lectures on the science of language 14

lectures on the science of language 14

Before we either accept or decline the solution of any problem, it is

right to determine what means there are for solving it. Beginning with

English we should ask, what means have we for finding out why _I love_

should mean I am actually loving, whereas _I loved_ indicates that that

feeling is past and gone? Or, if we look to languages richer in

inflections than English, by what process can we discover under what

circumstances _amo_, I love, was changed, through the mere addition of an

_r_, into _amor_, expressing no longer _I love_, but _I am loved_? Did

declensions and conjugations bud forth like the blossoms of a tree? Were

they imparted to man ready made by some mysterious power? Or did some wise

people invent them, assigning certain letters to certain phases of

thought, as mathematicians express unknown quantities by freely chosen

algebraic exponents? We are here brought at once face to face with the

highest and most difficult problem of our science, the origin of language.

But it will be well for the present to turn our eyes away from theories,

and fix our attention at first entirely on facts.

 

Let us keep to the English perfect, _I loved_, as compared with the

present, _I love_. We cannot embrace at once the whole English grammar,

but if we can track one form to its true lair, we shall probably have no

difficulty in digging out the rest of the brood. Now, if we ask how the

addition of a final _d_ could express the momentous transition from being

in love to being indifferent, the first thing we have to do, before

attempting any explanation, would be to establish the earliest and most

original form of _I loved_. This is a rule which even Plato recognized in

his philosophy of language, though, we must confess, he seldom obeyed it.

We know what havoc phonetic corruption may make both in the dictionary and

the grammar of a language, and it would be a pity to waste our conjectures

on formations which a mere reference to the history of language would

suffice to explain. Now a very slight acquaintance with the history of the

English language teaches us that the grammar of modern English is not the

same as the grammar of Wycliffe. Wycliffe’s English again may be traced

back to what, with Sir Frederick Madden, we may call Middle English, from

1500 to 1330; Middle English to Early English, from 1330 to 1230; Early

English to Semi-Saxon from 1230 to 1100; and Semi-Saxon to

Anglo-Saxon.(102) It is evident that if we are to discover the original

intention of the syllable which changes _I love_ into _I loved_, we must

consult the original form of that syllable wherever we can find it. We

should never have known that _priest_ meant originally _an elder_, unless

we had traced it back to its original form _presbyter_, in which a Greek

scholar at once recognizes the comparative of _presbys_, old. If left to

modern English alone, we might attempt to connect _priest_ with _praying_

or _preaching_, but we should not thus arrive at its true derivation. The

modern word _Gospel_ conveys no meaning at all. As soon as we trace it

back to the original _Goddspell_, we see that it is a literal translation

of _Evangelium_, or good news, good tidings.(103) _Lord_ would be nothing

but an empty title in English, unless we could discover its original form

and meaning in the Anglo-Saxon _hlafford_, meaning a giver of bread, from

_hlaf_, a loaf, and _ford_, to give.

 

But even after this is done, after we have traced a modern English word

back to Anglo-Saxon, it follows by no means that we should there find it

in its original form, or that we should succeed in forcing it to disclose

its original intention. Anglo-Saxon is not an original or aboriginal

language. It points by its very name to the Saxons and Angles of the

continent. We have, therefore, to follow our word from Anglo-Saxon through

the various Saxon and Low-German dialects, till we arrive at last at the

earliest stage of German which is within our reach, the Gothic of the

fourth century after Christ. Even here we cannot rest. For, although we

cannot trace Gothic back to any earlier Teutonic language, we see at once

that Gothic, too, is a modern language, and that it must have passed

through numerous phases of growth before it became what it is in the mouth

of Bishop Ulfilas.

 

What then are we to do?—We must try to do what is done when we have to

deal with the modern Romance languages. If we could not trace a French

word back to Latin, we should look for its corresponding form in Italian,

and endeavor to trace the Italian to its Latin source. If, for instance,

we were doubtful about the origin of the French word for fire, _feu_, we

have but to look to the Italian _fuoco_, in order to see at once that both

_fuoco_ and _feu_ are derived from the Latin _focus_. We can do this,

because we know that French and Italian are cognate dialects, and because

we have ascertained beforehand the exact degree of relationship in which

they stand to each other. Had we, instead of looking to Italian, looked to

German for an explanation of the French _feu_, we should have missed the

right track; for the German _feuer_, though more like _feu_ than the

Italian _fuoco_, could never have assumed in French the form _feu_.

 

Again, in the case of the preposition _hors_, which in French means

_without_, we can more easily determine its origin after we have found

that _hors_ corresponds with the Italian _fuora_, the Spanish _fuera_. The

French _fromage_, cheese, derives no light from Latin. But as soon as we

compare the Italian _formaggio_,(104) we see that _formaggio_ and

_fromage_ are derived from _forma_; cheese being made in Italy by keeping

the milk in small baskets or forms. _Feeble_, the French _faible_, is

clearly derived from Latin; but it is not till we see the Italian

_fievole_ that we are reminded of the Latin _flebilis_, tearful. We should

never have found the etymology, that is to say the origin, of the French

_payer_, the English _to pay_, if we did not consult the dictionary of the

cognate dialects, such as Italian and Spanish. Here we find that _to pay_

is expressed in Italian by _pagare_, in Spanish by _pagar_, whereas in

Provençal we actually find the two forms _pagar_ and _payar_. Now _pagar_

clearly points back to Latin _pacare_, which means _to pacify_, _to

appease_. To appease a creditor meant to pay him; in the same manner as

_une quittance_, a quittance or receipt, was originally _quietantia_, a

quieting, from _quietus_, quiet.

