Lectures on The Science of Language 5

Lectures on The Science of Language 5

But whether the verb or the noun was the first to be invented is of little

importance; nor is it possible for us, at the very beginning of our

inquiry into the nature of language, to enter upon a minute examination of

a theory which represents language as a work of human art, and as

established by mutual agreement as a medium of communication. While fully

admitting that if this theory were true, the science of language would not

come within the pale of the physical sciences, I must content myself for

the present with pointing out that no one has yet explained how, without

language, a discussion on the merits of each word, such as must

necessarily have preceded a mutual agreement, could have been carried on.

But as it is the object of these lectures to prove that language is not a

work of human art, in the same sense as painting, or building, or writing,

or printing, I must ask to be allowed, in this preliminary stage, simply

to enter my protest against a theory, which, though still taught in the

schools, is, nevertheless, I believe, without a single fact to support its

truth.

 

But there are other objections besides this which would seem to bar the

admission of the science of language to the circle of the physical

sciences. Whatever the origin of language may have been, it has been

remarked with a strong appearance of truth, that language has a history of

its own, like art, like law, like religion; and that, therefore, the

science of language belongs to the circle of the _historical_, or, as they

used to be called, the _moral_, in contradistinction to the _physical_

sciences. It is a well-known fact, which recent researches have not

shaken, that nature is incapable of progress or improvement. The flower

which the botanist observes to-day was as perfect from the beginning.

Animals, which are endowed with what is called an artistic instinct, have

never brought that instinct to a higher degree of perfection. The

hexagonal cells of the bee are not more regular in the nineteenth century

than at any earlier period, and the gift of song has never, as far as we

know, been brought to a higher perfection by our nightingale than by the

Philomelo of the Greeks. “Natural History,” to quote Dr. Whewell’s

words,(17) “when systematically treated, excludes all that is historical,

for it classes objects by their permanent and universal properties, and

has nothing to do with the narration of particular or casual facts.” Now,

if we consider the large number of tongues spoken in different parts of

the world with all their dialectic and provincial varieties, if we observe

the great changes which each of these tongues has undergone in the course

of centuries, how Latin was changed into Italian, Spanish, Portuguese,

Provençal, French, Wallachian, and Roumansch; how Latin again, together

with Greek, and the Celtic, the Teutonic, and Slavonic languages, together

likewise with the ancient dialects of India and Persia, must have sprung

from an earlier language, the mother of the whole Indo-European or Aryan

family of speech; if we see how Hebrew, Arabic, and Syriac, with several

minor dialects, are but different impressions of one and the same common

type, and must all have flowed from the same source, the original language

of the Semitic race; and if we add to these two, the Aryan and Semitic, at

least one more well-established class of languages, the Turanian,

comprising the dialects of the nomad races scattered over Central and

Northern Asia, the Tungusic, Mongolic, Turkic,(18) Samoyedic, and Finnic,

all radii from one common centre of speech:—if we watch this stream of

language rolling on through centuries in these three mighty arms, which,

before they disappear from our sight in the far distance, clearly show a

convergence towards one common source: it would seem, indeed, as if there

were an historical life inherent in language, and as if both the will of

man and the power of time could tell, if not on its substance, at least on

its form. And even if the mere local varieties of speech were not

considered sufficient ground for excluding language from the domain of

natural science, there would still remain the greater difficulty of

reconciling with the recognized principles of physical science the

historical changes affecting every one of these varieties. Every part of

nature, whether mineral, plant, or animal, is the same in kind from the

beginning to the end of its existence, whereas few languages could be

recognized as the same after the lapse of but a thousand years. The

language of Alfred is so different from the English of the present day

that we have to study it in the same manner as we study Greek and Latin.

