Proud to be useful—scorning to be more

—must be the motto of him whose integrity should be on a level with his skill, who should win a double confidence, and who, if he do his duty well, is as sure of his proper influence in society, and on society—and that influence a noble one—as if he were the member of a profession ensured to respectability by all the favours that influence can extort, and all the prerogatives that time can accumulate. As compared with that of the church and bar, our hold upon the public is by a thread—but it is the thread of life.

Such are the responsibilities, the opportunities, and the prospects, of those who are now about to prepare themselves for their future career. We who teach have our responsibilities also; we know them; we are teaching where Bell taught before us; we are teaching where ground has been lost; yet we are also teaching with good hopes, founded upon improved auguries.

ON THE STUDY OF LANGUAGE AS A
BRANCH OF EDUCATION.

A LECTURE DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION OF GREAT BRITAIN.

MAY 13, 1854.

The subject I have the honour of illustrating is The Importance of the Study of Language as a means of Education for all Classes.

I open it by drawing a distinction.

A little consideration will show that that difference between the study of a given subject in its general and abstract, and the study of one in its applied or concrete, form, which finds place in so many departments of human knowledge, finds place in respect to Language and Languages. It finds place in the subject before us as truly as it does in that science, which one of my able successors will have the honour of illustrating,—the science of the laws of Life—Physiology or Biology. Just as there is, therein, a certain series of laws relating to life and organization, which would command our attention, if the whole animal and vegetable world consisted of but a single species, so the study of Speech would find place in a well-devised system of education, even if the tongues of the whole wide world were reduced to a single language, and that language to a single dialect. This is because the science of life is one thing, the science of the forms under which the phenomena of life are manifested, another. And just as Physiology, or Biology, is, more or less, anterior to and independent of such departments of study as Botany and Zoology, so, in the subject under notice, there is the double division of the study of Language in respect to structure and development, and the study of Languages as instances of the variety of form in which the phenomenon of human speech exhibits, or has exhibited, itself. Thus—

When (as I believe once to have been the case) there was but a single language on the face of the earth, the former of these divisions had its subject-matter. And—

When (as is by no means improbable) one paramount and exclusive tongue, developed, at first, rapidly and at the expense of the smaller languages of the world, and, subsequently, slowly and at that of the more widely-diffused ones, shall have replaced the still numerous tongues of the nineteenth century; and when all the dialects of the world shall be merged into one Universal Language, the same subject-matter for the study of the structure of Language, its growth and changes, will still exist.

So that the study of Language is one thing, the study of Languages, another.

They are different; and the intellectual powers that they require and exercise are different also. The greatest comparative philologists have, generally, been but moderate linguists.

A certain familiarity with different languages they have, of course, had; and as compared with that of the special scholar—the Classic or the Orientalist, for instance—their range of language (so to say) has been a wide one; but it has rarely been of that vast compass which is found in men after the fashion of Mezzofanti, &c.—men who have spoken languages by the dozen, or the score;—but who have left comparative philology as little advanced as if their learning had been bounded by the limits of their own mother tongue.

Now this difference, always of more or less importance in itself, increases when we consider Language as an object of education; and it is for the sake of illustrating it that the foregoing preliminaries have been introduced. No opinion is given as to the comparative rank or dignity of the two studies; no decision upon the nobility or ignobility of the faculties involved in the attainment of excellence in either. The illustration of a difference is all that has been aimed at. There is a difference between the two classes of subjects, and a difference between the two kinds of mental faculties. Let us make this difference clear. Let us also give it prominence and importance.

One main distinction between the study of Language and the study of Languages lies in the fact of the value of the former being constant, that of the latter, fluctuating. The relative importance of any two languages, as objects of special attention, scarcely ever remains steady. The value, for instance, of the German—to look amongst the cotemporary forms of speech—has notably risen within the present century. And why? Because the literature in which it is embodied has improved. Because the scientific knowledge which, to all who want the key, is (so to say) locked up in it, has increased some hundred per cent.

But it may go down again. Suppose, for instance, that new writers of pre-eminent merit, ennoble some of the minor languages of Europe—the Danish, Swedish, Dutch, &c. Such a fact would divide the attention of savans—attention which can only be bestowed upon some second, at the expense of some first, object. In such a case, the extent to which the German language got studied would be affected much in the same way as that of the French has been by the development of the literature of Germany.

