All the ideas consciously or unconsciously present in the human mind are directly or indirectly connected with one another. No thought, no conception, is so independent of all others as not to suggest some other idea or ideas in some way cognate or related. Thus, for instance, if we think of the action of walking, it is physically impossible not to call to mind, with more or less distinctness, the idea of a person who walks. And again, the idea of walking is likely also to evoke the idea of some of the varieties of that action, which we commonly indicate by such words as (to) go, run, step, stalk, stroll, stride, etc.
Thus it is clear that our ideas associate themselves into groups; and, as a natural result of this, the words which we employ to express these ideas come similarly to associate themselves in our minds.
Words, then, which express related ideas, form themselves into groups. Another source, though not equally prolific, of such association, is similarity in sound. Thus the word book may remind us of brook, as it in fact reminded Shakespeare; the word alarms, of ‘to arms!’ the word hag, of rag or tag; the word blue may remind us of few. Such groupings are, however, but very loose and ineffectual, unless a more or less close association (based on reality or fancy) co-operates in order to make them strong and suggestive. This may be seen by taking as examples the associations existing between brook and book, blue and few, on the one hand, and those existing between alarms and ‘to arms!’ and hag, tag, and rag, on the other. There is no similarity of meaning, no similarity of contents between the words book and brook; the association, therefore, in this case is a very loose one, looser than that existing between foot and boot, for instance. On the other hand, the connection between the ideas of alarms and ‘to arms!’ is more obvious: a sudden surprise, as in the case of an attack by an unexpected enemy, might often be connected with the idea of a call ‘to arms!’ Similarly, hag and rag are ideas which often present themselves to our mind in connection with one another, and consequently the association between these two words is stronger than that, for instance, existing between hag and flag.
Correlation in the ideas, coupled with correlation of their contents, especially if accompanied by similarity of sound, makes the association most inevitable; and the closer the correlation, or the greater the similarity, the stronger will be the tie which binds the members of the group.
It is necessary to the more exact classification of these groups, that we should first obtain a clear conception of the difference between what we may call the material contents of a word, on the one hand, and the formal or modal contents, on the other.
For this purpose, let us look at the two words father (singular) and fathers (plural). Both these words indicate a person or persons who stand in a certain and well-defined blood-relationship to some other person or persons. This meaning, common to both, we call their material contents. But the one form is used to indicate one such individual; the other, to indicate any number more than one. This, the unity or singularity of the one, the plurality of the other, makes up the formal or modal contents of each. This modal part of the contents, in most of the languages of the Indo-European stock, is left without separate expression in the singular: in the plural, however, it is generally expressed or indicated by some change in form; this change being, in most cases, made by the addition of some termination—in the example we have chosen, by the addition of s.
Before passing to another example, it is well to point out that the modal contents of a so-called “singular-form” by no means invariably imply unity; nor, again, is the plural always, as in the case cited, formed from the singular. In such a sentence as A father loves his child, the idea expressed relates, or may relate, to more than a single father; in fact, it may be taken as a statement made correctly or incorrectly of all fathers universally; and, with regard to the second point mentioned, Welsh, among other languages, has many words in which the plural is expressed by the shorter collective form, and the single individual is indicated by a derivative, e.g. adar, birds; aderyn, a bird: plant, children; plentyn, a child: gwair, hay; gweiryn, a blade of hay, etc.20
We can now come back to our point, and fix our attention on two such words as (I) speak and speech.
Both these words evoke the thought of some well-known and familiar activity called into play by our vocal organs. This constitutes the material contents of both alike. The former, however, conveys the idea that the action is being performed at the time the word is uttered; the other is the name of the result or product of that action. This, the modal part of their contents, is left unexpressed; or, to speak more accurately, we cannot divide the words so as to be able to say that one part serves to express the material contents, and another the modal,—a division which we could make in the case of fathers, and which we might make in, e.g., speak, speaking; speech, speeches; book, books, booklet; etc.
It will now be clear that, among associations based on correlation or on similarity of IDEA, this similarity may exist between the material contents of the words grouped together, or between their modal contents. We therefore are now in a position to distinguish between MATTER-GROUPS and MODAL-GROUPS.
To sum up, there exist association-groups based on— 1. Similarity in sound only. 2. ” ” meaning only. 3. ” ” both sound and meaning. These two latter classes (nos. 2 and 3) are subdivided, as to the part of the meaning in which they agree, into (a) matter-groups and (b) modal-groups.
Instances of all these are numerous, and will readily suggest themselves; a few may suffice to illustrate further what has already been said.
If we were to set down in a vertical column the complete conjugation of some verb—say, of to walk,—and, parallel to this, with equal completeness and in the same order, the conjugation of the verbs to write, to go, and to be, we should then have in our vertical columns four matter-groups. Taken horizontally, the separate tenses would form so many modal-groups, each divisible into smaller groups of singulars as against plurals, or of first persons as against second and third persons, etc. We should then, at the same time, have illustrated the fact that in many cases similarity of contents is accompanied by, or perhaps we should say expressed by, similarity in sound, and that it often happens that similar change of modal contents is accompanied by similar change in form or in termination.
Now, this fact, though far from holding good in all cases, is of the greatest possible importance for the development of language.
In order to realise this, let us for a moment suppose a language in which no such ‘regularity’ held good: in which ‘I love’ was expressed by amo; ‘thou lovest’ by petit; ‘he loves’ by audivimus; and that thus for every thought, every shade of meaning, every modal variation of material contents, there existed a new word in no way related to the others which indicate associated ideas. The language would in this case be more difficult of acquirement for those born in the country where it was indigenous than Chinese writing and reading is to the Chinese, and would almost defy the efforts of a foreigner to master it. Like the Chinese, the natives would only by dint of long-continued study be in a position to collect a scanty vocabulary, which, in the case of the foreigner, would prove more scanty still. The picture here given of such a language is, indeed, nowhere fully realised; but some languages of savage tribes, in certain of their features, approximate to the condition we have sketched. Thus, for instance, in Viti, the number AND the object numbered are expressed together in a single word, varying for each number in each word; thus, buru signifies ten cocoa-nuts, koro a hundred cocoa-nuts; whilst sclavo signifies a thousand cocoa-nuts.21
Strange and far-fetched as this method of forming language may seem to us, and indeed is, it is after all merely a much exaggerated example of what we find in all modern languages, and, e.g., in English, which, side by side with the normal terminations to indicate gender, as in lion, lioness, preserves such pairs as bull, cow; stag, hind; cock, hen; etc.
