Part 25

Some philosophers, among whom I may mention Locke, Condillac, Adam Smith, Dr. Brown, and with some qualification Dugald Stewart, maintain that all terms, as at first employed, are expressive of individual objects. I quote from Adam Smith. “The assignation,” he says, “of particular names to denote particular objects, that is, the institution of nouns substantive, would probably be one of the first steps towards the formation of language. Two savages who had never been taught to speak, but had been bred up remote from the societies of men, would naturally begin to form that language by which they would endeavor to make their mutual wants intelligible to each other by uttering certain sounds whenever they meant to denote certain objects. Those objects only which were most familiar to them, and which they had most frequent occasion to mention, would have

## particular names assigned to them. The particular cave whose covering

sheltered them from the weather, the particular tree whose fruit relieved their hunger, the particular fountain whose water allayed their thirst, would first be denominated by the words _cave_, _tree_, _fountain_, or by whatever other appellations they might think proper, in that primitive jargon, to mark them. Afterwards, when the more enlarged experience of these savages had led them to observe, and their necessary occasions obliged them to make mention of, other caves, and other trees, and other fountains, they would naturally bestow upon each of those new objects the same name by which they had been accustomed to express the similar object they were first acquainted with. The new objects had none of them any name of its own, but each of them exactly resembled another object which had such an appellation. It was impossible that those savages could behold the new objects without recollecting the old ones; and the name of the old ones, to which the new bore so close a resemblance. When they had occasion, therefore, to mention or to point out to each other any of the new objects, they would naturally utter the name of the correspondent old one, of which the idea could not fail, at that instant, to present itself to their memory in the strongest and liveliest manner. And thus those words, which were originally the proper names of individuals, became the common name of a multitude. A child that is just learning to speak calls every person who comes to the house its papa or its mamma; and thus bestows upon the whole species those names which it had been taught to apply to two individuals. I have known a clown who did not know the proper name of the river which ran by his own door. It was _the river_, he said, and he never heard any other name for it. His experience, it seems, had not led him to observe any other river. The general word _river_ therefore was, it is evident, in his acceptance of it, a proper name signifying an individual object. If this person had been carried to another river, would he not readily have called it _a river_? Could we suppose any person living on the banks of the Thames so ignorant as not to know the general word _river_, but to be acquainted only with the particular word _Thames_, if he were brought to any other river, would he not readily call it a _Thames_? This, in reality, is no more than what they who are well acquainted with the general word are very apt to do. An Englishman, describing any great river which he may have seen in some foreign country, naturally says that it is another Thames.... It is this application of the name of an individual to a great multitude of objects, whose resemblance naturally recalls the idea of that individual, and of the name which expresses it, that seems originally to have given occasion to the formation of those classes and assortments which, in the schools, are called _genera_ and _species_.”

This extract from Adam Smith will give a clear idea of one view of the formation of thought and language. I shall now read another extract, representing the diametrically opposite view. It is taken from Leibniz,(338) who maintains that general terms are necessary for the essential constitution of languages. He likewise appeals to children. “Children,” he says, “and those who know but little of the language which they attempt to speak, or little of the subject on which they would employ it, make use of general terms, as _thing_, _plant_, _animal_, instead of using proper names, of which they are destitute. And it is certain that all proper or individual names have been originally appellative or general.” And again: “Thus I would make bold to affirm that almost all words have been originally general terms, because it would happen very rarely that man would invent a name, expressly and without a reason, to denote this or that individual. We may, therefore, assert that the names of individual things were names of species, which were given _par excellence_, or otherwise, to some individual; as the name _Great Head_ to him of the whole town who had the largest, or who was the man of the most consideration of the great heads known.”

It might seem presumptuous to attempt to arbitrate between such men as Leibniz and Adam Smith, particularly when both speak so positively as they do on this subject. But there are two ways of judging of former philosophers. One is to put aside their opinions as simply erroneous where they differ from our own. This is the least satisfactory way of studying ancient philosophy. Another way is to try to enter fully into the opinions of those from whom we differ, to make them, for a time at least, our own, till at last we discover the point of view from which each philosopher looked at the facts before him, and catch the light in which he regarded them. We shall then find that there is much less of downright error in the history of philosophy than is commonly supposed; nay, we shall find nothing so conducive to a right appreciation of truth as a right appreciation of the error by which it is surrounded.

