Introduction to the study of the history of language
Author: Herbert A. Strong; Willem Sijbrand Logeman; Benjamin Ide Wheeler
Date: 2019-01-08T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Language and languages; Comparative linguistics; Grammar; Comparative and general

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Title: Introduction to the study of the history of language

Author: Herbert A. Strong

Willem Sijbrand Logeman

Benjamin Ide Wheeler

Release date: January 8, 2019 [eBook #58650]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY OF THE HISTORY OF LANGUAGE ***

INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF THE
HISTORY OF LANGUAGE

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

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 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, 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.

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 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 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.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | On the Development of Language | 1
II. | On the Differentiation of Language | 13
III. | On Sound-Change | 24
IV. | Change in Word-Signification | 43
V. | Analogy | 73
VI. | The Fundamental Facts of Syntax | 92
VII. | Change of Meaning in Syntax | 123
VIII. | Contamination | 140
IX. | Original Creation | 157
X. | On Isolation and the Reaction against it | 170
XI. | The Formation of New Groups | 191
XII. | On the Influence of Change in Function on Analogical Formation | 205
XIII. | Displacement in Etymological Grouping | 217
XIV. | On the Differentiation of Meaning | 226
XV. | Categories: Psychological and Grammatical | 238
XVI. | Displacement of the Syntactical Distribution | 268
XVII. | On Concord | 285
XVIII. | Economy of Expression | 302
XIX. | Rise of Word-Formation and Inflection | 314
XX. | The Division of the Parts of Speech | 343
XXI. | Language and Writing | 365
XXII. | On Mixture in Language | 381
XXIII. | The Standard Language | 395

ERRATA.
Page | 57, | line 1, add ‘a gulf or bay.’
” | 176, | line 7, for ‘ðoances’ read ‘ðances.’

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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.

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 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 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.

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, 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 chan, 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 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.

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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 ‘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 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 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) ‘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, 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 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’ 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 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, 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,’ 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 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; 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 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 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 ‘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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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,’
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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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, 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 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:—

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 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, 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—

Sing : sang :: ring : rang :: bring : brang.22

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 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 ‘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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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!

(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 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 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 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 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; 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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.
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. 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 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 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 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 + 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.’ 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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.

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 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, 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 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.

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 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, 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 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 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 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 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;’ 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 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.

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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.’

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., 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 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 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. 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.

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 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’ 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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.

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 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, 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.

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.

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 (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 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 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 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., 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 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 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. 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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. 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.’

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.), 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 ‘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, 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 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 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 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, 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 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:— 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 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.

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 ‘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 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 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 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 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, 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 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, 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, 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’).

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 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.

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 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 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 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, 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 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

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.

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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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’) (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 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 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 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.

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.

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; 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: 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; 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) 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 (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 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 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 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.

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, 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 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 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 ‘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.

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 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—

(a_1) NOW past.
(b_1) NOW present.
(c_1) NOW still to come.

II. Moment of comparison Past.

The event is stated to have been—

(a_2) THEN already past.
(b_2) THEN present.
(c_2) THEN still to come.

III. Moment of comparison Future.

It is stated that the event—

(a_3) will THEN be past.
(b_3) will THEN be present.
(c_3) 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:—

(a_1) Cæsar once said, ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’
(b_1) I now believe that this is true.
(c_1) I expect that he will come.
(a_2) When I entered, he had gone.
(b_2) When I entered, he was speaking.
(c_2) When I entered, he was going to speak.
(a_3) On New Year’s day I shall have completed my fiftieth year.
(b_3) I shall then receive a letter.
(c_3) I shall then be going to write.

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 b_2 and a_1, or, at any rate, c_1 and c_3. 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 c_2, for instance, the event might be then still to come, but now α) past, (β) present, (γ) even yet to come.

This at first seems fanciful; but while the example we employed to illustrate c_2 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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’ 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’).

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 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 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:—

P + S
{____}
S´ + P´
{_____}
S´´ + P´´
{______}
S´´´ + P´´´
{_______}
S´´´´ + P´´´´
{_______}

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 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 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: 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 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 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 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

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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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.

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) 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.);’ 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 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.

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 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 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) 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).’ 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 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.’

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 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.).’

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.’

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? (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, 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 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.

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.

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 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 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 that, e.g., the words of one speaker (or their contents) form subject to predicate uttered by the other. Cf.—

‘O Banquo, Banquo!
Our royal master’s murdered——
(Lady Macb.) Woe! alas!
What, in our house?’

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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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).

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 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.

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. 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, 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.

2. Genitive + Nominative. Doomsday, Thursday, Tuesday (day of Tiw, the godhead), kinsman, trades-union, calf’s-foot (calf’s-foot jelly), lady day (lady as a feminine had no s in the genitive), daisy (‘day’s eye,’ A.S. dæges 4 éage), Wednesday (‘Wodan’s day’), shilling’s-worth.

3. Noun + Verbal Noun (the former having the function of object to the verb cognate with the latter). Man-killer, blood-shedding, auger (i.e. ‘nauger,’ a nauger having been divided as if = an auger; A.S. nafu-gár, ‘nave (of a wheel)’ ‘-borer,’ ‘-piercer’), groundsel (A.S. grunde + swelge = ‘ground-swallower’ = ‘abundant weed;’ already in the Saxon corrupted from gunde-swilge = ‘poison-swallower,’ with reference to healing effects),192 lady (hláf-dige, ‘loaf-kneader’), soothsayer (= ‘truth-speaker’).

4. Two Nouns in other relations: nightingale (A.S. nihte-gale = ‘night-singer’), nightmare (mara, ‘an incubus,’ by night).

II. Nouns are compounded with Adjectives.

1. Adjective and Substantive.

a. Nouns. Nobleman, upperhand, good-day, sometime, meanwhile, freeman, blackbird, long-measure, sweet-william, lucky-bag, midday, alderman (ealdor-man = ‘elder-man’), Gospel (god-spell = ‘good-spell’ = ‘good tiding’), holiday (= ‘holy day’), halibut (= ‘holy but’ = ‘holy plaice for eating on holy days’), hoar-frost, hoar-hound (the hoar or greyish húna, i.e. the plant now called horehound), hind-leg, neighbour (= ‘near-dweller’), midriff (mid + hrif = belly), titmouse (small sparrow; mouse here = A.S. máse, small bird, not the A.S. mûs from which the common word mouse).

b. Adjectives. Barefoot.

2. Substantive and Adjective.

a. Nouns. Furlong (= ‘furrow long’ = ‘the length of a furrow’).

b. Adjectives. In many of these the noun has very much the functions of an adverb. Blood-red, snow-white, fire-proof, shameful, beautiful, manly (i.e. ‘man-like’), scot-free (free from paying scot, i.e. a contribution).

3. Substantive and Participle.

a. Earth-shaking, heart-rending, life-giving, blood-curdling.

b. Airfed, earthborn, moth-eaten.193

4. Numeral + Substantive.

Sennight (= ‘seven night’), fortnight (‘fourteen night’), twi-light (= ‘double light’ = ‘doubtful light’).

III. Pronoun and Substantive. Self-will, self-esteem.

IV. 1. Substantive and Verb (or Verbal Stem).

Verbs. Back-bite, blood-let, brow-beat, hoodwink, caterwaul (= ‘to wail like cats’).

2. Verb and Substantive.

Nouns. Grindstone, bakehouse, wash-tub, pickpocket, brimstone (i.e. brenstone = ‘burning stone’), rearmouse (hrére-mús, hreran, ‘to flutter’), wormwood (A.S. wermód = weremód, werian, ‘to defend,’ mód = ‘mood’ = ‘mind;’ ‘that which preserves the mind’), breakfast, spend-thrift (cf. wast-thrift—Middleton, A Trick to Catche the Old One, II. i.).

V. Adjective + Adjective (or Adverb + Adjective; it is not always possible to decide which).

1. Old-English, Low-German, deaf-mute, thrice-miserable.

2. Adjective (or Adverb) + Participle.

a. Deep-musing, fresh-looking, ill-looking.

b. Dear-bought, full-fed, high-born, dead-beat.

(In well-bred, well-disposed, etc., there is, of course, no doubt that the first element is an adverb.)

VI. Adjective and Verb. White-wash.

VII. Adverb and Verb. Cross-question, doff (do-off), don (do-on).

Further compounds we meet are made up of—

VIII. Pronouns with Pronouns. Somewhat.

IX. Adverbs with Adverbs. Each (= á (aye) + gelic = like, A.S. aelc).

X. Adverbs with Pronouns. None (= ne + one), naught (= ne + aught).

XI. Adverbs with Prepositions. Therefrom.

XII. Adverbs with Adverbs. Henceforth, forthwith.

XIII. Prepositions with their Case. Downstairs, uphill, instead.

XIV. Adverbs with Verbs. Foretell, gainsay, withstand, etc.

We also find more than two members formed into one; such as man-o’-war, will-o’-the-wisp, brother-in-law, nevertheless, whatsoever, etc. Sentences and phrases coalesce; as in good-bye (= ‘God be with you’), the provincial beleddy (= ‘By our lady,’ i.e. the Virgin Mary), may-be (provincially in America written mebbe), and, aided by metaphorical usage, forget-me-not, kiss-me-quick, etc.

The student should carefully go over these examples, and, in each of them, attentively study the full force of the compound, and see what is really expressed by the component part, and what implied by the mere fact that they are thus joined.194 If he is acquainted with any foreign languages, he should also study all the various habits of these languages as regards composition. He will then gain a clear insight into the nature of the process, and see how impossible it is to fix a line of demarcation between compounds and syntactical combinations. This is further illustrated by the fact that much, which in one language is looked upon as a compound, in another is kept asunder; nay, in the same language one calls a compound what the other would count as two distinct words. Thus a German writes derselbe (= ‘the self,’ i.e. ‘the same’) as one word, whereas an Englishman writes the same; an Englishman writes himself where the German has, in two words, sich selbst. Cf. the Eng. long-measure with the Ger. langenmass; the Fr. malheureux (from malum augurium, ‘evil omen’) with the Eng. ill-starred, etc. It is this uncertainty, this vacillation, to which we owe the compromise of writing such combinations with a hyphen; e.g., a good-for-nothing. Though even this usage is not fixed and invariable; for one author will write, e.g., head-dress, another headdress, etc.

If there is no line of logical demarcation between compound and syntactical groups, no more is there a phonetic one. Misled by the fact that the words of a syntactical group are written asunder, and a compound written as one word, we might think that the members of such a compound were pronounced as though more intimately connected than those of a syntactical group. But combinations like those of article and noun, preposition and noun, are really pronounced as one continuous whole as much as any compound. Nor is there an essential difference in the accent, either in place or in force. Compare, for instance, with him and withstand or withdraw; the degree of strength (or perhaps rather the absence) of emphasis on the first word in Lord Randolph, Lord Salisbury, with that on the last ‘syllable’ in landlord; or, again, the quantity of stress we give to the preposition in the expression in my opinion with that on the first syllable of insertion. If the example of Lord Randolph v. landlord seemed to show that the PLACE of the accent has some significance, we have but to read the sentences Not Lord Randolph but Lady R. Churchill, or Not the landlord but the landlady spoke to the lodger, to find the accents in exactly the opposite relations and places. No special place of accent, then, is characteristic of a compound. A very instructive example we have in the compound Newfoundland. This is actually pronounced by various speakers in three different ways: one says Néwfoundland, another Newfóundland, and, again, another Newfoundlánd. What, then, makes every one feel this word, in all three pronunciations, to be compound? Nothing physiological, but simply and solely the psychological fact that the meaning of the group new-found-land has become specialised, and no longer corresponds to what once would have been a perfectly equivalent group, land-newly-discovered. Semasiological development and isolation is the criterion of a compound. What degree of such isolation is required cannot be stated in any hard and fast rule.

Such isolation can be effected in four different ways. (1) In the first place, the whole group, as such, can develop its meaning in a manner, or to a degree, not shared by the compound members. An example of this we saw just now in Newfoundland. (2) Or, again, the component parts, as separate words, may develop and change their meaning, without being followed in that development by the same words as part of the group. Thus, e.g., with originally meant against. This meaning it still has in withstand, whilst as a separate word it is not now used in that meaning. (3) Thirdly, the compound parts may become obsolete as separate words; as, for instance, ric in ‘bishopric’ (cf. supra, p. 317). (4) And lastly, the peculiar construction according to which the parts are connected or combined may become obsolete, surviving only in the formula, which thus becomes isolated. Thus, e.g., the genitive singular of feminine nouns can no longer be formed without s; hence Lady-day is now felt as a compound word, whilst ladies’-cloak or ladies’-house would not be so felt.

Though such isolation is necessary and may suffice to stamp a group as compound, we must not conclude that every group, where such isolation in one way or another has commenced, is ipso facto looked upon as a compound. Many considerations are here of importance, some of which will be brought out in a further study of some examples in which we can observe the commencement of the fusion.

The first step which a syntactical group takes on the road towards complete isolation and consequent fusion into a compound, is commonly the one we described under No. 1. in the former section. We must here distinguish two cases, which, though perhaps not easily distinguished in words, are yet clearly different.

An example will best serve to explain it. We have already more than once stated that in Lady-day the grammatical isolation of the genitive lady, as against the present genitive lady’s, serves to emphasise the fusion of the two parts into one compound. But we must not forget that this form of the genitive in this combination would not have been preserved if, at the time when the word lady by itself began to assume the genitive s—or, rather, began to follow analogically other genitives in s,—if, we say, the compound had not then already been isolated to a sufficient degree to protect the first component part against the influence which affected it when standing in other combinations. The absence of the s is therefore NOT the CAUSE of the isolation of the group, or the fusion of its parts. We must seek for that cause most likely in the fact that the genitive was, in this combination, used in a sense which always was or had become unusual. Lady-day, even when the form lady was still felt as genitive, would but mean ‘the day consecrated to the service of our Lady,’ or ‘the day sacred to our Lady.’ Now this use of the genitive must always have been an exceptional one. Never, for instance, could a man’s book or a lady’s cloak have had a similar meaning. It was therefore at first not so much the meaning of the component parts, as the MEANING EXPRESSED BY THEIR SYNTACTICAL CO-ORDINATION, which stood apart and became isolated. We see something of the same influence if we compare St. John’s wood and St. John’s Church. In the second group, the latter of the component parts has a meaning which suggests and helps to keep alive the correct meaning of the genitive-relation expressed by the flection of the former part. In St. John’s wood this is not so. This compound is therefore felt to be more intimately fused together than the other, and, while every one who uses the expression St. John’s Church thinks of the Saint who bore the name of John, but few speakers will do so in speaking of St. John’s wood. There is a very clear instance of this at hand in the German Hungersnot, lit. = hungersneed, i.e. ‘famine’ (need, suffering caused by hunger). Here the genitive with the word need has a very special sense, which, e.g., could not be expressed by the otherwise equivalent construction with of. ‘The need of hunger,’ if ever used in German, would be a very forced and uncommon way of expressing the idea ‘famine,’ a way which only a poet could adopt (die Not des Hungers). Here, then, again, it is not the sense of the words, but the sense of their syntactical relation which stands isolated.

On the other hand, if we consider forms like upstairs, always, altogether, we shall find that it is not this relation, but the whole meaning of the group as such, which has become isolated by development or specialisation of meaning. Upstairs has become equivalent to ‘on a floor of the building higher than we are now;’ always has been extended so as to include the relation of time, etc. This development has then generally given rise to what grammarians term ‘indeclinabilia,’ which sometimes, by secondary development have become capable of flection. Thus the German preposition zu (to, at), and the dative case frieden (peace), in a sentence like Ich bin zufrieden, gave rise to the compound zufrieden (lit. = ‘at peace’), ‘contented.’ When once the prepositional phrase at peace had developed into the adjective content, the compound was declined like other adjectives: ein zufriedener mann = ‘a contented man;’ etc.

Again, when the groups round-about and go-between had become nouns, they could be treated as such, and we find the plurals round-abouts and go-betweens.

The more highly a language is inflected, the less liable will the parts of a syntactical group be to fuse into one. It is much easier for a combination like Greenland or Newfoundland to pass into a real compound than for one like the German (das) rote Meer, ‘(the) Red Sea,’ though the amount of isolation of meaning is the same in both. Whether the group Green + land is nominative or dative or genitive, no change in the form of green occurs; in German, das rote Meer is nominative, des roten Meeres is genitive, dem roten Meer is dative. Every time one of the two latter cases is used, the addition of the flection n reminds us of the independence of the two words rot and Meer.

Just as by means of suffixes, etc., we derive new words from others, whether the latter are simple or compound forms (love, love-able; for-get, forget-able; etc.), so we sometimes find whole syntactical groups, which are not yet considered as having been fused into one compound, used with similar suffixes. Instances are: good-for-nothingness, a stand-off-ishness, a devil-may-carish face; That fellow is such a go-a-header; He is not get-at-able, etc., which no doubt scarcely belong to the literary language, but which show that the linguistic feeling of the speaker must have already apprehended these groups as unities; in other words, that the first step on the road towards welding them into a compound has been taken. A well-established instance appears in our ordinal numerals, such as one-and-twentieth, five-and-fortieth, etc.

A similar commencement of fusion we can observe in copulative combinations like wind and weather or town and country, as soon as the whole may be conceived as a single conception. In wind and weather this is the case, the two terms being in this combination SYNONYMOUS, describing the same object from different points of view. Other instances of this we have in bag and baggage, kith and kin, moil and toil, safe and sound, first and foremost, house and home, far and wide.195 In town and country, on the other hand, we have two elements which, whilst CONTRASTING, supplement one another. Such groups are old and young, heaven and hell, gown and town, big and small, rich and poor, hither and thither, to and fro, up and down, in and out. In a few, the same member is repeated; as, out and out, through and through, again and again, little by little. A careful consideration of the real meaning of such groups will show that, strictly speaking, these form a subdivision of our second class.

Inflected languages like German afford a criterion not applicable to English, as to the fusion of such combinations. We find there, for instance, a group—Habe und Gut (Etymol. = have, as a noun, for ‘property,’ and good = ‘chattels’), for ‘all a man’s possessions.’ The first of these nouns is feminine, and consequently ‘with all (his) belongings’ would be ‘mit aller Habe;’ Gut, on the other hand, is neuter, and requires the form (dative after mit) ‘mit allem Gut.’ Goethe has treated the group Hab’ und Gut as a neuter noun, and written ‘mit allem mobilen Hab’ und Gut’ (‘with all movable possessions’).

We have seen that groups like one and twenty, five and forty, etc., were really far advanced on the way of fusion, as was shown by the formation of the corresponding ordinals. In the case of those which begin with one, we have a further proof of this in the use of the plural noun, e.g. ‘one and twenty men.’

It will be readily felt that in expressions like a black and white dog, the group black and white really is in a similar state of fusion. We have but to separate the parts into two really independent words by the insertion of a second indefinite article, to see at once that ‘black and white’ is the description of one quality of one object, a compound word to express one (though not psychologically simple) conception.

So, again, the group one and all is sufficiently welded into one to resist, e.g., the insertion of the preposition of before its second part. Thus we should say It was for the good of one and all (i.e. for the entire community) and not of one and of all.

We may assume that complete fusion between the parts of such copulative groups would be more common if it were not checked by the connecting particle and. In some of the most common of these the accent of and has become so much depressed that the word becomes almost inaudible: cf. hare and hounds, half and half, etc. In combinations where the connecting particle has become unrecognisable in consequence of such phonetic sinking, it no longer resists the fusion. Thus, Jackanapes has become to all intents and purposes one word. It stands196 with the common preposition on, instead of of (cf. the very frequent use of this ‘on’ in Shakespeare and contemporaries), for Jack-of-apes, i.e., originally, ‘the man of the (or with the) [performing] apes,’ just as Jack-a-lantern stands for ‘Jack of the (or with the) lantern,’ etc. Combinations without any such connecting link pass, of course, all the more easily into compounds: cf. Alsace-Lorraine, as against such combinations as Naples and Sicily.

In the period of the Indo-European languages before inflections had taken their rise, or when they were not yet indispensable, the fusion into a ‘copulative compound’ (dvand-va) must have been simple and easy.

When a substantive has been specialised in meaning by being combined with an attributive, as blackbird, the combination may pass through all the changes of signification described in Chapter IV. without the uncombined substantive as such being affected. The result is commonly to make the combination richer in contents than the simple combination of the parts. Thus, by ‘a blackbird’ we understand the familiar songster to which we give the name, and no longer understand such birds as rooks, crows, etc., which might have been classed under the name ‘blackbird.’197 Further modifications may set in, which may cause the epithet, strictly interpreted, to become wholly inapplicable. Thus, ‘a butterfly’198 is applied to a whole class of insects quite irrespective of their colours. When we talk of the Middle Ages, we mean a strictly defined period of time, though no such definition is involved in the word middle. Privy Councillor denotes a definite rank; and the idea of privacy hardly enters into our heads as we pronounce the word: cf. also such expressions as the Holy Scriptures; the fine Arts; cold blood; Black Monday; Passion Week; the High School; the wise men from the East. It must be observed that the substantival determinants are only able to fuse with the word defined if they are employed in an abstract sense. This restriction does not, however, apply in the case of proper names.

A subdivision of this great class of words, thus specialised, is formed by common place-names which have become proper nouns by the aid of some determinant, itself possibly also unspecific. Such are the Red Sea, the Black Forest, Broadway, the Sublime Porte, the Watergate, the Blue Mountains, High Town, Beechwood, Broadmeadows, Coldstream, Troutbeck, Dog-island. It is similar, too, when an epithet attached as a distinguishing mark to a proper name comes to be apprehended as an integral portion of the proper name—in fact, as attaching to the individual; as, Richard the Humpback, Charles the Bald, William the Conqueror, Alexandra Land, the Mackenzie River, Weston-super-mare.

Compare also such compounds as Oldham, Littleton, Hightown, Lower-Austria, Great Britain.

The metaphorical application of a word is generally rendered intelligible by the context; especially and chiefly by the addition of a determinant: cf. ‘the head of the conspirators;’ ‘the heart of the enterprise;’ ‘the life of the undertaking;’ ‘the sting of death.’ Similarly, a determinant forming an element in a compound helps to render the metaphorical application intelligible; indeed, we are able by the aid of such a determinant to give to compounds a metaphorical sense, which we could hardly venture upon for the undetermined word alone: so, for instance, we give the name of German-silver to a material which we should not call merely silver; the name of sea-horse to what we would not call a horse: cf. further, sea-cow, elder-wine, ginger-beer, etc.

There are some cases, again, in which the compound has a proper, as well as a metaphorical meaning, and only as a compound acquires its metaphorical use: such are swallow-tail, negro-head, mothers’ joy, cuckoo-spittle, woolly bear, etc.

We have now to consider how syntactical and formal isolation contributes to further the fusion of the determinant with the determinate. If we compare two combinations such as kinsman with man-of-war, or man of deeds, we shall find that whilst the one has become an undoubted composition, the others are still groups of more or less independent parts. This is of course due to the fact that even now the word man is inflected, and that consequently the plurals, men of war and men of deeds, remind us of the fact that the first member of the group is an independent word. Formerly, when the flection was far more elaborate, this was, naturally, much more the case, and this alone would have sufficed to establish the feeling that, in compounds, the genitive which remained the same in all ‘cases’ of the compound had to precede. Of course, as long as flection sufficiently indicated the cases, both orders could be used in any group, but as then only such groups in which the genitive did precede became ‘compounds,’ those compounds became models, and the practice arose gradually and gradually became a rule. Another force then came to exert its influence in the same direction. In such genitival combinations it is, as a rule, the genitive which has the accent. When, then, this genitive was placed first, the whole group thereby resembled in accent the existing composites of the oldest formation, and so was more easily considered in the same light as these. The main cause must, however, be sought in a syntactical isolation, i.e., in our examples, an isolation in the construction of the article. As long as flectional terminations existed in their entirety, the Teutonic languages could dispense with the article before declined cases of nouns; in fact we may say the article did not exist, the demonstrative pronoun not yet having been degraded into what it became later on—a mere sign of case. Hence it was in old Teutonic languages quite possible, and a frequent practice, to use the genitive case of a noun alone without an article at all. We may be sure that this has also been true for the other cases. Phonetic decay, however, levelled the terminations of the other cases of a noun long before the genitive; and accusative and dative had long been alike (or very nearly so) at a time when in the masculine and neuter singular the genitive s was still preserved: in fact, as we know, in English it is all that has remained to us of the old flectional endings, with the exception of those s’s, in the plural which are original and not due to analogy. In that older stage of the language it was common to express an idea like the son of man by constructions just as in Ancient Greek, where the genitive stood between the article and the noun, which were both, of course, in the same case. Thus we find in Old High German, ther (NOM. SING. masc.) mannes sun (= ‘the man’s son’199). In Anglo-Saxon, Heofona rice ys gelíc ðám hiredes ealdre (‘of heaven’s (the) Kingdom is like the (DAT. sing.) household’s prince’). Gradually, however, the use of a noun without the article, largely, no doubt, owing to the levelling of all other cases, became more and more rare even in the genitive. Such rare standing expressions as remained without article, naturally assumed the appearance of compounds, and, especially in the case where the article belonging to the second noun preceded the genitive, the fusion was complete: the + kin’s + man became the + kinsman.200

We have already pointed out how the adjective and the noun entered into composition, and seen how, even in many combinations which we are not yet accustomed to look upon as fused into one, derivatives show that this fusion has at least partly been accomplished. Such are the many forms in ed, like black-eyed, etc., which are derived from the groups black eye, etc., and cannot be looked upon as compounds of black + eyed. We do not speak of an eyed person, for one who has eyes: cf. left-handed, self-willed, one-handed, etc.

In English, especially in Scottish dialects, many adverbs which commonly follow the verb, are occasionally made to precede it; as, to uplift, to backslide, etc. We may gather that in such forms no composition strictly so called has as yet set in, from the fact that the order is frequently transposed, as in sliding back, to lift up, etc. On the other hand, the fact that the words are joined in writing shows that the whole has begun to be apprehended as a unity.