 

If, therefore, we wish to follow up our researches,—if, not satisfied with

having traced an English word back to Gothic, we want to know what it was

at a still earlier period of its growth,—we must determine whether there

are any languages that stand to Gothic in the same relation in which

Italian and Spanish stand to French;—we must restore, as far as possible,

the genealogical tree of the various families of human speech. In doing

this we enter on the second or classificatory stage of our science; for

genealogy, where it is applicable, is the most perfect form of

classification.

 

Before we proceed to examine the results which have been obtained by the

recent labors of Schlegel, Humboldt, Bopp, Burnouf, Pott, Benfey,

Prichard, Grimm, Kuhn, Curtius, and others in this branch of the science

of language, it will be well to glance at what had been achieved before

their time in the classification of the numberless dialects of mankind.

 

The Greeks never thought of applying the principle of classification to

the varieties of human speech. They only distinguished between Greek on

one side, and all other languages on the other, comprehended under the

convenient name of “Barbarous.” They succeeded, indeed, in classifying

four of their own dialects with tolerable correctness,(105) but they

applied the term “barbarous” so promiscuously to the other more distant

relatives of Greek, (the dialects of the Pelasgians, Carians, Macedonians,

Thracians, and Illyrians,) that, for the purposes of scientific

classification, it is almost impossible to make any use of the statements

of ancient writers about these so-called barbarous idioms.(106)

 

Plato, indeed, in his Cratylus (c. 36), throws out a hint that the Greeks

might have received their own words from the barbarians, the barbarians

being older than the Greeks. But he was not able to see the full bearing

of this remark. He only points out that some words, such as the names of

_fire_, _water_, and _dog_, were the same in Phrygian and Greek; and he

supposes that the Greeks borrowed them from the Phrygians (c. 26). The

idea that the Greek language and that of the barbarians could have had a

common source never entered his mind. It is strange that even so

comprehensive a mind as that of Aristotle should have failed to perceive

in languages some of that law and order which he tried to discover in

every realm of nature. As Aristotle, however, did not attempt this, we

need not wonder that it was not attempted by any one else for the next two

thousand years. The Romans, in all scientific matters, were merely the

parrots of the Greeks. Having themselves been called barbarians, they soon

learnt to apply the same name to all other nations, except, of course, to

their masters, the Greeks. Now _barbarian_ is one of those lazy

__EXPRESSION__s which seem to say everything but in reality say nothing. It

was applied as recklessly as the word _heretic_ during the Middle Ages. If

the Romans had not received this convenient name of barbarian ready made

for them, they would have treated their neighbors, the Celts and Germans,

with more respect and sympathy: they would, at all events, have looked at

them with a more discriminating eye. And, if they had done so, they would

have discovered, in spite of outward differences, that these barbarians

were, after all, not very distant cousins. There was as much similarity

between the language of Cæsar and the barbarians against whom he fought in

Gaul and Germany as there was between his language and that of Homer. A

man of Cæsar’s sagacity would have seen this, if he had not been blinded

by traditional phraseology. I am not exaggerating. For let us look at one

instance only. If we take a verb of such constant occurrence as _to have_,

we shall find the paradigms almost identical in Latin and Gothic:—

 

I have in Latin is habeo, in Gothic haba.

Thou hast in Latin is habes, in Gothic habais.

He has in Latin is habet, in Gothic habaiþ.

We have in Latin is habemus, in Gothic habam.

You have in Latin is habetis, in Gothic habaiþ.

They have in Latin is habent, in Gothic habant.

 

It surely required a certain amount of blindness, or rather of deafness,

not to perceive such similarity, and that blindness or deafness arose, I

believe, entirely from the single word _barbarian_. Not till that word

barbarian was struck out of the dictionary of mankind, and replaced by

brother, not till the right of all nations of the world to be classed as

members of one genus or kind was recognized, can we look even for the

first beginnings of our science. This change was effected by Christianity.

To the Hindú, every man not twice-born was a Mlechha; to the Greek, every

man not speaking Greek was a barbarian; to the Jew, every person not

circumcised was a Gentile; to the Mohammedan, every man not believing in

the prophet is a Giaur or Kaffir. It was Christianity which first broke

down the barriers between Jew and Gentile, between Greek and barbarian,

between the white and the black. _Humanity_ is a word which you look for

in vain in Plato or Aristotle; the idea of mankind as one family, as the

children of one God, is an idea of Christian growth; and the science of

mankind, and of the languages of mankind, is a science which, without

Christianity, would never have sprung into life. When people had been

taught to look upon all men as brethren, then, and then only, did the

variety of human speech present itself as a problem that called for a

solution in the eyes of thoughtful observers; and I, therefore, date the

real beginning of the science of language from the first day of Pentecost.

After that day of cloven tongues a new light is spreading over the world,

and objects rise into view which had been hidden from the eyes of the

nations of antiquity. Old words assume a new meaning, old problems a new

interest, old sciences a new purpose. The common origin of mankind, the

differences of race and language, the susceptibility of all nations of the

highest mental culture, these become, in the new world in which we live,

problems of scientific, because of more than scientific, interest. It is

no valid objection that so many centuries should have elapsed before the

spirit which Christianity infused into every branch of scientific inquiry

produced visible results. We see in the oaken fleet which rides the ocean

the small acorn which was buried in the ground hundreds of years ago, and

we recognize in the philosophy of Albertus Magnus,(107) though nearly 1200

years after the death of Christ, in the aspirations of Kepler,(108) and in

the researches of the greatest philosophers of our own age, the sound of

that key-note of thought which had been struck for the first time by the

apostle of the Gentiles:(109) “_For the invisible things of Him from the

creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead_.”