Now, why should a language constructed on such principles be so difficult to master as we have assumed it to be? Or, to put the case differently, why should a ‘regular’ language be more easily acquired than an irregular one? To discuss this may seem superfluous; but just as, in Algebra, some of the most important theorems are deduced from a thorough discussion of the principles of simple addition, so it will aid us in language to have a clear grasp of this point, to possess a full comprehension of the meaning of Analogy and its influence.
In our hypothetical language, every word would have to be acquired by a new and unaided effort of memory. In actually existing languages, this is not the case. Whether by precept or by observation, consciously or unconsciously, whether in the process of acquiring our own language in childhood, or in our study of a foreign tongue, we associate not only words but also parts of words with one another and with parts of material or modal contents of our thoughts. A child that learns to call a single book book, and more than one, books, and to proceed similarly in a large number of cases, comes unconsciously to connect the s, written or spoken, with the idea ‘many of them.’ The child attaches regularly this sound or its symbol s to any word whose plural it needs to express; and (perfectly correctly as far as the logic of its case is concerned) says one foot and two foots, after the model of one boot, two boots. The child does not know that the form foots is contrary to established usage, while the form boots is in harmony with it; a series of corrections on the part of those who know the established usages will gradually imprint on its memory the usual form; but until this correction has occurred sufficiently often, the form foots will recur in the child’s vocabulary. The sound or symbol s, or rather the habit of adding such a sibilant to a word or words which state something about more than one object, in order to denote plurality, leads sometimes to its being used in cases where ‘correct’ grammar omits it. A child will form words by a simple process of analogy, which seem curious enough to us, but are really quite simple and natural formations. Thus, e.g. a little one spoke of two-gas-lits, on seeing two gas-jets lit one after another; and—to add a parallel instance of another frequent termination—another child, when urged to ‘come on,’ replied, ‘I cannot come quickerly.’
Such formations have been represented as the result of a kind of problem in linguistic proportion, somewhat like this:—
Given the knowledge of the formation soon, sooner; large, larger; etc., what is the value of x in the equation:—
Soon: sooner: :quick: x? Answer, quicker.
Next, given the knowledge of large, largely; nice, nicely; etc., what then is the value of x which satisfies:—
Large: largely: :quick: x? Answer, quickly.
When combined, these two problems yield a compound proportion sum, thus:—
Large: larger }
Large: largely }
: : quick: x.
To this, the answer would be quickli-er or quick-er-ly, and logically either answer is perfectly correct; they only differ in the practically all-important, but logically totally indifferent accident that the one happens to be usual, while the other is opposed to the normal usage.
In order to fully realise how readily such forms, whether ‘correct’ or ‘incorrect,’ may be coined, we must likewise bear in mind that for the apprehension of a child our divisions of sentences into words do not exist at all. The sentences which a child learns to understand are, at all events in the first instance, to its conception one and undivided, nay, apparently indivisible aggregates of sound, conveying somehow or another a certain notion. The infant answers to such a catena of sounds as go-to-papa, or don’t-do-that, and run-away, long before it has the faintest conception of the meaning of such sentences as, e.g., go that way. It is only the incessant variations of the surroundings of a word, while that combination of sounds itself remains unaltered, which, by a very gradual process, brings to our consciousness the fact that the whole sentence is made up of separate elements, and enables us to distinguish the word as an unit of expression. This process, however, of the discovery of such units comes about unconsciously and tentatively; whilst by all children and many adult speakers the extent of meaning attached to such units is very vaguely appreciated.
There is, therefore, in the linguistic history of each speaker, a period in which such a sound-group as, e.g., noisier, seems to consist as much or as little of two words as the group more noisy, etc. The question then presents itself, why, at a later period, we distinguish two words in the latter group, while we continue to regard the former group as one? The answer to this is found in the fact that both the sounds, noisy and more, are found to occur frequently alone or amid totally different surroundings; they occur, however, consistently maintaining the same meaning; whilst of noisier, the first part only is used alone, and the sound represented by er—whilst employed with many other words to express a similar variation of idea—can never, like more, serve independently to indicate that variation, unaccompanied by the sound which expresses the thought which it is desired to vary. And the same remarks hold good for other cases.
It would, no doubt, be going too far to assert that the usual division of words in our written language is wholly fanciful and unnatural. But it is nevertheless true that the division is not made in speaking, nor is it always equally present in our consciousness while we are uttering our thoughts. The less educated the speaker—in other words, the less he has been taught to bring reflection into play—the less active and operative is this consciousness.
If, then, we represent the formation of such a word as quicker in the shape of a solution of a proportion problem, the identity between the linguistic and algebraical processes must not be too closely insisted on. Similarly, we must not exaggerate the idea of clearness and distinctness present to the consciousness of the speaker who expresses the idea ‘rapid in movement’ by quick, and a higher degree of rapidity in the movement by the addition of the word more before it, or er after it. The fact is that no comparison is an absolute identity. Both our descriptions of the process by which many of our words arise in our minds, viz. the proportion, and the composition of the two elements, are inexact in some respects; and in some respects one, in other respects the other, will prove less faulty. If in a formation like quick, quicker, it is more likely that the two syllables in quick-er maintain a certain independence of signification, still no such explanation could possibly apply to such a form as brang, heard from a child or a foreigner, instead of brought. No simpler way of describing this process can be found than the equation—
Moreover, this is doubtless the process adopted by our reasoning in acquiring a foreign language. We are taught that To speak is to be rendered by parler; I speak, by Je parle; I was speaking, by Je parlais, etc.; and our teacher expects (and naturally) that, possessing this knowledge, we shall be able, when he proceeds to inform us that porter means ‘to carry,’ to find the as yet unknown and unheard forms Je porte, Je portais, etc. At a later period, when we have read and spoken the language frequently, we form many similar tenses and persons of many verbs never or rarely encountered previously; and no speaker could certainly affirm whether he owes the utterance of the word to his memory recalling it into renewed consciousness, or to a process of automatic regulation by analogy after the model of other similar and more familiar forms.