Or the area over which a language is spoken may increase; as it may, also, diminish.

Or the number of individuals that speak it may multiply—the area being the same.

Or the special application of the language, whether for the purposes of commerce, literature, science, or politics, may become changed. In this way, as well as in others, the English is becoming, day by day, more important.

There are other influences.

High as is the value of the great classical languages of Greece and Rome, we can easily conceive how that value might be enhanced. Let a manuscript containing the works of some of the lost, or imperfectly preserved, writers of antiquity be discovered. Let, for instance, Gibbon's desiderata—the lost Decads of Livy, the Orations of Hyperides, or the Dramas of Menander—be made good. The per-centage of classical scholars would increase; little or much.

Some years back it was announced that the Armenian language contained translations, made during the earlier centuries of our era, of certain classical writings, of which the originals had been lost—lost in the interval. This did not exactly make the Armenian, with its alphabet of six-and-thirty letters, a popular tongue; but it made it, by a fraction, more popular than it was in the days of Whiston and La Croze, when those two alone, of all the learned men of Europe, could read it.

Translations tell in another way. Whatever is worth reading in the Danish and Swedish is forthwith translated into German. E. g. Professor Retzius of Stockholm wrote a good Manual of Anatomy. He had the satisfaction of seeing it translated into German. He had the further satisfaction of hearing that the translation ran through five editions in less time than the original did through one.

Now, if the Germans were to leave off translating the value of the language in which Professor Retzius wrote his Anatomy would rise.

Upon the whole, the French is, perhaps, the most important language of the nineteenth century; yet it is only where we take into consideration the whole of its elements of value. To certain special savans, the German is worth more; to the artist, the Italian; to the American, the Spanish. It fell, too, in value when nations like our own insisted upon the use of their native tongues in diplomacy. It fell in value because it became less indispensable; and another cause, now in operation, affects the same element of indispensability. The French are beginning to learn the languages of other nations. Their own literature will certainly be none the worse for their so doing. But it by no means follows that that literature will be any the more studied. On the contrary, Frenchmen will learn English more, and, pro tanto, Englishmen learn French less.

If all this have illustrated a difference, it may also have done something more. It may have given a rough sketch, in the way of classification, of the kind of facts that regulate the value of special languages as special objects of study. At any rate (and this is the main point), the subject-matter of the present Address is narrowed. It is narrowed (in the first instance at least) to the consideration of that branch of study whereof the value is constant; for assuredly it is this which will command more than a moiety of our consideration.

This may be said to imply a preference to the study of Language as opposed to that of Languages—a singular preference, as a grammarian may, perhaps, be allowed to call it. It cannot be denied that, to a certain extent, such is the case; but it is only so to a certain extent. The one is not magnified at the expense of the other. When all has been said that logic or mental philosophy can say about the high value of comparative philology, general grammar, and the like, the lowest value of the least important language will still stand high, and pre-eminently high that of what may be called the noble Languages. No variations in the philological barometer, no fluctuations in the Exchange of Language, will ever bring down the advantage of studying one, two, or even more foreign languages to so low a level as to expel such tongues as the Latin, the Greek, the French, or the German, one and all, from an English curriculum—and vice versâ, English from a foreign one.

Now, if this be the case, one of the elements in the value of the study of Language in general will be the extent to which it facilitates the acquirement of any one language in particular, and this element of value will be an important—though not the most important—one.

The structure of the human body is worth knowing, even if the investigator of it be neither a practitioner in medicine nor a teacher of anatomy; and, in like manner, the structure of the human language is an important study irrespective of the particular forms of speech whereof it may facilitate the acquirement.

The words on the diagram-board will now be explained. They are meant to illustrate the class of facts that comparative philology supplies.

The first runs—

Klein : Clean :: Petit : Petitus.

It shows the extent to which certain ideas are associated. It shows, too, something more; it shows that such an association is capable of being demonstrated from the phenomena of language instead of being a mere à priori speculation on the part of the mental philosopher.

Klein is the German for little; clean is our own English adjective, the English of the Latin word mundus. In German the word is rein.