Now, in the case before us, Adam Smith is no doubt right, when he says that the first individual cave which is called cave gave the name to all other caves. In the same manner, the first _town_, though a mere enclosure, gave the name to all other towns; the first imperial residence on the Palatine hill gave the name to all palaces. Slight differences between caves, towns, or palaces are readily passed by, and the first name becomes more and more general with every new individual to which it is applied. So far Adam Smith is right, and the history of almost every substantive might be cited in support of his view. But Leibniz is equally right when, in looking beyond the first emergence of such names as cave or town or palace, he asks how such names could have arisen. Let us take the Latin names of cave. A cave in Latin is called _antrum_, _cavea_, _spelunca_. Now _antrum_ means really the same as _internum_. _Antar_ in Sanskrit means _between_ and _within_.(339) _Antrum_, therefore, meant originally what is within or inside the earth or anything else. It is clear, therefore, that such a name could not have been given to any individual cave, unless the general idea of being within, or inwardness, had been present in the mind. This general idea once formed, and once expressed by the pronominal root _an_ or _antar_, the process of naming is clear and intelligible. The place where the savage could live safe from rain and from the sudden attacks of wild beasts, a natural hollow in the rock, he would call his _within_, his _antrum_; and afterwards similar places, whether dug in the earth or cut in a tree, would be designated by the same name. The same general idea, however, would likewise supply other names, and thus we find that the _entrails_ were called _antra_ (neuter) in Sanskrit, _enteron_ in Greek, originally things within.

Let us take another word for cave, which is _căvea_ or _căverna_. Here again Adam Smith would be perfectly right in maintaining that this name, when first given, was applied to one particular cave, and was afterwards extended to other caves. But Leibniz would be equally right in maintaining that in order to call even the first hollow _cavea_, it was necessary that the general idea of _hollow_ should have been formed in the mind, and should have received its vocal expression _cav_. Nay we may go a step beyond, for _cavus_, or hollow, is a secondary, not a primary, idea. Before a cave was called _cavea_, a hollow thing, many things hollow had passed before the eyes of men. Why then was a hollow thing, or a hole, called by the root _cav_? Because what had been hollowed out was intended at first as a place of safety and protection, as a cover; and it was called therefore by the root _ku_ or _sku_, which conveyed the idea of to cover.(340) Hence the general idea of covering existed in the mind before it was applied to hiding-places in rocks or trees, and it was not till an expression had thus been framed for things hollow or safe in general, that caves in particular could be designated by the name of _cavea_ or hollows.

Another form for _cavus_ was _koilos_, hollow. The conception was originally the same; a hole was called _koilon_ because it served as a cover. But once so used _koilon_ came to mean a cave, a vaulted cave, a vault, and thus the heaven was called _cœlum_, the modern _ciel_, because it was looked upon as a vault or cover for the earth.

It is the same with all nouns. They all express originally one out of the many attributes of a thing, and that attribute, whether it be a quality or an action, is necessarily a general idea. The word thus formed was in the first instance intended for one object only, though of course it was almost immediately extended to the whole class to which this object seemed to belong. When a word such as _rivus_, river, was first formed, no doubt it was intended for a certain river, and that river was called _rivus_, from a root _ru_ or _sru_, to run, because of its running water. In many instances a word meaning river or runner remained the proper name of one river, without ever rising to the dignity of an appellative. Thus _Rhenus_, the Rhine, means river or runner, but it clung to one river, and could not be used as an appellative for others. The Ganges is the Sanskrit _Gangâ_, literally the Go-go; a word very well adapted for any majestic river, but in Sanskrit restricted to the one sacred stream. The Indus again is the Sanskrit _Sindhu_, and means the irrigator, from _syand_, to sprinkle. In this case, however, the proper name was not checked in its growth, but was used likewise as an appelative for any great stream.