From the above examples it may be seen that analogy is productive, not merely of abnormal forms, but also, and even to a larger extent, of normal forms. The operation of Analogy, however, attracts most attention when its influence leads to the formation of unusual forms, and this fact has prevented due credit being given to its full power and importance. It was once usual to speak of all forms employed by any speaker in conformity with normal usage as ‘correct;’ and of others, formed on the model of other examples, but deviating from normal usage, as ‘incorrect;’ in other words, as mistakes, or as formed BY FALSE ANALOGY. From what we have said it will be clear that this last term is wrong and misleading, and can only be applied as expressing that the analogy followed by the speaker in a certain case ought, for some reason or another, not to have been accepted as the norm.
Analogy, then, in most cases acts as a conservative agent in language by securing that its propagation and its continuity shall be subject to some degree of regularity. On the other hand, this very tendency to promote regularity and uniformity often makes itself felt by the destruction of existing words or flections which deviate from a given goal; and it is mainly when its destructive powers are manifest that its effects are deserving of separate discussion.
So long as a speaker employs or a nation continues to use the ‘correct’ form,—gradually, regularly, and naturally developing it according to the regular laws of phonetic change and growth to which it is subject for the time being,—it is immaterial for the student of language whether, in any particular case of the employment of a word, this regularity is due to memory or to analogy. It is when analogy produces forms phonetically irregular that its operation becomes of importance; and it is from the study of such ‘novelties’ amongst its productions, that we can alone derive full information about its nature. As long as we find that the A.S. stánas remained stánas, or even that this form was gradually changed into stones, we are not tempted to call in the aid of Analogy, nor are we challenged to prove its operation. Similarly, as long as the plural of eáge remains eágan, or eáge changes into eye, and forms its plural eyen, no temptation presents itself to inquire into Analogy or its operation. Even in this case, however, we cannot help remarking that Chaucer might conceivably have formed his plural eyen by analogy with other plurals in en. But it is when the form eyen is replaced by eyes, that we naturally inquire whence comes the s? And since no phonetic development can change n into s, we know that analogy with other substantive plurals is and must be the reason of the appearance of this otherwise inexplicable form. Thus the French mesure could and did become the English measure; but the French plaisir could not, according to the laws of phonetics, develop into pleasure. We can only explain the latter form by assuming that it is founded on the analogy of the older forms measure, picture, etc.23
We ascribe to Analogy those cases of change in form of words, in syntactical arrangement, or in any other phenomenon of language, such as gender, etc., where the existing condition has been replaced by something new modelled upon some pattern furnished by other more numerous groups. Thus, for instance, we find that the Latin feminine nouns in -tas, -tatis, have developed French derivatives in -té, all of the feminine gender. Why, then, is été masculine, though equally derived from a feminine Latin æstatem? The answer lies in the fact that printemps, automne, and hiver, being all masculine, the feeling set in that the ‘names of the seasons’ should be masculine: just as names of trees are feminine in Latin, and this possibly under the influence of arbor. Thus été followed the example of the others, and was classed with them. The affinity in signification here caused the difference in gender to be felt as an incongruity, and the less strong came to be assimilated to the stronger and more universal type. Similarly, such words as valeur seem to have become feminine after the analogy of Latin abstracts in -ura, -tas, etc. In the former of these particular instances we had to deal with a ‘MATTER-GROUP’ of four cognate ideas, viz. ‘the seasons;’ in which group, as three of the terms agreed in another accidental peculiarity, viz. that of gender, this peculiarity was imposed likewise upon the fourth member, so as to produce a more complete uniformity in every respect.
In other cases we find, perhaps indeed more frequently, MODAL groups thus extending their domain. Thus the comparative forms, which nearly all end in er, create the feeling that if a word expresses a comparative degree it may be naturally expected to end in er; and more from mo, lesser instead of less—nay, even worser for worse is the result. In the case of more, its very form led to the supposition that mo was a positive form.
Similarly, the existence of the plurals in s in Anglo-Saxon, aided no doubt by the frequency of s plurals in French, has caused this way of expressing the plural to embrace almost all English nouns; or, at all events, to embrace their formation to such an extent that the older methods (such as vowel modification, e.g. mouse, mice; foot, feet; formations in en—ox, oxen, etc.) now appear as exceptions, themselves needing explanation; and, again, as in the case of more, when once the rule was formulated which laid down that if a word expresses the plural it must end in s, the conclusion was drawn that, if a word ending in s be used as a plural, this s is the termination, and must be omitted in the singular. It thus happens that to the analogy of fathers as against father, trees as against tree, etc., we owe the sets Chinese used as a plural noun with its newly coined singular Chinee; Portuguese with its singular Portuguee; cherries (Fr. cérise), cherry; pease (Lat. pisum), pea. Nay, it is not even always necessary that the s form be used in a plural signification to cause the s to be ‘removed’ in order to express the singular; a raedels was perfectly good Old English, but as two riddles was right, the conclusion was natural that one riddles was wrong. Two chaise would not give offence, but it seemed natural to write and say one shay.
The modal group, again, consisting of such formations as despotism, nepotism, patriotism, etc., created the feeling that tism was the correct ending instead of ism, and so has manifested a tendency to supplant it. Thus the correcter form egoism has made way for egotism. Thus it is to the pianist, machinist, violinist, that the tobacconist owes his n, to which he has no right; he ought, properly speaking, to appear as tobaccoist.
The most widely reaching result of the operations
of analogy is where modal and matter groups, in their
cross classifications, unite to cancel irregularities created
in the first instance by phonetic development. Thus
the Anglo-Saxon form scæd (neuter) exists side by
side with another form, sceadu (feminine). The Gothic
form skadus proves the latter to belong to the u
declension. But even in Anglo-Saxon this declension
was but sparingly represented, most words originally
belonging to it being declined according to the far
more common scheme of words, like stán, stone; dóm,
doom, etc.; others varying in their declensions between
the feminines whose stem ended in wâ, or like those
in â. In both these declensions the nominative ended
in u; an example of the wâ declension being—
Nom. beadu, Gen. beadwe,
and of the â declension—
Nom. giefu, Gen. giefe.
Our word sceadu long oscillated between these two
paradigms, and we consequently meet with a Gen.
sing. sceade, as well as an Acc. plur. sceadwa. This
termination, where w was maintained, developed into
our present termination ow, seen in shadow; whilst the
form shade is, properly speaking, a nominative form.
Analogy, however, depending upon other nouns in
which all cases in the singular had become identical
in form, caused the form shadow to be used in the
nominative as well as in other cases, and extended
the use of shade over those cases which were declined.