Now, notwithstanding the difference of meaning in the two tongues, clean and klein are one and the same word. Yet, how are the ideas of cleanliness and littleness connected? The Greek language has the word hypocorisma, meaning a term of endearment, and the adjective hypocoristic. Now, clean-ness, or neat-ness, is one of the elements that make hypocoristic terms (or terms of endearment) applicable. And so is smallness. We talk of pretty little dears, a thousand times, where we talk of pretty big dears once. This, then, explains the connexion; this tells us that clean in English is klein in German, word for word.

You doubt it, perhaps. You shake your head, and say, that the connexion seems somewhat indefinite; that it is just one of those points which can neither be proved nor disproved. Be it so. The evidence can be amended. Observe the words petit and petitus. Petit (in French) is exactly what klein is in German, i. e., little. Petitus (in Latin) is very nearly what clean is in English, i. e., desired, or desirable. That petit comes from petitus is undeniable.

Hence, where the German mode of thought connects the ideas of smallness and cleanness, the Latin connects those of smallness and desirability; so that as petit is to petitus, so is klein to clean. In the diagram this is given in the formula of a sum in the Rule of Three.

The words just noticed explain the connexion of ideas in the case of separate words. The forthcoming help us in a much more difficult investigation. What is the import of such sounds as that of the letter s in the word father-s? It is the sign of the plural number.

Such is the question—such the answer; question and answer connected in the word fathers solely for the sake of illustration. Any other word, and any other sign of case, number, person, or tense, would have done as well.

But is the answer a real one? Is it an answer at all? How come such things as plural numbers, and signs of plural numbers, into language? How the particular plural before us came into being, I cannot say; but I can show how some plurals have. Let us explain the following—

The da (or de) in the second column, is the sign of the plural number in a language which shall at present be nameless. It is also the preposition with. Now with denotes association, association plurality. Hence

This is just as if the Latins, instead of nos and vos, said me-cum and te-cum.

Such is the history of one mode of expressing the idea of plurality; we can scarcely say of a plural number. The words plural number suggest the idea of a single word, like fathers, where the s is inseparably connected with the root; at least so far inseparably connected as to have no independent existence of its own. Ngi-n-de, however, is no single word at all, but a pair of words in juxta-position, each with a separate existence of its own. But what if this juxta-position grow into amalgamation; What if the form in da change? What if it become t or z, or th, or s? What if, meanwhile, the separate preposition da change in form also; in form or meaning, or, perhaps, in both? In such a case a true plural form is evolved, the history of its evolution being a mystery.

So much for one of the inflections of a noun. The remaining words illustrate one of a verb.

Hundreds of grammarians have suggested that the signs of the persons in the verb might be neither more nor less than the personal pronouns appended; in the first instance, to the verb, but, afterwards amalgamated or incorporated with it. If so, the -m in inqua-m, is the m in me, &c. The late Mr. Garnett, a comparative philologist whose reputation is far below his merits, saw that this was not exactly the case. He observed that the appended pronoun was not so much the Personal as the Possessive one: that the analysis of a word like inqua-m was not so much, say+I, as saying+my; in short, that the verb was a noun, and the pronoun either an adjective (like meus) or an oblique case (like mei), agreeing with, or governed by, it.

It is certainly so in the words before you. In a language, which, at present, shall be nameless, instead of saying my apple, thy apple, they say what is equivalent to apple-m, apple-th, &c.; i. e., they append the possessive pronoun to the substantive, and by modifying its form, partially incorporate or amalgamate it. They do more than this. They do (as the diagram shows us) precisely the same with the verbs in their personal, as they do with the nouns in their possessive, relations. Hence, olvas-om, &c., is less I read than my-reading; less read+I, than reading+my.

1.

2.

I submit, that facts of this kind are of some value, great or small. But the facts themselves are not all. How were they got at? They were got at by dealing with the phenomena of language as we found them, by an induction of no ordinary width and compass; for many forms of speech had to be investigated before the facts came out in their best and most satisfactory form.

The illustration of the verb (olvasom, and almám, &c.) is from the Hungarian; that of the plural number (nginde, &c.), from the Tumali—the Tumali being a language no nearer than the negro districts to the south of Kordovan, between Sennaar and Darfur, and (as such) not exactly in the highway of literature and philology.

