically simple may be expressed by a grammatically complex sentence. I asked him after his health, as an answer to What were you asking him? is a psychologically and grammatically simple sentence.163 283 The answer might, however, without in the least degree altering the thought expressed, have been cast in the form I asked him how he was—a grammatically complex sentence.

Again, logical independence and grammatical co-ordination do not by any means necessarily go together—a sentence like He first went to Paris, whence he proceeded to Rome, where he met his friend being in form complex with main and subordinate clauses; in meaning, however, equivalent to an aggregate of three co-ordinate ‘main’ clauses: He went + from there he proceeded + there he met.

Nay, it occasionally happens that syntactical form and logical function are in direct opposition. Thus, e.g., in Scarcely had he entered the house, when his mother exclaimed, There is John! what is logically the main clause has the grammatical or syntactical form of a subordinate one.

It cannot now, therefore, seem strange that in syntax we also meet with the parallel of the process which gave birth to such words as adder, orange, newt, and nickname. Adder, cf. Ger. natter, Icelandic naðr, was in Anglo-Saxon nædre. Similarly, orange, derived from the Persian nâranj, was originally preceded by an n. In the combination with the indefinite article a or an (the older form) this n was thought to belong to the article only, and the sound-groups anorange, anadder were wrongly split up into an + orange, an + adder. On the other hand, the groups anekename (really an + ekename) and anewt (really an + ewt) were erroneously broken up into a + newt, a + nickname.164

A precisely similar occurrence in syntax has given 284 us our conjunction that. I know that (= ‘I know this thing’) + he can sing, when combined into the group of subject I, predicate know, object (double, the one part being explanatory of the other) that and he can sing, gradually became divided, or divisible for the linguistic consciousness, into I know + he can sing, with the conjunction that for connecting word.

In some cases the correspondence between psychological and grammatical distribution is so incomplete, the subordinate and main clauses are so interwoven in the grammatical form, that it becomes impossible to separate the parts in our ordinary analysis. This happens more especially when a part of the grammatically subordinate clause really contains the psychological subject, and when, consequently, that part, with a construction similar to that discussed on page 274 is put at the head of the clause. When, in the sentence I believe that something will make you smile, the word something expressed the psychological subject, Goldsmith emphasised this fact by writing, Something, that I believe will make you smile; cf. Milton’s Whereof I gave thee charge thou shouldst not eat; With me I see not who partakes, etc. This arrangement, then, places the main clause between parts of what is grammatically the subordinate one. In not a few cases confusion or uncertainty may, then, arise as to whether the words which head the sentence must be considered as belonging to the subordinate clause or as governed by the verb of the main clause. If we say The place which he knew that he could not obtain, we may hesitate as to whether place is really object to knew or to obtain. We can, and often do, avoid this ambiguity and intermixture of main and subordinate clauses by a kind of double construction, like The place, of which he knew that he could not obtain it. 285

CHAPTER XVII.
ON CONCORD.

In inflectional languages, words relating to the same thing in the same way are commonly made to correspond formally with each other. This correspondence we call grammatical concord. Thus we find concord in gender, number, case, and person subsisting between a substantive and its predicate or attribute, or between a substantive and a pronoun or adjective representing the latter. Similarly we find a correspondence in tense and mood within the same period, or complex of sentences. This concord can hardly be said to be the necessary result of the logical relation of the words; the English collocation, the good father’s child, where no formal concord is established between ‘the good’ and ‘father’s,’ seems as logical as des guten vater’s kind, where the article and the adjective have their respective genitive forms as well as the noun. Concord seems to have taken its origin from cases in which the formal correspondence of two words with each other came about, not owing to the relation borne by the former to the latter, but merely to the identity of their relation to some other word. Thus we should have an example of primitive concord in fratris puer boni, if felt by the speaker’s linguistic consciousness something like of (my) brother (the) 286 child of (the) good (one), i.e., the child of (my) brother, the good, i.e., the child of (my) good brother.

After such correspondence began to be regularly conceived of as concord, i.e., as a habit natural to language, we must suppose that, owing to the operation of analogy, it extended its area to other cases to which it did not logically belong. We shall be confirmed in our theory that such was the procedure, if we examine certain cases in which the extension of concord can still be historically followed.

In the first place, let us take such a case as Ce sont mes frères. In English we translate this by Those are my brothers. The subject, however, in this case merely directs attention to something unknown until the predicate states what has to be known: the English pronoun, therefore, should strictly speaking stand in the neuter singular, as, indeed, it habitually did in A.S. ðæt sindon, etc., and as it does in Modern German to the present day—Das sind meine brüder. Even in Modern English we have cases like It is we who have won; ’Twas men I lacked; Is it only the plebeians who will rise? (Bulwer, Rienzi, i. 5); but commonly, in Modern English and elsewhere, it appears brought into concord with the predicate, as These are thy glorious works (Milton): in Italian—È questa la vostra figlia? = ‘Is this (fem.) your daughter?’ Spanish—Esta es la espada = ‘This (fem.) is the sword’ (fem.): in Greek—Αὕτη τοι δίκη ἐστι θεῶν (Homer) = ‘This (fem.), then, is the judgment (fem.) of the gods:’ and in Latin this use is extremely common; as, Eas divitias, eam bonam famam, magnamque nobilitatem, putabant (Sall., Cat., 7),165 = ‘These (fem. plur.) they considered riches (fem. plur.), this (fem. sing.) a good name (fem.), and great nobility (fem.);’ 287 i.e., ‘This they looked upon as true riches; by such means they strove for fame; that was what they thought conferred true rank:’ Patres C. Mucio agrum dono dedere quæ postea sunt Mucia prata appellata (Livy, ii. 13) = ‘The fathers (senate) gave to C. Mucius a field as a present which (neut. plur.) afterwards were called the Mucian fields (neut. plur.).’

On the other hand, we find instances like Sabini spem in discordia Romana ponunt: eam impedimentum delectui fore (Livy, iii. 38) = ‘The Sabines base their expectations on the domestic quarrels of the Romans; (they hoped) that this (fem. sing. agreeing with spem) would be a preventative (neut. sing.): and so Si hoc profectio est (Livy, ii. 38) = If this (neut.) is a setting-out (fem.).’ It seems that, in the former cases, the subject has been made to agree with the predicate just as the predicate in other cases conforms to the subject.

We sometimes find, in Latin, words which commonly occur in the singular only, placed in the plural when connected with words used in the plural only; as, summis opibus atque industriis (Plautus, Mostellaria, 348) = ‘with the greatest means (exertions) and zeals (for zeal):’ neque vigiliis neque quietibus (Sallust, Cat., 15) = ‘neither during watchings nor during rests (for rest):’ paupertates—divitiæ (Varro,166 Apud Non.) = ‘poverties (for poverty)—riches.’ Similarly, we find She is my goods, my chattels (Shakespeare, Tam. of Shrew, III. ii.), where the singular would be the natural form for chattel; but good in the singular would have a different meaning from goods, and chattels is made to conform to goods.

The so-called predicatival dative in Latin seems to have started from cases like quibus hoc impedimento 288 erat = ‘to whom this was for a hindrance:’ Mihi gaudio fuit = ‘It was for a joy to me:’ etc.