Similarly, the two forms mead and meadow are due, the
one to a nominative, the other to the inflected cases
of the same word, the A.S. mǽd. In these cases
both forms survived, and the meanings became slightly
differentiated; it more frequently happens that one
succumbs. Thus the A.S. Nom. plur. of the pronoun
for the second person gé developed into ye, the
inflected case éow into you. The latter has now almost
completely ousted the once correct nominative ye,
which survives only in dialects or in elevated language,
where, in its turn, it frequently supplants the accusative
and dative you.
The regular development of preterite and past participle in many verbs, together with the dropping of the prefix ge, which in several Teutonic languages has become specialised as a mark of that participle, caused both these forms to converge into one. This has in its turn been the cause why, in the case of many verbs, where regular phonetic development kept preterite and participle asunder, one of these forms was made to serve for both.
The A.S. verb berstan was, in its preterite, conjugated
thus:—
Indic.
Bærst
Subj.
burste
”
burste
”
burste
”
bærst
”
burste
”
burston
”
bursten
”
burston
”
bursten
”
burston
”
bursten
and its past participle was borsten. Thus the u was
present in four of the six forms in the indicative, and in
six subjunctive forms. The first effect of the operation
of Analogy was to abolish this useless and cumbersome
irregularity, and the u supplanted the æ, not
long after this æ had become a (barst). Then the
process set in which we explained above, and the past
part. borst (en) was replaced by burst.
It would be easy to multiply these instances ad infinitum. Enough has, however, been said to explain the working of Analogy and to show how wide its application is. The student who has mastered this sketch, should proceed to study carefully the corresponding chapter in Paul’s ‘Principles of Language,’ and the pamphlet, cited above, by Professor Wheeler, where many illustrations will be found taken from English and many other languages. One of the main points which are clearly brought out in the latter work is that the phenomena of folk-etymology show that these groupings are effectual in modifying form only in so far as a supposed likeness of contents or idea is associated (erroneously) with the resemblance of form.
Before concluding our remarks, we must, however, add a few words on the operation of Analogy where it works neither as a conservative nor as a destructive agent, but simply as a CREATIVE one.
In the cases hitherto discussed, the forms called into being have survived to the prejudice of older material which perished for lack of vitality. In the struggle for existence it succumbed. A new form, in order to survive, had necessarily to replace some unusual and inconvenient older one, or it was a necessary condition that several speakers, for some other reason, should concur in creating the same novel form.24 That ‘irregular’ forms should continue to exist in the case of some of the commonest verbs, and in the pronouns, is explicable by the fact that these words occur with sufficient frequency to gain enough strength to resist innovation. The frequency of their occurrence induces familiarity. Any new form which some innovating speaker might create on the basis of some analogy is, in those words, too strongly felt as a novelty; the speaker too frequently hears or reads the ‘correct’ form to permit the survival of the new candidate for general usage. The novelty is a ‘mistake,’ remains a ‘mistake,’ and succumbs in the struggle for existence. Frequency of use in the case of any particular word may assist its phonetic development and increase its impulse in that particular line, and its rate of speed on the road to phonetic decay:—this is as yet, however, a point of dispute among philologists, and a question which claims attention from all students of language. But there can be no doubt that the more frequent the occurrence of any particular form in ordinary speech, the more capacity it must gain for resisting the levelling tendencies, the absorbing influence of other more numerous but less common groups. It is, however, not true that all the offspring of Analogy is thus exposed to the struggle for existence. Where new ideas are to be expressed, Analogy guides us in our choice of terms, and even where the idea is not strictly new, but no term for it exists in the vocabulary or in the memory of a community, or even in that of the majority of such community, the new form will be adopted with little reluctance; nay, often without being felt as a new creation at all. In this way the language is always being enriched by new forms created on the analogy of existing ones. Where many instances might be given, a few will suffice.25 The termination y of mighty, guilty, etc., was added to the nouns earth, wealth, etc., to form wealthy, earthy,—nay, even used to form such hybrids as savoury, spicy, racy. After the model of kingdom, heathendom, etc., were formed princedom, popedom, etc. The group winsome, blithesome, etc., gave birth to venturesome, meddlesome, etc.; and whilst sorrowful, thankful, baleful, shameful, are found in A.S., no such antiquity can be claimed for blissful, youthful, faithful, merciful, respectful, etc.
It has been well remarked26 that a perfect grammar would be one which admitted no irregularities or exceptions; and if all the operations of Analogy in forms and syntax could be thoroughly mastered and reduced to rule, exceptions and irregularities would be far less common than they are.
A SENTENCE must be looked upon as the first creation of language. The SENTENCE is THE SYMBOL WHEREBY THE SPEAKER DENOTES THAT TWO OR MORE CONCEPTIONS HAVE COMBINED IN HIS MIND; and is, at the same time, the means of calling up the same combination in the mind of the hearer. Any group of words which accomplishes this is a sentence, and consequently A SENTENCE NEED NOT NECESSARILY CONTAIN A FINITE VERB, as is sometimes alleged. In Latin, and in the Slavonic languages, the word answering to is is very commonly suppressed; and in Latin epistolary language whole sentences appear in which no copula occurs. Such combinations as Omnia præclara rara; Suum cuique; are perfectly intelligible. In English we often employ sentences like You here? I grateful to you! This to me! Your very good health! Long life to you! Three cheers for him! Why all this noise?—and, again, such proverbs as Oak, smoke; Boys, noise; Ash, splash: and these are just as much sentences as The man lives.
Language possesses the following means of expressing and specialising such combinations of ideas:—
(1) The simple juxtaposition of the words corresponding to the ideas; as, All nonsense! You coward! Away, you rogue!
(2) The order of the words; as, There is John, as contrasted with John is there; John beats James, as against James beats John.
(3) The emphasis laid upon these words; as in ‘Charles is not ill.’
(4) The modulation of the voice; as when Charles is ill is stated as a mere assertion, and ‘Charles is ill?’ in which case the same words are turned into an interrogative sentence by the mere change of pitch during the utterance of the last word.
(5) The time, which commonly corresponds with the emphasis and the pitch; the words in the previous sentences which are emphasised or spoken in a higher pitch respectively, will be found to occupy a longer time in utterance than the words composing the rest of the sentence.
(6) Link-words, such as prepositions, conjunctions, and auxiliary verbs.