Now I ask whether there be, or whether there be not, certain branches of inquiry which are, at one and the same time, recognised to be of the highest importance, and yet not very remarkable for either unanimity of opinion, precision of language, or distinctness of idea on the part of their professors. I ask whether what is called, with average clearness, Mental Philosophy, and, with somewhat less clearness, Metaphysics, be not in this predicament? I ask whether, in this branch of investigation, the subject-matter do not eminently desiderate something definite, palpable, and objective, and whether these same desiderated tangibilities be not found in the wide field of Language to an extent which no other field supplies? Let this field be a training-ground. The facts it gives are of value. The method it requires is of value.

As the languages of the world, as the forms of speech mutually unintelligible, are counted by the hundred, and the dialects by the thousand, the field is a large one—one supplying much exercise, work, and labour. But the applications of the results obtained are wide also; for, as long as any form of mental philosophy remains susceptible of improvement, as long as its improved form remains undiffused, so long will a knowledge of the structure of language in general, a knowledge of comparative philology, a knowledge of general grammar (for we may choose our term), have its use and application. And, assuredly, this will be for some time.

As to its special value in the particular department of the ethnologist, high as it is, I say nothing, or next to nothing, about it; concerning myself only with its more general applications.

Let it be said, then, that the study of language is eminently disciplinal to those faculties that are tasked in the investigation of the phenomena of the human mind; the value of a knowledge of these being a matter foreign to the present dissertation, but being by no means low. High or low, however, it measures that of the studies under notice.

But how is this general philology to be taught? Are youths to seek for roots and processes in such languages as the Hungarian and the Tumali? No. The teaching must be by means of well-selected suggestive examples, whereby the student may rise from particulars to generals, and be taught to infer the uncertain from the certain. I do not say that the s in fathers arose exactly after the fashion of the Tumali plural; but, assuredly, its development was the same in kind, if not in detail. At all events, language must be dealt with as a growth.

In the first stage of speech, there are no inflections at all, separate words serving instead of them:—just as if, instead of saying fathers, we said father many, or father father; reduplication being one of the make-shifts (so to say) of this period. The languages allied to the Chinese belong to this class.

In the second stage, the separate words coalesce, but not so perfectly as to disfigure their originally separate character. The Hungarian persons have illustrated this. Language now becomes what is called agglutinate. The parts cohere, but the cohesion is imperfect. The majority of languages are agglutinate.

The Latin and Greek tongues illustrate the third stage. The parts originally separate, then agglutinate, now become so modified by contact as to look like secondary parts of a single word; these original separate substantive characters being a matter of inference rather than a patent and transparent fact. The s in fathers (which is also the s in patre-s and πάτερε-ς) is in this predicament.

Lastly, inflections are replaced by prepositions and auxiliary verbs, as is the case in the Italian and French when compared with the Latin.

Truly, then, may we say that the phenomena of speech are the phenomena of growth, evolution, or development; and as such must they be taught. A cell that grows,—not a crystal that is built up,—such is language.

But these well-devised selections of suggestive examples, whereby the student may rise from particulars to generals, &c., are not to be found in the ordinary grammars. Indeed, it is the very reverse of the present system; where there are twenty appeals to the memory in the shape of what is called a rule, for one appeal to the understanding in the shape of an illustrated process. So much the worse for the existing methods.

Moulds applied to growing trees—cookery-book receipts for making a natural juice—these are the parallels to the artificial systems of grammar in their worst forms. The better can be excused, sometimes recommended; even as the Linnæan system of botanical teaching can, in certain cases, be used with safety, provided always that its artificial character be explained beforehand, and insisted on throughout.

To stand on the level of the Linnæan system, an artificial grammar must come under the following condition:—It must leave the student nothing to unlearn when he comes to a natural one.

How can this be done? It can be done, if the grammarian will be content to teach forms only, leaving processes alone. Let him say (for instance) that the Latin for—

But do not let him say that active aorists are formed from futures, and passive ones from the third person singular of the perfect. His forms, his paradigms, will be right; his rules, in nine cases out of ten, wrong. I am satisfied that languages can be taught without rules and by paradigms only.