It was felt that the ordinary predicate was put in the same case as its subject, and the concord was analogically extended to the dative. Thus Cicero (Dom., 3) writes Illis incuria inimicorum probro non fuit = ‘To them (dat.) the negligence of their enemies was not (for a) reproach’ (dat.), i.e., ‘was no reproach,’ as contrasted with tuum scelus meum probrum esse = ‘that your wickedness (acc.) should be my reproach (acc.).’

In a sentence like They call him John the name John ought strictly speaking to have no case; the simple stem should stand: and we might even expect the vocative to occur after verbs of naming, as it actually does sometimes in Greek; as, Τί με καλεῖτε κύριε; (Luke vi. 46), translated, in the Vulgate, Quid vocatis me domine?167 and in the authorised version, Why call ye me lord, lord? Thus in Latin, too: Clamassent ut litus Hyla, Hyla, omne sonaret (Vergil, Eclogue vi. 43), ‘They were shouting so that the whole shore was echoing Hylas! Hylas!’ (voc.); Matutine pater seu Jane libentius audis (Hor., Sat. II., vi. 10), ‘O Father Matutinus, or Janus, if thou givest readier ear thus addressed.’ But the most common usage at the present day is the accusative; which is already found at least once in the few remnants of Gothic literature which we possess: in Luke iv. 13, we read: Jah gavaljands us im tvalib, ðanzei jah apaustuluns namnida = ‘and choosing out (from) them twelve whom also apostles (acc. plur.) (he) named.’ This accusative seems to be an analogical transference from such cases as the common construction, Izei ðiudan sik silban taujið = Qui regem se facit = Who king himself makes. 289

In cases like He bears the name John, the pure stem, or the nominative which most nearly represents it, should stand; as it does in the instance given. In English, we often use phrases like ‘the name of John,’ after the analogy of ‘the city of Rome,’ etc. In Latin, we find merely exceptionally such cases as Lactea nomen habet (Ovid, Metam., i. 168) = ‘It (the Milky Way) has the name milky,’ where milky is nominative. In classical Latin, concord is observed by placing the nominative side by side with nomen when this word stands in the nominative; as, Cui nomen Arethusa est (Cicero, Verr., iv. 53) = ‘Whose name is Arethusa;’ Ei morbo nomen est avaritia (Cicero, Tusc. Disp., iv. 11) = ‘To that malady the name is avarice.’ But we not uncommonly find in Latin that, while the word nomen is in the nominative, the name itself is made to agree with the noun or pronoun expressing the person who bears it; as, Nomen Mercurio est mihi (Plautus, Amph., Prol. 19) = ‘The name is Mercury (dat.) to me (dat.),’ i.e. ‘My name is Mercury;’ Puero ab inopia Egerio inditum nomen (Livy, i. 34) = ‘To the boy (dat.) from his poverty Egerius (dat.) was given the name,’ i.e. ‘The name of Egerius was given to the boy from his poverty.’ Nay, we find a similar vacillation in concord where nomen is in the accusative case; as, Filiis duobus Philippum et Alexandrum et filiæ Apamam nomina imposuerat (Livy, xxxv. 47) = ‘To his two sons he had given the names Philip and Alexander, and to his daughter, Apama.’ In this sentence, we have nomen in the accusative plural and the names Philip, etc., also in the accusative, though singular; so that the latter agree in case with nomen, and not with the datives (filiis duobus and filiæ) of the persons bearing them. In the following instance the reverse is the case: Cui 290 Superbo cognomen facta indiderunt (Livy, i. 49) = ‘To whom (dat.) Superbus (dat.) the name (acc.) his deeds have given,’ i.e. ‘To whom his deeds have given the name Superbus.’ This very vacillation proves that the speakers recognised no logical necessity for employing one case rather than another; but, in default of an absolute stem, chose a case which seemed to tally with some existing principle of concord already prevailing in language.

A similar vacillation occurs in cases of the predicatival noun or predicatival attributive with an infinitive, as in It suited him to remain unknown.

In English no doubt could arise, as the adjectives maintain an absolute form; but even in German, where the adjectives when used as predicates have different forms from those which they bear when used as epithets, it is correct to say, Es steht dir frei als verständiger mann zu handeln = ‘It stands thee free as sensible man to act,’ i.e. ‘You are free to act as a man of sense,’—in which case we find the declined nominative ‘verständiger,’ used as it is whenever the adjective is followed by a noun, and when, consequently, according to the rules of German grammar, the undeclined form cannot be employed.

In Latin the nominative stands if it can be connected with the subject of the governing verb: as, Pater esse disce (‘Learn to be a father’); Omitto iratus esse (‘I cease to be angry’); Cupio esse victor (‘I desire to be victor’). In poetry we find expressions like ait fuisse navium celerrimus (Catullus, iv. 2) = ‘Says that it was the fastest of ships,’—a construction copied by Milton in ‘And knew not eating death’ (Par. Lost, ix. 792:) ‘Sensit medios delapsus in hostes’ (Vergil, Æn., ii. 377) = ‘He perceived that he had fallen into the midst of enemies.’ In these cases, celerrimus and 291 delapsus are nominative, instead of the usual accusative; and similarly, in Greek, we find the nominative coupled with the infinitive used substantively, though this may be in another case: as, Ὁπόθεν ποτὲ ταύτην τὴν ἐπωνυμίαν ἔλαβες τὸ μανικὸς καλεῖσθαι, οὐκ οἶδα ἔγωγε (Plato, Symp., 173 D), ‘Whence ever thou didst take this name the-to-be-called mad (nom. sing. masc.), I don’t know;’ Ὀρέγονται τοῦ πρῶτος εκαστος γίγνεσθαι (Thucydides, ii. 65), ‘They wish for the (gen.) first (nom.) each (nom.) to become (gen.),’ i.e. ‘They all wish to become first.’ Nay, in Greek, it is possible to connect with the infinitive even a genitive or dative depending on the governing sentence; as in Εὐδαίμοσιν ὑμῖν ἔξεστι γίγνεσθαι (Demosthenes, Dem. iii. 23), ‘It is permitted you (dat.) to become happy (dat.);’ Ἐδέοντο Κύρου ὡς προθυμοτάτου γενέσθαι (Xenophon, Hell., I. v. 2), ‘They were begging Cyrus (gen.) to show himself as energetic-as-possible (gen.).’

In Latin we find the connection with a dative, though not so widely as in Greek: as, Animo otioso esse impero (Terence, Phorm., II. ii. 26) = ‘Mind (dat.) easy (dat.) to be I command (myself—dative understood),’ i.e. ‘I order my mind to be at ease;’ Da mihi fallere, da justo sanctoque videri (Hor., Ep. I. xvi. 61), ‘Grant me to deceive, grant me (dat.) to seem just and holy (dat.);’ Vobis necesse est fortibus viris esse (Livy, xxi. 44), ‘It is necessary for you (dat.) to be brave men (dat.);’ and commonly with licet (‘it is allowed,’) as in Republica mihi neglegenti esse non licet (Cicero, ad Att., i. 17), ‘In politics I dare not be indifferent.’168 To take this last example, for instance, we have (1) the governing sentence Non mihi licet (‘It is not lawful for me,’ dat.), (2) the infinitive esse (‘to be’), and (3) 292 the dative (depending on the governing sentence, and connected with the infinitive), neglegenti (‘indifferent’).