(7) The modification of words by inflection, in which (a) the inflectional forms may, without other aid, indicate the special kind of combination which it is desired to express, as in patri librum dat; his books; father’s hat: or (b) the connection between the words may be denoted by formal agreement; as, anima candida, la bonne femme.
The method of combining ideas by means of link-words and inflections is one which could only have set in after a certain period of historical development, for inflections and link-words are themselves of comparatively recent appearance in language; the other methods, on the contrary, must have been at the disposal of speakers from the very first development of language. It should, however, be noticed that 2-5 inclusive are not always consistently employed to represent simply the natural ideas as they present themselves, but are capable of a traditional development and, consequently, conventional application. For instance, in the Scandinavian languages the method of intonation is a purely artificial one;27 and in Chinese, homonyms are distinguished by lowering or raising the voice.
In Chinese the tones are five: a monosyllable may be uttered with (1) an even high tone; with (2) a rising tone, as when we utter a word interrogatively; with (3) a falling tone, as when we say, Go!—with (4) an abrupt tone, as of demand; or with (5) an even low tone. These are the tones of the Mandarin dialect, which is the language of the cultivated classes; and, in their application, they are limited by euphonic laws, so that they cannot all be used with all syllables.28
The idea, or the nature of the combination intended to be expressed by the speaker, need not be completely represented by words in order to render fully intelligible the thought present in the mind of the speaker. Much less than a complete expression will often suffice.
If a sentence is the means of inducing a certain combination of at least two ideas in a hearer’s mind, a complete sentence must necessarily consist of at least two parts. We shall later discuss those sentences in which only one of the two parts is expressed in words, and shall here confine our attention to the complete sentence. Grammar teaches us that a complete sentence consists of a subject and a predicate. Now, these grammatical categories are undoubtedly based upon a psychological distinction; but we shall soon see that it does not necessarily follow that the grammatical and psychological subject, or the grammatical and psychological predicate are always identical. The PSYCHOLOGICAL SUBJECT expresses the conception which the speaker wishes to bring into the mind of the hearer; the PSYCHOLOGICAL PREDICATE indicates that which he wishes him to think about it. This, and no more than this, is required to impart to any collection of words the nature of a sentence.
In grammar we commonly attach a much more restricted meaning to the terms ‘subject,’ ‘predicate,’ and ‘sentence.’ For instance, when the predicate is a noun, we demand that the normal sentence should express the comprehension of the subject in a wider class; as, John is a boy: or that it should express some quality of the subject; as, John is good: or, lastly, that the subject be identical with the predicate; as, John is King of England. But in reality we have, in many sentences, noun-predicates which show us relations of quite another kind, expressed by the mere collocation of subject and predicate, as in many proverbs and proverbial expressions; e.g., One man, one vote; Much cry and little wool; First come, first served; A word to the wise; Like master, like man; Better aught than naught; Small pains, small gains. This is the way in which children make themselves intelligible; as, Papa hat, for Papa has a hat on: and this is the way in which even adults endeavour to express their meaning to foreigners when the latter have not mastered more of the language than perhaps a few nouns, viz. by mentioning the objects which they wish to bring under the notice of their companions, and trusting to the situation to enable these to understand their meaning. We say, Window open, and we are understood by the foreigner to mean that the window is open, or that we wish it open, as the circumstances may show.
Originally, there was only one method of marking
the difference between subject and predicate, viz.
stress of tone; as, e.g., in the instance which we just
gave, of ‘Window open.’ If these words are pronounced
with a great stress on ‘window,’ we at once
perceive them to mean, The thing which is (or which
I wish to be) open is the window. If, on the other
hand, we exclaim, ‘Window OPEN,’ with stress on
‘open,’ we at once convey the sense, The window
is (or must be) open, not closed. This shows that,
in the case of such isolated instances, the psychological
predicate has the stronger accent, as being
the more important part of the sentence, and the part
containing the new matter. Again, the place held in
the sentence by the subject and predicate respectively,
may have afforded another means of distinction
between the two. Different views have been held as
to the respective precedence of subject and predicate
in the consciousness of the speaker. The true view
seems to be that the idea of the subject is the first to
arise in the consciousness of the speaker; but as soon
as he begins to speak, the idea of the predicate, on
which he wishes to lay stress, may present itself with
such force as to gain priority of expression, the subject
not being added till afterwards. Take, for example,
the opening of Keats’ Hyperion—
‘Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat grey-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.’
In this case, the superior emphasis gained by the
position of the predicate in the first place causes
the speaker to set it there, and is indicative of the
superior importance which he attaches to it.29
Similarly, the subject is sometimes expressed first
by a pronoun, whose relation only becomes clear to
the listener when expressed more definitely at a later
period; as—
‘She is coming, my dove, my dear.’
‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.’
‘She was a staid little woman, was Grace.’
This construction is extremely common in French;
as, ‘Elle approche, cette mort inexorable;’ ‘Mais ce
qu’elle ne disait point, cette pauvre bergère.’
The transposition, then, of subject and predicate may be considered an anomaly; but it is an anomaly of frequent occurrence, and is based on the importance which the predicate assumes in the mind of the speaker.
We have seen that single words may possess concrete and abstract significations,30 and it is the same with sentences. A sentence is concrete when either the psychological subject or the psychological predicate is concrete; as, This man is good. But as far as the mere form goes, concrete and abstract sentences need not differ; for instance, an expression like The horse is swift (which, when it does not refer to any particular horse, is an ‘abstract’ sentence) is identical in form with the expression The horse is worthless, which obviously refers to some particular horse, and is therefore ‘concrete.’ It is the situation and circumstances alone which mark the different nature of the sentences. There are, however, sentences which, with a concrete subject, have a partially abstract meaning. If, for instance, on hearing a lady sing, one remarks, She sings too slowly, the sentence is entirely concrete; but the same words may be used to express that the singer is in the habit of singing too slowly, in which case the predicate becomes abstract. Such sentences may be called ‘concrete abstract.’