We can read Milton and Bacon, Shakespeare and Hooker; we can make out

Wycliffe and Chaucer; but, when we come to the English of the thirteenth

century, we can but guess its meaning, and we fail even in this with works

previous to the Ormulum and Layamon. The historical changes of language

may be more or less rapid, but they take place at all times and in all

countries. They have reduced the rich and powerful idiom of the poets of

the Veda to the meagre and impure jargon of the modern Sepoy. They have

transformed the language of the Zend-Avesta and of the mountain records of

Behistún into that of Firdusi and the modern Persians; the language of

Virgil into that of Dante, the language of Ulfilas into that of

Charlemagne, the language of Charlemagne into that of Goethe. We have

reason to believe that the same changes take place with even greater

violence and rapidity in the dialects of savage tribes, although, in the

absence of a written literature, it is extremely difficult to obtain

trustworthy information. But in the few instances where careful

observations have been made on this interesting subject, it has been found

that among the wild and illiterate tribes of Siberia, Africa, and Siam,

two or three generations are sufficient to change the whole aspect of

their dialects. The languages of highly civilized nations, on the

contrary, become more and more stationary, and seem sometimes almost to

lose their power of change. Where there is a classical literature, and

where its language is spread to every town and village, it seems almost

impossible that any further changes should take place. Nevertheless, the

language of Rome, for so many centuries the queen of the whole civilized

world, was deposed by the modern Romance dialects, and the ancient Greek

was supplanted in the end by the modern Romaic. And though the art of

printing and the wide diffusion of Bibles, and Prayer-books, and

newspapers have acted as still more powerful barriers to arrest the

constant flow of human speech, we may see that the language of the

authorized version of the Bible, though perfectly intelligible, is no

longer the spoken language of England. In Booker’s scripture and

Prayer-book Glossary(19) the number of words or senses of words which have

become obsolete since 1611, amount to 388, or nearly one fifteenth part of

the whole number of words used in the Bible. Smaller changes, changes of

accent and meaning, the reception of new, and the dropping of old words,

we may watch as taking place under our own eyes. Rogers(20) said that

“_cóntemplate_ is bad enough, but _bálcony_ makes me sick,” whereas at

present no one is startled by _cóntemplate_ instead of _contémplate_, and

_bálcony_ has become more usual than _balcóny_. Thus _Roome_ and _chaney_,

_layloc_ and _goold_, have but lately been driven from the stage by

_Rome_, _china_, _lilac_, and _gold_, and some courteous gentlemen of the

old school still continue to be _obleeged_ instead of being _obliged_.

_Force_,(21) in the sense of a waterfall, and _gill_, in the sense of a

rocky ravine, were not used in classical English before Wordsworth.

_Handbook_,(22) though an old Anglo-Saxon word, has but lately taken the

place of _manual_, and a number of words such as _cab_ for cabriolet,

_buss_ for omnibus, and even a verb such as _to shunt_ tremble still on

the boundary line between the vulgar and the literary idioms. Though the

grammatical changes that have taken place since the publication of the

authorized version are yet fewer in number, still we may point out some.

The termination of the third person singular in _th_ is now entirely

replaced by _s_. No one now says _he liveth_, but only _he lives_. Several

of the irregular imperfects and participles have assumed a new form. No

one now uses _he spake_, and _he drave_, instead of _he spoke_, and _he

drove_; _holpen_ is replaced by _helped_; _holden_ by _held_; _shapen_ by

_shaped_. The distinction between _ye_ and _you_, the former being

reserved for the nominative, the latter for all the other cases, is given

up in modern English; and what is apparently a new grammatical form, the

possessive pronoun _its_, has sprung into life since the beginning of the

seventeenth century. It never occurs in the Bible; and though it is used

three or four times by Shakespeare, Ben Jonson does not recognize it as

yet in his English Grammar.(23)

 

It is argued, therefore, that as language, differing thereby from all

other productions of nature, is liable to historical alterations, it is

not fit to be treated in the same manner as the subject-matter of all the

other physical sciences.

 

There is something very plausible in this objection, but if we examine it

more carefully, we shall find that it rests entirely on a confusion of

terms. We must distinguish between historical change and natural growth.

Art, science, philosophy, and religion all have a history; language, or

any other production of nature, admits only of growth.

 

Let us consider, first, that although there is a continuous change in

language, it is not in the power of man either to produce or to prevent

it. We might think as well of changing the laws which control the

circulation of our blood, or of adding an inch to our height, as of

altering the laws of speech, or inventing new words according to our own

pleasure. As man is the lord of nature only if he knows her laws and

submits to them, the poet and the philosopher become the lords of language

only if they know its laws and obey them.

 

When the Emperor Tiberius had made a mistake, and was reproved for it by

Marcellus, another grammarian of the name of Capito, who happened to be

present, remarked that what the emperor said was good Latin, or, if it

were not, it would soon be so. Marcellus, more of a grammarian than a

courtier, replied, “Capito is a liar; for, Cæsar, thou canst give the

Roman citizenship to men, but not to words.” A similar anecdote is told of

the German Emperor Sigismund. When presiding at the Council of Costnitz,

he addressed the assembly in a Latin speech, exhorting them to eradicate

the schism of the Hussites. “Videte Patres,” he said, “ut eradicetis

schismam Hussitarum.” He was very unceremoniously called to order by a

monk, who called out, “Serenissime Rex, schisma est generis neutri.”(24)

The emperor, however, without losing his presence of mind, asked the

impertinent monk, “How do you know it?” The old Bohemian school-master

replied, “Alexander Gallus says so.” “And who is Alexander Gallus?” the

emperor rejoined. The monk replied, “He was a monk.” “Well,” said the

emperor, “and I am Emperor of Rome; and my word, I trust, will be as good

as the word of any monk.” No doubt the laughers were with the emperor; but

for all that, _schisma_ remained a neuter, and not even an emperor could

change its gender or termination.

 

The idea that language can be changed and improved by man is by no means a

new one. We know that Protagoras, an ancient Greek philosopher, after

laying down some laws on gender, actually began to find fault with the

text of Homer, because it did not agree with his rules. But here, as in

every other instance, the attempt proved unavailing. Try to alter the

smallest rule of English, and you will find that it is physically

impossible. There is apparently a very small difference between _much_ and

_very_, but you can hardly ever put one in the place of the other. You can

say, “I am very happy,” but not “I am much happy,” though you may say “I