There are a few exceptions to this customary usage.169 The accusative is sometimes found after licet, as in the passage Si civi Romano licet esse Gaditanum, etc., ‘If it is allowed a Roman Citizen (dat.) to be a citizen of Gades (acc.).’ This use depends on the fact that the accusative is the ordinary case of the subject with the infinitive, e.g. Permitto civem Romanum esse Gaditanum,170 ‘I permit a Roman Citizen (acc.) to be a citizen of Gades (acc.).’

There are, again, other cases in which no concord is expressed; in which concord, indeed, is almost incapable of being carried out. In these cases, in default of the pure stem which—were it possible to employ it—would be the only natural form to employ, the place has been supplied by the nominative. In English, for instance, we are familiar with such phrases as My profession as teacher, his position as advocate. In Latin we find such constructions as Sempronius causa ipse pro se dicta damnatur (Livy, iv. 44.), ‘Sempronius is condemned, his cause having been defended (abl. abs.) himself (nom.);’ Omnes in spem suam quisque acceptis prœlium poscunt (Livy, xxi. 45), ‘All they having been accepted after their own hopes, each demand battle’ (here omnes (‘all’) is nominative, while acceptis (‘having been accepted’) is ablative absolute); Flumen Albin transit longius penetrata Germania quam quisquam priorum (Tacitus, Annals, iv. 45), ‘He crosses the river Elbe after penetrating Germany further than any of his predecessors,’ lit. ‘Germany having been penetrated (abl. abs.) further than any (nom.) of his predecessors (i.e. had penetrated it).’ 293 In these cases, no doubt ipse and quisquam, ‘himself’ and ‘any,’ depend, grammatically speaking, on the subject of the finite verb, but they belong logically to the ablative absolute only, with which they cannot be brought into concord.

Variation of concord exists between two parts of the same sentence in various languages, as in the case of ‘What is six winters?’ (Shakespeare, Rich. II., I. iii.), as against ‘What are six winters?’ ‘Such was my orders,’ as against ‘Such were my orders;’ ‘She is my goods;’171 ‘What means these questions?’ (Young, Night Thoughts, iv. 398). Bacon (Advancement of Learning, II. ii. 7) has ‘A portion of the time wherein there hath been the greatest varieties.’ The original rule was that the copula, like every other verb, followed the number of the subject, as in the first-named instances; and as, again, in French, in such cases as C’est eux, ‘It is they;’ Il est cent usages, ‘There is hundred usages;’ C’était les petites îles, ‘It was the little islands.’ In Latin, also, Nequam pax est indutiæ (A. Gellius), ‘A truce (lit. truces) is a bad peace;’ Contentum rebus suis esse maximæ sunt divitiæ (Cicero, Pro. Ar., vi. 3), ‘To be content with one’s circumstances are the greatest riches.’ In these cases it is indifferent which substantive be considered the logical subject.

In German, on the other hand, it is common, when the predicate is plural, to put the copula in the same number; as, das sind zwei verschiedene dinge = ‘That are two different things.’ Other languages have corresponding usages; thus, in Modern Greek, Ἔπρεπε νὰ ἦναι τέσσαρα, ‘There behoves to be four.’ In Old Greek we find Τὸ χωρίον τοῦτο, ὅπερ πρότερον Ἑννέα ὁδοὶ εκαλοῦντο, ‘This spot which were before called the 294 nine ways’ (Thuc., iv. 102); and in French we find such expressions as Ce sont des bêtises, ‘This are stupidities.’ Even in English we find such phrases as ‘Their haunt are the deep gorges of the mountains.’172 The usage seems due to the fact that the plural makes itself more characteristically felt than the singular. On the other hand, in several languages the converse usage is possible; i.e. the copula in the singular stands with a plural subject and before a singular predicate: as, in Greek, Αἵ χορηγίαι ἱκανὸν εὐδαιμονίας σημεῖον ἐστι, ‘The services is a sufficient token of prosperity:’ in Latin—Loca quæ Numidia appellatur (Sallust), ‘Places which is called Numidia;’ Quas geritis vestes sordida lana fuit (Ovid, Ars Am., iii. 222), ‘The clothes you wear was dirty wool:’ in English—Two paces in the vilest earth is room enough (Shakespeare, 1 Hen. IV., V. iv. 91); Forty yards is room enough (Sheridan, Rivals, v. 2). We also find the curious instance of ‘Sham heroes, what are called quacks’ (Carlyle, Past and Present, ii. 7): in Spanish we have Los encamisados era gente medrosa, ‘The highwaymen (lit. ‘shirtclad’) was a cowardly lot’ (Cervantes).

Similarly, we find in the person of the verb a corresponding usage: It was you; Is that they? in French—C’est moi (‘It is I’); C’est nous (‘It is we’); C’est vous (‘It is you’): in Old French it was possible to say C’est eux (‘It is they’). On the other hand, in Modern German we find such forms as Das waren sie (‘That were you’); Sind sie das (‘Are you that’): and in Old French, Ce ne suis je pas = ‘This no am I (at-all);’ C’estez vous (‘This are you’); but C’ont été (‘This they have been’); Ce furent les Phéniciens qui inventèrent l’écriture (Bossuet), ‘It were (3rd plur.) the Phenicians who invented writing.’ 295

In sentences beginning in English with there, and in French with the (neut.) il, we find that commonly in English the verb agrees in number with the subject which follows it, whilst in French it agrees with the pronoun il, as Il est des gens de bien (‘There is good people’); Rarement il arrive des révolutions (‘Rarely there happens revolutions’). In English we more commonly find the plural; cf. Mätzner, vol. ii., p. 106—There were many found to deny it: but we also find There is no more such Cæsars (Shakespeare, Cymb., III. i.).173

A participle employed as a predicate or copula may agree with the predicatival substantive instead of the subject; as, Πάντα διήγησις οὖσα τυγχάνει (Plato, Rep., 392 D), ‘Everything happens to be an explanation,’ where the part. οὖσα (lit. ‘being’) agrees with διήγησις (‘explanation’); Paupertas mihi onus visum (Terence, Phorm., I. ii. 44), ‘Poverty (fem.) to me a burden (neut.) seemed (neut. part.)’ = ‘Poverty seemed to me a burden;’ Nisi honos ignominia putanda est (Cicero, pro Balb., 3), ‘Unless honour (masc.) is to be thought (fem.) shame (fem.).’ On the other hand, we find Semiramis puer esse credita est (Justin, i. 2) = ‘Semiramis was thought to be a boy,’ where the part. credita (‘thought’) takes its gender from Semiramis, and not from puer.