In the case of most of these combinations we can trace the commencement of an isolation, which proves that the linguistic sense is ceasing to apprehend the elements as distinct. For instance, in English the old prepositional adverbs cannot be used independently and freely to form new combinations at will, but are confined to a definite group of combinations. Thus we can say, enfold and entwine: but not enthrow, for throw in. We can talk of onset, and onslaught, but not of on-run: of overflow, but not of over-pour. In many cases this isolation has led to a special development of meaning, and the word becomes still more definitely a compound; cf. such words as inroad, after-birth, offset, over-coat. From the union of the verb with the adverb, there arise nominal derivatives in which the sense is yet more specialised, such as offset, output, offal, under-writer.

An adverb derived from an adjective sometimes fuses with the nominal forms of the verb. The first impulse to this fusion is often given by the metaphorical application of one part of the compound: cf. deep-feeling, far-reaching, high-flying. The combination becomes even closer when the first part retains a meaning which has become unusual to it in general. For instance, in such a combination as ill-favoured, ill retains a trace of the time when it could be used as synonymous with bad.

In German, the comparative and superlative forms are actually used, showing the completeness of the fusion; as, der tieffühlendste Geist (Goethe), (lit. = ‘deep-feelingest ghost,’ i.e. ‘spirit’).

There are a few combinations of verbal-forms with an object accusative, which similarly occupy an intermediate position between the compound and the syntactic group; such as laughter-provoking, wrath-stirring, fire-spitting. No sharp line can be drawn between these instances of spontaneous and natural fusion, and the analogical formations coined by the poets; as sea-encompassed, storm-tossed, etc.

Again, and even in English, where the application of the inflected comparative and superlative is of so very limited application, it is the use of the comparative or superlative which affords a test as to the degree of fusion. It is, of course, possible to analyse most laughter-provoking, as provoking much laughter. But few would adopt such an explanation in a sentence like This is the most fire-spitting speech I ever heard.

Besides this, there are many verbal combinations which must be apprehended as compounds, from the fact that they represent a single notion only; such as with regard to, as soon as possible, forasmuch as, seeing that, none the less,—which must be considered to stand on the same footing as notwithstanding, nevertheless. This fusion is sometimes accompanied by a displacement of the psychological conception as to the parts of the sentence, whereby the natural mode of construction is altered, and the combination performs a new function, and becomes practically a different part of speech. For instance, we commonly hear I as good as promised it to them, where ‘as good as’ is nearly equivalent to ‘almost,’ and is construed like that adverb. We even meet with sentences like unclassified and prize-cattle, where a member of a compound is placed on the same footing as an independent word. Moreover, the first, or determinant member of the compound may be followed by determinants, as if it were itself independent; thus Milton can write hopeless to circumvent us; fearless to be overmatched: as if it had been ‘without hope to circumvent us;’ ‘having no fear to be overmatched.’ All this shows over and over again how completely impossible it is to draw the line between syntactical groups and compounds.

In this manner, then, syntactical isolation favours the fusion of a group into a compound. In our discussion of the form Jackanapes, we had already an instance how phonetic changes may have the same effect. This we shall now investigate and illustrate rather more in detail.

Though it would be impossible to prove the fact historically, it seems involved in the nature of the case that, for the most part, such phonetic changes at first arose in EVERY case of such closer and more intimate syntactical union; that they were re-adjusted and re-equalised later on, and were only preserved in groupings which, as a consequence of development of meaning, had become so far fused into one whole as to be capable of resisting the re-adjusting tendencies.

The simplest of such general effects of syntactical grouping is that the final consonant of a syllable is transferred in pronunciation to the next syllable. Thus, for instance, an apple is pronounced a-napple, without any pause; here + on is pronounced he + ron, etc. If, then, as in French, this final consonant disappears from pronunciation, save when thus made an initial, i.e. save before a word beginning with a vowel, we may expect its presence to have an isolating effect, and consequently to be sufficient to stamp the group as a compound. This, however, is only the case if such a preservation is not sufficiently frequent to be realised as a rule of pronunciation for all similar cases. In French, il peut = ‘he can,’ is pronounced without the t; in peut-être = ‘may be,’ ‘perhaps,’ the t is heard. Yet this has not isolated the form peut with t from the usual third person singular present indicative without t, because this t is preserved not in peut-être alone, or in a few such groups, but in all cases where the following word begins with a vowel; e.g., il peut avoir = ‘he can (may) have,’ pronounced with the t likewise. If we suppose the French language to discard at some time this liaison, as it is called, and always to pronounce peut without t even before vowels, then, and not till then, would the pronunciation peut-être with t stamp the combination as a compound.

So, again, the well-known process of avoiding hiatus by contraction or elision, in the case of a word ending in a vowel preceding one that begins with a vowel, has been sufficient to fuse two elements into one compound in many cases (e.g., about = a + be + ut (an); Lat. magnopere = magno + opere; Gothic sah, ‘this’ = sa + uh), but has no such effect in the case of the French article, or of the French preposition de, because the elision of the unaccented e and a is there an almost invariable and still ‘living’ rule.

A third general effect of close syntactical combination is the assimilation of a final and initial consonant. This, in present European languages, is scarcely, if at all, noticed or expressed in writing. It is, however, an exceedingly common occurrence in the spoken language, a fact of which every one can and ought to convince himself by a little attention to his own and other’s NATURAL pronunciation. It is only in cases where further reasons, in addition to this assimilation, such as, e.g., isolation by development of meaning or other phonetic development, have welded the group into a compound, or at least have advanced it a considerable distance on the road towards complete fusion, that the written language sometimes takes cognisance of the change, and, by the very spelling, indicates the compound nature of the group. We say ‘sometimes’ takes cognisance; for while spelling in no living language follows all the variations in pronunciation, no European tongue is further from accurately representing the spoken—that is, the real—language in its writing than English. Hence the instances even of acknowledged compounds, in which the assimilation in sound is indicated by the spelling, are comparatively rare. Such are gossib, for god + sib = ‘sib, or related, in God;’ leoman, for leof + man = ‘dear man;’ quagmire = quakemire, i.e. ‘quaking mire.’ Instances where the assimilation exists in pronunciation, but is not represented in writing, are plentiful: cupboard, pronounced cub-board (or cubberd); blackguard, pronounced blagguard, etc. In all these we must, on the one hand, admit with respect to the recognition of the group as compound, that, even if it has not promoted assimilation, it has at least checked the tendency to restore the theoretically correct pronunciation of the final consonant of the former member in each group. On the other hand, however, it is as certain that the very facility thus afforded to the working of the assimilating tendency has aided the phonetic isolation of the group and promoted the fusion.

The most effective cause of phonetic isolation, however, lies of course in the influence of accent. This has been sufficiently illustrated in the course of the foregoing discussions.

In all these discussions we have mainly regarded the transition of a syntactical group into a compound. Several of our examples, however, well illustrate the fact that, just as the fusion between the two members of some group may be insufficient to stamp the combination as a compound, so, also, such a compound loses its character as such for the consciousness of all but the student of language, when the fusion proceeds too far. The compound then becomes, to all intents and purposes, a simple word; it serves no more as model for analogical compounds with the same members, and at the very most gives the impression of having been ‘derived’ from its first member by a suffix. To instance this, we need only recall a few of our examples to the reader’s mind—bandog, auger, furlong, etc., or (with the suffixes) bishopric, kingdom, etc.

A careful study of these and similar examples will show that in the first-class of compounds, no longer recognised as such, sometimes both members have become obsolete, and in both classes almost always one.

We have now reached a point whence we can observe the conditions necessary to give birth to a suffix, or, if the phrase be preferred, necessary to degrade an independent word into a suffix.

We have seen a suffix originate in a noun which either (as in a case of ‘-ric’) became obsolete as an independent word, or whose connection with the etymologically identical independent form ceased to be felt in the linguistic consciousness of the community.

But such a fate may and does often befall a word without converting it into an acknowledged suffix. It has befallen the noun ðyrl (‘a hole’), in nostril (= nose-thirl), or the word búr (‘a dweller’) in neighbour (‘a near-dweller’), and yet neither -tril nor -bour have become recognised as suffixes in the English language.

What more, then, is required?

First of all, the first element must be etymologically perfectly clear; cf. kingdom, bishopric as against nos-tril, gos-sip.

Secondly, the second element must not occur in one or two combinations only, but in a sufficiently large group of words, in all of which it modifies the meaning of the first member in the same way; cf. nos-tril, gos-sip, as against ‘kingdom,’ ‘widowhood.’

This second condition can scarcely be fulfilled except in cases where—

Thirdly, the second element has originally, or in its combination with the others, some such abstract and general meaning as state, condition, quality, action, etc.

A few words on one of the best-known suffixes in English will make this clear. Though the phrase would hardly stand in written or literary language, we might indicate a dealer in pianos as the piano-man, i.e. ‘the man who has pianos.’ In the oldest stages of language, not only could a single noun be thus used with an almost adjectival force, but even a compound (or what was then still a syntactical co-ordination) of two or more nouns, or of adjective and noun, could be thus employed. Thus, e.g., in Sanscrit, a much-rice-king, would mean ‘a king who possesses much rice,’ i.e. ‘is rich;’ and the group man-shape (or its equivalent) might have been used for man-shape-having. Such compounds abound in Sanscrit, and could be formed at will. They were called Bahuvrîhi compounds. Now, without of course wishing to assert that the very combination man-ly is an original one, it is to such a combination of a noun with the noun which afterwards became lic in Anglo-Saxon that we owe the suffix ly. The phonetic differentiation and the development of meaning from shape-having to appearance or quality-having, isolated the member from its corresponding independent form (which in German and Dutch still exists as Leiche and Lyk = body or corpse), and gave us lic (later ly) as a suffix.

From all that we have said it must be clear that this process has gone on neither in prehistoric nor in historic times only, but is one which is repeated again and again, and consequently—seeing that prehistoric times are of unknown, but certainly enormous length—we must be on our guard against assuming that all these prototypes of Indo-Germanic suffixes must necessarily have existed at one time as independent words in the language, before the process which transformed them into suffixes began to operate. We may, nay, we are almost compelled to assume that there, too, they arose in succession, and that then as now, whenever phonetic decay or other causes had affected a suffix to such an extent as to take away the appearance of a derivative from what was once a compound, the suffix was no longer felt as such; it ceased to serve for new combinations, and another more weighty suffix took its function and supplanted it in all but a few remaining cases.

The most superficial knowledge of any modern language, or of Latin etymology, is sufficient to show that it is as impossible to draw a line between suffix and flectional termination, as between syntactical group and compound. Even a Frenchman, unless he has had the true historical explanation pointed out to him, feels in a future tense like j’aimerai, a verb-stem aim, and a termination -erai indicative of futurity, though, nowadays, there are but few students of French grammar who ignore the fact that aimerai is a compound of the infinitive aimer and the first person singular, present, indicative, ai = (I) have. Similarly, we may safely assume that few Romans felt in a pluperfect amaveram a perfect stem amav and eram the imperfect of sum, much less in amabo a present stem ama and a suffix derived from the same root as their perfect fu-i. It is certainly useless to illustrate this further.

We may now conclude with three observations, the truth of which will be apparent from what has gone before.

First. Even when an inflected form, by means of comparative study of all its oldest forms and equivalents in cognate languages, has been brought back to its prototype, and analysed into what are commonly considered to be its component parts, we must remember that these parts cannot have been fused into the integer which we now find made up of them, and yet have retained their original form and original meaning. Just as kingdoms has certainly not arisen from king + dom + s, a Greek optative pherois is not a compound of pher + o + i + s, though, undoubtedly, each of these elements have their regular representatives in other words of the same function, and most probably had their prototypes in fuller forms, in a more independent state. We have no means of knowing what these forms were, or what their original function was when still independent.

Second. Many words which we now consider as “simple” may have been compound or derivative. Our inability to further analyse does not prove primitive unity.

Third. In the history of Indo-European flection we do wrong if we assume the separate existence of a period of construction and one of decay.

CHAPTER XX.
THE DIVISION OF THE PARTS OF SPEECH.

The division commonly adopted of the parts of speech in the Indo-European language is convenient as a classification; but it must be borne in mind that it is not logically accurate, nor is it exhaustive. It is indeed impossible to divide words into sharply defined categories, seeing that, however we may divide them, we shall find it difficult to exclude some from each category which may fairly claim to be registered under some other category or categories, basing their claim upon at least certain uses.

The accepted grammatical categories have had their form determined mainly by the consideration of three points: (1) by the meaning of each word taken by itself; (2) by its function in the sentence; (3) by its capacity for inflection, and the part it plays in word-formation.

As regards the meaning of the word, we may notice that the grammatical categories of substantive, adjective, and verb correspond to the logical categories of substance, quality, and activity, or, more properly, occurrence. But here, at the outset, we find that the substantive is not confined to the denotation of substance, as there are also substantives denoting quality and occurrence as, ‘brightness,’ a ‘rise.’ There are also verbs which denote continuous states and qualities; as, ‘to remain,’ or the Latin ‘cande’ = ‘to be white.’ Pronouns and numerals again have a right on the score of meaning to be separated as classes from substantives and adjectives: but these, again, must be separated from each other in their substantival as against adjectival use (e.g. each as against each man; Six went and six stayed as against Six men, etc.; this and that as against this book and that one), which forbids us to simply co-ordinate the classes: substantive, adjective, pronoun, numerals. And, on the other hand, it must follow that, if pronouns and numerals are to be regarded as distinct species of the noun class, the same separation must be extended to the adverb class: since badly, there, twice, are related to each other just as bad, this, two.

To come to the connecting words. The lines that define the class of the conjunctions are quite arbitrary; where, for instance, is called an adverb even in passages like this:201 “Where, in former times, the only remedy for misgovernment real or supposed was a change of dynasty, the evil is now corrected at no greater cost than a ministerial crisis.” As and while, again, are called conjunctions. In the simple sentence, the test usually applied to distinguish prepositions from conjunctions is case-government. But it certainly is entirely illogical to call words like before, since, after prepositions when they occur in simple sentences, and to call them conjunctions when they connect sentences;—for this function is in both cases exactly the same; cf. before my interview with you, and before I saw you.

If we wished to classify words according to their function in the sentence, it might seem obvious to divide words (1) into those which can of themselves form a sentence, (2) into those which can serve as members of a sentence, and (3) those which can only serve to connect such members.

In the first division we might, then, place the interjections, which, when isolated, are really imperfect sentences. But these also occur as members of a sentence, sometimes with and sometimes without a preposition; as, Woe to the land! Out on thee! Oh my!

The finite verb in its original use better fulfils the idea of a perfect sentence. But in its present use it appears—if we except the imperative—as a mere predicate attached to a subject separately denoted. And the so-called auxiliaries are mainly used as mere connecting words.

Connecting words, again, such as conjunctions and prepositions, are, as we have seen, derived from independent words by a displacement as to the appreciation of the part which a word plays in a sentence (cf. Chap. XVI., pp. 282 and 284.). Such words are during, in regard to, notwithstanding. And there is this further reason why they cannot be sharply distinguished from other kinds of words—that a word may be an independent member of the particular sentence to which it belongs, and yet at the same time serve to connect this with another sentence. If I say, for instance, The man who believes this is a fool, the who is at once an independent member of the relative sentence and a connecting word between the principal and subordinate sentence. This is universally the case as regards the relative pronoun and relative adverb. It is true also of the demonstrative when this refers to the preceding or following sentence; as, I saw a man, he told me, etc. But even if this first classification as to function could be consistently carried out, any further attempt at subdivision leads us into fresh difficulties, considering that the substantive, as opposed to the adjective and verb, is the part of speech which serves as subject and object. We might, indeed, be tempted to utilize this fact as the principle of our subclassification. But we find in the first place that a substantive can also be used attributively and predicatively, like an adjective (cf. We are men, We are manly), and, on the other hand, other words may serve as the subject in such sentences as Well begun is half ended; Slow and steady wins the race; Finished is finished. An adjective, too, may serve as object; as, He takes good for bad; Write it down, black on white; to make bad worse.

We have indeed seen that the use of prepositions to introduce subordinate sentences is very common in English; as, After he had begotten Seth, etc.

The division which can be most systematically carried out is that which divides words according as they are inflected or not, and according to their mode of flection. In this way three convenient divisions may be made of nouns, verbs, and uninflected words. But even here the nominal forms of the verb, such as the infinitive, to love (amare, lieben) and indeclinable substantives such as the Latin cornu and the English adjectives, resist the carrying out of the division. Pronouns, again, are differently inflected from nouns, and they differ among themselves. In other languages, the system of inflection of the substantive is sometimes identical and sometimes not. It might be alleged that the formation of degrees of comparison was a decisive mark of the adjective: but even here we are met by the fact that some languages, like Sanscrit, can compare nouns and even persons of the verb;202 and others, like Latin, can compare the substantive (cf. Plautus’ use of oculissimus—Curc. I. ii. 28, etc.) amicissimus = ‘(my) best friend,’ etc. This usage is seen in the English word ‘top-most,’ which is the substantive top with a double superlative ending (see Mätzner, vol. i., p. 270); the termination most superseded the O.E. m- est, which answered to the A.S. (e) mest, derived from a positive (e) ma, which itself had a superlative signification (cf. optumus). Again, the very meaning of some adjectives renders them incapable of comparison; as, wooden, golden, etc.

It is, then, clear that the current division of the parts of speech, in which all these three principles of classification are more or less embodied, leads to so many cross divisions that it cannot be consistently carried out. The parts of speech cannot be sharply and neatly partitioned off into eight or nine categories. There are many necessary transitions from one class into another; these result from the general laws of change of meaning, and from analogical formations which are characteristic of language in general. If we follow out these transitions, we at the same time detect the reasons which originally suggested the division of the parts of speech.

To consider, first, the division between substantive and adjective. The formal division is based in the Indo-European languages on the capacity of the adjective of inflections of gender and comparison. In individual languages still further distinctions have arisen. Thus, for instance, the adjective in the Teutonic and Slavonic languages admits of a double, nay we may even say a triple, mode of inflection: cf. gut, guter, der gute; in which declensions forms occur absolutely without analogy in the substantives. In Modern High German, we have to note the existence of the two declensions (the weak and the strong). On their uses and that of the third or undeclined form of the adjective in the predicate, the most elementary German grammar will give the student all information. As for the forms of adjectival (and pronominal) declension which are distinct from the noun declension, it is necessary to go back to Anglo-Saxon, or, better still, to Gothic. It is, of course, not necessary to master these languages thoroughly in order to simply compare their systems of inflection. Seeing that in English the adjectives have no flection, the test is no longer applicable to the language in its present form; though the test of capacity for comparison applies here still. But in spite of all differentiations of form, the adjective may receive, at first ‘occasionally’ then ‘usually,’ the function of a substantive: cf. The rich and the poor, old and young, my gallants.203 From this substantival adjective a pure substantive may be derived by traditional use, especially if its form becomes in any way isolated as against other forms of the adjective; as, sir = Fr. sieur, from seniorem as against senior. The instinct of language shows that it apprehends the adjective definitely as a substantive when it connects it with an attributive adjective; as, the powdered pert (Cowper, Task); a respected noble, etc.: or with a genitive; as, the blue of the sky. In English the possessive pronoun is connected with many words, such as like, better, etc.,204 which, if felt as adjectives, would demand other constructions. Cf. He was your better, sir (Sheridan Knowles, Hunchback, III. ii.); To consult his superiors (Cooper, Spy, ch. i.): He is my senior.

There are many adjectives in all languages which are completely transformed, such as sir (cf. supra); priest (a shortened form of what in French appears as prêtre, older form prestre (cf. Dutch priester), all from Greek presbuteros, ‘older,’ the comparative of presbus, ‘old’); fiend, M.E. fend, A.S. féond, ‘an enemy,’ originally the present participle of the verb féon, ‘to hate;’ friend, M.E. frend, A.S. freónd, originally present participle of fréon, ‘to love;’ etc.

The transformation of a substantive into an adjective is less familiar, and perhaps more interesting. In the process, we disregard some parts of the meaning of the substantive, excluding from that meaning first and foremost the meaning of substance, so that only the qualities attaching to the substance remain in view. This transformation virtually occurs as an occasional use whenever a substantive is employed as predicate or attribute: a king’s cloak (for a royal cloak); He is an ass, etc. A substantive in apposition approaches the nature of an adjective, especially when it is used to denote a class; and, again, more especially when the combination is abnormal and metaphorical: cf. a virgin fortress; a maiden over; boy-competitors; turkey-cock, hen-sparrow; a house-maid;205 music-vows (Hamlet, III. i.) Sometimes an adverb which can strictly speaking be connected with an adjective only, is joined to the substantive, and serves to mark its adjectival nature. Thus we often hear such expressions as He is ass enough, idiot enough; More fool you, etc.

In other cases, again, such as twenty thousand troops were taken prisoner, the word prisoner shows by its absence of inflection that it is apprehended as an adjective.

It might be thought practicable to draw another distinction that would hold good as between substantive and adjective. The adjective, it might be alleged, denotes a simple quality, the substantive connotes a group of qualities. In such a word as blue, we have the one broad idea of one colour fairly defined and commonly understood within certain definite limits. In the meaning of, e.g., rose, we embrace all the qualities which go to make up our conception of flower in general, and the special flower which we call rose in particular. And no doubt the definition may be considered in the main correct. But the distinction cannot be consistently maintained throughout. For instance, there are many adjectives which cannot be said to indicate really one quality only. Such are most adjectives in like or ly (warlike, manly, etc.); and, on the other hand, substantives are again and again used so as to denote one quality and only one. The transition from the denotation of a simple quality to that of a group of qualities is effected by the use in a special sense of a substantival adjective; as, ‘the blacks,’ for ‘the negroes’ = ‘a radical,’ ‘a conservative.’ When once such usage has been started, there is no necessity for the train of thought, which led the first employer to specialise the word, to be present in the consciousness of other speakers. Directly the word has come to be so specialised, and the train of thought which led to its specialisation has been forgotten, the word stands isolated as an independent substantive.

The converse process is not uncommon; in which, out of a group of qualities, a single one is dwelt on and the rest are left out of consideration: such are, for instance, the names of colours; as, lilac, rose, mulberry, etc., used adjectivally. From this use the adjectives with specialised meanings, derived from substantives, we may gather that adjectives, i.e. terms for simple qualities, arose out of terms for groups of qualities, i.e. substantives. The process must have been from the very beginning that the speaker singled out one notion from a group and dwelt on it, passing over the others bound up in the group. In fact, the speaker must, at a very early stage, have used words in a figurative sense. In such expressions as That man is a bear, That woman is a vixen (as, indeed, when we say bearish or vixenish), we are ascribing to him or her only some one particular characteristic of the whole number of characteristics of the thing which the substantive indicates when used in its usual sense. The distinction between noun and verb might seem, at first sight, to be well marked both by the diversity of forms which characterise these separate parts of speech, and by the diversity of functions which they severally fulfil. But in English, we are at once met by the fact that we have numerous verbs which are identical in form with nouns, and in many cases are actually nouns employed as verbs; as, to lord it, to walk, to dog, to run: while we constantly see the process going on before our eyes, of the transference of a noun into the category of verbs; as, to chair a man, to table a motion. How near they may approach in function may be seen from sentences like I looked at the show, and I had a look at the show. No doubt it maybe said that verbs have certain formal characteristics, which distinguish the verb from the noun, such as personal terminations, distinctions between voices, and forms to denote mood and tense. But, in the first place, these forms have, to a great extent, disappeared in English, with its other inflections; and, in the second place, even in the most highly inflected languages we find verbs defective in some of these characteristics, and thereby approaching in form to nouns: cf. the Italian bisogna andare (= ‘I need to go’) as against Che bisogna andare (‘What need to go?’). While, again in nouns, forms occur defective in case and gender-signs; as, cornu, ‘horn;’ genu, ‘knee;’ etc. Further, in the Slavonic languages, we actually find the verb in the past tense agreeing in gender with its subject; as, Tui jelala, ‘Thou (feminine) didst wish,’ etc. Lastly, the differentiation of the construction of the two parts of speech is anything but sharply marked, as we may see in cases where a substantive actually takes the case which would naturally be taken by the verb with which it is connected: Seeing her is to love her; Hearing him recite that poem is enough to draw tears from the eyes.

Even in highly inflected languages, like Latin and Greek, the personal endings, commonly regarded as the special formal characteristic of the verb, have no place in the participles and infinitives.

Again, such an expression as Rex es, ‘Thou art king,’ is identical in meaning with Regnas, ‘Thou rulest;’ so that the verbal termination, as such, need not serve to mark any distinction of meaning between the verb and the adjective or substantive used predicatively.

If we say that it is of the essence of the verb to describe a mere transient process limited by time, while the adjective or substantive denotes a permanent quality, we must observe that the adjective may describe a transient quality; as, dirty, pale: while verbs may be used to describe states; as, to glow, cf. candere = to be white.

The participle must be regarded as partaking of the nature of the verb as well as of that of the adjective. The peculiarity of the participle, as compared with the adjective, is that it enables us to express an occurrence or event attributively; as, They, looking, saw. We must look upon adjectives as the older formation of the two, and indeed we must suppose that adjectives had been completely developed before participles could take their rise at all.

The characteristic difference between the participle and the so-called verbal adjective is that the participle, unlike the adjective, is capable of denoting tense; as, τύψας (= ‘having struck’). The participle, when standing as an attribute to a noun, partakes of the construction of a noun (i.e. substantive or adjective); as, Vir captus est (‘The man is caught’). But it may depart from the character of a noun by departing from such nominal construction, and striking out a new path of its own.