It was stated that at least two members are necessary to make up a sentence. It seems, at first sight, a contradiction to this statement that we find sentences composed of merely a single word, or of a group of words forming a unit. The fact is that, in this case, one member of the sentence is assumed and finds no expression in language. Commonly this member is the logical subject. This subject may, however, be completed from what precedes, or is sufficiently clearly indicated by the circumstances of the case; or, again, in conversation, it is often necessary to take it from the words of the other speaker. The answer is frequently a predicate alone; the subject may be contained in the question, or the whole question may be the logical subject. If I say, Who struck you? and the answer is John, the subject is, in this case, contained in the question, and the answer is, ‘The striker is John.’ If I say, Was it you? the whole question is the logical subject, and the answer, Yes, No, Certainly, Surely, Of course, etc., is the logical predicate, as if the reply had been, ‘My being so is the case.’ Many other similar words may serve as the predicate to a sentence spoken by another, such as Admittedly, All right, Very possibly, Strange enough, No wonder, Nonsense, Stuff, Balderdash, etc.
In other cases, the surrounding circumstances, or
what is called ‘the situation,’ forms the logical subject.
If I say, ‘Welcome!’ and at the same time stretch
out my hand to a new arrival, this is equivalent to
saying, You are welcome, and welcome is the logical
predicate. In exclamations of sudden astonishment
and alarm, such as Fire! Thieves! Murder! Help! it
is the situation which is the logical subject. Challenges
are instances of the same kind, e.g. Straight on or not?
Right or left? Back or forward? When the poet
sings—
‘A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast,’
the situation, again, is the logical subject.
It should be noticed that, in the case of sentences expressed by a single member, the word which for the speaker is the psychological predicate becomes for the hearer the subject. A man, seeing a house on fire, cries ‘Fire!’ for him the situation is the subject, and the idea of fire is the predicate. The man who hears ‘Fire!’ cried before he himself sees it, conceives of fire as the subject, and of the situation as the predicate. Sentences may, however, occur in which both speaker and hearer apprehend what is uttered as the subject, and the situation as the predicate. Supposing, for instance, that two persons have agreed that the fire shall be extinguished before they go out, and one of them, observing the chimney smoking, cries out, ‘The fire!’ in this case the fire, the logical subject, is alone denoted, and the predicate is gathered by the person addressed from the situation, which is evident from the speaker’s gestures. If, again, two friends are travelling, and one remarks that the other is without his umbrella, the mere exclamation, ‘Your umbrella!’ suffices to make the latter complete the predicate. The vocative, again, pronounced as such, and intended to warn or entreat, suggests a psychological predicate which it lacks in words. On the other hand, by the side of a verb in the second person without subject pronoun, the vocative may be apprehended as the subject to the verb. If I say, ‘Come!’ the vocative (the person addressed) may be apprehended as the subject to this verb; if it be Charles, the meaning is, Charles should come.
It is a question much disputed, and not yet decided, whether impersonal verbs should be regarded as lacking a subject or not. If we regard the grammatical form alone, we cannot doubt that sentences like It snows, It freezes, It is getting late, have a subject. But there is no reason for alleging that this subject (it) can be treated as a logical subject; a logical subject must admit of a definite interpretation, and it is difficult to give one in this case. Again, in the case of impersonal verbs, like the Latin pluit, the Greek ὕει, the Sanscrit varśati, (it rains), and the Lithuanian sninga (it snows), the formal subject may be found in the ‘personal’ termination, which is supposed to be the remnant of a word signifying he, she, or it. And it seems natural to recognise a formal subject in this case, but, at the same time, to notice that this formal subject stands apart from the psychological subject. It seems probable that an older stage of language existed, in which the bare verbal stem was set down; just as in Hungarian at the present day, where the third person of the present singular has no suffix, the first and second terminating in -ok and -s respectively. In Anglo-Saxon we find passive and other impersonal verbs used absolutely, without any subject expressed or understood; thus, þám ylcan dóme e þé démoð eów byð gedémed (= With the same judgment that ye judge, to you (it) shall be judged); him hungrede (= N.H.G. es hungerte ihn).31 The psychological subject is, then, as little expressed in the sentence It is hot, as in the sentence Fire. But although it is not expressed, it would be unsafe to assume its non-existence, for here, as well as everywhere else, we have two ideas conjoined, in the same way as when we exclaim, Fire! In this case there is, on the one side, the perception of a concrete phenomenon; on the other, the abstract idea of burning or of fire: and just as that perception is brought by our exclamation under the general idea of burning, so in the statement It rains, the perception of what is going on is by our words ranged under the general notion of water falling in drops from the sky. Our conclusion, therefore, is this: sentences like Fire! as well as those like It rains, have both psychological subject and predicate; but in the former case no subject is expressed, whereas in the latter a formal subject is employed, which, however, does but imperfectly, if indeed at all, correspond to the psychological one. This holds good unless we conceive of the formal subject, It, as standing for that which we see or that which is happening now. In this case, the peculiar nature of the impersonal verbs would be restricted to the difficulty, but not the impossibility, of explaining their subject.
We have defined the sentence as the expression for the connection of two ideas. Negative sentences may seem, at first sight, to contradict this, since they denote a separation. But the ideas must have met in the consciousness of the speaker before judgment can be pronounced whether they agree or disagree. In fact, the negative sentence may be defined as the statement that the attempt to establish a connection between the ideas has failed. The negative sentence is, in any case, of later date than the positive, and though, in all known languages, negation now finds a special expression, it is possible to imagine that negative sentences might be found in some primitive stage of language, wherein the negative sense was indicated by the stress alone and the accompanying gestures. Cf. such sentences as ‘I do this?’ or ‘Eine ego ut adverser?’ (Ter., And., I. v. 28.)32 At all events sentences of assertion and sentences of demand border on each other very closely, and can be expressed by the same forms of language. The different shades of meaning attaching to the words can be recognised only by the different tones conveying the feeling meant to be indicated.
Wishes and demands, again, touch each other very closely; and it is natural to suppose that, in an early state of linguistic consciousness, a wish would have been equivalent to a demand. A sentence like ‘Heads up!’ expresses a demand or wish, but it might equally convey an assertion. We can say perfectly well, ‘They entered, heads up,’ or ‘erect;’ and we hear quite commonly, Heads up! meaning, ‘Hold your heads up!’ And indeed such sentences of demand, or imperative sentences, would naturally be the first to present themselves to primitive mankind, whose utterances, like those of children nowadays, would naturally take the shape of requests that their immediate needs might be satisfied. We employ many such sentences at the present day, such as Eyes right! Attention! Hats off! This way! All aboard! Joking apart; An eye for an eye; Peace to his ashes! A health to all good lasses! Away with him! Out with him! Then, again, there are sentences composed of a single linguistic member; such as Hush! Quick! Slow! Forward! Up! Off! To work!
