were few; and its influence grew less and less as time went on. To the ear
which had a sense of harmony it became a barbarism which disturbed the flow
and equilibrium of discourse; it was an excrescence which had to be cut
out, a survival which needed to be got rid of, because it was out of
keeping with the rest. It remained for the most part only as a formative
principle, which used words and letters not as crude imitations of other
natural sounds, but as symbols of ideas which were naturally associated
with them. It received in another way a new character; it affected not so
much single words, as larger portions of human speech. It regulated the
juxtaposition of sounds and the cadence of sentences. It was the music,
not of song, but of speech, in prose as well as verse. The old onomatopea
of primitive language was refined into an onomatopea of a higher kind, in
which it is no longer true to say that a particular sound corresponds to a
motion or action of man or beast or movement of nature, but that in all the
higher uses of language the sound is the echo of the sense, especially in
poetry, in which beauty and expressiveness are given to human thoughts by
the harmonious composition of the words, syllables, letters, accents,
quantities, rhythms, rhymes, varieties and contrasts of all sorts. The
poet with his 'Break, break, break' or his e pasin nekuessi
kataphthimenoisin anassein or his 'longius ex altoque sinum trahit,' can
produce a far finer music than any crude imitations of things or actions in
sound, although a letter or two having this imitative power may be a lesser
element of beauty in such passages. The same subtle sensibility, which
adapts the word to the thing, adapts the sentence or cadence to the general
meaning or spirit of the passage. This is the higher onomatopea which has
banished the cruder sort as unworthy to have a place in great languages and
literatures.
We can see clearly enough that letters or collocations of letters do by
various degrees of strength or weakness, length or shortness, emphasis or
pitch, become the natural expressions of the finer parts of human feeling
or thought. And not only so, but letters themselves have a significance;
as Plato observes that the letter rho accent is expressive of motion, the
letters delta and tau of binding and rest, the letter lambda of smoothness,
nu of inwardness, the letter eta of length, the letter omicron of
roundness. These were often combined so as to form composite notions, as
for example in tromos (trembling), trachus (rugged), thrauein (crush),
krouein (strike), thruptein (break), pumbein (whirl),--in all which words
we notice a parallel composition of sounds in their English equivalents.
Plato also remarks, as we remark, that the onomatopoetic principle is far
from prevailing uniformly, and further that no explanation of language
consistently corresponds with any system of philosophy, however great may
be the light which language throws upon the nature of the mind. Both in
Greek and English we find groups of words such as string, swing, sling,
spring, sting, which are parallel to one another and may be said to derive
their vocal effect partly from contrast of letters, but in which it is
impossible to assign a precise amount of meaning to each of the expressive
and onomatopoetic letters. A few of them are directly imitative, as for
example the omega in oon, which represents the round form of the egg by the
figure of the mouth: or bronte (thunder), in which the fulness of the
sound of the word corresponds to the thing signified by it; or bombos
(buzzing), of which the first syllable, as in its English equivalent, has
the meaning of a deep sound. We may observe also (as we see in the case of
the poor stammerer) that speech has the co-operation of the whole body and
may be often assisted or half expressed by gesticulation. A sound or word
is not the work of the vocal organs only; nearly the whole of the upper
part of the human frame, including head, chest, lungs, have a share in
creating it; and it may be accompanied by a movement of the eyes, nose,
fingers, hands, feet which contributes to the effect of it.
The principle of onomatopea has fallen into discredit, partly because it
has been supposed to imply an actual manufacture of words out of syllables
and letters, like a piece of joiner's work,--a theory of language which is
more and more refuted by facts, and more and more going out of fashion with
philologians; and partly also because the traces of onomatopea in separate
words become almost obliterated in the course of ages. The poet of
language cannot put in and pull out letters, as a painter might insert or
blot out a shade of colour to give effect to his picture. It would be
ridiculous for him to alter any received form of a word in order to render
it more expressive of the sense. He can only select, perhaps out of some
dialect, the form which is already best adapted to his purpose. The true
onomatopea is not a creative, but a formative principle, which in the later
stage of the history of language ceases to act upon individual words; but
still works through the collocation of them in the sentence or paragraph,
and the adaptation of every word, syllable, letter to one another and to
the rhythm of the whole passage.
iv. Next, under a distinct head, although not separable from the
preceding, may be considered the differentiation of languages, i.e. the
manner in which differences of meaning and form have arisen in them. Into
their first creation we have ceased to enquire: it is their aftergrowth
with which we are now concerned. How did the roots or substantial portions
of words become modified or inflected? and how did they receive separate
meanings? First we remark that words are attracted by the sounds and
senses of other words, so that they form groups of nouns and verbs
analogous in sound and sense to one another, each noun or verb putting
forth inflexions, generally of two or three patterns, and with exceptions.