Thus, in He has taken her, He has slept, we have a use of the participle quite unlike the use of the adjective. No doubt it is true that such a phrase as He has taken her signified originally He has or holds her as one taken; cf. Cura intentos habebat Romanos, (Liv., xxvi. 1), but we do not now apprehend the construction thus. In French, the transition from the general adjectival into the special participial construction is clearer: J’ai vu les dames, ‘I have seen the ladies;’ but Je les ai vues, ‘I have seen (fem. plur.) them,’ and les dames que j’ai vues, ‘the ladies that I have seen (fem. plur).’ In Italian, we say Ho vedute (fem. plur.) le donne = ‘I have seen the ladies,’ as well as Ho veduto le donne (masc. or genderless sing.). In Spanish, all inflection in the case of periphrases formed with ‘haber’ is abolished; it is as correct to write la carta que he escrito = ‘the letter which I have written,’ as to say He escrito una carta = ‘I have written a letter.’ On the other hand, in periphrases made with tener (to hold, used as auxiliary like to have), a later introduction into the language, the inflection is always retained; in tengo escrita una carta, = ‘I have written (fem.) a letter (fem.)’ it is as imperative to observe the concord of gender as in Las cartas que tengo escritas = ‘The letters which I have written.’

Conversely: it is possible for the participle to gradually recur to a purely nominal character. Bearing in mind our definition of the participle, we may say that this recurrence has taken place as soon as the present participle is used for the lasting activity; as when we talk about a knowing man: and as soon as the perfect participle comes to be used to express the result of the activity; as, a lost chance. The more such participle is employed in a specialised meaning—as, for instance, metaphorically,—the more speedily and thoroughly will the transformation become accomplished; as in such cases as striking, charming, elevated, drunken, agèd, learnèd, crabbèd, doggèd, etc. Nay, such words may even combine with another, after the laws of verbal construction: as in the case of high-flying, well-wishing, flesh-eating, new-born, well-educated.

The participle, again, like other adjectives, may become a substantive, e.g. the anointed; and the substantival participle, like the adjectival, may either denote a momentary activity (or, rather, an activity limited as to time), e.g. the patient, i.e. the suffering one, or a state, e.g. the regent = the ruling one = the ruler. It may, indeed, entirely lose its verbal nature, as, friend, fiend, i.e. the loving one, the hating one, etc.

The nomen agentis, resembling in this respect the participle, may denote either a momentary or a lasting activity; as, the doer = ‘he who does;’ the dancer (if = ‘he who is wont to dance,’ e.g., as his profession). In the former application it remains closely connected with the verb; and there is no reason, except custom, why it should not, like the participle, take an object, just like the verb; in fact, that it should not be correct to say the teacher the boy for ‘he who teaches the boy,’ just as it is possible to say the school-teacher. We actually do find in Latin, dator divitias, ‘giver riches (acc. plur.)’ = ‘he who gives riches;’ justa orator (Plautus, Amphyt., 34), ‘the just things (acc. neut. plur.) orator or speaker’ = ‘he who speaks just things.’

In Shakespeare, we find and all is semblative a woman’s part (Twelfth Night, I. iv.), where an adjective, semblative, is similarly construed with a verbal force; the sentence being equivalent to ‘and all resembles that which we might expect in a woman.’ On the other hand, the nomen agentis, when denoting lasting activity, may separate more and more from the verb, and thus finally lose its special character, as noun indicating a ‘doer,’ e.g., owner, actor, father (lit. ‘he who feeds or who protects;’ from a root which means either to nourish or to protect).

The transition from verb to noun is again seen in nomina actionis, like transportation, liberation. These may also approximate to the verbal construction; as, My transportation from England to Ireland (‘I was transported from England to Ireland’); pearl fishery (‘the fishing for pearls’). Here, again, the notion of a lasting activity inherent in the substantive tends to make the original idea of a nomen actionis grow faint; and the connotation of a lasting condition sets in. And, again, the more that metaphorical and other unusual or special usages attach to the word, the more does such word become isolated as against its original use, cf. position, transportation, conviction, goings-on. It may, indeed, become so far isolated as to lose all connection with the verb, as in reckoning, in the sense of an account; cf. addition, in French, in the same meaning (cf. the French expression for ‘Waiter! the bill, please,’ Garçon! l’addition s’il vous plaît!)

The infinitive is really a case of the noun of action, and must originally have been constructed in accordance with the usage in force at the time for the syntactical combination of the corresponding verb with other nouns. But, in order that it may be felt as a true infinitive, its mode of construction must no longer be felt as it originally must have been felt; it must, in fact, have become isolated in its employment, and such isolation became then the basis of further development. But the infinitive having thus developed, reverts in many cases to the character of a noun: its want of inflection, however, always has a tendency to prevent this; and, accordingly, the most common cases in which it appears as a substantive are as subject or object. In sentences like ‘not to have been dipped in Lethe’s Lake Could save the son of Thetis from to die’ (Spenser, Faëry Queen); ‘Have is have’ (Shakespeare, King John, I. i.); ‘I list not prophecy’ (Winter’s Tale, IV. i. 26); ‘I learn to ride,’ etc., it seems certain that the infinitive is constructed after the analogy of a noun; but in such constructions as I let him speak, I hear him walk, it is hardly apprehended as so constructed by the instinct of language of the present day.

Languages which possess declined articles possess exceptional facilities for thus approximating the infinitive to a noun, as the Greek τὸ φιλεῖν, τοῦ φιλεῖν, etc. (= ‘the “to love”—of the to-love,’ etc.): cf. such instances as the English Have is have (Shakespeare, King John, I. i.); Mother, what does ‘marry’ mean? (Longfellow); Him booteth not resist (Spenser, Faëry Queen, I. iii. 20.) And similarly the German das lieben (‘the “to-love”’); French mon pouvoir (‘my “to-be-able”’). In Latin, the same approximation is rendered possible by the demonstrative pronouns; as, totum hoc philosophari (Cicero), ‘all this “to-philosophise;”’ Inhibere illud tuum (ibid.), (‘that “to-prohibit” of yours’). Modern High German and the Romance languages have gone so far as to employ the infinitive as the equivalent to a noun pure and simple, even in respect of inflection; as, Meines sterbens (= ‘of my “to-die”’); Mein hier-bleiben (= ‘my “here-remain,”’ i.e., ‘my remaining here’). In the Romance languages, the process is rendered easier by the abolition of case-difference; cf. mon savoir-faire (= ‘my “to know—to-do”’ = ‘my cleverness of management’). Old French and Provençal actually invest the infinitive with the s of the nominative case—Li plorers ne t’i vaut rien: ‘The “to-weep” not to thee there avails anything’ = ‘It avails thee nothing to weep’ (cf. Mätzner, iii., pp. 1-2).

It is possible for the verbal construction to be maintained in many cases, even in spite of the use of the article. For instance, τὸ σκοπεῖν τῖ πράγματα (lit. = ‘the “to-see” the matters.’).

The oldest adverbs seem to be mainly in their origin crystallised cases of nouns (adjectival or substantival), in some cases of which they are the result of the combination of a preposition with its case. Thus, in English, we have the genitive suffix appearing in else (formerly elles, the genitive of a root el or al, meaning ‘other’), once (= ‘ones’), twice needs. Much and little were datives, miclum and lytlum; cf. whilom (= hwílum.)

Thus, in Latin, many adverbs are derived from the accusative—as, primum, ‘first;’ multum, ‘much;’ foras, ‘abroad;’ alias, ‘at another time;’ facile, ‘easily;’ recens, ‘freshly:’ from the locative—as, partim, ‘partly;’ or the ablative, as falso, ‘falsely;’ recta, ‘by the right way;’ sponte, ‘voluntarily.’ The following are instances of the combination of a preposition with its regime: amid (= on-middum), withal, together, anon; French, amont, aval (= prep. a (‘at’) mont, ‘mountain,’ and val, ‘dale’ = upwards, and downwards).

This formation of adverbs leads us to suspect that the original method of forming them will also probably have been from nouns; and that as some of them may have proceeded from nouns before the development of inflections, in such cases merely the stem form, pure and simple, was employed to express adverbs. Thus such expressions as to speak true, to entreat evil, will represent the oldest types of adverbs.

The adverb stands in close relationship to the adjective. It bears a relation to the verb and to the adjective as well, analogous to that borne by an attributive adjective to a substantive; thus He stepped lightly is analogous to His steps were light; and That is absolutely true to The truth of that is absolute. This analogy manifests itself, among other instances, in this—that an adverb may, generally speaking, be formed from any adjective at will.

The adjective differs formally from the adverb in this, that the adjective, commonly speaking, admits of inflection, and hence of agreement with the substantive. In English, where this test is absent, it is difficult for the instinct of language to draw a sharp line between the two, as in to speak loud, to speak low. It is difficult, in English, to maintain that there is any real difference between the use of good in good-natured and the same word in he is good; or the use of well in he is well dressed, and in he is well.

Again, many adverbs in different languages resemble adjectives in this, that, when joined to another adverb, they take an adjectival inflection. Thus, in French, it is correct to say ‘toute pure,’ ‘toutes pures’ = ‘entire, (fem. sing.) pure,’ ‘entire (fem. plur.) pure (fem. plur.);’ both = ‘entirely pure,’ ‘quite pure:’ in Italian, tutta livida = ‘all (fem. sing.) livid’ = ‘quite livid:’ in Spanish, todos desnudos = ‘all (masc. plur.) nude’ = ‘quite naked.’

There are many cases in which an attributive adjective is employed convertibly with an adverb; cf. Hispania postrema perdomita est = ‘Spain LAST (fem. sing.) was conquered,’ for ‘AT LAST’ (Livy, xxviii. 12); Il arrive toujours le dernier, ‘He always comes last;’ Il est mort content = ‘He died happy.’ Compare also these two usages—De ces deux sœurs la cadette est celle qui est le plus aimée, ‘Of these two sisters the younger is the one who is the (neut.) more loved (fem. sing.);’ or la plus aimée, ‘the (fem.) more loved (fem.)’ (Acad.)206

Adjectives used in connection with nouns signifying the agent or the action are used in a way hardly to be distinguished from an adverbial use; as, a good story, a good story-teller, an old bookseller. In English, owing to its lack of inflections, an ambiguity may arise in such cases as the last cited; we might apply the word old to the man who sells the books, as well as to the books themselves. The common custom in English is to shun ambiguity by the use of the hyphen; as, an old-book seller. But English attempts likewise to remove the ambiguity by maintaining the adverb for one case, after the analogy of the construction with the verb—as, an early riser, a timely arrival, etc.—though this distinction is not consistently carried out.

The resemblance of adjectives and adverbs produces uncertainty in the meaning to be attached to certain adjectives; the adjective, when attached to a noun, may be conceived of as referring either to the person, or as referring to one of his qualities; thus, a bad coachman may either mean ‘a wicked coachman,’ or ‘a coachman looked upon as bad in the quality of his driving.’ In the latter case, the adjective is used in the special sense acquired by the adverb; as, he drives badly.

It is natural, then, as the adjective and the adverb so generally exist in pairs, that we should feel the need of possessing both parts of speech for all cases. There are, however, many adverbs which are derived from no adjective, and which thus have no adjective parallel to them. In this case we are compelled to employ the adverb with the function of the adjective, as in ‘He is there,’ ‘He is up,’ ‘The door is to,’ ‘Heaven is above;’ in which cases the instinct of language apprehends the construction as identical with that found in such phrases as He is active, The door is open, etc. Again, in such sentences as the mountain yonder, the enemy there, the drive hither, the adverb marks its difference from the adjective by its position in the sentence. But this rule is not consistently observed; there are cases in English where the adverb is inserted between the article and its substantive; as, on the hither-side, the above discourse, the then monarch, and more extensively in the vulgar that there mountain, this here book, where the adjectival adverbs are pleonastic.

Just as, e.g., in Latin, we find the adverb used in sic sum (‘so I am’), Ego hunc esse aliter credidi,207 ‘I him to be otherwise believed’ = ‘I thought he was a different kind of man;’ so we find in English While this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, one quite otherwise (i.e. different) was passing in the halls of the master (Mrs. Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, i. 43), in which, and other similar constructions, the adverb again has all the functions of an adjective.

Prepositions and conjunctions as link-words or connecting elements took their origin from independent words through a displacement of the distribution. Prepositions were once adverbs, serving to denote more closely the direction of the verbal action; as, ‘to go in,’ ‘to carry off,’ ‘to throw up,’ ‘to fall down.’ They then became displaced, i.e. detached from the verb, and came to belong to the noun, furthering the disappearance of its case-endings and assuming their office.

To stamp a word as ‘connecting word,’ this displacement must have become customary and general. For, in their occasional usage, the most various parts of speech may serve as connecting words. The functions of the adverb, as such, have been sufficiently illustrated. It is thus only where such adverbs are with a certain regularity, or preferably, used as link-words, that they begin to be felt as prepositions or conjunctions. But even then, notwithstanding such syntactical development, the word can still be used independently in its former function, and it remains impossible to definitely range it in any particular class. This only becomes rational and feasible when the word has become obsolete in its original usage.

We may accordingly define a preposition as a link-word which may be followed by any substantive in some of its case-forms where this combination is no longer syntactically parallel to that between noun or verb and the word in its original independent sense. Accepting this definition, we shall not explain considering, in such a sentence as considering everything he has done very well, as a preposition, because its construction is that of the verb to consider. When we come to instead of it is different. Stead, A.S. stede, meant ‘a place;’ and in the stead of the man would have been a perfectly natural construction, the genitive case showing the independence of the noun: but whether the genitive is still felt as a genitive depends on the question whether we think of instead as a compound of the preposition in with the noun stead. As soon as we cease to feel it as such, we do not think of the genitive as regularly depending on the preceding substantive, and the preposition is created. No doubt the instance which we have given proves that the instinct of language is vacillating; we still find in his stead looked upon as somewhat archaic indeed, but still current English. In some cases the isolation has become looser, and in others it has become absolute. The word nigh (A.S. neáh, M.E. neigh, as in ‘neighbour’) was originally an adverb, and identical in meaning with the word near (A.S. néar, the comparative degree of néah). But we do not think of nigh and near as connected. The word till is still more peculiar. It is, properly speaking, a case of A.S. tíli, a noun (cf. Germ. Ziel, Gothic tils) meaning ‘aim’ or ‘goal,’ whence the idea of towards developed. Off and of are not thought of as connected, and yet they are the same word. In this case the relationship becomes obscured, owing to divergency in the development of signification. In other cases the isolation of the word is due to the disappearance of the old method of construction in which it was used. Thus since, M.E. sithens, is from síððen = A.S. síððan, which is itself a construction for síððan, put for síððam, ‘after that.’ Here the ðam is the dative case masculine of the demonstrative pronoun used as a relative; it answers exactly to the N.H.G. seit dem; cf. ni ðanaseiðs (Ulphilas, Mark ii. 14) + ‘no more.’ In the same way, the word ere is a comparative form derived from A.S. ǽr, ‘soon.’

The origin and rise of the conjunctions may, like that of the prepositions, be followed historically. Many of them arise from adverbs or pronouns in their function as connective words, as we have discussed in the foregoing paragraphs. These words, then, are already connecting-words ere they become established as conjunctions pure and simple. All depends thus upon the linguistic consciousness of the speaker, whether he will consider them as still pronoun or adverb, or as real conjunction, and this consciousness, again, is largely dependent upon the degree to which the word in question has been etymologically obscured.

We have seen how the demonstrative that has become a conjunction, and can easily realise how to some extent in many others, such as because, in case, etc., though no demonstrative word proper has entered into their composition, the relation of the noun which forms their second part to what follows is of a demonstrative kind.

Prepositions and conjunctions are more clearly distinguishable in such languages, as, e.g., German, where the flection of noun and adjective, or the absence of flection, shows whether the word is used as the one or the other. In English, this test has disappeared. But even in highly inflected tongues this test is not applicable in cases where a preposition is used before an indeclinable word or combination of words. And that such difference could not arise before the flection had arisen, is self-evident.

CHAPTER XXI.
LANGUAGE AND WRITING.

We have now to consider the question of the relation of writing to language; how far it has influenced it, and continues to influence it; and for what reasons it seems an inadequate representation of language. The first thing necessary for us to remember is that, though writing is the only means whereby the speech of the past has been preserved for us, yet it is equally true that, before we can consider writing at all, we have to convert it into spoken language, and to affix sounds to the symbols of language which have descended to us from the past. All such translation of symbols affixed to language in the past must necessarily be imperfect; we can only arrive approximately, for instance, at a satisfactory conjecture of the actual sounds of the English language as spoken by Shakespeare; and the data for determining such questions must always be more or less incomplete.

The written representation of language must, however, always be an interesting object of study to the philologist—partly because it has been the vehicle of the sounds of language, and partly because it is an important factor in the development of language itself.

Writing appeals, in the first place, to a much larger community than speaking. A single page of written matter may appeal to thousands more easily than the most eloquent sermon or address. Nay, writing may in this way appeal to the whole of a linguistic community, causing those of the present time to exert their influence on generations yet unborn.

Writing which consistently and regularly represents the spoken language must be more effective in perpetuating that language than writing which does not so represent it. Theoretically, we assume that written languages fall into one or other of these classes, and we classify them as languages spelt phonetically and spelt non-phonetically, or, as some prefer to express it, historically.

But we must remember that no alphabet, however perfect, can assume to be a correct picture of language. Language consists of a continuous series of sounds, never broken, but consecutive. Just as no amount of drops of water separately considered could give the picture of a river, so no amount of symbols, however minute, could give the real picture of a sentence. A sentence, nay, a single word, is a continuous whole; the symbols whereby we represent it can represent only the chief parts, and represent them as disconnected. The transitions, the links remain unindicated, and so do such important factors as quantity, accent, and tone.

Further, the alphabets in use are, even the best of them, imperfect. It is plain that, when the members of a particular linguistic community, like, e.g., the Germans or the Portuguese, seek to make their alphabet a consistent picture of the sounds of speech, they aim merely at representing the sounds of their own language. A scientific alphabet should aim at representing all possible sounds, and not merely those needed in an alphabet of a particular linguistic community.

Even in the case of the best-spelt languages, i.e. the languages in which the principle of one sound standing for one sign, and one sign for one single sound obtains, we shall find that these aim only at satisfying the ordinary practical needs of the language. They make as few distinctions as is consistent with ordinary clearness and consistency. For instance, they deem it unnecessary to denote the difference of sounds arising from the position of a letter in a syllable, a word, or an accent, provided only that a similarity of position produces habitually similar results. A certain degree of consistency is thus attained without a superfluity of symbols. In Modern High German, for instance, the hard s sound in lust, brust, etc., has the same symbol to represent it as that which elsewhere represents the soft s sound: but no ambiguity arises from this, because s, when followed by t, unless the group st is initial, is always hard; thus the s in reist is pronounced as in lust. Similarly, final s is habitually pronounced hard or unvoiced; as, hass, glas, eis.

In the same way, in English, it would have been superfluous, in an alphabet merely directed to satisfy practical needs, to adopt a special sign for the front nasal n in sing; because n, followed by and combined with g, always has the same sound. Similarly, n, in such combinations as the Fr. vigne, Ital. ogni, has a consistent and regular pronunciation, and therefore there is no need for any special representation of it.

There are indeed languages, like Sanscrit, in which the principle of phonetic spelling is more or less carefully carried out. Generally, however, we find that the same sign of any particular alphabet has to serve for more than one sound, and it almost invariably happens that we augment the confusion by employing different signs for one and the same sound. The chief reason for these defects is because most nations, instead of creating symbols to represent the sounds in their own language, have been content to adopt an alphabet ready to hand, made to suit the requirements of the language of another nation. Thus the alphabet used by most civilised nations was that which the Phenicians elaborated from the Egyptian hieroglyphics; and the Russians adopted with modifications the Greek adaptation of this. Another reason for the inconsistency is that, as pronunciation changes, it is obvious that the denotation of symbols ought to change as well. These same causes may also produce an unnecessary superfluity of symbols. In English, for instance, the alphabet suffers alike from superfluity and defect. Several signs serve to denote the same sound, as c, k, ch; c, s; oo, ou; ou, ow; a, ai; e, i, ee, ea, ie, ei; i, y; cks, x; oa, aw; and many others might be cited. Again, there are many cases in which the same symbols denote different sounds, such as th in thin and then; a in hat and fatal; i in pin and pine.208

It is not the place here to point out in detail the advantages of a well-spelt language over a less well-spelt one.209 Practically, however, the consideration cannot be disregarded that, if English orthography represented English pronunciation as closely as Italian does Italian, at least half the time and expense of teaching to read and to spell would be saved. This is assumed by Dr. Gladstone210 to be twelve hundred hours in a lifetime, and as more than half a million of money per annum for England and Wales alone. A few instances, taken mainly from Pitman’s work, may serve to show how all-pervading the irregularity is.

The same symbol serves to denote different vowel sounds (1) even in words etymologically connected; as, sane, sanity; nation, national; navy, navigate; metre, metrical; final, finish; floral, florid; student, study; punitive, punish: (2) in words etymologically unconnected, as in fare, have, save; were, mere; give, dive; notice, entice; active, arrive; doctrine, divine; gone, bone; dove, move, rove, hover. Again, cf., change, flange; paste, caste; bind, wind; most, cost; rather, bather; there, here; fasting, wasting.

By collecting examples in this way, Mr. Pitman has arrived at the conclusion that, in English, we endeavour to express fourteen distinct sounds by using five signs in twenty-three different ways, without any real means of discriminating when one sound and when another is intended, or what sign should be used to denote a particular sound. But besides these separate vowel signs, digraphs and trigraphs to the number of twenty-two are used to express the same fourteen sounds which the five vowel signs have already attempted to represent; though they, in addition, attempt to represent two more diphthongal sounds, making sixteen distinct sounds in all. For instance, pail, said, plaid; pay, says; heat, sweat, great, heart; receive, vein, height; key, prey, eye; sour, pour, would; town, sown.211

Of the consonants, we may remark, in the first place, that many are silent, as in debt, limb, indict, condemn: in some cases, silent consonants have been interpolated to suggest a mistaken derivation, as in sovereign, foreign, island; in others, again, they have been capriciously retained to mark the derivation of a word (as in receipt), and yet omitted in the case of other words derived from the same source. Then, for instances of the inconsistent use of consonants, we may take the following table from Pitman; (a few examples have been added):—
ch.—church, chaise, ache; yacht, drachm. ck.—pick (k or c superfluous). gh.—ghost, cough, hough; dough, night, inveigh. ng.—singer, linger, infringer. ph.—physic, nephew; phthisical. rh.—rhetoric, myrrh, catarrh. sc.—science, conscience, discern, score. sch.—schism, schedule, scheme. th.—thistle, this, thyme. wh.—whet, whole.

If, in addition to these obvious defects in alphabets, we bear in mind the fact that the accentuation commonly remains for the most part undenoted, we must admit that our alphabets present us with a very imperfect picture of spoken language. For an attempt to realise a scientifically correct alphabet, we must refer to Sweet’s ‘Handbook of Phonetics,’ and Melville Bell’s ‘Visible Speech,’ ‘Sounds and their Relations,’ A. J. Ellis, etc., not to mention the works in other languages, such as those by Techmer, Vietor, Trautmann, Sievers, etc.

We have to bear in mind that writing is to living language nothing more than what a rough sketch is to a finished picture. The sketch is, commonly speaking, sufficient to enable one familiar with the figures which are meant to be represented, to recognise them. But should several painters attempt to reproduce a finished sketch from such rough outline, they would produce a set of pictures differing very much in details. For instance, each painter, if he did not recognise certain objects in the sketch, would be tempted to substitute in their place others with which he might be familiar. Just so, those who seek to reproduce the sounds of a language from written symbols, will be tempted to substitute similar sounds with which they are familiar for the sounds of the sketch, as, for our purpose, we may call the alphabet. Even in the case of a foreign language possessing an alphabet in some respects identical with our own, like the French, it is considered necessary to prefix to the alphabet a description of the sound intended to be conveyed by the symbol; and even this cannot obviate the necessity of hearing the sound, especially when the alphabet is not based upon scientific principles. It is equally true that the same remarks are applicable to the case of a dialect belonging to the same group of languages as our own.

In any linguistic area where the same language is spoken, there exist different dialects, i.e. variations from the standard language possessing a quantity of divergencies from the sounds of the standard language. The common alphabet has to stand as the representative of all these dialects alike, and the same symbol has to present, for instance, the u sound as uttered by a west countryman and as uttered by a Scotchman. R, again, is pronounced by a Londoner quite differently from the way in which it is pronounced by a Scotchman. F is pronounced like v in Devonshire and Cornwall; and the h is in many words notoriously written but not pronounced in the greater part of England proper. Besides such obvious differences, which might be multiplied indefinitely,212 we have to remember that the quantity, the pitch, and the accent remain undenoted by the standard alphabet in the different dialects; and we shall easily see that a large quantity of dialectic differences is taken no account of in writing. The obvious result of this want of adequate representation of the sounds of the separate dialects must be that the speakers in the separate dialects must each consider that the sound with which he is himself familiar is the one intended to be represented by the symbol which he sees.

The result of our present system of representing sounds is that we are unable to give an idea of other dialects than our own, except in cases where the discrepancy between these and our own is very strongly marked. Even in such cases merely a rough indication of the pronunciation can be given; but the delicate and manifold differences occurring between the speech of individuals of different communities and different generations must pass unmarked. It is needless to add that the present system of representation of sounds is useless as a register of the actual state of pronunciation, and of the changes which are gradually occurring. How interesting would it be to Englishmen had a scientific alphabet been employed to record the different stages of pronunciation of their language, so that the nineteenth century might know with approximate exactitude how Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton spoke!

But in any changes which we may see fit to make in orthography, we must beware of supposing that, in a perfect alphabet, we should possess an absolutely controlling influence over pronunciation and sound changes. No doubt if sounds were accurately registered by a scientific alphabet, the more educated classes of the community who were familiar with this alphabet and its denotation would be led to attempt to maintain their pronunciation in accordance with the standard afforded them by this. But, even assuming that such an alphabet were generally adopted, it is plain that it could only represent one particular dialect of any linguistic area, which dialect would, as a rule, be that of the best-educated classes in the community. Then, as now, dialects would remain unrepresented, or, at the best, would be registered for scientific purposes or for a limited use. Then, as now, absolutely different sounds occurring in different dialects would be denoted by the same letters. Then, as now, different sound images would be associated with different letters, which are, of course, merely connected with sounds by an association of ideas. Then, as now, the written language would be unable to record the changes that had passed upon the language of an entire community, confining itself to those that had passed over the normal or standard dialect, which, as we have seen, would be in England the dialect of the educated classes. But it must be held that language is not consciously altered to suit orthography; any such alteration would be contrary to the common development of language. The orthography may, however, be altered to suit the language; but, as it is obvious that the language must change more quickly than the orthography, it follows that the orthography must remain, at the best, an imperfect record of written sounds.