We have thus seen how the controversy about the _primum cognitum_ assumes a new and perfectly clear aspect. The first thing really known is the general. It is through it that we know and name afterwards individual objects of which any general idea can be predicated, and it is only in the third stage that these individual objects, thus known and named, become again the representatives of whole classes, and their names or proper names are raised into appellatives.(341)

There is a petrified philosophy in language, and if we examine the most ancient word for name we find it is _nâman_ in Sanskrit, _nomen_ in Latin, _namo_ in Gothic. This _nâman_ stands for _gnâman_, which is preserved in the Latin _co-gnomen_. The _g_ is dropped as in _natus_, son, for _gnatus_. _Nâman_, therefore, and name are derived from the root gnâ, to know, and meant originally that by which we know a thing.

And how do we know things? We perceive things by our senses, but our senses convey to us information about single things only. But to _know_ is more than to feel, than to perceive, more than to remember, more than to compare. No doubt words are much abused. We speak of a dog _knowing_ his master, of an infant _knowing_ his mother. In such expressions, to know means to recognize. But to know a thing, means more than to recognize it. We know a thing if we are able to bring it, and any part of it, under more general ideas. We then say, not that we have a perception, but a conception, or that we have a general idea of a thing. The facts of nature are perceived by our senses; the thoughts of nature, to borrow an expression of Oersted’s, can be conceived by our reason only.(342) Now the first step towards this real knowledge, a step which, however small in appearance, separates man forever from all other animals, is the _naming of a thing_, or the making a thing knowable. All naming is classification, bringing the individual under the general; and whatever we know, whether empirically or scientifically, we know it only by means of our general ideas. Other animals have sensation, perception, memory, and, in a certain sense, intellect; but all these, in the animal, are conversant with single objects only. Man has sensation, perception, memory, intellect, and reason, and it is his reason only that is conversant with general ideas.(343)

Through reason we not only stand a step above the brute creation: we belong to a different world. We look down on our merely animal experience, on our sensations, perceptions, our memory, and our intellect, as something belonging to us, but not as constituting our most inward and eternal self. Our senses, our memory, our intellect, are like the lenses of a telescope. But there is an eye that looks through them at the realities of the outer world, our own rational and self-conscious soul; a power as distinct from our perceptive faculties as the sun is from the earth which it fills with light, and warmth, and life.

At the very point where man parts company with the brute world, at the first flash of reason as the manifestation of the light within us, there we see the true genesis of language. Analyze any word you like, and you will find that it expresses a general idea peculiar to the individual to which the name belongs. What is the meaning of moon?—the measurer. What is the meaning of sun?—the begetter. What is the meaning of earth?—the ploughed. The old name given to animals, such as cows and sheep, was _pasú_, the Latin _pecus_, which means _feeders_. _Animal_ itself is a later name, and derived from _anima_, soul. This _anima_ again meant originally blowing or breathing, like spirit from _spirare_, and was derived from a root, _an_, to blow, which gives us _anila_, wind, in Sanskrit, and _anemos_, wind, in Greek. _Ghost_, the German _Geist_, is based on the same conception. It is connected with _gust_, with _yeast_, and even with the hissing and boiling _geysers_ of Iceland. _Soul_ is the Gothic _saivala_, and this is clearly related to another Gothic word, _saivs_,(344) which means the sea. The sea was called _saivs_ from a root _si_ or _siv_, the Greek _seiō_, to shake; it meant the tossed-about water, in contradistinction to stagnant or running water. The soul being called _saivala_, we see that it was originally conceived by the Teutonic nations as a sea within, heaving up and down with every breath, and reflecting heaven and earth on the mirror of the deep.

The Sanskrit name for love is _smara_; it is derived from _smar_, to recollect; and the same root has supplied the German _schmerz_, pain, and the English _smart_.