The predicate, again, which would naturally follow the subject, may follow some apposition of the subject: as, Θήβαι, πόλις ἀστυγέιτων, ἐκ μέσης τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀνήρπασται (Æschines v. Ctes., 133 ), ‘Thebes (plur.) a neighbouring city, is torn from the centre of Greece;’ Latin—Corinthum totius Græciæ lumen extinctum esse voluerunt (Cicero, Leg. Man., 5), ‘Corinth (fem.), the light of all Greece, they wished to be extinguished (neut.).’ Again, though the subject is plural, we find 296 the verb agreeing with its distributival apposition, and placed in the singular; as, Pictores et poetæ, suum quisque opus a vulgo considerari vult (Cic., de Offic., i. 41), ‘Painters and poets each wishes that his work should be examined by the public.’

The construction is more striking still in which the predicate is made to agree with a noun compared with the subject (1) in gender—as, Magis pedes quam arma tuta sunt (Sallust, Jugurtha, 74174) = ‘Feet (masc.) are safer (neut.) than arms (neut.):’ (2) in number—Me non tantum literæ, quantum longinquitas temporis mitigavit (Cicero, Fam., vi. 4) = ‘Me not so much letters as length of time has comforted:’ (3) in gender and number—as, Quand on est jeunes, riches, et jolies, comme vous, mesdames, on n’en est pas réduites à l’artifice (Diderot), ‘When one (sing.) is young, rich, and pretty, (fem. plur.) as you are, ladies, one (sing.) is not reduced (fem. plur.) to artifice:’ (4) in person and number—as, Ἡ τύχη ἀεὶ βέλτιον ἢ ἡμεὶς ἡμῶν αὐτῶν ἐπιμελούμεθα (Demosthenes, Phil., I. 12), ‘Fortune always for us more than we care for ourselves.’ In English we meet with many sentences like ‘Sully bought of Monsieur de la Roche Guzon one of the finest horses that was ever seen.’ The concord of the predicate with a second subject connected with the words and not is also curious; as, Heaven, and not we, have safely fought to-day (Shakespeare, 2 Hen. IV., IV. ii.).175

In Greek, an apposition separated from the noun by a relative sentence may follow the relative pronoun in case; as, Κύκλωπος κεχόλωται, ὃν οφθάλμου ἀλάωσεν, ἀντίθεον Πολύφημον (Hom., Od., i. 69), ‘He is wrath with the Cyclops (gen.) whom (acc.) he deprived of an eye, the divine Polyphemus (acc.).’ 297

A demonstrative or relative, instead of following the substantive to which it refers, may follow a noun predicated of it; as, in Latin, Leucade sunt hæc decreta; id caput Arcadiæ erat (Livy, xxxiii. 17), ‘These things were decreed at Leucas (fem.); that (neut.) in the capital (neut.) of Arcadia;’ Thebæ quod Bœotiæ caput est, ‘Thebes (fem. plur.) which (neut.) is the capital (neut.) of Bœotia;’ Φόβος ἣν αἰδὼ εἴπομεν (Plat.), ‘Fear (masc.) which (fem.) we call modesty (fem.).’

A relative pronoun logically referring to an impersonal indefinite subject usually follows the definite predicate belonging to that subject; and, of course, the predicate of the pronoun does the same. Thus we have to say ‘It was a man who told me,’ and not ‘It was a man which told me:’ ‘It is the lord Chancellor whose decision is questioned.’ It is the same in German and in French; as, C’est eux qui ont bâti (‘It is they who have built’). In French, too, the person of the verb in the relative sentence follows the definite predicate, as C’est moi seul qui suis coupable (‘It is I alone who am guilty’); and it is the same in English—‘It is I who am in fault.’ On the other hand, in N.H.G. the use is to say Du bist es, der mich gerettet hat, ‘Thou art it who me saved has,’ = ‘It is thou that (who) hast saved me.’

In a relative sentence, the verb connected with the subject of the governing sentence goes into the first or second person, even though the relative pronoun belongs to the predicate, and the third person would strictly be natural: cf. Non sum ego is consul qui nefas arbitrer Gracchos laudare = ‘I am not such a consul who should think (1st pers.) it base to praise the Gracchi’ (Cicero); Neque tu is es qui nescias = ‘Nor are you he who would ignore’ (2nd pers.), i.e. ‘Nor are you such a one as to ignore.’ 298

In English, this construction is very common; as, ‘If thou beest he: but O how fall’n! how changed From him, who in the happy realms of light didst outshine myriads’ (Milton, Par. Lost, bk. i., 84, 85); ‘I am the person who have had’ (Goldsmith, Good-nat. Man, iii.). This construction was common in Anglo-Saxon; as, Secga œnigum ðâra ðe tirleâses trôde sceawode = ‘Of the men to any of those (plur.) who of the inglorious the track looked at (sing.)’ + ‘To any of the men who looked at the track (of the) inglorious (man)’ (Beowulf, 844).

So in French—JŹlthe d’ epi psychê Thêbaiou Teiresiao chryseon skêptron echōne suis l’homme qui accouchai d’un œuf (Voltaire), ‘I am the man who laid (1st. pers.) an egg’; Je suis l’individu qui ai fait le crime, ‘I am the person who have done the crime;’ and Italian—Io sono colui chi ho fatto, ‘I am he who have done.’

The predicate or attribute, instead of agreeing with the subject, or with the word which it serves to define, may agree with a genitive dependent on that subject; as, Ἦλθε δ’ ἐπί ψυχή Θηβαίου Τειρεσίαο χρύσεον σκῆπτρον ἔχων (Homer, Od., xi. 90), ‘The soul (fem.) of the Theban Teresias (masc.) came having (masc.) a golden sceptre.’ In English we find ‘There are eleven days’ journey from Horeb unto Kadesh-barnea’ (Deut. i. 2).

In French it is customary to say La plupart de ses amis l’abandonnèrent, ‘The most part of his friends abandoned (plur.) him;’ but La plupart du peuple voulait, ‘The most part of the people wished (sing.):’ in the former case the quantity of individuals is regarded; in the latter the people are looked upon as a totality divided.

The attribute sometimes in Latin and Greek, referring to the person addressed, appears in the vocative: as, Quibus Hector ab oris Expectate venis? 299 (Vergil, Æn., ii. 282), ‘From what shores, Hector, O long expected, dost come?’ Stemmate quod Tusco ramum millesime ducis (Persius, iii. 28), ‘Because thou, O thousandth, dost draw thy lineage from an Etruscan tree.’ Thus, in Greek, Ὄλβιε, κῶρε, γένοιο (Theocr., Id., xvii. 66), ‘Mayst thou be happy, O boy,’ lit. ‘O happy, O boy, mayst thou be!’

Such examples as these may aid us to understand the way in which concord has spread beyond the area to which it strictly belonged. And we may gather from these some idea of the way in which this process grew up in prehistorical times. We must remember, however, that concord was not felt so indispensable in the earliest stages of language, because absolute forms without inflectional suffixes were then the rule.

