and as ready for use as in the days of Shakspere or Milton. There is no
reason to suppose that English or French will ever be reduced to the low
level of Modern Greek or of Mediaeval Latin. The wide diffusion of great
authors would make such a decline impossible. Nor will modern languages be
easily broken up by amalgamation with each other. The distance between
them is too wide to be spanned, the differences are too great to be
overcome, and the use of printing makes it impossible that one of them
should ever be lost in another.
The structure of the English language differs greatly from that of either
Latin or Greek. In the two latter, especially in Greek, sentences are
joined together by connecting particles. They are distributed on the right
hand and on the left by men, de, alla, kaitoi, kai de and the like, or
deduced from one another by ara, de, oun, toinun and the like. In English
the majority of sentences are independent and in apposition to one another;
they are laid side by side or slightly connected by the copula. But within
the sentence the expression of the logical relations of the clauses is
closer and more exact: there is less of apposition and participial
structure. The sentences thus laid side by side are also constructed into
paragraphs; these again are less distinctly marked in Greek and Latin than
in English. Generally French, German, and English have an advantage over
the classical languages in point of accuracy. The three concords are more
accurately observed in English than in either Greek or Latin. On the other
hand, the extension of the familiar use of the masculine and feminine
gender to objects of sense and abstract ideas as well as to men and animals
no doubt lends a nameless grace to style which we have a difficulty in
appreciating, and the possible variety in the order of words gives more
flexibility and also a kind of dignity to the period. Of the comparative
effect of accent and quantity and of the relation between them in ancient
and modern languages we are not able to judge.
Another quality in which modern are superior to ancient languages is
freedom from tautology. No English style is thought tolerable in which,
except for the sake of emphasis, the same words are repeated at short
intervals. Of course the length of the interval must depend on the
character of the word. Striking words and expressions cannot be allowed to
reappear, if at all, except at the distance of a page or more. Pronouns,
prepositions, conjunctions may or rather must recur in successive lines.
It seems to be a kind of impertinence to the reader and strikes
unpleasantly both on the mind and on the ear that the same sounds should be
used twice over, when another word or turn of expression would have given a
new shade of meaning to the thought and would have added a pleasing variety
to the sound. And the mind equally rejects the repetition of the word and
the use of a mere synonym for it,--e.g. felicity and happiness. The
cultivated mind desires something more, which a skilful writer is easily
able to supply out of his treasure-house.
The fear of tautology has doubtless led to the multiplications of words and
the meanings of words, and generally to an enlargement of the vocabulary.
It is a very early instinct of language; for ancient poetry is almost as
free from tautology as the best modern writings. The speech of young
children, except in so far as they are compelled to repeat themselves by
the fewness of their words, also escapes from it. When they grow up and
have ideas which are beyond their powers of expression, especially in
writing, tautology begins to appear. In like manner when language is
'contaminated' by philosophy it is apt to become awkward, to stammer and
repeat itself, to lose its flow and freedom. No philosophical writer with
the exception of Plato, who is himself not free from tautology, and perhaps
Bacon, has attained to any high degree of literary excellence.
To poetry the form and polish of language is chiefly to be attributed; and
the most critical period in the history of language is the transition from
verse to prose. At first mankind were contented to express their thoughts
in a set form of words having a kind of rhythm; to which regularity was
given by accent and quantity. But after a time they demanded a greater
degree of freedom, and to those who had all their life been hearing poetry
the first introduction of prose had the charm of novelty. The prose
romances into which the Homeric Poems were converted, for a while probably
gave more delight to the hearers or readers of them than the Poems
themselves, and in time the relation of the two was reversed: the poems
which had once been a necessity of the human mind became a luxury: they
were now superseded by prose, which in all succeeding ages became the
natural vehicle of expression to all mankind. Henceforward prose and
poetry formed each other. A comparatively slender link between them was
also furnished by proverbs. We may trace in poetry how the simple
succession of lines, not without monotony, has passed into a complicated
period, and how in prose, rhythm and accent and the order of words and the
balance of clauses, sometimes not without a slight admixture of rhyme, make
up a new kind of harmony, swelling into strains not less majestic than
those of Homer, Virgil, or Dante.
One of the most curious and characteristic features of language, affecting
both syntax and style, is idiom. The meaning of the word 'idiom' is that
which is peculiar, that which is familiar, the word or expression which
strikes us or comes home to us, which is more readily understood or more
easily remembered. It is a quality which really exists in infinite
degrees, which we turn into differences of kind by applying the term only
to conspicuous and striking examples of words or phrases which have this
quality. It often supersedes the laws of language or the rules of grammar,
or rather is to be regarded as another law of language which is natural and
necessary. The word or phrase which has been repeated many times over is
more intelligible and familiar to us than one which is rare, and our
familiarity with it more than compensates for incorrectness or inaccuracy
in the use of it. Striking expressions also which have moved the hearts of
nations or are the precious stones and jewels of great authors partake of
the nature of idioms: they are taken out of the sphere of grammar and are
exempt from the proprieties of language. Every one knows that we often put
words together in a manner which would be intolerable if it were not
idiomatic. We cannot argue either about the meaning of words or the use of
constructions that because they are used in one connexion they will be
legitimate in another, unless we allow for this principle. We can bear to
have words and sentences used in new senses or in a new order or even a
little perverted in meaning when we are quite familiar with them.