We do not say that we know how sense became first allied to sound; but we
have no difficulty in ascertaining how the sounds and meanings of words
were in time parted off or differentiated. (1) The chief causes which
regulate the variations of sound are (a) double or differing analogies,
which lead sometimes to one form, sometimes to another (b) euphony, by
which is meant chiefly the greater pleasure to the ear and the greater
facility to the organs of speech which is given by a new formation or
pronunciation of a word (c) the necessity of finding new expressions for
new classes or processes of things. We are told that changes of sound take
place by innumerable gradations until a whole tribe or community or society
find themselves acquiescing in a new pronunciation or use of language. Yet
no one observes the change, or is at all aware that in the course of a
lifetime he and his contemporaries have appreciably varied their intonation
or use of words. On the other hand, the necessities of language seem to
require that the intermediate sounds or meanings of words should quickly
become fixed or set and not continue in a state of transition. The process
of settling down is aided by the organs of speech and by the use of writing
and printing. (2) The meaning of words varies because ideas vary or the
number of things which is included under them or with which they are
associated is increased. A single word is thus made to do duty for many
more things than were formerly expressed by it; and it parts into different
senses when the classes of things or ideas which are represented by it are
themselves different and distinct. A figurative use of a word may easily
pass into a new sense: a new meaning caught up by association may become
more important than all the rest. The good or neutral sense of a word,
such as Jesuit, Puritan, Methodist, Heretic, has been often converted into
a bad one by the malevolence of party spirit. Double forms suggest
different meanings and are often used to express them; and the form or
accent of a word has been not unfrequently altered when there is a
difference of meaning. The difference of gender in nouns is utilized for
the same reason. New meanings of words push themselves into the vacant
spaces of language and retire when they are no longer needed. Language
equally abhors vacancy and superfluity. But the remedial measures by which
both are eliminated are not due to any conscious action of the human mind;
nor is the force exerted by them constraining or necessary.
(7) We have shown that language, although subject to laws, is far from
being of an exact and uniform nature. We may now speak briefly of the
faults of language. They may be compared to the faults of Geology, in
which different strata cross one another or meet at an angle, or mix with
one another either by slow transitions or by violent convulsions, leaving
many lacunae which can be no longer filled up, and often becoming so
complex that no true explanation of them can be given. So in language
there are the cross influences of meaning and sound, of logic and grammar,
of differing analogies, of words and the inflexions of words, which often
come into conflict with each other. The grammarian, if he were to form new
words, would make them all of the same pattern according to what he
conceives to be the rule, that is, the more common usage of language. The
subtlety of nature goes far beyond art, and it is complicated by
irregularity, so that often we can hardly say that there is a right or
wrong in the formation of words. For almost any formation which is not at
variance with the first principles of language is possible and may be
defended.
The imperfection of language is really due to the formation and correlation
of words by accident, that is to say, by principles which are unknown to
us. Hence we see why Plato, like ourselves unable to comprehend the whole
of language, was constrained to 'supplement the poor creature imitation by
another poor creature convention.' But the poor creature convention in the
end proves too much for all the rest: for we do not ask what is the origin
of words or whether they are formed according to a correct analogy, but
what is the usage of them; and we are compelled to admit with Hermogenes in
Plato and with Horace that usage is the ruling principle, 'quem penes
arbitrium est, et jus et norma loquendi.'
(8) There are two ways in which a language may attain permanence or fixity.
First, it may have been embodied in poems or hymns or laws, which may be
repeated for hundreds, perhaps for thousands of years with a religious
accuracy, so that to the priests or rhapsodists of a nation the whole or
the greater part of a language is literally preserved; secondly, it may be
written down and in a written form distributed more or less widely among
the whole nation. In either case the language which is familiarly spoken
may have grown up wholly or in a great measure independently of them. (1)
The first of these processes has been sometimes attended by the result that
the sound of the words has been carefully preserved and that the meaning of
them has either perished wholly, or is only doubtfully recovered by the
efforts of modern philology. The verses have been repeated as a chant or
part of a ritual, but they have had no relation to ordinary life or speech.
(2) The invention of writing again is commonly attributed to a particular
epoch, and we are apt to think that such an inestimable gift would have
immediately been diffused over a whole country. But it may have taken a
long time to perfect the art of writing, and another long period may have
elapsed before it came into common use. Its influence on language has been
increased ten, twenty or one hundred fold by the invention of printing.
Before the growth of poetry or the invention of writing, languages were
only dialects. So they continued to be in parts of the country in which
writing was not used or in which there was no diffusion of literature. In
most of the counties of England there is still a provincial style, which
has been sometimes made by a great poet the vehicle of his fancies. When a
book sinks into the mind of a nation, such as Luther's Bible or the
Authorized English Translation of the Bible, or again great classical works
like Shakspere or Milton, not only have new powers of expression been
diffused through a whole nation, but a great step towards uniformity has
been made. The instinct of language demands regular grammar and correct
spelling: these are imprinted deeply on the tablets of a nation's memory
by a common use of classical and popular writers. In our own day we have
attained to a point at which nearly every printed book is spelt correctly
and written grammatically.
(9) Proceeding further to trace the influence of literature on language we
note some other causes which have affected the higher use of it: such as
(1) the necessity of clearness and connexion; (2) the fear of tautology;
(3) the influence of metre, rhythm, rhyme, and of the language of prose and
verse upon one another; (4) the power of idiom and quotation; (5) the
relativeness of words to one another.
It has been usual to depreciate modern languages when compared with
ancient. The latter are regarded as furnishing a type of excellence to
which the former cannot attain. But the truth seems to be that modern
languages, if through the loss of inflections and genders they lack some
power or beauty or expressiveness or precision which is possessed by the
ancient, are in many other respects superior to them: the thought is
generally clearer, the connexion closer, the sentence and paragraph are
better distributed. The best modern languages, for example English or
French, possess as great a power of self-improvement as the Latin, if not
as the Greek. Nor does there seem to be any reason why they should ever
decline or decay. It is a popular remark that our great writers are
beginning to disappear: it may also be remarked that whenever a great
writer appears in the future he will find the English language as perfect