The defects of written speech which have been already indicated are not as great as those which set in when the orthography of a language has been long settled. The original spellers tried to commit the sounds of each word to writing; they broke up the word into its elements, and compounded the letters corresponding to these elements to the best of their ability. But there is no doubt that practice in reading and writing makes this process continually shorter. The consciousness that the symbol is bound up with the sound grows gradually fainter. A group of symbols represents a group of sounds; and the sounds are apprehended in groups, and not singly. The sentence, and not the word, becomes the basis of reading. Indeed, fluent reading and writing would be impossible if this were not the case. Poets, like Burns, who write in their own dialect, however much they may try to reproduce accurately the sounds of that dialect, and however well they may succeed, still are fain to content themselves with a certain conventional approximation to accurate representation; in fact they are very much influenced by the conventional orthography of the literary language. They are also constrained to attempt to produce an approximate amount of accuracy with the smallest amount of labour; and their labour is considerably lessened by their acceptance of conventional symbols. Our forefathers really tried to indicate consistently their pronunciation of their words. They tried to spell phonetically, and the result may be seen in the different spellings of the manuscripts of Langland, Chaucer, Shakespeare, etc.

The advantages of a fixed orthography are mainly that the reader connects a definite orthographic image with a definite signification. We can understand this if we take two words which are pronounced identically but differently spelt, such as bough, and the verb to bow. Were these words written identically, the written picture common to the two would associate itself with the sound common to the two words, whereas, at present, each meaning has its own distinct symbol. Each divergence in spelling, though from a phonetic point of view it may be an improvement, increases the difficulty of understanding what is written. Divergencies or want of fixity in spelling may arise from the awkwardness of writers, who may have employed several signs to denote the same sound, or a single sign for more than one; or, again, it may arise from the want of some controlling body, like an academy, whose business it is to regulate orthography. On the other hand, it may be due to the very perfection and consistency of the characteristics of the language which has to be reproduced. If, for instance, as in Sanscrit, or in Welsh, the spelling of the same word varies with its pronunciation according to its position in the sentence, a single meaning must be expressed by different symbols, and it is impossible for one definite written picture to connect itself with the first form. The more fixed the orthography, the more is the process in reading and writing facilitated.

On the whole, it is true that the natural tendency of the orthography is towards greater fixity, though it is also true that retrogressive movements sometimes occur, as when marked phonetic changes set in. There are three principal methods whereby it is commonly sought to produce a fixed and uniform orthography: (1) by the abolition of variations between several different methods of spelling; (2) by regarding etymology and taking it as a guide to orthography; and (3) by holding to traditional spelling and disregarding sound. The first of these methods is, generally speaking, in accordance with the aims of phonetic reformers; the two latter are in direct contravention of their aims. But against these efforts to produce fixity in orthography there remains always the counter tendency to bring language and its written expression into harmony; and this tendency exhibits itself partly in the effort to correct original deficiencies in spelling, and partly in a reaction against the discrepancies constantly produced in written language by sound-change. As these two tendencies are constantly operative, the history of orthography is a description of the temporary triumph of one or other of these two forces.

If we should institute a comparison between the development of writing and that of language, we shall find certain points of resemblance, and others of marked divergence. With reference to the latter; in the first place, changes in orthography are brought about more consciously, and with more purpose on the part of the writer, than changes of language on the part of the speaker. In the second place, whereas in language a whole linguistic community is exposed to a change, in the case of writing, only that portion of the community who write or print or publish are directly interested. And thus it is that the authority of single individuals is able to carry weight to a much larger extent than in language. Again, orthographical changes do not depend upon personal contact, but appeal to the eye, and therefore are capable of affecting a wider, if a less numerous, public than linguistic changes. A good instance of the effect of changed orthography is seen in the Welsh language as contrasted with the Gaelic. The Welsh has changed its old cumbrous orthography for a simpler and more phonetic system; and, in consequence, the Welsh language has become more easy to acquire, and, generally speaking, a handier instrument of literary intercourse. No reformer has arisen for Gaelic, which consequently is little read and little written in comparison with its Cymric sister.

One of the most obvious difficulties that meets the orthographical reformer at the outset is the presence in the alphabet of one or more signs to represent the same sound, a case which has been already referred to in this chapter. This superfluity of sound-signs may be an inheritance from the language whence the alphabet in use is borrowed; thus, in our alphabet, we have received c and k and q, all denoting the same sound. Or, again, it may happen that, in the language from which the alphabet was borrowed, two signs had a different value, but that the language which borrows them is unable to employ these signs to make such a distinction, which, indeed, does not exist in it. Thus, the Greek alphabet employed χ to represent the aspirated guttural; but, as we do not employ that sound at all, the symbol ch, as seen in cholera, is superfluous. Again, both symbols of the borrowed language easily pass into use in the language which borrows them, if the sound which the borrowing language means to represent lies between the two sounds represented by the symbols borrowed. Thus, for instance, in the Upper German dialect, at the time of the introduction of the Latin alphabet, there was no distinction answering to that between the Latin g and k, b and p, f and v, consequently, one of these symbols was, for that particular German dialect, superfluous.

In English there is one cause of vacillation which should be noticed as of interest, viz., the attempt of certain writers to omit certain letters which seem to them superfluous, as when honor, color, etc. are written instead of honour, colour, etc. As far as this spelling expresses supposed philological accuracy, it is, of course, erroneous.

Superfluities in spelling are disposed of in much the same way as superfluities in words and forms. The simplest way is by the disuse of one of the two signs. The other way is by differentiating the signs which were originally used indifferently. This differentiation may serve to supply a want in the language; as when, in Modern German, i, u, and j, v were gradually parted into vowel and consonant. Thirdly, it happens that one manner of spelling becomes usual in one word, and a different manner in another, the differences depending upon mere caprice. Thus we spell precede, but proceed; proceeding, but procedure; stream (from A.S. stréam) with ea, but steep (A.S. stéap) with ee. A.S. bréad is now written bread, but A.S. réad has become red; A.S. nu we write now, but ðu is at present thou; etc. Some of these and similar inconsistencies owe at least their preservation, if not their origin, to the desire of differentiating in the spelling such words as have the same sound but different meanings; e.g., to and too, steel and steal, red and read, etc.

Etymology, or, more correctly, etymological grouping, and analogy have great influence upon spelling, as well as on the spoken language. Again and again an older phonetical spelling has been replaced by a real or fanciful etymological one. Thus, for instance, it is owing to the influence of etymological grouping when certain alternations of sound, due to flection or other change of position, are left without indication by any corresponding changes of spelling. Thus, in Anglo-Saxon, the word dæg had its plural dagas. Final g was dropped, and the vowel before it changed into the sound now represented by ay in day. A g between two vowels, however, generally became w, and, accordingly, dagas became dawes, a form frequently found in Middle English. In this case, analogy interfered, and a new ‘regular’ plural, formed directly from the singular day, replaced the older historically correct form. It is, however, possible to imagine that this had not happened in the spoken language, and that, whilst people SAID day, dawes, they had WRITTEN day, dayes. Or rather, if the declined cases in the singular had remained in use—in which cases, also, the g stood between two vowels—that the w written in the declined cases of the singular, and in all cases of the plural, had begun in time to be written also in the nominative singular, where the y was the ‘regular’ form. This supposititious case is only an instance of what has happened in many languages, e.g., in German. German ‘unvoices’ all final consonants; i.e., a d or t, when final, is pronounced t, a p or b is pronounced p, etc. Before terminations of inflection, however, d and b remained ‘voiced,’ and we find accordingly in Middle High German such pairs as nom. tac, gen. tages. The g of the declined cases has, however, supplanted the c of the nominative singular, and the word is now written throughout with g, though no one pronounces the same sound in the nominative singular, as in, say, tages, or nom. plur. tage, etc.

Again, etymological considerations first caused and now preserve the insertion of b in debt, g in reign. That, in many cases, these etymological considerations arose from sheer ignorance does not alter the fact that it was their influence which, after causing the insertion of, e.g., the g in sovereign, the h in rhythm, the l in could, the w in whole, the p in receipt, saved these absurdities from desirable extinction.

It must, however, be admitted that, owing to these very irregularities and inconsistencies of spelling, as far as it is to be regarded as representing the spoken language, we owe sometimes a greater uniformity and regularity in the grammar of the written language than could obtain if spelling followed pronunciation more closely than it does.

Thus, for instance, in most weak verbs the past tense is expressed in writing by the addition of ed, though sometimes, in the spoken word, nothing but the sound of d (I roll, I rolled), or even t (I express, I expressed), is added. The ed, in these cases, may be considered to be preserved partly from habit, partly from a feeling, to some extent etymological, that such and such a meaning (or change of meaning) is indicated by such and such a spelling or letter-group.

CHAPTER XXII.
ON MIXTURE IN LANGUAGE.

There are two senses in which we may speak of mixture in language—the broader sense in which every speaker must influence those who hear him, and be influenced by them in turn, and the narrower sense in which one language or one dialect is influenced by another with which it is but distantly connected.

In order to understand the process of such mixture as this, we ought to observe, in the first place, what passes in the case of individuals. The circumstances leading to such mixture may be best observed in the case of persons who speak more than one language. Bi-lingualism on a large scale, of course, is best seen where a community resides upon the confines of two linguistic areas, as on the borders of England and Wales. It may, again, be due to the sojourn of a person in a foreign country: it becomes more marked still when persons pass from one country and settle in another; and still more when large masses of people are permanently transferred under foreign domination by conquests and by colonisation, as in the case of the inhabitants of British India or the French population of Lower Canada.

The knowledge of a foreign tongue may also be imparted by writing, as when we learn classical Latin and Greek; but in this case, the influence exerted by the foreign tongue is felt only by the better educated classes of society.

In all cases where nations have been brought into contact, and have been mixed on a large scale, bilingualism is common. It is natural to expect that, of the two languages employed, that of the more prominent nation will gain a preponderance over the other, whether its prominence be due to its power, or industrial or intellectual capacity. There will be a change, in fact, from bilingualism to unilingualism; and the process will leave traces more or less marked on the superior language.

An instance of this process on a large scale was afforded by the Roman Conquest of Gaul, the consequence of which was a struggle between the tongue of the Latin conquerors and that of the Celtic conquered race. The result was that the Latin ousted the Celtic, but not without leaving traces of the Celtic idiom in certain words, in the pronunciation, and the construction of the language.

But it will be found that the mixture will not easily affect single individuals, so as to transform their diction into a language made up of elements equally, or nearly equally, taken from either of the two conflicting languages. Even assuming that a person is perfectly master of both languages, and that he may pass from one to another with perfect ease, he will yet adhere to one language for the expression of a clause or a sentence. Each tongue may, however, exercise a modifying influence upon the other in the way of affecting its idioms, its accent, its intonations, etc. It may happen that the influence of one tongue may be predominant in particular areas of language, as we see that the English is in Lower Canada in matters of commerce. This leads to such expressions as jobbeur, cheurtine (shirting), sligne (sling), charger le jury, forger, cuisiner les comptes, etc.: see American Journal of Philology, vol. x., 2.213 Of course, where one of two or more languages has been learnt as the mother tongue, this will always have more influence over foreign languages, however perfectly acquired, than the latter will have over the mother tongue; but we must not under-rate the influence which a foreign language may have upon the mother tongue, especially when it is looked upon as fashionable, or as the key to an important literature. The influence of the foreign tongue may obviously spread to persons who are wholly unacquainted with it, by the contact of these with persons who have adopted or assimilated the foreign elements.

The two principal ways in which a foreign idiom may influence the mother tongue are these. In the first place, foreign words may be adopted into the mother tongue and retained, commonly speaking, in a more or less altered form. The English language has borrowed words of this kind from numerous languages. Thus, from Dutch, we get the word sloop (sloep, itself a loan-word from Fr. shaloupe; whence we, again, have borrowed shallop), yacht: yam, from some African language, through the Portuguese: from Spanish—flotilla, cigar (Sp. cigarro), mosquito: from Italian—domino, casino, opera, stucco: from Persian—chess (Persian sháh, a king, through O.Fr. eschac), orange, shawl, rice, sugar. India gives us sepoy; Germany, meerschaum; Russia, a steppe; China, tea; etc.214

In the second place, the method of connecting and arranging the sentences, and the idioms used by the mother tongue may be taken from the foreign language, and this, even though the material of the language be maintained intact.

The chief cause for the adoption of foreign words into the mother tongue is, of course, the need felt for them in the mother tongue. Words are constantly adopted for ideas which have as yet no words to express them. The names of places and persons are the most common among such adopted words, to which may, of course, be added the names of foreign products, such as tea, sago, chocolate. The names of such products may be taken from the language of communities in a very low state of civilisation. On the other hand, when a language finds it necessary to introduce technical, scientific, religious, or political terms, it is fair to suppose that the language which lends the words must be that of a nation in a higher state of culture than the language of the nation which borrows them. There are many words relating to social subjects imported into English from French which may serve to give a good idea of the weak point of the nation which borrows, and of the strong point of the nation which supplies them. Such are numerous works having reference to ease in conversation, such as bon-mot, esprit, ‘wit;’ verve, ‘liveliness; ‘élan,’ spring;’ etc.; and it will be correspondingly found that the language whence such supplies are drawn is very rich in the qualities for which it possesses such abundance of names.

But languages may be tempted to borrow beyond their actual needs when the foreign language and culture is higher prized than the native, and when, accordingly, the usage of such words is considered fashionable or tasteful. Instances in point are the numerous Greek words introduced into classical Latin, such as techinæ (Plautus, Most., II. i. 23), and the numerous French words borrowed by German and English, such as étiquette, chaperon, à outrance.

If a speaker has an imperfect mastery of a foreign tongue, he will be apt to employ, when endeavouring to speak it, numerous loan-words from his mother tongue. He will, in fact, insert into the foreign tongue any number of words which may serve the purpose of expressing the idea which he feels necessary. Such loan-words, of course, take time before they become usual. They cannot become usual unless they are often repeated, and, as a rule, unless they proceed spontaneously from several individuals as the expression of a general need. Even then they may only become current in particular circles: as when, for instance, such technical terms as those applicable to music are borrowed. Such words, when fairly accepted by the language, are treated like other words in the language, and are regarded by the speakers of it as native, and inflected as such. Foreign words, when borrowed, are commonly treated thus. There are no two languages in which the two stocks of sounds are precisely identical. Consequently, the speaker will, as a rule, replace the foreign sounds by those which he conceives most nearly to represent them in his own language; and, in cases where the foreign language possesses sounds not known in his own, he will fail to pronounce these correctly, at least till after much practice. It is well known how very seldom any one masters a foreign tongue so as to speak it without some incorrect accent. Thus it happens that in the cases where a conquering language spreads over a nation speaking a different language, the original language of the conquered people must leave some traces in the production of sounds, and changes will occur in other ways as in accentuation, etc. Numerous instances might be cited of where such invasion of a conquering tongue has occurred on a large scale, as in the case of the Moorish invasion of Spain, the Latin invasion of Gaul, the Norman-French invasion of Saxon England.

In cases where one people merely comes into contact with another in the course of travel or of literary intercourse, the number of those who acquire the language of the foreign people will be necessarily small. The word will, therefore, from the outset, be pronounced imperfectly; the persons who first introduced the word or those who immediately accepted it will insert sounds with which they are familiar among the foreign ones. It thus happens that when a foreign word has once made its way into a language, it commonly exchanges its proper sounds for those native to the language which borrows it. Even those who know the foreign language most perfectly, and are aware of the proper pronunciation of the loan-word, have to conform to the pronunciation of the majority, at the risk of passing for affected or pedantic. For instance, in English, in spite of all the numerous loan-words which occur in the written language, very few new sounds have been introduced, such as the nasal m in employé; and even these sounds are dispensed with among the uneducated, and imperfectly reproduced by many of the better educated. One common result of the adoption of a foreign word into another language is that popular etymology begins to operate, causing the word to appear less strange to those who have borrowed it, as in the familiar instance rose des quatre saisons, ‘rose of the four seasons,’ transformed by English gardeners into quarter sessions rose.215

The changes which naturally affect foreign words upon their reception into the language, must of course be kept distinct from those which affect them after they have become an integral part of the language, when they change according to the laws of sound-change of the language into which they are adopted. In fact, it is often possible to tell the epoch at which a word has passed from one language into another, by noting whether it has or has not participated in certain laws of sound-change. Thus, where in Old High German the Latin t is represented sometimes by t, and sometimes by z (as tempal = templum), ‘temple’ as against ziagil (= tegula = ‘till’), the form with z represents an older stage of borrowing than the form in t; and, again, words in which the Old High German represents the Latin p by ph or f, must be held to represent an older stage of borrowing than those in which it is found as p or b: cf. pfeffer, ‘pepper;’ Pfingsten, ‘Pentecoste,’ as against pîna, (Lat. ‘pæna’): priester (Gk. ‘presbuteros’).

Similarly, such a word as chamber, or chant, must plainly have been borrowed before the period of sound-change when the sound of ch regularly took the place of the Latin c; and this we know to have been the history of the c sound in the dialect of the Ile de France, whence those and other similar forms come to us.

But foreign words are exposed, after their adoption, to the same assimilating forces as when they are first adopted: and one of the transforming forces which should be mentioned is the transference of the native system of accentuation to foreign words. In English, a study of Chaucer or Langland will show us how French words originally adopted and pronounced according to the French method of accentuation, by degrees, and not till after a period of vacillation, passed over to the system common in Teutonic languages: thus Chaucer has lánguage and langáge; fórtune and fortúne; báttaile and battáile; láboure and labóur: thus Pope accentuates gallánt. Of course, words may be so far phonetically modified as to become unrecognisable even by persons who know the language whence they are borrowed. Who, for instance, would recognise in the word pastans216 the French passé-temps, our pastime; or in the common Scotch word ashet, the French assiette. Thus, in the same author, Gavin Douglas, we find veilys (calves), representing the old French word, véel (vitellus). The strangeness may be increased still more by changes which have occurred in the language from which the word is borrowed. Thus our word veal represents an older form of the French language than veau; and the German pronunciation of many French words is that of an older period of French pronunciation; as París, concért, offizíer. German words adopted by Romance languages have been even more violently transformed: who, in the French words tape, taper, would recognise the German zapfen; in the Italian toppo, the German zopf; in the French touaille, the South German zwehle; in the Italian drudo, the German traut? In the same way, the signification of the word in the parent speech may change; as in the case of the French emphase, ‘bombast,’ as against emphasis; biche (‘hind’), etc. Finally, it may disappear in the parent language and survive as a loan-word in the language which has borrowed it; as, for instance, the French word guerre, ‘war,’ in which survives the Old High German werra, ‘quarrel,’ the same word as our war.

The word may be borrowed several times at different periods. It appears in different forms, of which the more recent bears the stamp of the parent language, while the older has been exposed to phonetic changes which have more or less violently acted upon its form. It will generally be found that the meaning attaching to the word when it is borrowed a second time will differ from that which it bears on the first occasion. These words which are more than once borrowed are commonly called doublets; they are very numerous both in French and English, and have been treated of at length by Bréal and Skeat. Instances of such are priest, presbyter; champagne, campaign; preach, predict; prove, probe. Proper names constantly afford instances of repeated forms of borrowing processes; cf. Evans, Jones, Johns; Thomasson, Thomson; Zachary, Zachariah. It sometimes happens that a loan-word long since naturalised in a language receives a partial assimilation to its form in the language whence it originally came; a good instance of this is seen in such forms as honor, color, etc., which, especially in America, are often so written, instead of honour, colour, etc. Sometimes words are adopted into a language from two kindred languages; the signification will then be similar, and the sound will differ but little—the sense, as well as the form, contributing to keep the two words together. German has several of such loan-words borrowed from the French and Latin; as, ideal and ideell; real and reell; which at a former period had an actually identical meaning, but now are differentiated. In English, spiritual and spirituel differ like spiritus and esprit. Some words, again, are borrowed from a language in which they already occur as loan-words. Thus the French have borrowed from English the word square, O.Fr. esquarré. Thus, again, Greek words come to us through the medium of the Latin: whence it is usual to write such forms as Æschylus, Hercules, instead of Aischulos, Heracles. Thus, again, Latin words borrowed from Greek have come into English through the medium of French—cf. such words as music, protestant, religion, etc.; and also such proper names as Horace, Virgil, Ovid, and Livy. Persons conversant with the original naturally refer such words to the language through which they came; and thus, in adopting Greek words, they employ the Latin accent and the regular English termination which represents that French termination whence the English one came. Such words are alopecy, academy, etc.

Derivatives formed with unusual suffixes often receive in addition the regular normal suffix. This is specially the case when a native synonymous suffix is added to the foreign one: as in Waldensian, Roumanian, sometimes the native suffix is substituted for the original suffix of the foreign language; as, Sultana, for Sultaneh. Words are borrowed in their entirety; but not suffixes, whether derivative or inflectional. When, however, a large number of words is borrowed containing the same suffix, these range themselves into a group, and fresh formations are formed upon the analogy of these. Thus, in English, after the analogy of such words as abbey, rectory, etc., we have such words formed as bakery, tannery, brewery: and, again, we find Romance words like French mouchard, ‘a spy,’ Italian falsardo, ‘impostor,’ with the Teutonic suffix: and very many English words with a French suffix; as, oddity, eatable, drinkable, murderous: and, again, poisonous, as against vénéneux in French. In English, again, we find such suffixes as -ist in jurist forming fresh additions to their group by analogy, mostly, however, in educated circles; as, Elohist and Jahvist, though such words spread eventually to the whole nation, as in the case of protectionist. -Ism is another of these, as in somnambulism; and -ian, as in Hartingtonian.

Inflectional terminations are also thus adopted, but more rarely, and only between nations that have been in close contact. In German it is common to use Christi as the genitive of Christus, and often the French plural in s is applied to German words, as in Frauleins. In English, we speak of phenomena, etc., and we employ indices in a mathematical sense. The English genitive ending has found its way into Indo-Portuguese, as in Hombres casa, ‘the man’s house.’ The gypsy dialects have adopted the inflectional terminations of each country where they are spoken.

Words are sometimes affected in their meaning by other languages; and further, the idioms peculiar to one language are affected by those current in another. This influence is called the influence upon linguistic form. The most common instance of the effect of one language upon another in this case, is where, when two words partially coincide in meaning, they are assumed to exactly tally in the whole extent of their meaning. This is, of course, one of the most common faults in translation. Thus an English child, learning French, will often be heard to use expressions like ‘Cela n’est pas le chemin,’ for ‘That is not the way;’ a German will say ‘brought a leading article,’ for wrote; a Frenchman, ‘Can you conduct?’ for ‘Can you drive?’ Sir Charles Dilke, in his Problems of Greater Britain,217 gives an interesting account of the French Language as spoken by the French settlers in lower Canada. It appears that the more educated of these speak a somewhat archaic and very pure French, but that the peasant or shopkeeper will say Je n’ai pas de change, for ‘I have no change.’ He will describe dry goods on his sign-board as marchandises sèches, and will call out when busy ‘J’ai un job à ramplir.’ In public meetings we hear of ‘les minutes,’ and the seconder of a resolution is called officially ‘le secondeur.’ The ‘speaker’ is l’orateur, and ‘Hear! Hear!’ is rendered by Ecoutez.

Sometimes a word is coined in one language after the model of one existing in another language, to supply a want felt by the language which borrows. This is especially the case with technical terms, as when accusative, ablative, etc., are introduced into English from the Latin model; and such words as these are liable to be misunderstood, as they may only tally with one portion of the meaning of the original word, or, indeed, in some cases be a mistranslation, as where, genetivus, ‘the begetting case,’ was taken as the Latin equivalent of γενικός, ‘the general case,’ and accusativus, ‘the accusing case,’ of αἰτιατική, ‘the conditional case.’ Another instance is the word solidarity, which we have coined to express the French solidarité.

Again: entire groups of words, or idioms, are literally translated from one language into another. Thus we hear, in the mouths of Irishmen, such expressions as I am after going, this being the literal translation of the Irish idiom for the rendering of the future tense. Thus the Austrians say Es steht nicht dafür, for ‘it is not worth the trouble,’ because the Bohemians express this phrase by nestojé za to. The following idioms are current in Alsace;218 it will be seen that they are literal French renderings of German phrases. Est-ce que cela vous goûte? ‘Does that please your taste?’ Il a frappé dix heures, ‘It has struck ten;’ Il brûle chez M. Meyer, ‘There is a fire at M. Meyer’s;’ Ce qui est léger, vous l’apprendrez facilement, ‘That which is easy, you will learn it easily;’ Cher ami, ne prends pas pour mauvais, ‘Dear friend, do not take it amiss;’ Pas si beaucoup, ‘Not so much;’ Attendez; j’apporterai une citadine, ‘Wait; I will bring a citadin (drink).’ On the other hand, the South-West Germans employ phrases after the French model; as, Es macht gut wetter, ‘It is fine weather.’

Finally; the syntax of one language may exercise an influence over that of another language. An instance of this has been already given. The form of the French language, which is a Romance language grafted on to a Celtic stock, has been much influenced by Celtic syntax (cf. the mode of expressing numerals, soixante-dix = 60 + 10, parallel to Celtic 3 scores + 10; quatre-vingts = 4 × 20 = Celtic 4 scores, etc.).

Again: as the Slavonic languages can employ one form for all genders and numbers of the relative, we find in Slavo-German the word was (what) correspondingly employed; cf. ein mann, was hat geheissen Jacob: der knecht, was ich mit ihm gefahren bin.

Of course authors may consciously imitate a foreign idiom with the view of producing a particular effect, as when Milton wrote ‘and knew not eating death;’ ‘Fairest of all her daughters Eve.’