Quotations are as often applied in a sense which the author did not intend
as in that which he did. The parody of the words of Shakspere or of the
Bible, which has in it something of the nature of a lie, is far from
unpleasing to us. The better known words, even if their meaning be
perverted, are more agreeable to us and have a greater power over us. Most
of us have experienced a sort of delight and feeling of curiosity when we
first came across or when we first used for ourselves a new word or phrase
or figure of speech.
There are associations of sound and of sense by which every word is linked
to every other. One letter harmonizes with another; every verb or noun
derives its meaning, not only from itself, but from the words with which it
is associated. Some reflection of them near or distant is embodied in it.
In any new use of a word all the existing uses of it have to be considered.
Upon these depends the question whether it will bear the proposed extension
of meaning or not. According to the famous expression of Luther, 'Words
are living creatures, having hands and feet.' When they cease to retain
this living power of adaptation, when they are only put together like the
parts of a piece of furniture, language becomes unpoetical, in expressive,
dead.
Grammars would lead us to suppose that words have a fixed form and sound.
Lexicons assign to each word a definite meaning or meanings. They both
tend to obscure the fact that the sentence precedes the word and that all
language is relative. (1) It is relative to its own context. Its meaning
is modified by what has been said before and after in the same or in some
other passage: without comparing the context we are not sure whether it is
used in the same sense even in two successive sentences. (2) It is
relative to facts, to time, place, and occasion: when they are already
known to the hearer or reader, they may be presupposed; there is no need to
allude to them further. (3) It is relative to the knowledge of the writer
and reader or of the speaker and hearer. Except for the sake of order and
consecutiveness nothing ought to be expressed which is already commonly or
universally known. A word or two may be sufficient to give an intimation
to a friend; a long or elaborate speech or composition is required to
explain some new idea to a popular audience or to the ordinary reader or to
a young pupil. Grammars and dictionaries are not to be despised; for in
teaching we need clearness rather than subtlety. But we must not therefore
forget that there is also a higher ideal of language in which all is
relative--sounds to sounds, words to words, the parts to the whole--in
which besides the lesser context of the book or speech, there is also the
larger context of history and circumstances.
The study of Comparative Philology has introduced into the world a new
science which more than any other binds up man with nature, and distant
ages and countries with one another. It may be said to have thrown a light
upon all other sciences and upon the nature of the human mind itself. The
true conception of it dispels many errors, not only of metaphysics and
theology, but also of natural knowledge. Yet it is far from certain that
this newly-found science will continue to progress in the same surprising
manner as heretofore; or that even if our materials are largely increased,
we shall arrive at much more definite conclusions than at present. Like
some other branches of knowledge, it may be approaching a point at which it
can no longer be profitably studied. But at any rate it has brought back
the philosophy of language from theory to fact; it has passed out of the
region of guesses and hypotheses, and has attained the dignity of an
Inductive Science. And it is not without practical and political
importance. It gives a new interest to distant and subject countries; it
brings back the dawning light from one end of the earth to the other.
Nations, like individuals, are better understood by us when we know
something of their early life; and when they are better understood by us,
we feel more kindly towards them. Lastly, we may remember that all
knowledge is valuable for its own sake; and we may also hope that a deeper
insight into the nature of human speech will give us a greater command of
it and enable us to make a nobler use of it. (Compare again W. Humboldt,
'Ueber die Verschiedenheit des menschlichen Sprachbaues;' M. Muller,
'Lectures on the Science of Language;' Steinthal, 'Einleitung in die
Psychologie und Sprachwissenschaft:' and for the latter part of the Essay,
Delbruck, 'Study of Language;' Paul's 'Principles of the History of
Language:' to the latter work the author of this Essay is largely
indebted.)
CRATYLUS
by
Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Hermogenes, Cratylus.
HERMOGENES: Suppose that we make Socrates a party to the argument?
CRATYLUS: If you please.
HERMOGENES: I should explain to you, Socrates, that our friend Cratylus
has been arguing about names; he says that they are natural and not
conventional; not a portion of the human voice which men agree to use; but
that there is a truth or correctness in them, which is the same for
Hellenes as for barbarians. Whereupon I ask him, whether his own name of
Cratylus is a true name or not, and he answers 'Yes.' And Socrates?
'Yes.' Then every man's name, as I tell him, is that which he is called.
To this he replies--'If all the world were to call you Hermogenes, that
would not be your name.' And when I am anxious to have a further
explanation he is ironical and mysterious, and seems to imply that he has a
notion of his own about the matter, if he would only tell, and could
entirely convince me, if he chose to be intelligible. Tell me, Socrates,
what this oracle means; or rather tell me, if you will be so good, what is
your own view of the truth or correctness of names, which I would far
sooner hear.
SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying, that 'hard is the
knowledge of the good.' And the knowledge of names is a great part of
knowledge. If I had not been poor, I might have heard the fifty-drachma
course of the great Prodicus, which is a complete education in grammar and
language--these are his own words--and then I should have been at once able
to answer your question about the correctness of names. But, indeed, I
have only heard the single-drachma course, and therefore, I do not know the
truth about such matters; I will, however, gladly assist you and Cratylus
in the investigation of them. When he declares that your name is not
really Hermogenes, I suspect that he is only making fun of you;--he means
to say that you are no true son of Hermes, because you are always looking
after a fortune and never in luck. But, as I was saying, there is a good
deal of difficulty in this sort of knowledge, and therefore we had better
leave the question open until we have heard both sides.
HERMOGENES: I have often talked over this matter, both with Cratylus and