Two kinds of interrogatory sentences must be distinguished: (1) those that put in question one only of the members of which they are composed, and (2) such as contain nothing affirmative, but are purely interrogatory in their nature. No satisfactory names have as yet been given to these two classes, but a study of one or two examples will show that the difference is real, and will tend to illustrate it. Such a sentence as Who has done this? or Where did you get that? no doubt asks a question as to the name of the doer of a certain deed, or the place where a particular object was obtained, but, at the same time, certainly assumes that the interrogator takes for granted that a certain deed was done by some one, or a certain object obtained by the person addressed. In fact, the form of the interrogation is to some extent affirmative. No such affirmation, however, is present in such questions as Can you speak French? Will you come? Have you money? etc.
Of these two classes of questions, the former are certainly of the more recent origin, for they demand the employment of an interrogative pronoun or adverb, with which the latter can dispense. It is noteworthy that in I.E. languages these interrogative words are at the same time indefinite; and it is hard to decide which of the two meanings should be regarded as the original. On the one hand, it is easy to conceive how a word bearing an interrogative meaning could assume an indefinite one. If we are accustomed to employ the word who when we wish to know who a person is, but are uncertain, we may easily proceed to apply this word in a case where we are uncertain (or wish to appear so), though we do not ask for information. A who-person has done this, is not and has never been an English method of expressing, ‘Some one has done it.’33 But it is conceivable that, at some stage of the I.E. languages, our linguistic ancestors may have adopted a similar mode of expression. On the other hand, it is as easy to imagine that a word expressive of uncertainty, or absence of knowledge or information, should be used to indicate the desire for it. In fact, we actually do employ a method akin to this when we use the indefinite any to show that we desire to know; e.g., if, upon entering a dark room, we ask, Any one here? This, of course, is not, and never has been, in English, equivalent to ‘Who is here?’—but still it is quite conceivable that at some early linguistic period this transition has actually been made. Could it be demonstrated that it ever actually was made, the transition from the questions in our second category, to those falling under our first, would be explained. For suppose the question Is any (one) here? (an order of words to which we now are bound, but which, as we shall see, was not always the necessary order) to be put as Any (one) is here? the proximity of this sentence to Who is here? is at once evident.
Questions with an interrogative pronoun stand
nearer still to questions with an indefinite pronoun
where a negative answer is expected, as appears when
we set What can I answer? by the side of Can I
answer anything?—Who will do this? by the side of
Will any one do this?—Where is such a man? by the
side of Is there such a man? The question to which
the simple answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is expected is in
many languages expressed by a special particle. Thus
ne in Latin serves to mark an interrogation, and the
stress is laid upon the word to which the interrogative
particle is affixed. At present, the Teutonic and
Romance languages almost universally express interrogation
by the order of the words; but this inverted
order by no means necessarily involves interrogation,
and in former times was very frequently employed in
affirmative clauses. Thus, for instance, in A.S.—
‘Ne hýrde ic cymlîcor ceól gegyrwan:’
Not heard I comelier keel to have been prepared
= I never heard ... (Beowulf, 38).
‘Saegde se ðe cûðe’ (ibid., 90):
Said he that knew = He ... said.
‘Waes seó hwíl micel’ (ibid., 146):
Was the time great = The time was long.
Even now we have many interrogations in which the
stress or tone alone marks their nature; as, Any one
there? All right? Ready? A glass of beer, sir?
(spoken by a waiter). We can thus conceive it
possible that, for a long time, sentences may have
existed without any sign except the tone to indicate
their interrogative nature.
Simple interrogative sentences hold in some ways a middle position between positive and negative sentences of assertion. They may, in fact, be thrown into a positive or a negative form at choice; the positive form naturally presenting itself as the simpler, while the function of the negative form is to modify the question pure and simple. Such modifications may, indeed, cause the interrogation to take something of the character of the sentence of assertion. We may, for instance, mention a fact and expect it to be confirmed by another. In this case, we may employ a negative interrogatory sentence; as, Were you not there? I thought I saw you! Or we may employ a positive interrogatory form of sentence, showing by the tone of query alone the nature of the sentence; as, You were there, I think? You are quite happy? We thus see, by examples taken from both the positive and negative side, how nearly the sentences of interrogation touch the sentences of assertion.
Another way in which sentences of interrogation and assertion approach one another is in the expression of admiration or surprise. To express such feelings we may employ either (1) the interrogative or (2) the assertive form of sentence, marking the latter, however, by a tone expressive of interrogation. Thus we may say, Is Francis dead? or express the same idea by saying, Francis is really dead? emphasising the word really and raising the voice at the last word. Thus, too, we can ask the direct question, Are you here again? or employ the assertive form, You are here again?34
Sentences expressive of surprise without a verb, may be classed either with the interrogative form, or with the assertive form with the interrogatory tone. They occupy a neutral ground between the two. Thus, You my long lost brother? What, that to me? What, here already? So soon?35 And infinitival clauses are similarly used; as, I to herd with savage races! etc. (Tennyson, Locksley Hall); Mene incepto desistere victam? (Vergil, Æneid, I. 37). This use is very common in French; cf. Moi vous abandonner! (Andrieux); Et dire qu’à moi seul je vins à bout de toutes ces prévisions! (Daudet). We find, also, expressions of surprise in which the psychological subject and predicate are connected by ‘and:’ So young and so worn out? A maid and be so martial? (Shakespeare, 1 Henry VI., II. i.).36 The expression of surprise is sometimes weakened into a mere conventional formula for opening a conversation; as, Always in good spirits? Busy as always? Busy yet?
The primitive form of expression without any finite verb is especially common in the indignant repudiation of an assertion; as, I a liar? ‘She ask my pardon?’ How! not know the friend that served you? Ego lanista? Io dir bugie?
What is vaguely known as the rhetorical class of questions arises from a desire, on the part of the interrogator, to make the person addressed reflect upon and admit the truth of information indirectly contained in the interrogation. Such are the questions in some catechisms, and those in the ‘Guide to Knowledge;’ e.g., Do not mulberry trees often bear two crops of leaves in a year? Must not every substance be prepared before it receives the colour? This use of the interrogation and interrogative form is, of course, of much more recent date than the other common usages.