In the case of dialects, almost the same remarks hold good as in the case of different languages. Word-borrowing is the most common process. Such words are most readily borrowed as are needed by the borrowing dialect for its own purposes; such as the Scotch words dour, douce, feckless, etc. Sounds, on the other hand, are not easily influenced by kindred dialects. The nearest native sounds are commonly substituted for those of the alien dialect. Of course the case may occur where two dialects have, in the course of their development, so far parted that words etymologically connected have lost all connection in sound. In this case, the sound of the alien dialect will as a rule be maintained. An instance of this is the Scotch unco’ in the phrase unco’ guid, which is really the same as uncouth; but the accent has shifted, and this tends to disguise the origin of the word.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE STANDARD LANGUAGE.

In all modern civilised countries, we find, side by side with numerous dialects, a standard language, professing to stand aloof from all dialects, and to represent what may be called the classical form of the language. This standard language is in fact an abstraction, an ideal, a supreme court of language prescribing rules to be followed in the case of each language. It bears the same kind of relationship to the actual processes active in language, as a particular code of laws to the aggregate of all the cases in any district in which that code is applied; or of a definite dogmatic text-book to the religious practices and faiths of all the individuals of a community confessing the particular faith embodied in that book.

Such a standard language as we have described,—as it does not result from the various processes natural to the life of language,—necessarily differs from language in general by its fixity; wherever a change takes place in a standard language, the element of consciousness is more clearly present than in the ordinary changes of language. Not that a standard is absolutely all-foreseeing in its provisions, or can claim to decide on the entirety of the cases for which it gives the example. A code of law, in the same way, or a confession of faith, may be liable to several interpretations, and may not cover some of the cases which come under its purview. Besides this, we must always take into account the possible lack of intelligence on the part of those who ought to act up to its provisions; and, again, the feeling which must set in from time to time, that many of the provisions of the code are obsolete, owing to fresh moral or economical views which may have become current since it was drawn up. When such a feeling has set in strongly, the code is commonly altered to suit the demands of the day. Just so the standard language may, and indeed must, alter from time to time; but its alterations are, like those of the code, adopted designedly, or at all events with much more consciousness than those which set into the ordinary course of language.

This standard language is, speaking generally, the language of a certain restricted circle in an entire community—most commonly, as in England, the language of the best-educated classes. The standard language may be settled in two different ways: (1) by spoken language; (2) by written authorities. Supposing that a standard language is to result from a spoken language, it is necessary that the persons who are regarded as authorities should be in continuous and full communication with each other, in order to keep the standard as consistent as possible. Sometimes we find a particular town or district cited as speaking the language which is quoted as the standard. Thus it is common to quote Hanover, in Germany, and Tours in France, as places where the purest German and French are heard. But it is clear that, even assuming the correctness of such model towns or districts, none but the better-educated classes even of those districts can be looked upon as likely to maintain the standard language in its purity. In England, the standard language can be defined in no other way than as the language of the well-educated classes, who make it their object to speak alike, and to exclude abnormal or dialectic variations from the standard language. In France, besides the appeal to the usage of the educated, there is the further tribunal of the Academy, whose verdict is final upon all questions of literary taste and diction. In Germany, the language which must be taken as the standard language is not that of any town or district, but the purely artificial language employed on the German stage in serious drama. This language forms a very interesting and remarkable example of a standard language which is consciously maintained as the most effective medium of communication for a nation which is more divided into dialects than most other European nations. The stage language of Germany is maintained by a continuous and careful training, based on a knowledge of the science of phonetics. The objects aimed at by the actors have been twofold: in the first place, it was necessary to practise an eclecticism in the choice of their language, which should succeed in making it intelligible to the largest number of German speakers: in the next place, beauty and grace could not be left out of consideration. Hence a fixed norm had to be settled on and maintained, as it is plain that a consistent pronunciation maintained unchanged is a main factor in promoting intelligibility. Again, inconsistency in pronunciation is practically the admission of dialectical peculiarities: and such peculiarities at once suggest characterisation where none would be in place. Those points, then, in the varying dialects, were alone selected for this normal language which seemed more conducive to clearness. Sounds and intonations peculiar to any dialect were admitted into the standard language if they contributed to this result. Syllables which had come, in the course of time, to be slurred over on account of their light stress were reinstated in the integrity of their original sounds. The orthography was made to aid in the reconstruction of the pronunciation. Such studied straining after clearness must necessarily prevent the stage language from passing into a colloquial language. Its very clearness would savour of a stilted affectation. But, with all its rigidness and precision, the stage language still exercises some influence upon the sounds of the colloquial language—considerably more than that exercised by any particular dialect. But its form is to a large extent poetical; indeed, it receives much of its language ready made from the poets.

As we stated above, in the case of our own language the only normal standard that we are able to point to as the purest English is that commonly spoken among educated people. In this case it is obvious that the agreement between the different classes who aim at maintaining the norm can be at best but an imperfect one. Each class of educated men will have a tendency to fall into certain peculiarities of speech which will mark them off in some degree from all others. The language of the bar is not quite that of the army. The language of the Church differs from that of both. The language of the educated in England, however,—in other words, the language of those who aim at following the norm,—agrees in one respect, that in all an emancipation from dialect is aimed at, and, to a large extent, attained. This result is largely owing to the fact that in England the better-educated classes are in the habit of sending their sons to be educated out of their own dialectical district, and the result is that they come into contact, at an early period of their lives, with companions whose language is characterised either by different dialectical peculiarities from their own, or by an absence of any. But even so it must always be remembered that those who speak their language in its greatest purity, i.e. with the greatest absence of dialectical peculiarities, are subject to the changes which mark all language and are an inseparable concomitant of its existence.

But there is another means whereby a standard or common language may become fixed, and may come to serve as the normal or ideal language of the speakers of any given language. This means is the reduction of such normal language to writing. The reduction of the standard language to writing renders it independent of those who speak it, and enables it to be transmitted unchanged to the following generations. It further permits the standard language to spread without direct intercourse. Of course, the influence of a written language upon dialects is much more powerful upon the material than upon the phonetic side. A Scotch peasant may read a page of the Times every day, and, if he reads it aloud to his family, the absence of Scotticisms will act powerfully upon the younger generation, and to a certain extent upon himself. But he will probably continue to pronounce the standard language in much the same way as his native dialect.

It is possible to make strict rules for the maintenance of a written language, by adhering to the usage of definite grammars and dictionaries, or of particular authors, and admitting no other authorities. This happens when, for instance, modern Latinists aim at reproducing the style of Cicero, like Mr. Keble in his celebrated Prælectiones. But if so-called purity of style and expression be gained by this process, surely far more is lost. The author writing under such restrictions must necessarily lose much of his power of original expression, and must find himself very much cramped in his vocabulary. In fact, writing at a period when the whole character of the civilisation has changed from that of his model’s epoch, he will find himself at a loss for words to express his most common conceptions.

The fact is that a written language, in order to live and be effectual, must change with the changing times, and admit into itself words and methods of expression which have become usual among those for whom it is to serve as the model. It may maintain a conservative influence by refusing to admit such words and expressions too hastily; but it must allow of no absolute barriers to their ingress. Modern Latin, in the shape of the Romance languages, has survived, and has proved adequate to the expression of modern thought; but in its ancient form, it has died out as a living language; and the fair dream of the Humanists that the tongue of Cicero might serve as the medium of communication to all civilised Europe was destined to pass away unrealised, from the simple fact that they insisted too strongly that this tongue should be exclusively modelled upon that of Cicero himself.

A literary language which has emancipated itself from its models must, of course, become less regular as time goes on, and each individual who employs it introduces into it some of his own peculiarities of idiom. But it need not split up into varieties geographically situated, as must needs be the case under similar circumstances with spoken language. For instance, the English written in America is much more like the English written in England than is the dialect spoken in Cornwall like that spoken in Yorkshire. Sound-change, of course, under our present alphabetic system remains wholly undenoted. Inflections, word-significations, and syntax are of course exposed to change, but to a less extent than in the spoken language. Such a word as bug may have retained its older significance of insect in America, and have been specialised in England; but the word is written in the same way in the two countries alike. Similarly, will and shall may be exchanged, or one of these used to the exclusion of the other; but they will remain spelt in the same way. Besides this, it must be remembered that the so-called classical models in any language will always continue to exert a large influence upon those who write in it; and this will always be an influence antagonistic to change.

The method whereby a standard language may best secure the greatest possible agreement over the largest possible area, and may join to this agreement the necessary adaptation to the changed circumstances of civilisation, is by keeping to the ancient models in syntax and accidence, and by allowing, at the same time, a certain freedom in the creation of new words, and in the application of new significations to old ones.

Our great national languages are at once literary and colloquial, and hence they possess a standard literary language and a standard colloquial pronunciation and vocabulary. The problem is how to keep those two languages in harmony. The colloquial language is, of the two, as we have seen, liable to change in its phonetic conditions—a change to which the written language is not so much exposed. It is therefore obvious that the more a language changes phonetically, the less will it be represented by the written language; and it is also plain that in a language like English, whose spelling is so very far from phonetic, the discrepancy between the written and spoken language may go so far that the former may cease to exert much, if any, influence upon the latter. To remedy this state of things, phonetic alphabets have been drawn up, and various reforms in spelling have been recommended from time to time, in order to bring the written into harmony with the spoken language.

The more that the natural language of each individual departs from the standard language, the more will he naturally regard the standard language as something foreign; the effect of this will often be that, as the discrepancies between his natural dialect and the standard language are more clearly felt, he will make a more conscious effort to seize and get over those differences. Thus, in the border counties of Wales, or of the Highlands, a more correct literary English is spoken than in many English counties.

The different individual dialects of any country, i.e. the forms of language used by each individual, are constantly changing their position in respect to the norm, or standard written language. On the one hand, the natural changes incident to all language are always tending to alienate these from the norm; on the other, the conscious and artificial efforts made to approximate the individual language to the norm are constantly in play side by side with the other tendency. The main method whereby this conscious approximation is effected is, in the first place, the instruction given in civilised countries at school; and, in this case, the standard language, or an approximation to it, is learnt at the same time as the language of the district. But the dialect of each individual’s home cannot fail to influence largely his acquisition of the standard language. England, as before remarked, forms an exception to most other countries in this respect, that many children are brought up comparatively free from the dialect spoken in their geographical area.

But, when all is said, there remains to be taken into account the difference in each individual’s pronunciation, and his greater or less capacity for assimilating the difference between the artificial dialect and his own. These considerations will always operate as powerful solvents of the integrity of a standard language.

It must further be noticed that the stock of words and their meanings, as well as inflections and syntax of the artificial or standard language, are constantly being recruited from the natural language. Instances in point would be the different Scotch words, such as ne’er-do-weel, adopted into standard English. Where the same word occurs both in the natural and the artificial language, it sometimes happens that both words are preserved in the latter; sometimes with a differentiation of meaning and sometimes without; instances are birch, church, shred, as distinct from the Northern birk, kirk, screed. It will thus be seen that the colloquial language which serves as the model of each individual is itself a compromise between the strict normal language and the home dialect.

In the second place, the artificial language affects the natural language by supplying it with words and inflections in which it is deficient. Such terms would naturally be such as the artificial language is more fitted to supply. No dialect throughout Britain is free from such influence as that described.

In the third place, it should be observed that when persons speak an artificial and a natural language side by side, the use of the former spreads at the expense of the latter. The artificial language was originally confined to writing, and was employed as a means of communication with persons speaking a strange dialect. Once established as an official channel of communication, it has a tendency to spread to all literature, and gradually to private correspondence. And this is easy to understand, seeing that the young generation generally learns to read and write from written records, and that it is obviously easier to accept a form of orthography made ready to our hand than to invent a system of orthography which shall be applicable to other dialects besides one’s own.

When the artificial language has once become the fashion, then, and not till then, will the employment of dialect seem a mark of want of culture. There are many countries still in which the most educated persons are not ashamed to speak in their natural dialect. This is the case, for instance, in Switzerland and in Greece at the present day, and, to a less extent perhaps, in Scotland. It is therefore a mistake to suppose that the natural language must necessarily be deemed inferior or more vulgar than the artificial. It is, in fact, the necessity for the employment of the artificial language which causes it to be universally adopted.

We have now briefly to consider under what circumstances a common language becomes established. It seems to be certain that no common language would have arisen without some necessity for its appearance; and that necessity arose from the fact of the different dialects into which any linguistic area must naturally be split up becoming so far alienated from each other as to be reciprocally unintelligible, and, of course, the difficulty of comprehension would be greater in the case of dialects, geographically more widely separated, than in the case of those spoken by neighbouring people. Indeed, the wider the area over which a common language spreads, and the more numerous the dialects which it embraces, the more successful does it commonly turn out. Good instances of this truth are afforded by the Greek κοινή, and in that of the Latin language in its spread over the Romance-speaking areas.

We assume, then, in the first instance, the necessity felt for a common language, before such is called into existence. It is further an indispensable preliminary that a certain degree of intercourse, whether literary, commercial, or otherwise, should exist between the areas, however distant they may be, which are to partake of the common language. It might seem natural to suppose that as soon as, and whenever any certain given number of dialects had reached a certain degree of difference from each other, there would naturally be evolved a common language which would suffice for their needs. But, as a matter of fact, we do not find this to be the case. The common language sometimes develops between two or more areas possessing dialects less nearly related to each other, more readily than between similar areas linguistically nearer related, supposing that there are special circumstances to favour the development. In some cases political circumstances may effect this, as where a common dialect for Germany was called into being on the basis of a common German nationality. As a contrast to this, we may take the case of Polish and Czechish, which are, linguistically speaking, more nearly related than High and Low German, and which yet, as in the main belonging to different political areas, have no necessity for a common language, and have therefore never created one.

If a common language has once established itself in a large area, it is rare for another common language to arise for a portion only of that area. Thus a Provençal common language would be an impossibility in the face of the powerful French which has spread over the greater part of France. Again, a common language can hardly arise for any large area whose single parts have already some common language which suffices for their needs. This may be seen in the failure of the Panslavists to create a common language in an area already occupied by Polish, Servian, etc. No example of this fact can be drawn from England.

The introduction of printing is a powerful aid to the extension of a common language. Thanks to the invention of printing, a written record can quickly be communicated to a large linguistic area in the shape given to it by the author, and an impulse is likewise given to studying what is presented to readers in such an attractive and commodious guise. But it is necessary that the alphabet employed should be identical for all the people in the linguistic area in question; and, of course, the language expressed by that alphabet must be widely understood over that area.

It should further be noticed that a common language must, generally speaking, be based upon an existing dialect, and that this dialect then modifies itself to suit the demands of the different dialectic areas which demand the common language. Thus, Luther expressly tells us that he based his translation of the Bible upon the dialect of the Saxon Chancellery: Modern French is based upon the dialect of the Ile de France: Chaucer chose the London dialect as the most appropriate for his purpose. Such cases as the modern attempts to form a common language in the instance of Volapük, etc., have been but partially successful; there was no strong existing basis upon which to found them.

It must be assumed as a necessity to the success of any common language, that there are a number of persons compelled by circumstances to make themselves acquainted with one or more foreign dialects. This may be brought about by the demands of commerce, or from the fact that the persons in question are compelled to live in the foreign linguistic area, and to employ its tongue. We can see the operation of these causes in such cases as the creation of such a lingua franca as Pigeon English, which arises not merely from the fact that the English and Chinese who use it as a vehicle of communication are ignorant of each other’s language, but further from the fact that the Chinese who employ it speak dialects so different as to be partially or wholly unintelligible to each other. Similar remarks hold good of the Spanish in South America,—which is learned by Italian immigrants speaking different dialects, and serves as a lingua franca to them. But even when such lingua franca, or common language, has been formed, it is liable in its turn to further development. It may be influenced, for example, by the more perfect acquisition of the standard language on the part of those who use the dialect based upon it as a common language; as is probably the case with the Pigeon English spoken by the Japanese: or, by the adoption into the common language of an increasing number of words from the vocabulary of those who are gradually allowing their own dialects to be superseded by the common language.

Supposing, however, that a special dialect has been selected as the model for a standard language, even in civilised countries, we must not assume that it is possible to adopt it as the actual and pure model. The model dialects cannot fail to be influenced by the dialect of the special speaker or writer, and in many cases this mixture may make itself very prominent. This is especially seen, perhaps, in the case of literature which, like journals and periodicals, is intended mainly to circulate in the special dialectic area. Thus, for instance, Americanisms, Scotticisms, and Hibernicisms, are more common in the newspaper press of America, Scotland, and Ireland than in the standard literature published in those countries. Again, the dialect, on which the model or normal language was based, will, from the very nature of language, change more rapidly than the normal language itself, which must from its nature be more conservative; so that here, again, a discrepancy cannot fail to set in between the dialect and the model language. The truth of this may be well seen in the changes which have passed over the London dialect in comparatively recent times. The habit of omitting the aspirate, or, as we say, dropping the h, seems to be quite a recent development in English,219 and to have spread probably at the end of the last century. Dickens’ Londoners frequently drop their aspirates: and he seems to be the first writer who makes his characters do this on a large scale. On the other hand, the ven and vy of his characters are hardly now heard in London.

And thus the artificial language, if it extend over a large area, becomes differentiated into dialects more or less strongly marked, in much the same way as the natural language within a particular district. Probably English is the language in which this fact can be noticed more easily and on a wider scale than in the case of any other language, from the fact that the areas of English-speaking races are so widely separated in many cases; and all isolation must tend to strengthen the power of the dialect as against the artificial language. So-called Americanisms, for instance, may be older forms of the English language retained by the American dialect and lost by the English. On the other hand, they may be new importations into the standard or model language from the colloquial language, or from some dialect. These Americanisms, again, spread to such English-speaking countries as Australia, Canada, and New Zealand more readily and quickly than they do to England. Consequently, the artificial language, in spite of its tendency to conservatism, is manifestly changing in the different English-speaking areas, although the change is not, of course, as great or as quick in its fulfilment as that which comes to pass in the development of dialects in the area of a definite territory.

It is, of course, possible to arrest to some extent the change in an artificial language by the influence of academies, who shall authoritatively decide upon the permissibility or otherwise of the use of a certain word or phrase; but under normal circumstances the involuntary development which we have spoken of is characteristic of a standard language as well as of language in general.

A single linguistic area may, under the proper conditions, develop a duality or even a plurality of standards, though instances of the entire co-ordination of two different standards are, in the history of language, very rare. The classical example for the duality of standard is offered by the linguistic conditions in Greece during the period between 250 and 50 B.C. Two types of normalised or standard language, neither of them corresponding exactly to any one folk-dialect, and each of them almost entirely uninfluenced by the other, asserted their pre-eminence over the folk-dialects in two distinct districts. The one, which we may call ‘Eastern Greek’ or the Attic κοινή, was based upon the Attic dialect; the other, which we may call ‘Western Greek,’ was based upon the Laconian. The former was the language of those political and commercial interests that centred about the Ægean; the latter, of those that centred about the Gulf of Corinth. The former represented the new cosmopolitan spirit of Hellenism, the latter the conservative and provincial spirit that had its political expression in the Achæan and Ætolian leagues.

Here, as elsewhere, the levelling of the peculiarities of provincial speech in the interest of a standard language represents and corresponds to a levelling of provincial barriers in the interest of a unitary civilisation, and under the impulse of great common movements of commercial intercourse, political organisation, or religious thought, and the appearance of two areas of levelling in language betrays the existence of two areas of common commercial, political, literary, or religious interest. The division of German Protestantism into the Lutheran and Swiss wings, coupled with political distinctions, availed to maintain for a long time, even in the printed form, a Swiss standard of German, as distinguished from the so-called Modern High German.

To be distinguished from the cases of duality or plurality of standard are those of complexity of standard. A portion of a linguistic area, which recognises in general outlines, or in the most essential characteristics, the common standard of the whole, may develop inside these limits a secondary standard of its own, which, in its turn, asserts itself as a unifying influence above the disparities of the popular dialects. Such is the status of the American-English, if indeed it be admitted that there be any American standard at all. The wide disagreement upon this latter much-mooted question arises largely from a failure to recognise what the true nature of a standard in language is. In the light of the preceding discussion, and by the help of the abundant available material, it cannot be difficult to reach some consistent solution of this question.

The attitude of the extremists on the one side is well represented by the dictum of Richard Grant White:220 ‘In language whatever is peculiarly American is bad.’ In other words, the absolute test of correctness is the English standard, which is notably the usage of the educated classes in the great centre of English life. It must, however, be remarked, at the beginning of any discussion of this sort, that the question concerns not what ought to be or might best be, but what is the fact. If it be actually the fact that any considerable body of men, whose usage, be it through respect for their culture, their intelligence, or their position, or for any other reason, commands the deference of the great mass of American speakers and writers, follows so loyally the English standard as to regard as bad in language all that is peculiarly American, then it is the fact that there is no such thing as an American standard in language. There is, then, only one standard English speech, and that the standard of London.

There exists, however, in America no educated or cultured class in the English sense. The educated stand nearer the people than in England. The children of the better classes are, furthermore, not so easily isolated from the influence of the dialect of their locality as in England. Certainly there exists in general no class with which the popular mind associates the idea of authority in matters of speech, nor whose speech is respected or admired as correct. The class of men most likely to be imitated and most likely to exercise an unconscious influence upon the usages of society is the intelligent mercantile class, but this is not a permanent or well-defined body. Certainly it is not a body likely to follow puristically a foreign standard of speech.

It is in part this absence of a homogeneous usage among the more intelligent and influential classes, such as undoubtedly exists in England, that occasions the apparently immoderate use of dictionaries in America as standards of orthoëpy. So various is the usage in the pronunciation even of many common words, like quinine, courteous, envelope, tribune, route, suite, wound, that the ear in its confusion of impressions fails to decide definitely, and recourse must be had to the dictionaries. It is most frequently in cases of doubt like these that appeal is made to the greater certainty of the English standard. It plays the part of a convenient arbiter. This differs entirely in principle from an attempt, for example, to introduce the totally non-American pronunciation of trait with silent t final, or of bureau with accent on the second syllable.

No single district or city in America ever has been or can be generally recognised as furnishing a standard of speech. Washington is in no such sense the capital of the United States as Paris is of France; New York is not a metropolis in the sense that London is. Eastern Massachusetts, with its chief city Boston, enjoys a certain preëminence in the superior education and intelligence of its people; but its local idiom, like the general spirit of its population, is too strongly provincial to attract any imitation. In fact, nowhere in the United States have the schools and all their adjuncts made more vigorous efforts to root out the popular dialect, and nowhere does the English standard receive so full recognition. The situation furnishes a tolerably exact parallel to the rigidity of Hanoverian German, an imported standard on Low German soil, and constitutes a further illustration of the well-known orthodoxy of recent converts. The schools of Boston teach the ultra-English pronunciation of been as bīn, while the native dialect has běn, and the American κοινή has extended to general use the secondary form bĭn.221

The stage is not yet in a position to exercise any marked influence upon the language, to say nothing of furnishing a standard. The influence of the pulpit is probably greater.

But though neither the stage, an educated class, nor any given locality has availed to vindicate for itself the right of establishing a standard, it is an incontrovertible fact that, within certain limits and to a certain extent, an American standard of English does exist. There is a great number of words, of word usages, of pronunciations, of phrases, and of syntactical constructions, which have, though not recognised in English usage, a universal and well-accepted currency among the best writers and speakers of America, and rise entirely above all suspicion of provincialism. To avoid or rebuke them, or to attempt the substitution of pure English words or expressions would be only an ostentatious purism unsupported by the facts of society and the necessities of language, and would expose the would-be corrector even to ridicule and to the reproach of alienism. As has already been remarked, we are not concerned in a case like this with the ideally desirable, but solely with the existing fact. On no other basis can the existence of a standard be determined. If, for example, any one should, in deference to English usage, assume to correct an established and universally accepted American expression like railroad car, which a well-known poet222 has thought worthy a place in serious verse, into its foreign equivalent railway carriage, it would be generally regarded as an odious affectation. The relatively few Americans who, without any sufficient reason, but in a spirit of undisguised and helpless imitation, affect to adopt English manners, usages, and dress, are as a class notably unpopular with the mass of Americans, and, as unpopular, are uninfluential. What is true of their other usages, would be in like degree of their language.

To illustrate from the vocabulary alone, there is a large and constantly increasing body of non-English words, which are used in all sections of the country, which are shunned by no class of writers or speakers, but which are universally used and esteemed as sound and normal expressions. Such are lengthy, to donate, to loan, to gerrymander, dutiable, gubernatorial, senatorial, bogus, shoddy, mailable; these are slowly penetrating into the English of England, and the path of such words is rendered plainer by their previous adoption in the British Colonies, whose linguistic history is so akin to that of America. Many words of this kind are of French, Spanish, Dutch, or Indian origin, but have been so thoroughly assimilated into the language by usage as to rank entirely with the purest English element; thus levee, crevasse, prairie, canyon, ranch, stampede, to stampede, corral, boss, stoop, squaw, wigwam, hickory, racoon, moccasin, hammock, canoe, toboggan, hominy, opossum, terrapin.