This recognition of what has been called artificial grammar for the teaching of special languages, as opposed to the general grammar of the comparative philologist, should serve to anticipate an objection. 'Would you,' it may be asked, 'leave the details of languages like the Latin, Greek, French, German, &c.—languages of eminent practical utility—untaught until such time as the student shall have dipped into Chinese, touched upon Hungarian, and taken a general idea of the third stage of development from the Latin, and of the fourth from the French? If so, the period of life when the memory for words is strongest will have passed away before any language but his own mother-tongue has been acquired.'

The recognition of such a thing as artificial grammar answers this in the negative. If a special language be wanted, let it be taught by-times: only, if it cannot be taught in the most scientific manner, let it be taught in a manner as little unscientific as possible.

In this lies an argument against the ordinary teaching (I speak as an Englishman) of English. What do we learn by it?

In the ordinary teaching of what is called the grammar of the English language there are two elements. There is something professed to be taught which is not taught, but which, if taught, would be worth learning; and there is something which, from being already learned better than any man can teach it, requires no lessons. The one (the latter) is the use and practice of the English tongue. This the Englishman has already. The other is the principles of grammar. With existing text-books this is an impossibility. What then is taught? Something (I am quoting from what I have written elsewhere) undoubtedly. The facts, that language is more or less regular; that there is such a thing as grammar; that certain expressions should be avoided, are all matters worth knowing. And they are all taught even by the worst method of teaching. But are these the proper objects of systematic teaching? Is the importance of their acquisition equivalent to the time, the trouble, and the displacement of more valuable subjects, which are involved in their explanation? I think not. Gross vulgarity of language is a fault to be prevented; but the proper prevention is to be got from habit—not rules. The proprieties of the English language are to be learned, like the proprieties of English manners, by conversation and intercourse; and a proper school for both, is the best society in which the learner is placed. If this be good, systematic teaching is superfluous; if bad, insufficient. There are undoubted points where a young person may doubt as to the grammatical propriety of a certain expression. In this case let him ask some one older and more instructed. Grammar, as a art, is, undoubtedly, the art of speaking and writing correctly—but then, as an art, it is only required for foreign languages. For our own we have the necessary practice and familiarity.

The true claim of English grammar to form part and parcel of an English education stands or falls with the value of the philological knowledge to which grammatical studies may serve as an introduction, and with the value of scientific grammar as a disciplinal study. I have no fear of being supposed to undervalue its importance in this respect. Indeed, in assuming that it is very great, I also assume that wherever grammar is studied as grammar, the language which the grammar so studied should represent, must be the mother-tongue of the student; whatever that mother-tongue may be—English for Englishmen, Welsh for Welshmen, French for Frenchmen, German for Germans, &c. The study is the study of a theory; and for this reason it should be complicated as little as possible by points of practice. For this reason a man's mother-tongue is the best medium for the elements of scientific philology, simply because it is the one which he knows best in practice.

Limit, then, the teaching of English, except so far as it is preparatory to the study of language in general; with which view, teach as scientifically as possible.

Go further. Except in special cases, limit the teaching of the classical tongues to one out of the two. One, for all disciplinal purposes, is enough. In this, go far. Dead though the tongue be, and object of ridicule as the occupation is becoming, go to the length of writing verses, though only in a few of the commoner metres. Go far, and go in one direction only. There are reasons for this singleness of path. I fear that there is almost a necessity. As long as men believed that the ordinary Latin and Greek grammars were good things of themselves, and that, even if they did not carry the student far into the classics, they told him something of value respecting language in general, a little learning in the dead languages was a good thing. But what if the grammars are not good things? What if they are absolutely bad? In such a case, the classical tongues cease to be learnt except for themselves. Now, one of the few things that is more useless than a little Latin is a little Greek.

Am I wrong in saying that, with nine out of ten who learn both Latin and Greek, the knowledge of the two tongues conjointly is not greater than the knowledge of one of them singly ought to be?

Am I wrong in believing that the tendencies of the age are in favour of decreasing rather than increasing the amount of time bestowed upon classical scholarship?

Unless I be so, the necessity for a limitation is apparent.