If the serpent is called in Sanskrit _sarpa_, it is because it was conceived under the general idea of creeping, an idea expressed by the word _srip_. But the serpent was also called _ahi_ in Sanskrit, in Greek _echis_ or _echidna_, in Latin _anguis_. This name is derived from quite a different root and idea. The root is _ah_ in Sanskrit, or _anh_, which means to press together, to choke, to throttle. Here the distinguishing mark from which the serpent was named was his throttling, and _ahi_ meant serpent, as expressing the general idea of throttler. It is a curious root this _anh_, and it still lives in several modern words. In Latin it appears as _ango_, _anxi_, _anctum_, to strangle, in _angina_, quinsy,(345) in _angor_, suffocation. But _angor_ meant not only quinsy or compression of the neck; it assumed a moral import and signifies anguish or anxiety. The two adjectives _angustus_, narrow, and _anxius_, uneasy, both come from the same source. In Greek the root retained its natural and material meaning; in _eggys_, near, and _echis_, serpent, throttler. But in Sanskrit it was chosen with great truth as the proper name of sin. Evil no doubt presented itself under various aspects to the human mind, and its names are many; but none so expressive as those derived from our root, _anh_, to throttle. _Anhas_ in Sanskrit means sin, but it does so only because it meant originally throttling,—the consciousness of sin being like the grasp of the assassin on the throat of his victim. All who have seen and contemplated the statue of Laokoon and his sons, with the serpent coiled round them from head to foot, may realize what those ancients felt and saw when they called sin _anhas_, or the throttler. This _anhas_ is the same word as the Greek _agos_, sin. In Gothic the same root has produced _agis_, in the sense of _fear_, and from the same source we have _awe_, in awful, _i.e._ fearful, and _ug_, in _ugly_. The English _anguish_ is from the French _angoisse_, the Italian _angoscia_, a corruption of the Latin _angustiæ_, a strait.

And how did those early thinkers and framers of language distinguish between man and the other animals? What general idea did they connect with the first conception of themselves? The Latin word _homo_, the French _l’homme_, which has been reduced to _on_ in _on dit_, is derived from the same root which we have in _humus_, the soil, _humilis_, humble. _Homo_, therefore, would express the idea of a being made of the dust of the earth.(346)

Another ancient word for man was the Sanskrit _marta_,(347) the Greek _brotos_, the Latin _mortalis_ (a secondary derivative), our own _mortal_. _Marta_ means “he who dies,” and it is remarkable that where everything else was changing, fading, and dying, this should have been chosen as the distinguishing name for man. Those early poets would hardly have called themselves mortals unless they had believed in other beings as immortal.

There is a third name for man which means simply the thinker, and this, the true title of our race, still lives in the name of _man_. _Mâ_ in Sanskrit means to measure, from which you remember we had the name of moon. _Man_, a derivative root, means to think. From this we have the Sanskrit _manu_, originally thinker, then man. In the later Sanskrit we find derivatives, such as _mânava_, _mânusha_, _manushya_, all expressing man. In Gothic we find both _man_, and _mannisks_, the modern German _mann_ and _mensch_.

There were many more names for man, as there were many names for all things in ancient languages. Any feature that struck the observing mind as peculiarly characteristic could be made to furnish a new name. The sun might be called the bright, the warm, the golden, the preserver, the destroyer, the wolf, the lion, the heavenly eye, the father of light and life. Hence that superabundance of synonymes in ancient dialects, and hence that _struggle for life_ carried on among these words, which led to the destruction of the less strong, the less happy, the less fertile words, and ended in the triumph of _one_, as the recognized and proper name for every object in every language. On a very small scale this process of _natural selection_, or, as it would better be called, _elimination_, may still be watched even in modern languages, that is to say, even in languages so old and full of years as English and French. What it was at the first burst of dialects we can only gather from such isolated cases as when Vón Hammer counts 5744 words relating to the camel.(348)

The fact that every word is originally a predicate, that names, though signs of individual conceptions, are all, without exception, derived from general ideas, is one of the most important discoveries in the science of language. It was known before that language is the distinguishing characteristic of man; it was known also that the having of general ideas is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt man and brutes; but that these two were only different expressions of the same fact was not known till the theory of roots had been established as preferable to the theories both of Onomatopoieia and of Interjections. But, though our modern philosophy did not know it, the ancient poets and framers of language must have known it. For in Greek language is _logos_, but _logos_ means also reason, and _alogon_ was chosen as the name, and the most proper name, for brute. No animal thinks, and no animal speaks, except man. Language and thought are inseparable. Words without thought are dead sounds; thoughts without words are nothing. To think is to speak low; to speak is to think aloud. The word is the thought incarnate.

And now I am afraid I have but a few minutes left to explain the last question of all in our science, namely—How can sound express thought? How did roots become the signs of general ideas? How was the abstract idea of measuring expressed by _mâ_, the idea of thinking by _man_? How did _gâ_ come to mean going, _sthâ_ standing, _sad_ sitting, _dâ_ giving, _mar_ dying, _char_ walking, _kar_ doing?