The foregoing consideration of the sentence in its simplest form, as consisting of simple subject and predicate only, will have prepared us for the study of the development of all other syntactical relations from this the only primitive one. For all other extensions of the sentence—with the single exception of the copulative union of two simple ones—arise from the repetition of the relation between subject and predicate.37 The copulative extension is now commonly indicated by means of conjunctions or other particles; e.g., ‘John wrote and Alfred was reading:’ but even now mere co-ordination is sufficient; as, John wrote, Alfred read; He came, he saw, he conquered; One rises, the other falls; Men die, books live; etc. It is therefore easy to imagine that, at one time, this mere juxtaposition, which seems to us an exceptional usage, may have been the regular one.
Among the other extensions, two main cases are to be distinguished, as either (1) two equivalent members combine in the same clause with another (i.e. two subjects with one predicate, or two predicates with a single subject); or38 (2) a combination (a) of subject and predicate becomes, as such, the subject or predicate of some other word or combination (b), which latter is then the predicate or subject to (a) the former.
It is not easy to illustrate these extensions by instances drawn from modern English: nay, it is impossible if we insist upon invariably framing sentences which the present state of our language would regard as admissible. But we must remember that we are now attempting to trace the probable development of our syntactical relations, or rather of our method of expressing the various syntactical relations, as it proceeded during a very primitive stage of the history of language. At this period the speakers were struggling to find intelligible utterance for their thoughts, which were themselves but primitive, confused, childish. All the examples which we have given heretofore should be regarded therefore merely as illustrating processes common in very remote linguistic periods, and not as instances of what is usual at the present period. We have found it necessary on previous occasions to illustrate our arguments by combining English words in a way which is not and has never been English,—the advantage of such illustration being that it aided us to understand, at least in a certain measure, the mode in which our linguistic ancestors of ages long past thought. To this artifice we shall find it necessary to revert somewhat largely, as the analytical character of modern English, with its necessarily fixed order of words, has effaced most traces of this primitive state of language.
We should have an instance of the first main case of extension mentioned if, after saying, e.g., John reads, we remembered that Alfred too was reading, and then merely added this second subject. We have shown that we must not suppose that originally the order of the words was, as is now invariably the case in modern English, (1) subject, (2) verb: so that John read (without inflection, read being a mere name of the action) was just as correct as read John, but not more so. If we clearly grasp this, we can fully understand that such a combination as John read Alfred (or, indeed, John, Alfred read) might once have been intelligible for what we should now express by John and Alfred are reading.
Similarly, a little linguistic imagination will suffice to enable us to conceive of the production by those primitive language-makers of a sentence like Sing(ing) John dance(ing) to express John sings and dances. Such constructions of two equal parts in combination with a third might be symbolised. Thus we might put s for subject, p for predicate, then the symbolisation would run sps, ssp, psp, or spp, etc., or a + b + a.39
In the first fictitious example, the two subjects stood BOTH IN PRECISELY THE SAME RELATION to the predicate, and in the second the two predicates stood in exactly the same relation to the subject. In such cases, the facts may be described just as correctly and just as completely by a sentence consisting of two parts only, viz., a compound subject, consisting of the two joined by a copula, + the predicate (or subject + compound predicate). Of these two modes of expression, closely allied as they are, the one appears to us strange and, indeed, impossible,—the other so familiar that we can hardly imagine a state of language in which both alike may have been regular. On the other hand, we have no difficulty in seeing how the two systems have become confused.
All traces, therefore, of the construction which we have now lost are interesting and worth studying. A sentence like Cicero’s Consules, prætores, tribuni plebis, senatus, Italia cuncta a vobis deprecata est (= Consuls, prætors, tribunes of the plebs, the senate, all Italy implored of you) is constructed much upon the model of the method now obsolete. In this case, however, the construction seems to us less unnatural, because the subject last named in the sentence, viz., Italia, may be considered to include all the others and to stand alone in their stead: hence it is that we find the verb in the singular, and hence the feminine gender of deprecata (implored). In another passage Cicero says, Speusippus et Xenocrates et Polemo et Cantor nihil ab Aristotele dissentit. This would be a perfect instance of ssp were it not for the insertion of et, which (due, as it is, to confusion with the compound subject in the sentence consisting of two parts only) would lead us to expect that the verb would be placed in the plural. It is, however, precisely this fact that the verb stands in the singular which demonstrates that it belongs as predicate to each subject separately, and not to the group indicated by the enumerated subjects jointly. In M.H.G. we meet with such constructions, especially those where one part—as the subject, for instance—is placed between the two others; as, Dô spranc von dem gesidele her Hagene alsô sprach = ‘Then sprang from the seat hither Hagen thus spoke.’ In A.S., too, we find occasionally a somewhat similar construction, as in Beowulf, 90-92: Saegde se ðe cúðe ... cwæð ðæt se Ælmihtiga = ‘Said he who knew ... spoke that the Almighty.’ If we change the order, and add and, we transform this sentence into one of two parts: SUBJECT, he who knew; PREDICATE (compound), said and spoke. Even in modern language this construction is not wholly without parallels. Cf. Another love succeeds, another race (Pope, Essay on Man, iii., line 130); cf. also, Dust thou art, to dust returnest (Longfellow).
Or, again, we find sentences where the two equal parts both follow or both precede. He ðæs frófre gebád, wéox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum ðáh (He received consolation [compensation], grew up under the clouds [= on earth], increased in fame) (Beowulf, 7); He weepeth, wayleth, maketh sory cheere (Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 3618); Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? (Shakespeare, Richard II., Act III., ii., 141); Of ðære heortan cumað yfele geðancas, mannslyhtas, unriht-hæmedu, forligru, stale, léase gewitnyssa, tællíce word (Matt. xv. 19).
But it is also quite conceivable that (REMEMBERING THE EXTENDED MEANING WHICH, FOR THE PRIMITIVE STAGE OF LANGUAGE, WE MUST ATTACH TO THESE TERMS) two subjects should come into the consciousness as related to the same predicate, even though that RELATION is OF a very DIFFERENT NATURE in the case of the one from that in the other. To illustrate this, let us remember that the noun must once have been uninflected, or, at least, no definite system of inflection had been evolved; the verb had a much vaguer and less definite meaning than at present; the order of words had not yet begun to be significant; that John strike, as well as strike John, or words equivalent in meaning, could stand for John strikes, or John has been striking; nay, even, if only accompanied by appropriate gestures, for John was struck, or John is being struck.