To curtail English—to eliminate one of the classical tongues—possibly that of Pericles, at any rate, either that of Pericles or of Cicero—to substitute for the ordinary elements of a so-called classical education illustrations from the Chinese, the Hungarian, or the Tumali—this is what I have recommended.

I cannot but feel that in so doing I may seem to some to have been false to my text, which was to eulogize things philological. They may say, Call you this backing your friends? I do. It is not by glorifying one's own more peculiar studies that such studies gain credit. To show the permanent, rather than the accidental, elements of their value, is the best service that can be done for them. It is also good service to show that they can be taught with a less expenditure of time and labour than is usually bestowed on them. But the best service of all is to indicate their disciplinal value; and to show that, instead of displacing other branches of knowledge, they so exercise certain faculties of the mind as to prepare the way to them.

II.
LOGICA.

ON THE WORD DISTRIBUTED, AS USED IN LOGIC.

READ
BEFORE THE PHILOLOGICAL SOCIETY.

DECEMBER THE 18TH 1857.

The present paper is an attempt to reconcile the logical and etymological meanings of the word Distributed.

Speaking roughly, distributed means universal: "a term is said to be distributed when it is taken universally, so as to stand for everything it is capable of being applied to."—Whately, i. § 5.

Speaking more closely, it means universal in one premiss; it being a rule in the ordinary logic that no conclusion is possible unless one premiss be, either negatively or affirmatively, universal.

Assuredly there is no etymological connexion between the two words. Hence De Morgan writes:—"By distributed is here meant universally spoken of. I do not use this term in the present work, because I do not see why, in any deducible meaning of the word distributed, it can be applied to universal as distinguished from particular."—Formal Logic, chap. vii.

Neither can it be so applied. It is nevertheless an accurate term.

Let it mean related to more than one class, and the power of the prefix dis-, at least, becomes intelligible.

For all the purposes of logic this is not enough; inasmuch as the particular character of the relation (all-important in the structure of the syllogism) is not, at present, given. It is enough, however, to give import to the syllable dis-.

In affirmative propositions this relation is connective on both sides, i. e. the middle term forms part of both the others. In negative propositions this relation is connective on one side, disjunctive on the other.

In—

the middle term men forms a part of the class called mortal, by being connected with it in the way that certain contents are connected with the case that contains them; whilst it also stands in connexion with the class of heroes in the way that cases are connected with their contents. In—

the same double relation occurs. The class man, however, though part of the class hero, is no part of the class perfect but, on the contrary, expressly excluded from it. Now this expression of exclusion constitutes a relation—disjunctive indeed, but still a relation; and this is all that is wanted to give an import to the prefix dis- in distributed.

Wherever there is distribution there is inference, no matter whether the distributed term be universal or not. If the ordinary rules for the structure of the syllogism tell us the contrary to this, they only tell the truth, so far as certain assumptions on which they rest are legitimate. These limit us to the use of three terms expressive of quantity,—all, none, and some; and it is quite true that, with this limitation, universality and distribution coincide.

Say that

and the question will arise whether the Y that is X is also the Y that is Z. That some Y belongs to both classes is clear; whether, however, it be the same Y is doubtful. Yet unless it be so, no conclusion can be drawn. And it may easily be different. Hence, as long as we use the word some, we have no assurance that there is any distribution of the middle term.

Instead, however, of some write all, and it is obvious that some Y must be both X and Z; and when such is the case—

Universality, then, of the middle term in one premiss is, by no means, the direct condition that gives us an inference, but only a secondary one. The direct condition is the distribution. Of this, the universality of the middle term is only a sign, and it is the only sign we have, because all and some are the only words we have to choose from. If others were allowed, the appearance which the two words (distributed and universal) have of being synonymous would disappear. And so they do when we abandon the limitations imposed upon us by the words all and some. So they do in the numerically definite syllogism, exemplified in—

So, also, they do when it is assumed that the Y's which are X and the Y's which are Z are identical.

In each of these formulæ there is distribution without universality, i. e. there is distribution with a quality other than that of universality as its criterion. The following extract not only explains this, but gives a fresh proof, if fresh proof be needed, that distributed and universal are used synonymously. The "comparison of each of the two terms must be equally with the whole, or with the same part of the third term; and to secure this, (1) either the middle term must be distributed in one premiss at least, or (2) the two terms must be compared with the same specified part of the middle, or (3), in the two premises taken together, the middle must be distributed, and something more, though not distributed in either singly."—Thompson, Outline of the Laws of Thought, § 39.

Here distributed means universal; Mr. Thompson's being the ordinary terminology. In the eyes of the present writer "distributed in one premiss" is a contradiction in terms.

Of the two terms, distributed is the more general; yet it is not the usual one. That it has been avoided by De Morgan has been shown. It may be added, that from the Port Royal Logic it is wholly excluded.

The statement that, in negative propositions, the relation is connective on one side, and disjunctive on the other, requires further notice. It is by no means a matter of indifference on which side the connexion or disjunction lies.

(a.) It is the class denoted by the major, of which the middle term of a negative syllogism is expressly stated to form no part, or from which it is disjoined. (b.) It is the class denoted by the minor, of which the same middle term is expressly stated to form part, or with which it is connected.

here the proposition is a major, and the middle term man is expressly separated from the class perfect.

here it is a minor, and the middle term man is expressly connected with class hero.

A connective relation to the major, and a disjunctive relation to the minor are impossible in negative syllogisms. The exceptions to this are only apparent. The two most prominent are the formulæ Camestres and Camenes, in both of which it is the minor premiss wherein the relation is disjunctive. But this is an accident; an accident arising out of the fact of the major and minor being convertible.

Bokardo is in a different predicament. Bokardo, along with Baroko, is the only formula containing a particular negative as a premiss. Now the particular negatives are, for so many of the purposes of logic, particular affirmatives, that they may be neglected for the present; the object at present being to ascertain the rules for the structure of truly and unquestionably negative syllogisms. Of these we may predicate that—their minor proposition is always either actually affirmative or capable of becoming so by transposition.

To go further into the relations between the middle term and the minor, would be to travel beyond the field under present notice; the immediate object of the present paper being to explain the import of the word distributed. That it may, both logically and etymologically, mean related to two classes is clear—clear as a matter of fact. Whether, however, related to two classes be the meaning that the history of logic gives us, is a point upon which I abstain from giving an opinion. I only suggest that, in elementary treatises, the terms universal and distributed should be separated more widely than they are; one series of remarks upon—

a. Distribution as a condition of inference, being followed by another on—

b. Universality of the middle term in one premiss as a sign of distribution.

So much for the extent to which the present remarks suggest the purely practical question as to how the teaching of Aristotelian logic may be improved. There is another, however, beyond it; one of a more theoretical, indeed of an eminently theoretical, nature. It raises doubts as to the propriety of the word all itself; doubts as to the propriety of the term universal.

The existence of such a word as all in the premiss, although existing therein merely as a contrivance for reconciling the evidence of the distribution of the middle term with a certain amount of simplicity in the way of terminology, could scarcely fail, in conjunction with some of its other properties, to give it what is here considered an undue amount of importance. It made it look like the opposite to none. Yet this is what it is not. The opposite to none is not-none, or some; the opposite to all is one. In one and all we have the highest and lowest numbers of the individuals that constitute a class. In none and some we have the difference between existence and non-existence. That all is a mere mode of some, has been insisted on by many logicians, denied by few or none. Between all and some, there is, at best, but a difference of degree. Between some and none, the difference is a difference of kind. Some may, by strengthening, be converted into all. No strengthening may obliterate the difference between all and not-all. From this it follows that the logic of none and some, the logic of connexion and disjunction (the logic of two signs), is much more widely different from the logic of part and whole (the logic of three signs) than is usually admitted; the former being a logic of pure quality, the latter a logic of quality and quantity as well.

Has the admixture done good? I doubt whether it has. The logic of pure and simple Quality would, undoubtedly, have given but little; nothing but negative conclusions on one side, and possible particulars on the other. Nevertheless it would have given a logic of the Possible and Impossible.

Again, as at present constituted, the Quantitative logic, the logic of all and some, embraces either too much or too little. All is, as aforesaid, only a particular form of more than none. So is most. Now such syllogisms as—