In determining the existence of a standard and what may belong to that standard, we are in no wise concerned with the origin of words or expressions. It is not a question of origin, but a question of usage and of ‘good form.’ The observation that to guess, in its sense of ‘opinari,’ is found in Chaucer and Gower, contributes nothing to either side of the discussion whether there is or is not an American standard. The only question is whether guess, ‘opinari,’ is in universal and accepted American use. The fact is, that, though in widely extended use, it still remains dialectic, and is not a feature of the standard. The word fall for autumn may in isolated instances be found in English writers, and is undoubtedly with some meaning or other a good old English word, but the fact is, that, as a substitute for autumn, it is not ‘good form’ in England, and is in America. Spry, ‘active, nimble,’ is an ‘Americanism,’ because, though found in the English dialects, it is a standard word only in America. The American use of sick, in retaining the old English value now expressed by the modern English ill, vindicates rather than controverts the existence of a separate standard. Differences in the uses of words common to the two types are illustrated by the following: lumber, in English, ‘cumbersome material;’ in American, equivalent also to English timber: tiresome, in English, ‘dull, annoying;’ in American, ‘fatiguing,’ as ‘a tiresome day:’ to fix, in English (and sometimes also in American), ‘to fasten;’ in American, ‘to repair,’ ‘to arrange:’ corn, in English, ‘grain;’ in American, ‘maize:’ transpire, in English, ‘to exhale,’ ‘to become public;’ in American, ‘to occur:’ bright, in English, (of persons) ‘cheerful;’ in American, ‘quick of intellect.’ Cases in which the two standards use different words for the same idea or object are, Amer. piazza, Eng. verandah; Amer. bureau, Eng. dressing-table; Amer. elevator, Eng. lift; Amer. sleigh, Eng. sledge; Amer. trunk, Eng. box; Amer. store, Eng. shop; Amer. public schools, Eng. national schools; Amer. academies, Eng. public schools; Amer. to graduate, Eng. to take a degree; Amer. student, Eng. undergraduate; Amer. druggist, Eng. chemist. Amer. mush, Eng. porridge; Amer. biscuit, Eng. roll; Amer. cracker, Eng. biscuit; Amer. candy, or confectionery, Eng. sweets; Amer. pitcher, Eng. jug; Amer. tidy, Eng. antimacassar; Amer. postal, or postal-card, Eng. post-card; Amer. city, Eng. town; Amer. fall, Eng. autumn; Amer. sick, Eng. ill; Amer. rare (of meat), Eng. underdone; Amer. smart, Eng. clever. Many articles of clothing, especially men’s clothing, have different names. Thus, Amer. vest, Eng. waistcoat; Amer. sack-coat, Eng. jacket; Amer. pants, Eng. trousers; Amer. drawers, Eng. pants; Amer. underwear, Eng. underclothing; Amer. waist, Eng. body, bodice; etc., etc.

Especially instructive it is to note how special activities, particularly those of more modern development, have found themselves in England and America separate vocabularies. Let us take for illustration the language of railways and railway travel: compare Amer. locomotive, Eng. engine (also American); Amer. engineer, Eng. driver; Amer. fireman, Eng. stoker (limited in America to steamships); Amer. conductor, Eng. guard; Amer. baggage-car, Eng. van; Amer. railroad, Eng. railway; Amer. car, Eng. carriage; Amer. cars (as ‘to get off the cars’), Eng. train (also American); Amer. track, Eng. line; Amer. to switch, Eng. to shunt; Amer. switch, Eng. point; Amer. to buy one’s ticket (not unknown in England), Eng. to book; Amer. freight-train, Eng. goods-train; Amer. depot (pronounced de̅e̅´po), Eng. station (gaining ground in America); Amer. baggage, Eng. luggage; Amer. trunk, Eng. box; Amer. to check, Eng. to register; Amer. horse-car, Eng. tram or tram-car; Amer. horse-car track, Eng. tramway. The Americans adhere to a nautical figure, and speak of ‘getting aboard the cars.’

American political life has developed also a vocabulary of its own. Some of these words have gained a limited currency in England, but are mostly felt still to be importations. Such political Americanisms are caucus, stump, to stump, filibuster, federalist, senatorial, gubernatorial, copperheads, knownothings, carpetbaggers, mass-meeting, buncombe, to gerrymander, to lobby, mileage (as a money-allowance for travelling), wire-puller, etc.

Many words have received derived or special meanings which have become established in general and unquestioned usage: thus, locality, ‘a place;’ notions, ‘small wares;’ clearing, ‘a cleared place in the forest;’ squatter, ‘one who settles on another’s land;’ whereas in Australia the latter word has developed into the special meaning of one who rents a large area of government land on which to depasture sheep.

Vastly more important for our purpose than these mere differences of vocabulary are those differences in phrases and turns of expression, which, as subtler and less noticeable to the ordinary hearer and reader, are less open to superficial imitation. Compare American quarter of five with English quarter to five (also American, but less common than the former); Amer. lives on West Street, Eng. lives in West Street; Amer. sick abed, Eng. ill in bed; Amer. that’s entirely too, Eng. that’s much too; Amer. back and forth, Eng. to and fro; Amer. there’s nothing to him, Eng. there’s nothing in him; Amer. named after, Eng. named for (also American); Amer. it don’t amount to anything, Eng. come to; Amer. fill teeth, Eng. stop teeth; Amer. walking; lying around, Eng. walking about; Amer. are you through? Eng. have you finished? Amer. that’s too bad, Eng. what a pity (also American); Amer. as soon as (also Eng.), Eng. directly (‘directly he arrives’), Amer. right away, Eng. directly, straight away; Amer. once in a while, Eng. now and then; Amer. quite a while, Eng. some time; Amer. go to town, or go into the city, Eng. go up; Amer. takes much pleasure in accepting, Eng. has much pleasure; Amer. have a good time, Eng. to enjoy one’s self (also American).

It is not totally without significance that American usage has established and confirmed a standard of orthography that is in some few points divergent from the English: thus honor, honour; wagon, waggon; check, cheque; traveler, traveller; center, centre; by-law, bye-law; jewelry, jewellery, etc.

Much that in English usage is approved and standard sounds to American ears strange and outlandish. The English use of nasty, for example, is to the American, with whom it implies the quintessence of dirtiness, distinctly abhorrent and all but disgusting: even more may be said of the semi-colloquialisms knocked up, ‘tired,’ and screwed, ‘intoxicated;’ while, e.g., haberdasher and purveyor are as good as foreign words.

The possession of a common literature holds the two languages strongly together, and assures a narrow limit to the possibilities of divergence. It is only within this limit that the American standard exists. Freedom of trade and intercourse, that has come with the building of railways and especially since the close of the civil war, is rapidly replacing the local idioms with a normal type of speech, and it is upon the common usage in the chief centres and along the chief avenues of commercial activity and national life that this normal type is based. It corresponds to no one of the local dialects, but stands above them all; it corresponds in the main with the English standard, but maintains a limited independence within the scope of certain modern and special activities of American life.

INDEX
The numbers refer to the pages.

A
À (Fr.), 237
A (indefinite article), 183
Aau, aautch, (interjection,) 163
Ablaut. See Gradation.
About, 336
Absente (preposition), 210
Abstract v. concrete, 45, 52;
sentences, 98
Academy, 390
Accent, effect of, 208, 338;
vacillation of, in loan-words, 388.
See also Stress.
Accusativus, meaning of the word, 392;
general force of, 128, 130;
‘free,’ 129;
‘attached,’ 129;
‘cognate,’ 129;
of space, 129;
of time, 129;
predicative, 130;
of direction, 130, 308;
after compound verbs, 131;
accusative with infinitive, 215, 281;
accusative with infinitive after licet, 292;
verbs with double, 281
Acetum (Lat.), 31
Ach (Ger.), 32
Ache (substantive and verb), 144

Action of the human mind conscious and unconscious. See Mind.

Açvas (Sans.), 65
Adder, 283
Adjective, general category of, 343;
used as substantive, 207, 348;
denoting action with dependent case, 355;
used with adverbial force, 359;
French, in f, 39;
theory to explain origin of, variable, 239;
as psychological predicate, 274;
as psychological subject, 274;
predicatival (gramm.), 280;
as grammatical predicate, 290;
indefinite, 104.
See also Substantive.
Adverbs, origin of, 358;
in e (A.S.), 224;
adverbial genitives, 175, 177;
adverbial expressions, 176;
adverbial s, 216;
without corresponding adjective, 360;
some developed in meaning independently of corresponding adjective, 180;
v. conjunctions, 344
Æftermest, 145
Æschylus v. Aischulos, 390
After: ‘I am after going,’ 392
Aftermost, 145
Aftumists (Goth.), 145
Agan, 11
Aged, agèd, 236
Aïeuls, aïeux (Fr.), 235
Aigin (Goth.), 189
Aiws (Goth.), 201
Albeit, 211
Alderman, 319
Alopecy, 390
Alphabet, origin of, 368;
imperfect, 5, 366;
phonetic, 370
Also, as, 236
Altogether, 325
Always, 325
Amant (Fr.), 232
Amends, 250

American usages and vocabulary contrasted with English, 416

Amicissimus, 347
Amid (adverb), 358
Anagramme (Fr.), gender, 245
Analogy, 11, ch. v.;
‘false,’ 83;
produces normal as well as abnormal forms, 83;
combined with original creation, 165;
influence on spelling, 378;
influence of change in function on, ch. xii.;
v. phonetic development, 182
Analysis. See Grammatical, and Sentence.
And, copulative combinations with, 328
Anecdotage, 143
Anothergaines, 143
Ἀπὸ κοινοῦ, 305
Aposiopesis, 312
Appas, appâts, (Fr.), 235
Apposition, source of concord, 300.
See also Relative clause.
Ardeo (Lat.), 211
Arm, 65, 193
Article, pleonastic use of, 156;
omitted in prepositional phrases, 176
As, 236, 274, 344;
‘as good as,’ 335
Ascian, axian, 38
Ass, 62
Assiette (Fr.), 388
Assimilation, 35, 38;
of final and initial consonants, 337

Association between memory pictures of sound and of position, its nature, 26

Attacher, attaquer, (Fr.), 232
Attributes, degraded predicates, 114;
predicative, 117;
in the vocative, 298
Auburn, 57
Auger, 318, 338
Autrui (Fr.), 251
Awfully, 180
B
Babble, 212
Backbite, 206
Backslide, 333
Bahuvrîhi compounds, 339
Bait, 49
Ball, 57
Band (Ger.), 234, 235
Bandog, 317, 338
Bang, 163
Bank (Ger.), 235
Bar, 56
Barley-corn, 66
Barn, 317
Bask, 266
Baudet (Fr.), 67
Bay, 57, 62
Be (verb), as copula, 279
Beast, 243
Become—make, 265
Bed, 66
Before, 344
Beggar, 179
Behalf, on my, 148
Bein (Ger.), 68
Belfry, 197
Belly, 66
Berstan (A.S.), 88
Bescheiden-beschieden (Ger.), 232
Best, 35
Biche (Fr.), 388
Billy-ruffan, 198
Birch-birk, 403
Bird, 38, 63
Bishop-dom, -ric, 317, 338
Bitter, 57
Blackguard, 337
Blae, 57
Blavo (Span.), 57
Blood, 58
Blue, 57
Board, 49
Bogus, 414
Bond-bondage, 196
Boom, 163
Boss, 415

Botany and its terms applied to express relationship of languages, 13

Bound, 194
Bourgogne, 274
Bourn, 38
Böse (Ger.), 237
Both ... and, 282
Box, 48
Bracci, braccia, 235
Breadth, 182
Breakfast, 205
Brebis (Fr.), (gender), 244
Brid, 38
Bridal, 317
Bride, 38
Bridegroom, 317
Bright, 416
Brimstone, 320
Brock, 65
Bron (Dutch), brunnen (Ger.), 38
Broom, 49
Brother, 173, 235
Bug, 401
Bull, 49
Bur, 339
Burgher, 64
Burn, 38
Burst, 88
Burthen, 143
Busk, 266
Butler, 64, note
Butter (verb), 65
Butterfly, 329
By, 139
Bye-law, 50
C
Cackle, 165
Cadedis (Gasc.), 162
Call, construction of to, 288
Can (verb), 28, 275
Canadian French, 382
Canoe, 415
Canon, 49
Cantata, 231
Canyon, 415
Caput (Lat.), 66
Car (Fr.), 214
Carelessness of utterance, 8
Carousal, 196
Cases, 127.
See under various names of cases.
Castra (Lat.), 250
Categories in grammar, 3;
artificial, 7;
psychological and grammatical, ch. xv.;
how arrived at, 343
Caterwaul, 320
Causatives, 265
Cause (Fr.), 232

Causes of change in language, how they operate, 8;
of sound-change, 34
Ch in French loan-words from Latin, 387
Chaire, chaise, (Fr.), 233
Champagne, campaign, 389
Change in language, causes of, 8;
classification of, 11;
change in meaning, 10, ch. iv.;
change in function, influence on analogical formation, ch. xii.;
change in function does not always entail change in form, 210.

See also Sound-change, Meaning, Usage, Differentiation, Development.

Chaperon, 385
Cherry, 86
Chess, 383
Chiefly, mainly, 237
Child’s language, 60;
how acquired, 36;
its influence, 17
Chinee, 86
Chit-chat, 164
Chose (Fr.), 232
Church—kirk, 403

Classes and species, nothing but abstractions, 14

Classification, when and how far rational, 14
Clean, 57
Climate, influence of, 8
Cloths, clothes, 235
Coach, 49
Cock, 57
Collective nouns, 247
Color, colour, 389

Combination of ideas, the means whereby language expresses, 92

Comparative, formation of, 79, 199;
double, 154;
for positive, 154;
and superlative in German, 334;
ditto in Sanscrit, 346, note.

Comparison of development of language with that of species, how far correct, 13;
how far incorrect, 16

Complex sentences, 119

Component parts of ‘derived words’ not present in their original form, 341

Composition, illustrated and classified, 316

Compound verbs in Latin and German, 275

Compounds, originally significant part of, assumes form of derivative, 197;
one language separates what another regards as, 321;
no phonetic demarcation possible between syntactical groups and, 322;
criterion, 323, 334;
ditto for inflected languages, 327;
dvandva, 329;
develop in meaning without the simplex being affected, 329;
influence of isolation on formation of, 331;
compounds followed by word dependent on part of, only, 335;
phonetic isolation, effect on formation of, 335

Compare (Ital.), 38
Concord, ch. xvii.;
not expressed, 292;
variation of, 293;
whence arisen, 299;
spreads beyond proper area, 299;
absence of, in elliptical sentences, 306
Concrete. See Abstract.
Conjunctions, 344, 361, 363

Connection between successive cases of sound-utterance only psychical, 26

Connecting words, do they form a distinct grammatical category? 279.

See also Link-words.
Connotation v. denotation, 350
Considering (preposition), 210, 362
Constructio πρὸς σύνεσιν, 241
Contamination, ch. viii.;
difference between, and formation by analogy, 141;
in words, 141;
in syntax, 145;
doubtful example of, 275

Contents of a word, ‘material’ v. ‘formal’ or ‘modal,’ 74

Convergence of forms of different function causes that difference to be overlooked, 204

Cool, 28, 31
Co-ordination v. subordination, 283
Cope, 193
Copula, 271;
number of, with predicate in plural, 293;
psychological, more extensive than grammatical, 272.

See also Connecting words and Be.
Copulative combinations, 327;
compounds, 329
Copy (in Chaucer), 59
Corn, 63, 415
Corral, 415
Correlation of ideas, 74
Corvus, 44 note
Could, 379
Cows, kine, 235
Cowslip, 317
Crack, 165
Crackle, 165
Crane, 11, 44, 56
Cray-fish, 197
Creation, original, ch. ix., 10
Crevasse, 415
Crimp, 161
Critique (Fr.), 234
Crocodilus (Lat.), 38
Crown, 57
Crumple, 161
Cubit, 66
Cup, 65
Cupboard, 337
Cur (Lat.), 213
D
Daisy, 318
Dans (Fr.), 237
Darkling, 216
Dash, 163
Dative, 129;
predicative, 287;
with infinitive in Latin and Greek, 291
Dawn, 172
Day, 171, 378
Debt, 379
Declension, history of, in Teutonic, 200.
See also Phonetic development.
Dedans (Fr.), 237
Demonstrative, irregular concord of, 296
Demori (Lat.), 211
Denotation v. connotation, 350
Deperio (Lat.), 211
Deponent verbs, 265
Derivation of our words, 218, 321
Derselbe (Ger.), 321

Descent, meaning of the term and influence of, in language, 15;
difference between linguistic and physical, 16

Determinant, various functions of, 116

Development, of language, ch. i., its essence, 9;
of meaning in primary and derivative, 179;
effect of phonetic development on, 181.
See also Meaning.
Diadème (Fr.), 245
Dialects, origin of, 18;
difficulty of classification, 18;
criterion for distinction of, 22.
See also Language.
Die—kill, 265
Differentiation, of language, ch. ii.;
of one language into more than one, more accurate statement, 15;
why not greater than actually it is found to be, 16;
tendency to, and that to unification, not successive, 22;
of meaning, ch. xiv.;
in form, coinciding with differentiation in function, 189

Ding-dong, 164
Direction, indication of, 308
Displacement of usage, 9;
in etymological grouping, ch. xiii.;
in syntactical distribution, ch. xvi.
Dissimilation, 38
Dogme (Fr.), 245
Doins (O.Fr.), 144
Doleo, with accusative and infinitive, 215
Doff, 320
Don, 320
Donate, 414
Donkey, 57
Double genders, 234
Doublets, 230, 389
Doubt (verb), 211
Douce, 393
Dour, 393
Drab, 57
Drink, drench, 265
Drudo, 388

Dubitative mood, expressed by future tense, 261

During, 345
Dutiable, 414
Dvandva, compounds, 329
E
Each, 320
Eáge (A.S.), 84
Eatable, 390
Economy, of expression, ch. xviii.;
of effort, 8
Ee-sound, formation of, 31
Either, or, 282
Elder, 193

Elements of speech-utterance, we are generally unconscious of, 27

Erila (O.H.G.), eller (M.H.G.), 38
Ell, 66
Elliptical sentences, 302;
in how far correctly so called, 308
Else, 176, 358
Emphase (Fr.), 388
En (Fr.), 237
Enfold, 333
Énigme (Fr.), 245
Enjoy, 67
Entwine, 333

Environment, influence of, on development of language, 15

Épigramme (Fr.), 245
Ere, 363
Erkenntniss (Ger.), 234
Erle (Ger.), 38
Ernstlich, ernsthaft, (Ger.), 237
Été (Fr.), 85, 244
Etiquette, 385

Etymological grouping, influences on spelling, 378.

See also Grouping.
Ever, 47
Evolution. See Comparison.
Examen (Lat.), 49
Executive, 28
Execution, 28
Expatiate, 59
Extravagant, 59
Eye, 65
Ezzih (O.H.G.), 38
Ἥμισυς. Ὁ ἥμισυς τοῦ χρόνου, 148
F
F, 10, 32
Facility of utterance, 34
Façon (Fr.), 231
Fadrein (Goth.), 249
Faith, 61
Falconer, 64
Fall (autumn), 415
Fall—lie, 258;
fall—fell, 265
Fare thee well, 148
Fashion, 231
Father, 71, 173
Fatherhood, 241
Feather, 66
Feckless, 393
Fiend, 349
Feodor (Russ.), 10
Filth, 182
Find, 67
Finfi (O.H.G.), 38

First utterances not reproduceable at will, 167

Fish, 63
Fix, 415
Fizz, 163
Flos (Rom. lang.), 244
Fluobra (O.H.G.), 38
Folks, 248
Foot, 56, 66, 86, 181, 189
Foreign influence, effect of, 7
Forget-me-not, 321
Forgetive, 60
Forlorn, 174, 186
Form, 56
Formal contents of a word, 74
Formal groups, 76
Formation of new groups, ch. xi.
Fortnight, 319
Foudre (Fr.), 234
Fowl, 63
Fox, 57
Fräulein (Ger.), 242
Frequentative verbs, 160
Friend, 349;
“I am friends with him,” 148
Frôfor (A.S.), 38
Fromage (Fr.), 67
Frugi (Lat.), 210
Fruit, 62
Frumentum (Lat.), 62
Fulhans (Goth.), 189
Furlong, 319, 338
Future tense, 260;
formation of, in French and in Latin, 341.
See also Tense.
G
G (A.S.), becomes y or w, 172
Gafulgins (Goth.), 189
Gallows, 250
Gas (Dutch), 158
Gash, 161
Gaudeo, with accusative and infinitive, 215

Gender, grammatical, recognised by concord, 239;
originally probably corresponded with natural, 240;
differentiation of, 234;
change of, 242;
follows that of allied groups, 244;
remaining traces of, in English, 245;
double, 234

Genealogical terms applied to relationship between languages, 13

Genitive, meaning of the word, 392;
the case, 127, 129;
partitive, 134;
subjective and objective, 174-175;
isolation of meaning of, 177, 323;
with infinitive in Greek, 291;
old genitive singular feminine, 323
Gens (Fr.), 241, 248
Gentlemanlike, 212
Γέρανος, 44, note
German silver, 330
Gerrymander, 414
Gerund, construction of, in Latin, 148;
or verbal nouns as present participle, 215
Gerundive, sometimes active in meaning, 264
Gesicht (Ger.), 235
Gesticulation, 302
Gesture-language, 166
Gew-gaw, 164
Gh, 35
Ghostly, 61
Glass, glare, 188
Glorioso (Ital.), 38
Gnat, 35
Go, 57
Go-betweens, 326
Good-bye, 162, 321
Good-natured, 212
Goose, 56
Gospel, 319
Gossip, 337

Gradation of vowel-sound, effect of, on development of meaning, 181

Grain, 44

Grammars, all incomplete, 6;
historical, comparative, descriptive, their province, 1;
deal in abstractions, 2;
draw lines of demarcation where historian of language traces connection, 9

Grammatical analysis v. logical analysis, 268
—— categories, how arrived at, 343
—— and psychological categories, ch. xv.

—— relations and logical relations not sharply separated, 12

—— rules, their nature, 12
—— system inadequate, 7, 270
Grave, 193
Green, 144
Greenland, 326
Groundsel, 318
Groups, of ideas in the mind, 3, 73, 76;
modal and material, 76, 170, 178;
formation of new, ch. xi.;
changes in, 171.

See also Phonetic Development, Syntax, and Numerals.

Grouping, mainly governed by function of the words, 206;
displacement in etymological, ch. xiii.
See also Inflection.
Γρύς, 44, note
Gubernatorial, 414
Guerre, 388
Guess, 415
Gypsy dialects, 391
H
Hab’ und Gut (Ger.), 327
Hale, 192
Hallelujah, 163
Halibut, 319
Hammock, 415
Hand, 58 (Ger.), 202
Handiwork, 318
Harrow, 162
Head, 56, 65, 66
Headlong, 216
Health, 182
Hear, 59
Heart, 65
Helter-skelter, 164
Hemel (Dutch), 235
Hercules v. Heracles, 390
Hereabouts, 216
Hickory, 415
Hide, 194
Hie, hier (Ger.), 184
Higgledy-piggledy, 164
High-spirited, 212
History of language, its task, 4, 9
Historic present, 257
Hláfmesse (A.S.), 43
Hoarhound, 319
Hole, 193
Hominy, 415
Homographs, 193, note
Homophones, 193, note
Honor v. honour, 389
Horn, 70
Horreo, with accusative and infinitive, 215
Horse, 71
Hosannah, 163
Hotch-potch, 164
House, 43, 46
Humility, 61
Hungersnot (Ger.), 325
Hurly-burly, 164
Hurrah, 163
Hurtle, 161
Hussy, 318
I
I, a diphthong, 28
Ideal, ideell, 389
Ideas, groups of, 73
Idioms translated or borrowed, 392
Igitur (Lat.), 208

Il (Fr.), sentences beginning with (neut.), number of the verb, 295

Ill, sick, 237;
in compounds, 334
Imitation, tendency to, 8
Impersonal verbs, have they a subject, 101
Impertinent, 49
Impossible, 35
Income, 28
Indefatigable, 38
Indefinite adjectives and pronouns, 104
Individual peculiarities, 5;
their effect, 8;
only the individual has real existence, species and classes are abstractions, 14;
consciousness as to change in language, 8
Infinitive, case of nomen actionis, 356;
used as noun, 357;
active, passive and neuter, 264;
of exclamation in Latin, 312

Infitias ire, with accusative and infinitive, 215

Inflection, 93;
origin of, ch. xix.;
influence of phonetic development on new grouping in, 198;
convergence of systems of, in three degrees, 200;
terminations of, in loan-words, 391

Influence, of one language on syntax in another, 391

“—— over,” 213
Insect, 61
Instead of, 362
Interjections, 16, 345;
psychological predicates, 166
Interjectional phrases, 100
Interrogative pronouns and adverbs, 104
Intonation in Chinese and Scandinavian, 94
Intransitive verb passive, 265
Invoice, 250
Inwards, 176, 216
Ipse (Lat.), 212
Irnan (A.S.), 38
Isolation and unification, ch. x.;
formal and material, 178;
syntactical, 177;
semasiological, criterion for compound, 323;
four ways of effecting, 323;
syntactical and formal, contributes to form compounds, 331;
phonetic, has same effect, 335
It, for cognate accusative, 130
“It is ... who,” 273
J
Jackanapes, Jack-a-lantern, 328
Jactito (Lat.), 145
Jamdudum (Lat.), 149
Jiminy, 162
K
K, sounds of, 32
Kaladrius (M.H.G.), 39
Κατ’ ἐξοχήν, 53, 63
Keen, 28, 31
Keeper, 179
Κέραμος, 244
Kill—die, 265
Kingdom, 338
Kinsman, 331
Kiss-me-quick, 321
Κισσός, 244
Kit-kat, 164
Klein (Ger.), 49
Kleinheit, kleinigkeit (Ger.), 236
Knecht (Ger.), 35
Knight, 35
Know, 35;
—learn, 258
Κύανος, 244
Κυπάρισσος (Mod. Gk.), 245
L
Laden (Ger.), 235
Lady, 318
Lady-day, 323
Lammas, 43, 318
Lance-knight, 197

Language, first production of, without thought of communication, 166;
when can it be said to exist, 168;
have animals got it, 168;
of each individual the parallel of individual plant in Botany, 13;
difficulty of observation of any given state of, 6;
but incomplete expression of thought, 71, 302;
language and writing, ch. xxi.;
changes in, 8;
of two kinds, 24;

‘a language alters,’ two meanings of this phrase, 36;
a further development of dialect, 21;
‘regular’ v. ‘irregular,’ 78.
See also Standard Language and Speech.
Lasso, 415
Last, 35
Laws of sound-change, are they absolute, 39;
meaning of the term, 40
Lay, 193
Learn—know, 258
Leastest, 145
Length, 182
Lengthy, 414
Leoman, 337
Lesser, 85, 145
Letters (Dutch), 235
Lettre (Fr.), 250
Levee, 415
Li (Russ.), 214
Lie—fall, 258
Linguistic form, influence of, 391
Link-words, 93.
See also Connecting words.
Liquorice, 198
Literary language, 23.
See also Standard language.
Loan (verb), 414
Loan-words, causes of adoption, 384;
often at first superfluous 227, 231;
for technical terms, 392;
borrowed from dialects 227;
the same from two different dialects, 389;
borrowed from language in which they are already loan-words, 389;
two distinct kinds of changes in, 387;
retaining their inflection, 391;
their suffixes, 390
Locus (Lat.), 234
Long measure, 321
Lumber, 415
Lump (Ger.), 234
Lose (verb), 186
M
Mailable, 414
Mainly, chiefly, 237
Make, become, 265
Malheureux (Fr.), 321
Man, 181, 189
Man-o’-war, 321, 331
Μάραθος, 244
Marble, 38
Marter, 38
Mash, 161
Match, 48
Materials, names of, 251
Material contents of a word, 74
Matter groups, 76
Maurgins (Goth.), 188
Maybe, 211, 321
Mead, meadow, 87
Mean, 48

Meaning, of same word never identical in the mind of two speakers, 51;
change of, chs. iv., xiv.;
narrowing and widening, 43;
transference of, is ‘occasional’ or ‘usual,’ 44;
test for occasional or usual, 59;
occasional, does not always include all the elements of usual, 57;
how specialised, 56;
test for independence of derived, 50;
if inaccurately conceived how corrected, 61;
of existing word encroached upon, 237;
change of, in syntax, 70, and ch. vii.;
change of, affects construction of verbs in Latin, 211.