The question now comes, What were the rudiments from which concord proceeded? We must suppose that a period once existed in which substantives coalesced with the stem of the verb, and in which pronouns could precede the stem, just as our actual verbal inflections seem to owe their origin in many cases to the coalition of pronouns with the stem. We must therefore suppose that, just as it was possible to say Διδω-μι (‘Give I’), so it was possible to say ‘Go father,’ ‘Father go’ (for ‘Father goes’); and ‘I go,’ just as it was possible to say ‘Go I,’ ‘Go thou,’ ‘Go he’ (instead of ‘I go,’ etc.). There are actually some non-Indo-European languages in which the third person singular differs from the other persons by dispensing with any suffix. Such is Hungarian,176 in which the root ‘fog,’ ‘seize,’ is thus declined—fog-ok, fogo-s, fog. Here, then, 300 the original plan maintains itself, of coalition according to the formula ‘Go-father,’ or ‘Father-go.’ In the next stage, the subject is repeated, as, when we say Ἔγω δίδωμι, we are really saying ‘I give I.’ This process is very common in some modern languages, especially in poetry, when emphasis is to be given to the subject: as, The night it was still, and the moon it shone (Kirke White, Gondoline);177 The skipper he stood beside the helm (Longfellow): Je le sais, moi; Il ne voulut pas, lui; Toi, tu vivras vil et malheureux,—‘I know it, I;’ ‘He would not, he;’ ‘Thou, thou shalt live vile and wretched.’ Similar is the anticipation of the subject by an indefinite il; as, Il suffisait un mot, ‘There sufficed a word.’ The pronoun was originally doubled only where it was specially emphasised, just as in uneducated conversation at the present day we hear such forms as I says, says I. But such pronominal reduplication must have spread, and have affected the verbal forms when they were completely formed, just as it, at an earlier period, affected the tense-stems. It is, however, by this time so far forgotten that the termination of such a word as legit represents a personal pronoun, that its most common use is to indicate its relationship with the subject by mere concord; as Pater legit, lit. ‘Father read—he,’ i.e. ‘father reads.’ In fact, the personal endings at the present day merely serve to mark the verb as such, and sometimes to express the difference between different moods.

In the case of nouns, the concord of gender and number, at any rate, is first formed in the pronoun to which reference is made, to which gender, too, owes its origin, as in such cases as illæ mulieres, ‘those women (nom.);’ illas mulieres (acc.).

Concord in case appears first in apposition; as, Imperatoris 301 Cæsaris exercitus, ‘The army of Cæsar (gen.) the commander (gen.),’ where it serves to show that both nouns have the same relation to exercitus. But here there is no more actual necessity for employing the case-ending twice, than there is for repeating the pronominal suffix in the case of the verb. This we may see in such cases as King Arthur’s seat; La gloire de la nation française, ‘The glory of the French nation.’ A concord in gender and number occurs, even at the present day, only where it is demanded by the nature of the case; as, La dame sur le visage de laquelle les grâces étaient peintes (Fénelon), ‘The lady on the face of whom the graces were painted.’

The concord of substantives in apposition having been the first to form itself—as in Cæsaris imperatoris Romani, ‘Of Cæsar (gen.) the Roman-commander (gen.)’—we must suppose the concord of the attributival and predicatival adjective to have been modelled upon that use; as, Cæsaris domini potentis, ‘Of Cæsar (gen.) the powerful master (gen.),’ or Cæsaris invicti, ‘Of Cæsar (gen.) unconquered (gen.).’ In other words, their origin reaches back to a time when the adjective still occupied the same category as the substantive, and was not yet thought of as occupying a category of its own. The transition is marked by such substantives as are called, in Latin grammars, Mobilia, which in the forms of their genders resemble adjectives. Such as coquus, ‘cook’ (masc.); coqua, ‘cook’ (fem.): dominus, ‘lord;’ domina, ‘lady:’ rex, ‘king;’ regina, ‘queen.’ As these substantives passed into adjectives, they maintained the concord, and it then came to be regarded as of the essence of the adjective. 302

CHAPTER XVIII.
ECONOMY OF EXPRESSION.

Language, as a rule, employs no more material than is necessary to make the hearer or reader understand the meaning intended to be conveyed by the speaker or writer. This statement must be taken merely generally, for it admits of many exceptions. But, as a rule, language, like a careful housewife, husbands its resources, and tends rather to economy than to lavishness in their employment. Everywhere in language we meet with forms of expression which contain just so much as is needed to make the employer of language understood, and no more. In fact, the supply offered by language depends on the demand, and on this alone. A gesticulation may supply the place of a sentence; a nod, a frown, a smile may speak as plainly as any words. Much, too, must depend upon the situation: on the relations of the speakers to each other; their knowledge of what is passing in each other’s minds; and their common sentiments with regard to the subject discussed. If we consider a form of expression which shall convey a thought under all possible conditions to any possible hearer as the only correct standard, and measure all other forms with that standard, then all these will appear imperfect, or, as grammarians would say, elliptical. 303

Practically, however, ellipse should be assumed in a minimum of cases, and each form of expression should be referred to its origin. Otherwise, we must be content to regard ellipse as an essential part of language; in fact, we shall have to regard language as habitually containing less than ought rightly to be expressed, and hence we should have to regard most expressions as elliptical.

We will consider first the cases in which a word or phrase is said to be supplied from what precedes or what follows. It hardly seems that we are justified in using the word supplied. Take such a sentence as Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? (Rich. II., III. ii. 14). We can hardly contend that in the perfectly expressed sentence we should have to supply dead after Bushy, Green, and the Earl, etc. Again, in such a sentence as He saw me and grew pale, it seems unnecessary to supply he with grew pale; nor in such a combination as in fear and hope need we supply in before hope merely because we can also say in fear and in hope. It seems more correct to drop the notion of supplying, and to think of single positing with plural reference—regarding what usually is called a sentence, not as an independent self-contained integer, but as a link in a continuous series.

It is common to assume an ellipse in such cases as ‘the German and French languages,’ and still more in the form ‘the German language and the French.’ But we have really here a pair of elements standing in the same relation to a third. That this is so, we see by the fact that there are other languages in which the two elements are really treated as a unity and attached as such to the third, which then becomes strictly speaking the second. This is shown by the use of the plural. We say, for instance, in Latin—quarta et Martia 304 legiones (Brut. apud Cicero, ad Fam., ii. 19), ‘the fourth (sing.) and the Martian (sing.) legions (plur.),’ beside legio Martia quartaque, ‘the legion Martian and fourth’ (both in Cicero); Falernum et Capuanum agros, ‘the Falernian (sing.) and Capuan (sing.) fields (plur.)’ (Livy, xxii. 15): Italian—le lingue Greca e Latina, ‘the languages Greek (sing.) and Latin (sing.),’ besides la lingua Greca e Latina, ‘the language Greek and Latin:’ in French—les langues Française et Allemande:—so, the fourth and fifth regiments; the second and third days.

In the same way, in the case of such sentences as John writes well, James badly, we are prone to assume an ellipse. But that the current assumption of an ellipse cannot be always right is proved by the fact that even in English we sometimes meet with a plural predicate: as, ‘Your sister as well as myself, said Booby, are greatly obliged’ (Fielding, J. Andr., iv. 7); ‘Old Sir John with half a dozen more are at the door,’ (Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV. II. iv.): as against, ‘Ely, with Richmond troubles me’ (Rich. III., IV. iii.); ‘Until her back, as well as sides, was like to crack’ (But., Hud., II. i. 85).178

In Latin, we actually find this construction with the ablative absolute: ille Antiocho, hic Mithridate pulsis, ‘the former when Antiochus, the latter when Mithridates WERE defeated’ (Tacitus); quod tu aut illa queri possitis, ‘what thou or she require could (the verb plural)’ (Tullia, ap. Cicero, ad Fam., iv. 5): cf.— ‘Not the King’s crown nor the deputed sword,
The marshal’s truncheon nor the judge’s robe,
Become them.’
(Shakespeare, Meas. for Meas., II. ii. 60); ‘For there 305 nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom’ (Th. Campbell, Theodoric). So in French—‘Ni l’or ni la grandeur ne nous rendent heureux’ (La Fontaine), ‘Neither gold nor grandeur make us happy:’ and in Latin—‘Erant quibus nec Senatus gloriari nec princeps possent,’ lit. ‘There were (some) of whom neither Senate boast nor the Emperor could (plur.)’ (Plin., Pan., 75).179 This plural has originated from cases where the copulative connection could be substituted without essential alteration of meaning—as, ‘Yew and cypress spread not there their gloom,’—and has thence been extended by analogy. In fact, for the instinct of language, the predicate has been posited once and not twice.

In sentences like ‘I will come and do it,’ ‘Who steals my purse steals trash’ (Othello, III. iii. 157), ‘Who was the thane lives yet’ (Macbeth, I. iii. 109), we have instances of an element common to the principal and subordinate sentence, and also in such sentences as ‘It is thy sovereign speaks to thee,’ a variety of sentences constructed ἀπὸ κοινοῦ. Sometimes also, in German, we find such sentences as Was ich da träumend jauchzt und litt, muss wachend nun erfahren (Goethe), lit. ‘What I there dreaming cheered-at and suffered must waking now experience;’ with which we may compare sentences like Milton’s ‘Thou art my son beloved: in him am pleased,’ and ‘Here’s a young maid with travel much oppressed, and faints for succour’180 (Shakespeare, As You Like It, II. iv. 75). It occurs frequently in dialogue that words of one speaker are not repeated by another, and they are ordinarily described as being supplied. Really, however, dialogue must be regarded as a continuous whole, so 306 that, e.g., the words of one speaker (or their contents) form subject to predicate uttered by the other. Cf.—

If we take a sentence like ‘my relatives and friends,’ the common element my stands at the outset of the whole sentence; it is then nearer indeed to relatives, but is without difficulty referred to friends. But insertion in the second part of the sentence is also possible: cf. ‘It (i.e. love) shall be (too) sparing and too severe’ (Ven. and Adon., 1155), ‘Beggars (sitting) in their stocks refuge their shame that (i.e. because) many have (sat) and many must sit there’ (Rich. II., V. v. 27); ‘of such dainty and such picking grievances’ (2 Hen. IV., IV. i. 198).181 In this case, the first portion of the sentence remains incomplete until the common element has been spoken or written; and this serves to complete the first and the second part of the sentence simultaneously.

Sometimes the common element stands in different relations to the two others with which it is connected. Then concord must be violated: and different languages try to avoid this breach of concord in different ways.

We, in English, admit the want of concord in such cases as ‘She LOVES him not less than I (LOVE him);’ ‘He thinks so: not I;’ ‘They are going to-morrow: I too.’ The case is similar in French: Vous partez—moi aussi (= ‘You depart—me also’); and in German, Du gehst—ich auch (= ‘Thou goest—I too’). The sequence of tenses is not observed in ‘Therefore they thought it good you hear a play’ (Tam. of Shrew, Introduc. ii. 307 136);182 ‘’Twere good you do so much for charity’ (Merch. of Ven., IV. i. 261). The infinitive has to be borrowed from the finite verb in cases like ‘He has done as he was bound;’ ‘He is gone where he was told.’

It is, of course, harder to find cases of discord in gender in English than in more highly inflected languages. In French, however, we find Paul et Virginie étaient ignorants (B. de S. Pierre), ‘Paul and Virginia were ignorant [masc. plur.]:’ and also Le fer, le bandeau et la flamme est toute prête (Racine), ‘The iron, the bandage and the flame is quite ready;’ C’est un homme ou une femme noyée (Boniface), ‘It is a man or a woman drowned (sing. fem.):’ cf. Lat. Visæ nocturno tempore faces ardorque cœli (Cicero, Cat., iii. 8). The case is similar in Italian and Spanish. In English, we find such sentences as ‘I am happy to hear it was his horse and not himself who fell in the combat.’183

A single word may actually stand in relation to two or more verbs, and represent two or more cases; as, which (accusative to spit and nominative to is), however, they pretend to spit wholly out of themselves, is improved by the same arts (Swift, Battle of the Books, p. 29, Cassell’s Edit.): so in Latin—Quibus insputari solitumst atque iis profuit (Plaut., Captivi), ‘On whom it is customary that it should be spat, and (this) has been good for them.’

In Latin, again, we find a nominative actually representing an accusative; as, Qui fatetur ... et ... non timeo (Cicero) = ‘Who confesses ... and ... (whom) I do not fear:’ and, again, a dative represents an accusative in Cui fidem habent et bene rebus suis 308 consulere arbitrantur (Cicero), ‘In whom they trust and whom they deem to manage their affairs well.’

There are, again, cases in which the two principal notions are connected by a link which serves to define more closely the nature of the connection. Such links are often dispensed with, as in Hectoris Andromache, Cæcilia Metelli; or, The Duke of Westminster’s Ormonde. It is misleading, in such cases, to say that uxor, ‘wife,’ or filia, ‘daughter,’ or colt is to be supplied; indeed, no definite expression of the kind could be supplied unless the hearer or reader were conversant with the situation; and even then it does not follow that any one of the three words which we have mentioned would actually be supplied. The truth is that the genitive, in these cases, denotes a connection which may be rendered more definite as our knowledge of the situation becomes more intimate.

Indications of direction were no doubt originally associated with verbs of motion only; as, I am going thither. But they are now found attached to verbs of preparing, wishing and the like: as, Wo wollen sie hin? = ‘Where will you to?’ (= ‘Whither will you?’ = ‘Whither are you going?’); He purposeth to Athens (Shakespeare, Ant. and Cleo., III. i. 35); I must to Coventry (Rich. II., I. ii. 56); To Cabin! silence, (Temp., I. i.); To horse! to horse! (Rich. II., II. i.); Back to thy punishment, false fugitive; Forward, brave champions, to the fight (Scott, Lay of Last Minstrel, v. 20); And thou shalt back to France (Marlowe, Edward II., I. i.); Let us across the country to Terracina (Bulwer, Rienzi, iii. 1).184 Similarly, the common Scottish phrase to want in, for to wish to enter. In these cases, we must suppose that the notions of preparing, wishing, etc., and of the terminus ad quem 309 present themselves at once to our consciousness, and that they are directly connected as psychological subject and predicate. Then the ordinary construction in such cases, as, They are going home, or to Rome, occurred to the recollection, and the analogy of this form of expression co-operated to produce the form in question. The form has now become so usual that it cannot fairly be described as elliptical. Other similar phrases are I never let him from home; I will not let you out; Let me in; and, again, such as He is away, or He is off to Paris; in which case away and off to Paris are to be taken as predicates, and is as copula. With this construction may be classed the so-called constructio prægnans, like conditus in nubem (Vergil, Georgics, I. 442) = ‘Hidden into a cloud,’ i.e. ‘Having passed into a cloud and hidden itself.’

In Latin, a nominative case standing as subject is sometimes followed by an accusative standing without a verb; as, Cicero Cassio salutem, ‘Cicero to Cassius greeting:’ similarly, Unde mihi tam fortem? (Horace, Sat., II. v. 102); sus Minervam; fortes fortuna; dii meliora (Cicero, Phil., viii. 3); Di vostram fidem (Plaut., Captivi, 591).

In these cases, two notions are combined in the form of nominative and accusative because they stand in the same relation to each other as, in a more complete sentence, obtains between subject and predicate.

Similarly, in French, we find expressions like Vite un flambeau! (Racine), ‘Quick! a torch;’ Citoyens, trève à cette dispute! (Ponsard), ‘Citizens, enough of this dispute.’

Sometimes, again, a nominative standing as subject is connected with an adverb; as, hæc hactenus, ‘this so far;’ an tu id melius? ‘or (do you know) this better?’ ne quid temere, ‘nothing rash;’ ne quid nimis, ‘nothing 310 too-much;’ ταῦτα μὲν οὖν δὲ ὁὗτως (= ‘that thou therefore thus’) (Plato). Similarly, we find in English, one step enough for me (Newman’s hymn, ‘Lead Kindly Light’). Many instances of such constructions may be found in Pepys’ Diary; as, I to bed, etc.

Sometimes we meet with sentences like I will give you an example how to do the thing. In this case, the subordinate sentence is combined with a principal sentence without some element of the sentence like, of how or as how you should do it. Thus we find sentences like the following:185 To talk to a man in a state of moral corruption to elevate himself. Then sentences like You look what is the matter; where the sentence, if fully expressed, would be Look to see what is the matter. Similarly, in Greek, Ὅρη δίφρον, Εὐνόα, αὐτᾷ (Theoc., Idyll., xv. 2), ‘Look (for) a chair for her.’ Similarly, we have such phrases as As far as that goes; As far as I know; To be plain: and, again, such compressed sentences as in short; quant à cela (‘as for that’), etc.

In cases like to the right, to the left, the situation again stands instead of a substantive. Just so, in Latin, calida frigida (aqua),186 ‘warm, cold (i.e. water):’ Hot or cold? (with reference to refreshments); Burgundy, Champagne; agnina, caprina (caro), ‘lamb, goat (i.e. flesh);’ Appia (via), ‘Appian (road);’ Martia (aqua), ‘Martian (water);’ une première représentation, ‘a first performance;’ a tenth; the Russian, French (language); la Marseillaise. In these cases, if we speak of ellipse at all, we must remember that we could not in many cases supply the ellipse without the situation. If we were to say, Bring the old instead of the new, this would be meaningless unless we had the 311 wine before us: unless, indeed, we had something else, as clothes, for instance, in which case likewise the situation would supply the sense required. The more ‘usual’ such ways of speech become, the less do they depend on the situation. When we speak of Champagne, Bordeaux, Gruyère, etc., the word has passed from the position of an epithet into that of a true substantive.

In the case of genitive determinants, we meet with a similar development. An Oxford student would have no difficulty in understanding what was meant by We were beaten by St. John’s (College), nor a medical man by I am house surgeon at St. George’s. Similarly, we find in French la Saint Pierre (fête), ‘S. Peter’s (day);’ and, in Latin, ad Vestæ (templum), ‘to Vesta’s (temple);’ and in German, Heut ist Simon und Juda’s, ‘To-day is Simon and Juda’s (feast)’ (Sch.). In these cases, no ellipse can be assumed, for it is evident that the words are already apprehended as simple substantives.

In such forms as No further! the psychological predicate alfone is expressed, the unexpressed subject being the person to whom the words are addressed. We may gather that these words are apprehended as in the accusative case from parallel instances in other languages; as Cotta finem, ‘Cotta (made) an end;’ Keinen schritt weiter, No step further! It is the same with sentences like Good day, My best thanks, Bon voyage (‘Pleasant trip!’), etc. In sentences like Christianos ad leones (‘The Christians to the lions’) or Manum de tabula (‘Hand from table’), we might certainly take Christianos and manum as the psychological subject, and ad leones or de tabula as the predicate; but the accusative in Christianos and manum shows that a subject is really conceived of as taken from the 312 situation, and that manum, Christianos, are regarded as the object of such subject. It is the same with cases: as, Ultro istum a me (Plautus), ‘Spontaneously him from me;’ Ex pede Herculem, ‘From foot Hercules;’ Ex ungue leonem, ‘From claw the lion;’ Malam illi pestem, ‘To him the plague’ (Cicero); Tiberium in Tiberim (Suet., Tib., 75), ‘Tiberius into the Tiber.’ In German we have cases like Den kopf in die höhe = ‘(The) head into the height’ = ‘Heads up!’ and, in English, probably such cases as Heads up! Hands down! are conceived of as in the accusative case. Other cases also, as well as adverbs, can be thus used: as, Sed de hoc alio loco pluribus = ‘But more of this hereafter;’ Hæc nimis iracunde = ‘This too angrily.’ Similarly, So Gareth to him (Tennyson, Gareth and Lynette, p. 47); Whereat the maiden petulant (ibid., p. 77).

Sometimes, as in the rhetorical figure which we call aposiopesis, the psychological predicate as well is taken from the situation; in this case gesticulation and the tone of the speaker may do much to promote the clearness of the situation. Thus we have suppressed threats, like the well-known Vergilian, Quos ego (Æn., i. 135), ‘Whom I!’187

Again, we find such expressions as, To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus (is something).188 Again, take such expressions as the wretch! A maid and be so martial! (Shakespeare, 1 Hen. VI., I. iv.); and, again, exclamations such as So young and so depraved! To sleep so long! and, To throw me plumply aside! (Coleridge, Picc., i. 2). Under this head will come the so-called Infinitive of exclamation in Latin. Hunccine solem tam nigrum surrexe mihi (Horace, Sat., I. ix. 72), ‘Oh that this wretched day (black sun) has risen for me!’ This use is also very common in 313 French; as, Enfoncer ce couteau moi-même, chose horrible (Ponsard),189 ‘To plunge this knife (into him) myself, horrible notion!’

Similarly, dependent sentences may become by us independent; as, ‘O that this too too solid flesh would melt!’ If I only knew! O had we some bright little isle of our own! (T. Moore). This use is similar in Anglo-Saxon.190

It is similar when conditional sentences are used as threats; as, If you only dare! Verbum si Addideris! (Terence), ‘If you say another word!’—or when such are set down and left uncompleted; as, But if he doesn’t come after all! French is full of parallels: cf. Et quand je pense que j’ai été plusieurs fois demander des messes à ce magicien d’Urbain (De Vigny), ‘And if I consider that I have several times asked this conjurer Urbain for masses!’ Puisque je suis là, si nous liquidions un peu ce vieux compte (Daudet), ‘As I am here (what) if we settled this old account?’ C’est à peine si ma tête entre dans ce chapeau (Acad.), ‘It is (only) with difficulty if my head gets into this hat;’ Passez votre chemin, mon ami. Que je passe mon chemin? Oui, qui, qui le pourrait (Regnard) = ‘Go on, my friend!—I, go on?—Yes, yes, if it were possible.’ These sentences with that are originally predicates; or, speaking from a grammatical point of view, objects. That I might be there to see! if fully expressed, would be I wish that I could be there to see. Cf. I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where ’tis spoken (Shakespeare, Tempest, I. ii.); Those other two equalled with me in fate, so were I equalled with them in renown (Milton, Par. Lost, iii. 33); Would to God we had died by the hand of the Lord (Exod. xvi. 3). 314

CHAPTER XIX.
RISE OF WORD-FORMATION AND INFLECTION.

We have in former chapters dealt with, and frequently alluded to, the fact that much which is new in derivation and inflection is due to analogy. Much is due to this, but not all; and we must now ask whence originated these processes of derivation and flection, which cannot be explained as due to analogy, i.e. those which, instead of being moulded on a given pattern, have, on the contrary, served as the model for others. It is clear that as soon as language arose, even in its most primitive state, words must have been combined syntactically, in however simple a manner. Groups of etymologically connected words, words derived the one from the other by suffixes (as long, length; king, kingdom) or by flection (as book, books; go, goes),—such groups need not have existed at once, nay, must have arisen only gradually, and in course of time. How did they arise? Theoretically, three ways only seem possible.

Words formed independently for cognate ideas, might accidentally resemble each other so closely as to group themselves also phonetically, i.e. to be sounded more or less alike; or—what is essentially the same, though not quite so improbable—words originally different and expressing different ideas, might, in course of time, so develop in meaning and 315 sound as to become members of a group. A case somewhat of this nature we studied in our word bound (cf. page 194), which, originally different in sound and form from the then existing past participle of to bind, has come to resemble it so much in form, and was used in such a sense as to cause all but students of language to group these forms together.

A second way is a differentiation in sound, i.e. two forms may arise, under the influence of accent or other causes, from the same word, which two forms then come to be differentiated in meaning. We have in this way, for instance, the two forms of the past tense of the verb werden (to become) in German, ward and wurde. These arose absolutely independently of any difference in meaning; once having arisen, a custom sprang up of using the one (ward) as aorist and the other (wurde) by preference as imperfect tense.

That in the above examples, the form which later on became bound is not itself an original creation, or that, in German, the two forms of the past tense were due largely to analogy, does not affect their value as illustrative of our point. We readily understand that both these ways were and are possible, but, at the same time, that in only very few cases they have been followed.

Only one way of explaining the origin of flection remains—‘composition.’

In order to explain how derivation and flection can have been derived from composition, we will go somewhat deeply into the nature and application of the latter. We shall then see how impossible it is to draw a sharp line between syntactical co-ordination, composition, derivation, and flection anywhere, and then—and only then—we shall acquire an insight into the true nature of the subject of this chapter. 316

If we study the composition of words in the various Indo-European languages, we soon learn to distinguish two different kinds. In one we find the so-called crude forms (that is to say, those forms of the words which, WITH THE CASE-ENDINGS, make up what we now consider the complete word) combined with other crude forms, the last of which alone assumes these case-endings. To illustrate this we must of course go back to ancient languages, in which this crude form is clearly distinct from the nominative or any other case. We have plenty of such compounds even now in English and other modern languages; but, in consequence of the wearing off of terminations, the most undoubted examples would illustrate (i.e. throw light upon) nothing. In Sanscrit, for instance, there are three plants which in the nominative singular would be called çaças (or çaçaḥ), kuças (ḥ) or kuçam (masc. or neut.), and palâçam. It is the crude forms of these nouns (without their nominative—s and m) which are used in the compound çaça-kuça-palâçam, which indicates a collection of the three. Again râjâ (with long â) is the nominative form of a stem râjan (‘king’) or râja (with short a). In the compound râja-purushas (h) we again find the crude form, this time the shorter form of the base: purushas means ‘man’ and the whole (= ‘king-man’) stands for king’s man. We might illustrate this kind by such words as our tragi-comic, melodramatic (melos = ‘song’).

In the other kind of compounds we find two or more fully inflected forms combined in one group. This is the method of composition which survives in our present linguistic consciousness, which sees compounds of the second kind even in those which are historically connected with the Indo-European type, illustrated in the former paragraph by râja-purushas. 317 The wearing off of well-nigh all case-endings has in the present language almost completely obliterated the difference between crude forms and nominatives of nouns and adjectives or the infinitives of verbs. Hence, at present, the ordinary speaker realises no difference between, e.g., noon in noon-tide and the word noon in It is noon. Yet the compound noon-tide belongs historically to the former class, and noon is there a ‘crude form,’ if we may still so call it. In our following study of composition as at present employed in the English language, we neglect the scientific origin, but base our classification on appearance; in the present case, on present linguistic consciousness. One of the fullest and best-known lists of compounds in the English language is perhaps that given by Morris (Histor. Outlines, p. 222). We shall largely draw upon it in the following study, though we have, in our enumeration, rather considered the character of the component parts than, as Mr. Morris does, that of the function of the compound.

I. Nouns are compounded with Nouns—

1. Both in the same case; i.e. in apposition, the one explanatory of, or defining the other (in which case one of the nouns has a function almost, if not quite, identical with that of an adjective). Instances are spear-plant, noon-tide, church-yard, headman, oak-tree, master-tailor, merchant-tailor, prince-regent, water-course, watershed, head-waiter, plough-boy, bishopdom (found in Milton, dom = ‘jurisdiction’), bishopric (ric = A.S. rîce, ‘power,’ ‘domain’), bandog (= band + dog), barn (bere, i.e. barley + ern, i.e. ‘storehouse’), bridegroom (bride + groom = goom = A.S. guma, ‘man’191), bridal (bride + ale = ‘bride-feast’), cowslip (cow + slip, 318 A.S. cu-slyppe = ‘cow dung’), hussy (= ‘house-wife’—Skeat, Prin. Eng. Etymol., p. 422), Lord-lieutenant, earlmarshal, wer-wolf (‘man-wolf,’ A.S. wer = ‘a man’), world (weoruld, wer = ‘man’ + ældu = ‘age,’ ‘old age,’ ‘age of man’), yeoman (= ‘village-man’—see Skeat), orchard (A.S. orceard, ortgeard, metathesis = wort-yard = ‘vegetable-garden’), Lammas (= hláf-maesse = ‘loaf-mass,’ ‘day of offering,’ ‘first-fruits’), handi-work (hand + geweorc = ‘hand-work’), mildew (= ‘honey dew,’ mil = ‘honey,’ A.S. mele), penny-worth.