See also Development, Compound.
Membra, membri, (Lat.), 235
Mémoire (Fr.), 234
Memory pictures, their nature and growth, 33;
of sound and of position, 25;
alone connect the several utterances of the same sound by the same speaker, 33;
we are unconscious of their existence, 27;
unstable and shifting, 35;
their development, 168
Mer (Fr.), 244
Metaphorical expressions, 57
Metathesis, 37
Métier (Fr.), 32
Midriff, 319
Migration of tribes, effect on language, 22
Mildew, 318
Milt, 142

Mind, conscious and unconscious action of the human, 3

Mine, 215
Minnow, 144
Minuit (Fr.), 244
Mixture in language, ch. xxii.;
two meanings of this expression, 381;
how it arises, 381
Mobile, movable, 237
Moccasin, 415
Modal contents of a word, 74;
modal groups, 76
Mood and tense, 261;
potential, 260
Moon, 43
More, 85
Mother, 173
Mouse, 86, 181
Movements of vocal organs, control of, 30
Murderous, 390
N
N, displacement of, 283
Name, various constructions of the noun, 289
Nanu (Sans.), 214
Ne (Lat.), 214
Νεανίας, 245
Near, 362
Neck, 66
Needs, 176
Negation, pleonastic, 154
Negative particle after verbs of denying, 155
—— sentences, 102
Neighbour, 319, 339
Neuheit, neuigkeit (Ger.), 236
Nevertheless, 321, 335
Newfoundland, 322, 326
News, 250
Newt, 283
Nickname, 283
Nigh, 362
Night, 35
Nightingale, 318
Nightmare, 318
Noce (Fr.), 250
Nomen (Lat.), construction of, 289
—— actionis, 355;
inexpressive of voice, 262
—— agentis with dependent case, 355.
See also Noun.
Nominative, in predicate, 290;
with infinitive, 290, 291;
stands instead of pure stem or ‘absolute case,’ 289, 292

None, 320
Nonne (Lat.), 214
Nostril, 339
Notwithstanding, 345
Noun as predicate, its case, 290;
used as verb, 207, 351.
See also Substantive.
Nul (Fr.), 155

Number, 247 (see also Plural, Singular, There);
referring to abstracta, 250;

‘neuter,’ corresponding to neuter gender, 251, 253.

See also Quisque.
Numerals, 252, 344, 393;
ordinals, 326
Nursery language, 164
O
Object, grammatical, origin of, 112
Occasional meaning, 44
Octo (Lat.), 35
Oddity, 390
Œils, yeux, (Fr.), 235
Of, off, 363
Of mine, 215;
of in adverbial expressions, 176
Offal, 334
Office (Fr.), 234
Offset, 334
Once, 358
One and all, 328
Onomatopoiesis, 160
Onset, 333
Onslaught, 333
Opossum, 415
Optative, expressed by future tense, 261
Orange, 283
Orchard, 318
Oreste (O.Fr.), 143

Origin of language, conditions of creation not different from those of historic development, 11, 157

Original creation, ch. ix.;
nature of, 158;
conditions of, 159;
combined with analogical formation, 165
Ὄρνις, 63
Οὐκ οῦν, 214
Output, 334
Outrance, à, (Fr.), 385
Overflow, 333
Overlook, 133
Overreach, 133
Overtake, 133
Owe, 11
P
P, 32;
p, pf, 387
Pagan, 49
Paille (Fr.), 234
Pale, 193
Palliolum (Lat.), 38
Palsangguné (Fr.), 162
Par (Fr.), 214
Παρά, 133
Parataxis, 121
Participles, 353;
present, 137, 179, 263;
agreement of, when used as predicate, 295;
‘misrelated,’ 137;
participial constructions, 138.
See also Tense.
Parts of speech, ch. xv.;
see also under names of.
Passive, 204, 277;
of intransitive, verbs, 265;
formation of, 266;
in Scandinavian, 211;
when acknowledged in formal grammar, 265;
and active voice differ only syntactically but express the same actual relation, 262.

See also Voice.
Past tense. See under Tense.
Pastime, 388
Pauser, 64
Pea, 86
Pein (Ger.), 387
Pen, 66
Pensioner, 64
People, 248
Pereo (Lat.), 211
Period of construction and of decay, 342;
of roots, 158
Periphrastic “It is ... who,” 273

Person, vacillation in use of, with copula, 294

Personal terminations, probable origin of, 300

Pfeffer (Ger.), 387
Pfingsten (Ger.), 387
Phonetic science, 29;
compensations, 36, note;
alphabet, 5, 370;
spelling, 27, 366
—— development of word-groups, 182;
causes convergence of same cases in different systems of declension, 201;
of different cases in same system, 202;
formation of new modal groups, 198;
confluence of forms, two effects of, 192;
differentiation, its effect on development of meaning, 181;
change influences formation of compounds, 335.

See also Compounds.

Phrases, entire, coalesce into a compound word, 321

Physical organs, their linguistic action, 4
—— phenomena of linguistic activity, 5
Pig, 62
Pin, 50
Place-names, 56, 64, 330
Πλάτανος (Mod. Gk.), 245
Pleonasm, 153;
in negation, 154;
pleonastic article, 156
Plume (Fr.), 49
Plupart (Fr.), 298
Pluperfect tense formation in Latin, 341
Plural, formation, 79;
with force of singular, 249;
and singular mixed in one sentence, 287, 293.
See also Number.
Poetry, rich in synonyms, 228;
Icelandic, 228
Poisonous, 390
Point, 57
Politique (Fr.), 234
Popular etymology, 10, 195, 386
Portuguee is correct, 86
Positive for comparative, 154
Post, 48, 50
Potential mood, 260
Poulterer, 64
Præsente (as preposition), 210
Præterito-præsentia, 258
Prairie, 415
Preach, predict, 389

Predicate, logical, psychological, grammatical, 95;
grammatical and logical when identical, 268;
often distinguished by stress, 272;
by inverted construction, 273;
psychological alone expressed, 311;
in negative sentences, 273;
grammatical, often no more than copula, 279;
extension of, 114;
in plural after copula in singular, 293;
vice versâ, 294;
participle as, concord of, 295;
in concord with apposition instead of with subject, 295,
with noun compared with subject, 296,
with genitive dependent on subject, 298;
in relative clause agreeing with the noun which it qualifies instead of relative pronoun which is subject, 297.

See also Subject.
Predicatival attribute, case of, 290
Prefix be, 131

Preliminary statement of psychological subject, 274

Prepositions, 210, 361;
Latin, 133;
Greek, 133, 183;
German, 213;
‘personal,’ in Welsh, 277;
verbs compound with, 275;
post position of, 275;
pleonastic use of, 153, 277;
do prepositions ‘govern’ cases, 132
Prepositional phrases, 176
Present. See Tense.
Priest, 349, 389;
priester (Dutch), 387
Printing, influence of, 406
Prior, 38
Privy councillor, 329
Prófecto, (Lat.), 208
Pronoun, 344;
interrogative, 104, 272;
demonstrative, 272;
relative, 272;
ditto, omitted, 115;
indefinite, 104;
personal, declension of, 202;
reflective, 209
Proper names, 46, 63
Proportion in analogical formation, 79
Prove, probe, 389
Provide, 236

Psychological and grammatical categories, ch. xv.

Psychical organisms, their importance, 4;
how observable, 6;
the only permanent element in speech, 26
Puns, 48
Pursuer, persecutor, prosecutor, 237
Purvey, 236
Q
Quagmire, 337
Quarter-sessions rose, 198
Quatre-vingts (Fr.), 393
Questions, rhetorical, 107;
different forms of, 105
Quin (Lat.), 213
Quinque (Lat.), 38

Quisque (Lat.), singular with verb in plural, 251

R
Racoon, 415
Radical (Fr.), 49
Ranch, 415
Real, reell, 389
Rear, 181
Receipt, 379
Recreant, 49
Reign, 379
Relative, relation, (substantive), 226
Relative pronoun, 296;
omitted, 115, 277 note, 305.
See also Predicate.
Repetition of subject. See Subject.
Republic, 212
Respect, 236
Rhythm, 379
Rhone (gender in Ger.), 244
Riddle, 86
Righteous, 197
Rinnan (A.S.), 38
Ritter (Ger.), 180, 234
Roots, 165;
so-called period of, 158
Roundabouts, 326
Rosary, 69
Rumple, 161
Run, 38
S
Sachant (Fr.), 232
Sail, 58
Sake, 194
Sandhi, 337
Sanglier (Fr.), 67
Savant (Fr.), 232
Scales, 250
Scandinavian intonation, 94
Schème (Fr.), 245
Schlecht, böse, (Ger.), 67, 237
Science of language, 2
Scholar, 64
Scot-free, 319
Sea-horse, 330
Secure, 136
See (Ger.), 234
See-saw, 164
Seethe, sodden, 186
Sehr (Ger.), 67
Self, as suffix, 208, 321
Senatorial, 414
Sennight, 319
Sentence, definition of, 92;
consisting of one word, 98;
without verb, 280, 309;
consists usually of two parts, 268;
extension of simple, 108;
when psychologically simple, 269;
complex, 119;
grammatically simple but logically complex, 270;
vice versâ, 282;
main and subordinate, with common element, 306;
that cannot be analysed, 285;
of demand, 102;
negative, 102;
interrogatory (two kinds of), 103;
of surprise, 106;
and phrases coalesce into compound-words, 321
Sentir (Fr.), 136
Separate, sever, 236
Serra, serro, (Portug.), 236
Serviceable, useful, 237
Sessions, 250
Set, sit, 265
Settle, 194
Sever, separate, 236
Shade, 45, 87
Shallop, 383
Shallow, 233
Shambles, 250
Shamefaced, 197
Shay, 86
Shed, 194
Sheer, 194
Sheet, 56
Shoal, 233
Shoddy, 414
Shop, 180
Shoulder, 66
Shred, 403
Sick, 237, 415
Siesta, 231
Silly, 97
Since, 139, 363
Sing-song, 164
Singular with force of plural, 248.
See also Plural and Number.
Sir, 349
Sirloin, 197
Sisclar (provençal), 144
Sit, set, 265
Skatte-ter (Dan.), 235
Slap, slip, slop, 161, 163
Sloop, 383
Slight, 67
Smash, 161
Snip, snap, 164
Sodden, 186
Soixante-dix (Fr.), 393
Solidarity, 392
Sore, 67
Sort (Fr.), 244
Sound, 48, 195

Sounds of a language and their representation in writing, 5 (see also Phonetic, Writing, Spelling);
not easily influenced by dialects, 393

Sound-change, 10, ch. iii., or sound-shifting in Teutonic, 19 (see also Verner’s law);
causes of, 34;
rate of, 37;
laws of, are they absolute, 39;
and sound interchange, 39;
two effects of, 191;
effect of, on grouping of words, 171

Sound utterance, connection between successive cases of, only psychical, 26.

See also Speech.
Sovereign, 197, 379
Sparrow-grass, 198

Species and classes nothing but abstractions, 14

Speech, 5;
elements of, utterance, 24;
of intermediate districts, 21
Spelling, English, 27, 367, 368;
French, 27;
German, 367;
Sanscrit, 367;
advantages of fixed, 374;
influence of analogy on, 378.
See also Writing.

Spem habeo, with accusative and infinitive, 215

Spiritual, 61, 389
Spry, 415
Square, 389
Squaw, 415
Squarson, 144
Squash, 161
Squire, esquire, 234

Stage, influence on standard language, 397, 413

Stan (A.S.), 84
Stamp, 62
Stampede, 415
Stand, 57;
—step, 258
Standard language, ch. xxiii.;
what is it, 395;
how fixed, 396;
in English, 397;
in Germany, 396 (see also Stage);
American, 410;
complexity of, 410;
influence of, 4;
action and reaction between, and individual dialects, 402;
conditions required to create need of, 405;
two standards for each language, 401;
develops by borrowing from natural language, 403;
even standard language, will break up into dialects, 408

Steht, es—nicht dafür, (Ger.), 392
Step, stand, 258
Stile, 193
Stoop, 415
Straightways, 176
Stress, on psychological predicate, 96, 272;
in compound words, 322.
See also Accent.
Stupeo (Lat.), 211

Subject, logical, grammatical, psychological, 95;
grammatical and logical, when identical, 268;
how indicated originally, 96,
by emphasis, 273,
by inverted construction, 97, 273;
precedence of, in consciousness of speaker, 97;
subject and predicate not the same for speaker and hearer, 100;
differently conceived by different speakers or hearers, 271;
preliminary statement of psychological, 274;
repetition of, 300;
subject in singular with verb in plural, 286.
See also Predicate.
Subordination v. co-ordination, 283
Substantive, 343;
how distinguished from adjective, 347;
used as adjective, 349.
See also Noun.
Suegra (Span.), 245
Suffixes: origin of, 338;
in loan-words, 390;
applied to syntactical groups, 326;
able, 219;
ard, 390;
ate, ation, 220;
ble, 219;
dom, 91, 236;
ed, 212, 319 (note), 333;
in weak verbs, 380;
er, 64;
er, est, 199;
ery, 390;
ful, 91, 223;
hood, 236;
ian, 390, 391;
ing, 137, 178;
ism, 391;
ist, 390;
le, 160;
less, 223;
ling, long, in adverbs, 216;
ly, 208, 340;
μα, gender of derivatives in Romance languages, 245;
ment (Fr.), 208;
ness, 224, 236;
no, 188;
o (It. third person plural), 143;
ough, 142;
s, 79;
self, 208;
some, 91;
tas (Lat.), té (Fr.), 85;
th, 178;
tion, 222 note;
tism, 86;
waru (A.S.), 249;
y, 91
Sultana, 390
Superfluity, how it arises, 226;
how obviated, 227, 229
Superlative for comparative, 154
Sûr (Fr.), 136
Surcease, 196
Synecdoche, 58, 68
Synonyms, 226;
in poetry, 228
Synovya (Russ.), 236
Syntax, fundamental facts of, ch. vi.;
change of meaning in, ch. vii.;
of one language influencing that of another, 391;
syntactical distribution, displacement of, ch. xvi.;
syntactical groups with suffixes, 326;
syntactical co-ordination expressive apart from the meaning of the co-ordinated words, 323

T
T, sounds of, 32;
in Latin t or z in German, 387
Tail, 66
Taper, 388
Technical terms, loan-words for, 392
Tense, 253;
origin of, expression, 256;
logically complete scheme of, 253;
deviations from the same, 256;
tenses in Hebrew, 259;
tense relation often expressed by different verbs, 258;
compound tenses, 259;
tense absolute, 255, 258;
present, for future, 256, 257, 260;
ditto for past, 257;
historic present, 257;
past for future, 256, note;
past for present, 257;
past tense and past participle, 88;
future, 260;
tense and mood, 259, 261;
formation of, in French and Latin verbs, 341
Terrapin, 415
Th, two sounds of, 28
Than, then, 236
That, 248, 283, 363
Theodore, 10

There, sentences beginning with, number of the verb, 295

Thing, 10
ðiudans (Goth.), 188
Though, 35, 139, 143
ðyrl (A.S.), 339
Tiber (gender in Ger.), 244
Tick-tack, 164
Till, 152, 362
Tiresome, 415
Tittle-tattle, 164
Titmouse, 319
Tobacconist, 86
Toboggan, 415
Tongue, 56
Tooth, 181, 189
Topmost, 347
Touaille (Fr.), 388
Towards, 216
Train, 56, 57
Transferred epithets, 136
Translations, 51
Transpire, 67, 415
Trapano (Ital.), 144
Travail, 235
Triers (O.Fr.), 143
Tuesday, 318
Turtur (Lat.), 38
Twice, 358
Twilight, 319
U
U, formation of oo-sound, 31
Ugh, 163

Umlaut, effect of, on development of meaning, 181

Un (Fr.), sound of, 183
Unawares, 176
Unco’, 394
Understand, 67
Undertaker, 179
Underwriter, 334
Unification, in declension, 186;
in verbs, 187;
direction of, 188;
order of, 186;
three rules, 186, 187;
sometimes disadvantageous, 191.
See also Differentiation.
Uniformity, advantage of, 191
Until, 152
Unwalkative, 60
Upstairs, 325
Upwards, 176
Usage, displacement of, 9, 17;
occasional v. usual, 45
Use, 237
Useful, serviceable, 237
Usher, 64, and note
Usual v. occasional meaning, 44
Usui (Lat.), 210
V
Vaaban (Dan.), 235
Val (Fr.), 244
Valeur (Fr.), 85
Veal, 388
Verb, 265, 343, 352;
in Latin, construction of, 211;
compound with adverb, 333;
derived from French, 196;
with two accusatives, 288;
of incomplete predication, 281
Verdorben, verderbt (Ger.), 236
Verner’s law, 172, 185
Villain, 49
Vocabulary, American v. English, 416

Vocal organs, we are unconscious of their action, 29;
control of their movements, 30
Vogel (Dutch), 235
Voice, 261;
passive, 261;
middle, 265-267;
not expressed or implied in nomen actionis, 264;
distinction of, purely syntactical, 262.
See also Passive.
Voile, 250.
Vouchsafe, 206
Vowels, formation of, 31.
W
Wairilos (Goth.), 38
Was (in Slavo-Ger.), 393
Was, were, 185
Wealth, 182
Weary, 223
Wednesday, 318
Wegs (Goth.), 201
Weil (Ger.), 139
Weiss, ich (Ger.), 257
Welcome, 213
Weleras (A.S.), 38
Well, 193
Welladay, 162
Werden (Ger.), 315
Werwolf, 318
Where, 344
Whereabouts, 216
While, 139, 344
Whole, 193, 379
Wigwam, 415
Will-o’-the-wisp, 321
Wirken auf (Ger.), 213
Wiseacre, 196
With, 323
Withstand, 323

Words, reproduced from memory or formed by analogy, 217;
word-formation, rise of, ch. xix.;
a word consists of unbroken series of sounds, 27;
division of sentence into, 81, 182;
ditto in child’s consciousness, 80;
now considered simple may have been compounds, 342

Works, 250
World, 318
Wormwood, 320
Worser, 145
Writing, 27;
and language, ch. xxi.;
in how far can it represent speech, 366;
written language, influence of, on standard, 399

X
X, two sounds of, 28
Y
Yawn, 144
Yeoman, 318
You, ye, 88
Z
Ziegel (Ger.), 387
Zounds, 162
Zufrieden (Ger.), 325

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FOOTNOTES:

1 And this opinion was the cause of the omission in the First Edition.

2 See Sweet, History of English Sounds, p. 17.

3 As pronounced, e.g., in Dutch gaan. This sound does not now exist in English.

4 This factor in the change of language (which has only recently received investigation) cannot here be dwelt upon, as readers who have not studied phonetics would be unable to follow the argument. Such should at once endeavour to obtain at least a mastery of the elements of phonetics, without which they cannot possibly understand many of the problems with which we have here to deal, and all should then read the very interesting article on Phonetic Compensations, by C. W. Grandgent and G. S. Sheldon of Harvard University, in Modern Language Notes, June, 1888, No. 6, pp. 177-187.

5 For further instances, see Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 376.

6 A similar transference is observable in γέρανος, γρῦς, and in words in modern languages expressive of the same idea; cf. also corvus, which means a raven, a grapnel, a battering-ram, a surgical instrument, and a sea-fish.

7 See Marsh, English Language, in Students’ Series, lect. iii., pp. 55-62, with note on p. 64.

8 See the discussions of the examples below. The ‘various’ meanings of these words there given are mostly ‘usual’ ones. Whenever a speaker utters any of these words in the body of his discourse, the word has only one of the various ‘usual’ senses. The use of the word ‘body’ in this very note may serve as illustration of an ‘occasional’ signification of a word with sundry ‘usual’ meanings.

9 Vid. Murray, p. 1257.

10 A more definite and unmistakable instance of a word acquiring a concrete sense would be, ‘He raised his arm, and, with outstretched hand, exclaimed, etc.’

11 Murray, p. 898.

12 Shakespeare could not gain currency for his forgetive, nor Bishop Wilkins for his ‘unwalkative cripple.’

13 Cf. Whitney’s Life and Growth of Language, pp. 27, 28.

14 Other examples are fera, thier, deer; γυνή, queen, quean; and the modern Greek ἄλογο(ν) (the unreasoning animal), for ‘a horse.’

15 Skeat, English Etymology, p. 257.

16 In some cases the termination comes from the French -eur; and in this case, too, the same remarks apply. Cf. also the words butler = bottler; usher, ostiarius, etc.

17 So termed from the white streaked face of the animal. Gael. broc, O. Celtic broccos. Cf. Murray, Dictionary, i. v.

18 Bain’s ‘English Composition,’ p. 23.

19 Similar instances are Capability Brown, Satan Montgomery.

20 Cf. Rowland’s Grammar of the Welsh Language, 4th edition, (Wrexham, Hughes), p. 23, § 132, where more instances, and also some from Armorican, are cited.

21 Raoul de la Patisserie: De la Psychologie du Langage. Paris, 1889, pp. 22, 41.

22 So again, ‘brung’ can often be heard from children, and in German, ‘gebrungen’ appears as a humorous form, probably in imitation of an original blunder.

23 Cf. Studies in Classical Philology, No. II., B. I. Wheeler: Analogy, and the Scope of its Application in Language (Ithaca, N.Y., 1887), p. 7. Much of what follows is taken from this little work, which contains an admirable discussion of analogy, besides a highly useful bibliography of the subject. See also Jespersen’s article in the Internationale Zeitschrift für Allgemeine Sprachwissenschaft, Zur Lautgesetzfrage, (1886). Professor Wheeler, however, ranges under ‘Analogy-formation’ much that we should prefer to consider separately under ‘Contamination.’

24 The personal influence, or ‘magnetism,’ of the speaker or speakers who engender the ‘mistake’ is also an important element in determining its propagation. We, parrot-like, imitate the speech, like the manners, of some more readily than of others.

25 Cf. C. Goeders, Zur Analogiebildung im Mittel-und Neuenglischen. (Kiel, 1884.) Dr. Goeders has collected an enormous mass of illustrative material. Some of his examples, however, may not prove as new as he thinks. Our posterity will be able to decide this point if Dr. Murray’s Dictionary has made greater progress than at present. This apprehension, however, does not detract from the value of Goeders’ work, nor from the truth of the proposition which he illustrates.

26 Henry, Étude sur l’Analogie en général et sur les Formations de la Langue Grecque. Paris, Maisonneuve, 1883.

27 Professor Almkvest kindly informs us that there are rules about the grave accent in the Swedish, but that they are difficult to investigate. The grave accent, as it occurs in Swedish, is quite peculiar, and nothing similar exists in other languages.

For instance, the first syllable in brä́der (pl. of brä́de = board) and sånger (pl. of sång = song) has the accent, but is musically lower than the second syllable, which has a feeble secondary accent, and is musically higher. This is different—in contradiction to breder (pres. of breda = to spread), where the first syllable has the accent, and is musically higher than the second syllable, which is quite without accent.

It is the first-named pronunciation, brä́dè, brä́dèr; góssè (a boy), góssàr, which has nothing corresponding to it in other languages.

(a) Short treatises for practical use:—

Sweet: On Sounds and Forms of Spoken Swedish (1½ pp. about accent), in Transactions of the Philological Society, 1877-79.

Schwartz and Noreen: Swedish Grammar: Stockholm, 1881; (4 pp. about accent, mostly practical).

(b) Scientific works—

Lythkius and Wulff: About the Rules of Sounds and Signs in the Swedish Language, and about the Accent; Lund, 1885; 460 pp. (in Swedish).

Koch: Philological Researches about Swedish Accent; Lund, 1878; 211 pp.

Paul: Grundriss der German. Philol., vol. i., abschn. 5, pp. 417, etc.: Geschichte der Nordischen Sprachen, von Noreen (gives the historical cause for, and explains the growth of the grave accent).

28 Byrne, Principles of the Structure of Language, p. 475.

29 Cf. Spencer, Philosophy of Style.

30 On the sense in which the words concrete and abstract are here used, see Chap. IV., p. 45.

31 Mason’s English Grammar, p. 149, note.

32 Cf. Zumpt, Lat. Gr., § 609.

33 But cf. Quisnam hoc fecit? in Latin, by the side of Si quis hoc fecit.

34 Thus, in French: Ma fille l’aimerait? (Duval); Vous n’avez nul remords? (Delavigne); Ces messieurs viennent de Paris? (Picard). Latin: Clodius insidias fecit Miloni? (Cicero, pro Mil., xxii.).

35 Thus, in French: Richard député, pourquoi pas? (Dumas); Rien de Monsieur le duc de Richelieu? (Dumas).

36 Similarly, in French: Quoi tu connais l’amour et tu n’es pas humain! (Ducis).

37 We must not forget that these terms are here used in the very widest sense, and not in the limited meaning of ordinary grammar.

38 See pp. 119, fol.

39 This symbol is somewhat different from the one employed by Professor Paul, which is (a + (b) + c). Though we think the one we have chosen is rather more simple, the other is not difficult to understand, as symbolising the result of combining (a + b) with (b + c). If, instead of two similar sets of brackets, different ones were used, say {a + [b} + c], the meaning of what now appears as (b) might be clearer still. Professor Paul uses a, b, and c as indicating three different parts; we use three letters for three parts, but make two letters alike, because two of the three parts have the same function. Cf., later on, for our symbol of the second case, page 119.

40 Paul (a + b) + c. See note on p. 110.

41 Not to be understood as if it were English: A couple, who lived ... vexed. See the next example.

42 See Skeat, s.v. book.

43 A good collection of examples will be found in Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader, introd., p. lxxxvii.

44 Cf. Mätzner, iii. 202.

45 Cf. Koch (ii., p. 95), who cites a number of examples.

46 See Vocabulary to Beowulf, by Heine, under standan, gangan, lácan, etc., and their compounds. Also Koch, ii., p. 3, verbs from A.S. which are transitive and intransitive, e.g., winnan, to fight; fleogan, to fly; etc.

47 See King and Cookson, Comparative Grammar of Greek and Latin, p. 177.

48 Mason’s Grammar, p. 107.

49 See Zumpt, § 428.

50 Fiedler and Sachs, ii. 273.

51 Numerous instances are given in Hodgson, p. 105, and in Mätzner, vol. iii., p, 80.

52 A strict attention to this difference would involve the transference of some of Professor Wheeler’s examples, in his admirable pamphlet on Analogy, to the head of ‘Contamination.’

53 ‘Synonymous’ must here be understood in a wide sense, embracing sets of words which, though really distinct in meaning as well as origin, become confused, and consequently become synonymous merely by misunderstanding (see our first example).

54 Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 357.

55 Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 361.

56 Cf. ibid., p. 368.

57 Cf. Gröber, p. 630.

58 Gröber, p. 524.

59 Ibid., p. 629.

60 Skeat’s Etymological Dictionary, p. 363.

61 Cf. ibid, s.v.

62 As in the case of many other verbs: cf., e.g., make with match; bake with batch; wake, watch; break, breach; speak, speech; stick, stitch. Cf. Murray, Dictionary, s.v. ache, upon which the discussion of the above example is based.

63 Of course, Anglo-Saxon is not derived from Gothic. The Anglo-Saxon forms are of common origin and cognate with Gothic, but not derived from them.

64 Quoted by Hodgson, Errors in the Use of English.

65 See Abbott’s Shakespearian Grammar, p. 297.

66 See note at end of chapter.

67 Cf. Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, s.v. behalf.

68 See other instances in Hodgson, p. 74.

69 Numerous other instances are given in Hodgson, p. 195.

70 Cf. Zumpt, § 424.

71 Numerous other examples are given in Hodgson, p. 72.

72 Quoted by Crombie, Etymology and Syntax, p. 256.

73 Zumpt, § 340.

74 See Hodgson, p. 215, where more instances are given.

75 Cf. Morris, p. 106.

76 Cf. Berliner Wochenschrift, No. 52, p. 1622.

77 Chevallet, vol. i., p. 40.

78 See other instances in Abbott, § 406.

79 Abbott, § 406 and § 408.

80 Cf. also such sentences as Il n’écrit pas mieux cette année ci qu’il N’en faisait l’année passée; and Il faut plus d’esprit pour apprendre une science, qu’il N’en faut pour s’en moquer.

81 Cf. Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, p. 761.

82 In O.Fr. we find baer, Prov. badar, ‘to open the mouth,’ properly speaking to ‘utter the sound ba;’ bouffer, from a French interjection buf. The word piquer comes from an interjection representing the sound uttered on giving a prick, pic! Other examples are O.Fr. glapir, ‘to bark;’ ronfler, miauler, chuchoter, caqueter, toutouer, vonvonner, pouf.

83 Heb. hóshí’ a, ‘to save,’ hiphil (i.e. active causative) of yásha’; and ná, a particle signifying entreaty. (Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, s.v.)

84 Halelú, ‘Praise ye,’ (from verb halal,) and jáh, short form of Jahve = Jehovah. See ibid., s.v.

85 The relation of sound to meaning in gee-gee is, for infants, no clearer than between horse and its meaning. This offers the best proof of the conventionality of much nursery talk.

86 See also an article of S. Mallery on Gesture Language among Savages, in Techmer’s Internationale Zeitschrift, vol. i., p. 193.

87 The latter, the formation of new groups, forms the subject of the next chapter.

88 I.e. the sound of g was replaced by the sound of the (vowel) y; the spelling varies, as is shown by the given instances.

89 The á and í have here the acute accent to indicate length of the vowel, not the stress or ‘accent.’

90 Mätzner, i., p. 380.

91 Cf. Fr. chez = (in) casis.

92 We choose this term in preference to ‘reaction,’ which, in the physical sciences, has a specific meaning not applicable here.

93 And by the expectation thus created of the regular occurrence of such differentiation between past singular and past plural, even where this ablaut did not show different vowels.

94 Thus says Professor Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, s.v.; others maintain that it is due to Northumbrian preservation of a, which in the South became o.

95 Professor Skeat (Principles of English Etymology, p. 411) draws a useful distinction between homographs and homophones, or words spelled alike and those sounded alike. For our purpose, as students of the spoken language, the homophones alone are of importance. A homograph is commonly, but not invariably, a homophone; cf. ‘I read now’ and ‘Yesterday I read.’ We need not here further consider such vagaries of English spelling.

96 It is unnecessary to point out in the text that we must bear in mind that French nouns or adjectives are almost always derived from the accusative case as representative of the oblique cases. For the full explanation of this see Brachet’s Grammaire Historique, Introd.

97 See Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, s.v. settle; Stratman, s.v. sahtlen.

98 Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 410.

99 Or rather Fr. (je) cesse. Just as, in the French language, we must explain most nouns from the Latin accusative form, so in English most of the verbs which we owe to French can only be explained by the ‘strong’ forms, e.g. first person singular of the present tense; as complain from je complain, and not from complaindre; to despise, O.Fr. tu despis, not infinitive despire; to prevail, je prévail, not prévaloir; to relieve, je (re)lieve, not from relever; to acquire, j’acquier, not from acquérir.

100 See Skeat, s.v.

101 It appears that this, and not Billy ruffian, is the form used by sailors. It would thus seem that Billy ruffian is a further popular etymology, due to ‘scholars.’

102 See Palmer, Folk Etymology, s.v.

103 This derivation is given in a certain well-known SCHOOL edition of Milton’s Comus: liquorice = something which makes one lick one’s lips!

104 Braune, Goth. Gram., § 135-137.

105 For similar interchanges of r and z (s), cf. Latin Venus, Veneris for *Venesis; arbos, arboris for *arbosis, etc.

106 Braune, Alt-Hochdeutsche Gram., § 260 sqq.

107 The term umlaut is more convenient than ‘modification of the vowel sound.’

108 Noreen, Altisl. Gram., § 266, 299, 307.

109 So, indeed, is our present nom. sing. fem. she.

110 Murray, Dictionary, s.v. 29 c.

111 Cf. Murray, s.v.

112 Murray, s.v.

113 Ibid., s.v.; and Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, s.v.

114 Used very often in a sense quite distinct from the Liberal ones; the Conservative ones, etc.

115 Cf. King and Cookson, Principles of Sound and Inflexion, p. 285.

116 This last ungrammatical form, like the singular his self (now a vulgarism), testifies to the confusion of dative and genitive.

117 Cf. Roby, Latin Syntax, p. xxiii., and §§ 1069, 1073.

118 Morris, Historical Outlines, p. 6.

119 See Roby, Syntax, p. 51.

120 Nay, we even find the suffix -pse attached to other parts of speech; cf. sirempse, Plaut., Amphit., Prol. 73.

121 See Mätzner, vol. ii., p. 313, 314, etc.

122 Cf. Skeat, Etymological Dictionary, s.v.

123 See Clédat, Grammaire de la Vieille Langue Française, p. 261.

124 Clédat, p. 253.

125 See Dräger, Historische Syntax, vol. ii., p. 436.

126 Cf. Mason, English Grammar, p. 64.

127 Cf. Murray’s Dict., -ble and -able.

128 That ‘carriageable’ is a very unusual word does not matter at all, the point is that it is formed and that it cannot be derived from a verb.

129 What follows is almost entirely taken from the article in Murray’s Dictionary dealing with the suffix. Our excuse for reproducing it is the unavoidably high cost of the work, which places it beyond the reach of the ordinary student, so that a mere reference to it would be useless; and, secondly, that we believe that in Murray’s otherwise admirable treatment of the subject, one not unimportant side of the question has been overlooked. To avoid misunderstanding, we ought perhaps to assure the reader that what we give is not simply a copy of the article in question; this will appear to any one who will take the trouble to compare the two. Our object being different, we lay more stress upon some points which are less material to Dr. Murray; we, however, use his facts, and wish to acknowledge our indebtedness.

130 The number in brackets behind these words gives the date of the earliest quotation found for their use in Murray’s Dictionary.

131 It will help us to realise the strength of the ties which united these groups, if we remember that the modern pronunciation of the ending, tion as shun is really quite modern, i.e. that, formerly, the ti was in such words pronounced as tea and not as sh. The verb abject consisted therefore of the first two syllables of the noun abjection, WITHOUT ANY ALTERATION.

132 A carefully compiled list of all forms in ation, past participles in ate, verbs in ate, found in Dict. Murray, sub. let. A., has given the following results:—

Forms in ation 219. Of these the first instance belongs to the fourteenth century in 11, fifteenth in 26, sixteenth in 49, seventeenth in 76, eighteenth in 23, nineteenth in 34 cases.

Among the 219, the form in ation is the only one in 89 cases, distributed over the same centuries as follows,—fourteenth, 2; fifteenth, 9; sixteenth, 10; seventeenth, 31; eighteenth, 15; nineteenth, 22.

There are 138 verbs in ate, 20 of which stand alone. Distribution: fourteenth century, 0; fifteenth, 4; sixteenth, 53 + 7; seventeenth, 53 + 13; eighteenth, 13; nineteenth, 15.

Of all cases where we find both the noun in ation and the verb in ate, the noun is older in 74 and the verb in 34 cases. It seems plain therefore that we may say that in English the verbs in ate are in very many cases formed from the nouns in ation, and that both are chiefly due to the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries.

133 Vol. i., p. 433.

134 Goeders, p. 9.

135 Cf. Abbott and Seeley, English Lessons for English Readers, p. 55.

136 Vol. ii., p. 446, 467, Figures and Metaphors (Kenningar) of Old Northern Poetry.

137 See Brachet, Dictionnaire des Doublets, Appendice. Paris, 1868.

138 Other works on doublets are Romanische wortschöpfung, by Caroline Michaelis, Leipzig, 1876. Latin doublets, by M. Bréal, in the Mémoires de la Société de Linguistique de Paris, i. 162, sqq. (1868). For German, O. Behagel, Die Neuhochdeutschen Zwillingswörter, Germania, 23, 257, sqq. For English doublets, cf. Mätzner, Englische Grammatik, i. 221; and Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 417; besides the appendix to his Lexicon.

139 See Mätzner, Fr. Gr., p. 223.

140 Page 28.

141 Shoal, the substantive from A.S. scólu, meaning either ‘a school’ or ‘a multitude’ (see Skeat, s.v.), seems to have been used convertibly with school, and indeed, the meaning of shoal has survived in the fisherman’s phrase a ‘school of mackerel;’ while the adjectives shoal and shallow likewise had the same meanings; but they have become so far differentiated that the latter form alone can be employed metaphorically; as when we say, ‘a man of shallow intellect.’

142 See Meyer’s German Grammar, paral. series, p. 18.

143 See Trench, Select Glossary, p. 129, numerous other instances may be found in this work.

144 Cf. Sayce, Principles of Comparative Philology, p. 268 (3rd edit.).

145 See Gröber, p. 788.

146 Vol. i., p. 250.

147 Mätzner, vol. ii., p. 143 (edit. 1864).

148 In Hungarian, the plural ending is -k. But many nouns are thought of as collectives, and have no plural. And if the noun be preceded by a numeral, or by an adjective or pronoun of quantity, it does not take the plural form unless the number embraces the whole; as, tiz apostol (ten apostles), but á tizenket apostolok (the twelve apostles). In the former case, the individuals are thought of indefinitely, and so the sense of the individual is weak; in the latter case, definitely, and therefore it is strong. Byrne, Principles of the Structure of Language, vol. i., p. 435.

149 Accius apud Non., iii. 65.

150 Cf. Roby, vol. ii., p. 183.

151 On ‘abstract’ v. ‘concrete,’ see p. 45.

152 Accordingly, in Welsh, the noun is invariably in the singular when preceded by a numeral.

153 On ‘abstract’ v. ‘concrete,’ see p. 45.

154 In a sentence like I am going out; I thought you were, even the past tense refers to future.

155 Cf. Storm, p. 217, for other instances, such as Sit you down (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, 366), etc.

156 Cf. Earle (Philology of the English Tongue, p. 536), who cites these phrases as provincialisms to be heard in all classes of society in Yorkshire. Every careful speaker will agree with him in deeming them “one of the finest of our provincialisms.”

157 Cf. Cor., II. i. 217; Rich. II., III. iv. 13; 1 Hen. VI., I. i. 82.

158 Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 468.

159 See Mätzner’s Fr. Gr., p. 176, for more examples.

160 It is altogether unimportant that, in the case of such a sentence as the one which we took for our example, the ultimate result, as far as the understanding of the meaning goes, makes practically very little, if any, difference. Thus, we teach a child that three times five and five times three are the same, because the ultimate result of bringing together three fives or five groups of three each is identical. Still, no one will deny that, for correct conception of the operation, there is an important difference between—

.....   .....   ..... and— ... ... ... ... ...

or maintain that the understanding of this difference is of no importance for the theory. Nay, even in practical life there would be a great difference between going thrice, e.g., to fetch five apples at a time, and making five journeys for three apples each time. Yet every one admits that 3 × 5 = 5 × 3 is a ‘truth’ generally quite ‘true enough.’

161 Is rather than am here, to symbolise the sense of I as predicate.

162 It would be worth investigating—a question which only the most extensive statistical collection of earlier examples of this construction could decide—whether the very extensive use of this construction in English is not due to, or has not been at least promoted by, the existence of the so-called pronominal prepositions in Welsh, and their construction. The personal pronouns are used in Welsh as suffixes to the prepositions: e.g., prep. at = to; ataf, ‘to me;’ atat, ‘to thee;’ ato, ‘to him;’ ati, ‘to her;’ atom, ‘to us;’ atoch, ‘to you;’ atynt, ‘to them;’ imi, ‘to me;’ iti, ‘to thee;’ iddo, ‘to him;’ iddi, ‘to her;’ ini, ‘to us;’ ichwi, ‘to you;’ iddynt, ‘to them;’ etc. (Rowland’s Welsh Grammar, §§ 374-381). These forms were used especially in relative clauses; e.g., instead of—

Y cyfaill at yr hwn yr afonais lythyr, The friend   to whom I-sent letter, we might say more elegantly—

Y cyfaill yr hwn yr afonais lythyr ato. The friend whom I sent letter to (him).

Similarly—

Efe yw’r gwr yr ysgrifenaist ato. He is the man thou wrotest to (him). Rhoddwch i’r hwn y cymmerasoch oddi arno. Give to whom you took from (him).

Even the present occasional (and vulgar) repetition of the pronoun is found:—

Ar yr hwn y gwelwch yr ysbryd yn disgyn ac yn On whom you see the spirit (in) descending and (in)

aros arno
remaining ON (him).

A careful study of the translations here given will enable even one who has never seen any Welsh to judge of what is at least a possibility; viz., that our construction began with the relative clauses, and is, even in its present more extensive use, a remnant of Celtic origin.

163 The grammatical and the psychological distribution, however, differs. Grammatically: subject, ‘I;’ predicate, ‘asked;’ etc. Psychologically: subject, ‘I asked him;’ predicate, ‘after his health.’

164 Compare ‘the tother,’ e.g. in Wycliffe, Matt. vi. 24; ‘love the tother,’ which took its rise from ‘that other.’ The word ‘ewt’ also survived under the form eft.

165 See Roby, Lat. Gr., vol. ii., p. 28.

166 Cf. Dræger, § vii. 4.

167 Cf. Ziemer, p. 71.

168 Roby, vol. ii., p. 23.

169 See Roby, vol. ii., p. 145.

170 Cf. Ziemer, p. 96: Madvig Kl. Schr.

171 Cf. Mätzner, ii. 147; Abbott, § 335; Hodgson, p. 142.

172 Cf. Hodgson, p. 131.

173 See Mätzner, vol. ii., p. 141.

174 See Dräger, § 113, for more examples.

175 Cf. Mätzner, vol. ii., p. 152.

176 Another instance is furnished by Hebrew, where the root pakad is conjugated 1st pakadti, 2nd masc. pakadta, 2nd fem. pakadt, 3rd masc. pakad, 3rd fem. pakdah, 1st plur. pakadnu. 2nd masc. pekadtem, 2nd fem. pekadten, 3rd pakdu. (Cf. any Hebrew grammar.)

177 A fuller list is given in Mätzner, ii. p. 18.

178 For other examples, see Mätzner, vol. ii., p. 151.

179 Dræger, vol. i., p. 178.

180 See Abbott, p. 166.

181 For other instances, see Abbott, p. 281.

182 See other instances in Abbott, p. 269.

183 Hodgson, p. 81.

184 Abbott, p. 293.

185 Hodgson, p. 189.

186 For a full list, see Roby, p. 26.

187 Cf. Minto.

188 Cf. Abbott, p. 262.

189 See Mätzner, Fr. Gr., p. 446, for more examples.

190 Cf. Mätzner, p. 92, vol. ii.

191 On groom, see the excellent article in Skeat’s Etymological Dictionary.

192 Cf. Skeat, Prin. Eng. Etymol., p. 395, from which and from his Dictionary most of these ‘obscured’ compounds are taken.

193 Forms like fur-booted, blackeyed, etc., do not, of course, belong here. They are derived, with the suffix ed, from compounds or groups like fur-boot, black eye, eagle eye, cone-shape, etc., or formed by analogy to such derivatives. Some, indeed, are true compounds, but then the second element is an adjective and not a past participle. In that case they should be ranged under the compound formed from two adjectives.

194 The great importance of this distinction will be shown later on, see page 324.

195 It will be noticed that most of these formulative groups are alliterative.

196 See Skeat, Etymol. Dict., s.v. Jack.

197 A blackbird may be an albino and we still call it a blackbird.

198 For the disputed derivation, see Whitney and Skeat, s.v.

199 The student should note the difference: in the Old High German the article is nominative; in our English translation it is genitive: ‘the man’s son’ = ‘a son of the man.’

200 It is, of course, not intended to say that this very combination was thus formed. It is an example to illustrate the process, and no more.

201 Quoted by Earle, p. 493.

202 Cf. M. Müller, Sanscr. Gram., § 249, which we here transcribe: The comparative is formed by tara or îyas; the superlative by tama or ishtha. These terminations, tara and tama, are not restricted in Sanscrit to adjectives. Substantives such as nri, ‘man,’ form nritamah, ‘a thorough man;’ strî, ‘woman,’ strîtarâ, ‘more of a woman.’ Even after case-terminations and personal terminations, tara and tama may be used. Thus, from pûrvâhne, ‘in the forenoon,’ pûrvâhnetare, ‘earlier in the forenoon.’ From pachati ‘he cooks,’ pachatitarâm, ‘he cooks better,’ pachatitamâm, ‘he cooks best.’

203 Cf. also the (unusual) construction: ‘Geoffrey was not a religious when he wrote this play’ (Ward, Hist. Drama, p. 5, note), and ‘one more unfortunate’ (Hood).

204 Mätzner, iii. p. 222.

205 It will be noted that in these examples, the more they are usual the more they appear as compounds, and the less clearly and definitely we feel the force of the first noun as adjectival; cf. a maiden over with a maiden speech.

206 Mätzner, Fr. Gr., 157, sqq.

207 Quoted by Storm, Englische Philologie, p. 332.

208 Modern English spelling has been ably treated of by Skeat, Principles of English Etymology, p. 294, sqq. Clarendon Press.

209 Cf. Spelling Reform, by J. H. Gladstone, F.R.S. (Macmillan); Pitman’s Plea for Spelling Reform; and Max Müller’s Essay on Spelling (Selected Essays, vol. i., pp. 252-299. Longmans, 1881).

210 Page 27, u.s.

211 Pitman, u.s., p. 8.

212 See Storm, Die lebende Sprache, p. 259, sqq.

213 Cf. Dilke’s Problems of Greater Britain, ch. ii., p. 53, where ‘Je n’ai pas de change’ is cited as usual.

214 See Skeat’s Principles of English Etymology, p. 14; also Peile’s Primer of Philology, p. 80.

215 Cf. Peile, p. 41.

216 Quoted by Peile, Primer of Philology, p. ii., from Gavin Douglas’s translation of the Æneid.

217 Vol. i., p. 53.

218 Schuchardt Romanisches und Keltisches, p. 280, sqq.

219 A good instance of this is seen in the ‘Somersetshire Man’s Complaint,’ dating from the seventeenth century, as against the ‘Exmoor Scolding,’ published at Exeter, in 1778: both are published by Elworthy in the ‘Specimens of English Dialects’ (1879). In the former of these the aspirate is fairly maintained; in the latter, it is frequently dropped.

220 Atlantic Monthly, vol. xli., 495.

221 See Sweet, Elementarbuch des gesprochenen Englisch, p. xxxi.

222 John G. Whittier, in a poem entitled The Landmarks, Atlantic Monthly, vol. xliii., p. 378.

Transcriber’s Note:

Obvious printer errors corrected silently.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Page xiii, Errata has been incororated into text.

Page 78, Footnote 21: “Footnote 21: Raoul de la Passerie: De la Psychologie du Langage” changed to read “Raoul de la Patisserie: De la Psychologie du Langage”.

Page 84, Footnote 23: “Zur laut-gesetz-frage” changed to read “Zur Lautgesetzfrage”.

Page 90, Footnote 25: “Zur Analogie-bildung im mittel-und neu-englischen” changed to read “Zur Analogiebildung im Mittel-und Neuenglischen”.

Page 127: ðAES changed to read ÐAES and ÓðRES changed to read ÓÐRES as characters within uppercase string should all be uppercase.

Page 150, line 1: “(Vergil, Aneid, ii. 103)” changed to read “(Vergil, Æneid, ii. 103)”.

Page 208, line 12: ment changed to read -ment.

Page 214, Missing footnote anchor, 124, added after par trop.

Page 222, Footnote 131: “The verb abject consisted therefore of the first two syllables of the noun objection,” changed to read “The verb abject consisted therefore of the first two syllables of the noun abjection,”.

Page 249, Footnote 148: “tiz apostol (ten apostols)” changed to read “tiz apostol (ten apostles)”.

Page 359, first line: “The adverb differs formally from the adverb in” was changed to read “The adjective differs formally from the adverb in”.

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Table of Contents

- INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY OF THE HISTORY OF LANGUAGE

- 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

- PREFACE
- CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I. ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF LANGUAGE.

- CHAPTER II. ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF LANGUAGE.

- CHAPTER III. ON SOUND-CHANGE.

- CHAPTER IV. CHANGE IN WORD-SIGNIFICATION.

- CHAPTER V. ANALOGY.

- CHAPTER VI. THE FUNDAMENTAL FACTS OF SYNTAX.

- CHAPTER VII. CHANGE OF MEANING IN SYNTAX.

- CHAPTER VIII. CONTAMINATION.

- NOTE TO PAGE 148.

- CHAPTER IX. ORIGINAL CREATION.

- CHAPTER X. ON ISOLATION AND THE REACTION AGAINST IT.

- CHAPTER XI. THE FORMATION OF NEW GROUPS.

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

- Singular.

- Plural.

- CHAPTER XIII. DISPLACEMENT IN ETYMOLOGICAL GROUPING.

- CHAPTER XIV. ON THE DIFFERENTIATION OF MEANING.

- CHAPTER XV. CATEGORIES: PSYCHOLOGICAL AND GRAMMATICAL.

- Gender.

- Number.

- Tense.

- Voice.

- CHAPTER XVI. DISPLACEMENT OF THE SYNTACTICAL DISTRIBUTION.

- CHAPTER XVII. ON CONCORD.

- CHAPTER XVIII. ECONOMY OF EXPRESSION.

- CHAPTER XIX. RISE OF WORD-FORMATION AND INFLECTION.

- CHAPTER XX. THE DIVISION OF THE PARTS OF SPEECH.

- CHAPTER XXI. LANGUAGE AND WRITING.

- CHAPTER XXII. ON MIXTURE IN LANGUAGE.

- CHAPTER XXIII. THE STANDARD LANGUAGE.

- INDEX The numbers refer to the pages.

- A Catalogue of Works IN GENERAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. Issue the undermentioned Lists of their Publications, which may be had post free on application:— 1. Monthly List of New Works and New Editions. 2. Quarterly List of Announcements and New Works. 3. Notes on Books; being an Analysis of the Works published during each Quarter. 4. Catalogue of Scientific Works. 5. Catalogue of Medical and Surgical Works. 6. Catalogue of School Books and Educational Works. 7. Catalogue of Books for Elementary Schools and Pupil Teachers. 8. Catalogue of Theological Works by Divines and Members of the Church of England. 9. Catalogue of Works in General Literature.

- FOOTNOTES:

- Transcriber’s Note:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE