Similarly, we have cases in which the subject of an objective clause introduced by that becomes a nominal object of the principal verb; as, All saw him, that he was among the prophets: so, too, the object of some subordinate clause may be also object of the main verb; e.g., They demanded £400, which she knew not how to pay.
We find in English such phrases as ‘Such of the
Moriscoes might remain WHO demeaned themselves as
Christians’ (Watson’s Life of Philip III.)72 We find
in common use such phrases as such as I saw side
by side with the same which I saw, or that I saw.
Bacon writes such which must go before; and Shakespeare,
Thou speakest to SUCH a man THAT is no
fleering tell-tale (Julius Cæsar, I. iii). So Fuller: Oft-times
SUCH WHO are built four stories high are observed
to have little in their cockloft. In Latin, we similarly
find idem followed by ut, as in eadem sunt iniustitia
ut si in suam rem aliena convertant. In English, again,
we find sentences like—
‘But scarce were they hidden away, I declare,
Than the giant came in with a curious air’
It is said that nothing was so teasing to Lord Erskine
THAN being constantly addressed by his second title of
Baron Clackmannan (Sir H. Bulwer, Historical Characters,
vol. ii., p. 186, Cobbett). We say ‘each time
when’ and ‘each time that’ (similarly, in French we
find ‘au temps où,’ and, at an earlier period, ‘au
temps que’); ‘the rather because,’ as well as ‘the
rather that.’
In English we frequently find constructions like ‘Mac Ian, while putting on his clothes, was shot through the head’ (Macaulay, History of England, vii., p. 24); ‘I wrote an epitaph for my wife though still living’ (Goldsmith, Vicar of Wakefield, ii.). In these cases, the predicatival attribute has the same function as a dependent sentence introduced by a conjunction; and consequently the circumstance described is rendered more exact by the placing of certain conjunctions before the simple adjective. So, in French, we say, Je le fis quoique obligé; and, in Italian, benchè costretto. Similarly, in Latin, many conjunctions are placed before the ablative absolute; cf. quamvis iniqua pace, honeste tamen viverent (Cicero): etsi aliquo accepto detrimento (Cæsar).
Conversely, the fact that dependent sentences and prepositional determinants may have the same function, causes prepositions to be used to introduce dependent sentences. This use is especially common in English: cf. Except a man be born (St. John iii. 5); For I cannot flatter thee in pride (Shakespeare, 2 Henry VI., I. iii); After he had begotten Seth (Genesis); sometimes this usage extends to cases where the strict written language hesitates to accept it as usual; as, ‘without they were ordered’ (Marryat); ‘I hate him for he is a Christian, but more for that—he lends’ (Merchant of Venice, I. iii. 43). Till and until are specially common in this use. Indeed, the prepositional use of these words has almost died out in Modern English, but is frequent in the literature of the Elizabethan age; cf. Shakespeare, ‘From the first corse till he that died to-day’ (Hamlet, I. ii. 105), where he should, strictly speaking, be him. Other instances are quoted by Abbott, § 184. It must, however, be particularly noticed that the constructions for that, after that, etc., may be used instead of for, after, when these words are used as conjunctions. A preposition also stands before indirect questions: cf. ‘at the idea of how sorry she would be’ (Marryat): ‘the daily quarrels about who shall squander most’ (Gay).
The result of contamination in syntax is often a pleonasm. Thus, in Latin, we frequently meet with several particles expressive of similarity; as, pariter hoc fit atque ut alia facta sunt (Plautus): and, again, we find expressions like quasi si; nisi si.73 Thus, in English, we meet with the common but incorrect expression like as if. We can connect a preposition either with a substantive or with a governing verb: we can say, the place I am in, or, the place in which I am. The two even occur in combination: cf. That fair FOR which love groaned FOR (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I. v., chorus), and, In what enormity is Marcus poor in...? (Coriolanus, II. i. 18). Nay, we often find such expressions as of our general’s (Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, I. i. 1), instead of of our general or our general’s; ‘If one may give that epithet to any opinion of a father’s’ (Scott, Rob Roy, ch. ii.); ‘He is likewise a rival of mine, that is my other self’s’ (Sheridan): cf. also the common pleonasm of ours. Sometimes, to adverbs of place—themselves denoting the direction whence—is added a preposition with a similar meaning; as, from henceforth (Luke v. 10): cf. ‘I went from thence on to Edinburgh’ (Life of George Grote, ch. ii., p. 187).
Other instances of pleonasms arising from syntactical contamination are: ‘He saw that the reason why witchcraft was ridiculed was because it was a phase of the miraculous, etc.’ (Lecky, History of Rationalism, vol. i., p. 126); ‘The reason why Socrates was condemned to death was on account of his unpopularity’ Times, February 27, 1871).74
Double comparatives and superlatives pleonastically resulting from syntactical contamination are not unusual in English: cf. ‘Farmers find it far more profitable to sell their milk wholesale rather than to retail it’ (Fawcett, Pauperism, ch. vi., p. 237): ‘Still it was on the whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take the directest means of seeing Dorothea rather than to use any device,’ etc. (Middlemarch, vol. iii., bk. vi., ch. lxii., p. 365). Thus we have in Shakespeare, more kinder, more corrupter, and most unkindest (Julius Cæsar, III. ii. 187); and thy most worst (Winter’s Tale, III. ii. 180). In poetry, again, we find adjectives with a superlative sense compared; as, perfectest, chiefest (Shakespeare), extremest (Milton), more perfect (English Bible), lonelier (Longfellow).75
In Latin and Greek, we find the comparative where we should expect the positive; as, ante alios immanior omnes (Vergil, Æneid, iv.); αἱρετώτερον εἶναι τὸν καλὸν θάνατον ἀντὶ τοῦ αἰσχροῦ βίου (Xenophon). In Scotch it is usual to say He is quite better again for He is quite well again. We find the positive where we should expect the comparative, as in St. Mark ix. 43; Καλόν σοι ἐστί ... ἤ (It is good for thee than, etc.). We also find the superlative used where the comparative would be regular: cf. Theocritus, xv. 139: Ἕκτωρ, Ἑκάβας ὁ γεραίτατος εἴκατι παίδων.76
Pleonasm arising from contamination occurs most extensively in the case of negations. Cf. ‘There was no character created by him into which life and reality were not thrown with such vividness that the thing written did not seem to his readers the thing actually done’ (Forster’s Life of Dickens, vol. ii., ch. ix., p. 181). In older stages of English, as of German and French, this usage was very common. Cf. Parceque la langue française cort parmi le monde est la plus délitable à lire et à oir que nulle autre (Martin da Canale);77 Wird das hindern können, dass man sie nicht schlachtet? (Schiller). In Chaucer and Shakespeare the use of the double negative is common: First he denied you had in him no right (Comedy of Errors, IV. ii. 7). You may deny that you were not the cause (Richard III., I. iii. 90).78 With this we may compare the redundant negative in Greek after verbs of denying: οὐκ ἀπαρνοῦμαι τὸ μή; and, in Latin, non dubito quin: cf. also the use of the double negative in Plautus, neque illud haud objiciet mihi (Epid., V. i. 5). In these cases a negative appears with an infinitive where the main verb itself contains a quasi-negatival force: numerous instances may be found in Shakespeare; cf. Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds (Pas. Pilgrim, 9).
So we find a contamination of the two constructions: ‘not—and not’ and ‘neither—not’ in cases like Shakespeare’s ‘Be not proud, nor brag not of thy might’ (Venus and Adonis, 113), = Be not ... and brag not + neither be ... nor brag.
Compare also, ‘I cannot choose one nor refuse none’ = I cannot choose one and I can (or may) refuse none + I can neither choose one nor refuse one.79
A pleonastic negation occurs in French and other languages after words signifying ‘without:’ cf. Mätzner, Fr. Gr., § 165: Sans NUL égard pour nos scrupules (Béranger); Elle ne voyait aucun être souffrant sans que son visage N’exprimât la peine qu’elle en ressentait (Bernardin de St. Pierre).80 A curious pleonasm of the article occurs in the following sentence: No stronger and stranger A figure is described in the modern history of England (Justin McCarthy, History of our own Times, vol. i., ch. ii., p. 31); a contamination between There was not a stronger figure, and No stronger figure.
A very interesting and useful little book has been published by Professor Nichol and M’Cormick on English Composition. It came too late into our hands for us to make use of the many instructive and often amusing examples it contains. We subjoin one (from p. 76).
‘The curses of Mr. A. B., like chickens, will come home to roost against him’ (a contamination of ‘will be brought up against him,’ and ‘will come home to roost’).
Contaminations will account for many irregularities noted by the authors.
We must not suppose that the conditions under which language was originally created were different from those which we are able to trace and to watch in the process of its historical development. We must not suppose that mankind once possessed a special faculty for coining language, and that this faculty has died out. Education and experience must have developed our faculties no less for the creation of language than for other purposes; and if we have ceased to create new materials for language at the present day, the reason must be that we have no further need to do so. The mass of linguistic material which we have inherited is, in fact, so great that it is scarcely possible for us to conceive a new idea for which, in the existing language, we could not find some word or form either ready to our hand, or capable of being made more or less suitable to express it, or at least able to supply some derivative for the purpose. On the other hand, we must admit that the process of new creation has never wholly ceased in language; and even in English we find a certain quantity of words whose derivation is unknown, and which seem to be unconnected with any Indo-European language; e.g., dog, rabbit, ramble, etc.81
Again, we must not suppose that the history of language falls into two parts—a period of roots, and another period when language was built up of roots. At first, indeed, every idea to be expressed demanded the creation of a new term; and even when the stock of existing words had already become considerable, new thoughts must constantly have arisen for which, as yet, there was no expression. Still, as the existing vocabulary grew larger, the necessity for absolutely new words, not connected with or derived from others already existing, grew less and less; and it would therefore seem as if the need for such formations would have gradually disappeared completely. But a little consideration will suffice to show that, at all stages in the history of language, there must have existed a certain necessity for new creations to express new ideas; and we have a right to assume that in later times, as civilisation grew more complex, the degree in which new creations were necessary remained a considerable one.
The essence of original creation consists in the fact that a group of sounds is connected with a group of ideas, without the intervening link of any association already existing between a similar, related sound-group, and a similar, related idea. When the Dutch chemist, Van Helmont, conceived the novel idea of a category which should embrace all such substances as air, oxygen, hydrogen, etc., he invented a new term, ‘gas,’ which, unless the fancied connection with the word ‘geest’ (ghost) was indeed present in his mind, was a ‘new creation.’ If, on the other hand, some one were now to invent some entirely new process of treating gases, or of treating other substances with gases, and to indicate such an operation by some such form as gasel, the word gasel would no doubt be quite new, but we should not speak of it as an ‘original creation’ in the sense in which we use the words in this chapter. It would be a new derivative.
Original creation is due, in the first instance, to an impulse which may disappear and leave no permanent traces. It is necessary, in order that a real language may arise from this process, that the sounds should have operated upon the mind so that memory can reproduce them. It is further necessary that other individuals should understand the sounds which thus constitute a word, and should be able to reproduce them as well.
We find that the new is named in language after what is already known; in fact, the old and the new stand related to each other as cause and effect: in other words, the new is not produced without some kind of connection with the old. This connection generally consists of some pre-existing association between cognate words and cognate ideas. In the case, then, of original creation, the essence of which we declared to be the absence of that link, some other connection must exist; and this will generally be found in the fact that the sounds and their signification suggest each other. The sounds in that case will strike the generality of hearers as appropriate to the meaning intended to be conveyed, and the speaker will be conscious that those sounds are peculiarly fitted to express the idea which is in his mind. As an instance, we might take the barbarously constructed word ‘electrocution,’ now in use in America to denote the new method of inflicting the death penalty in that country. The word electric is understood; and so is the word execution: the barbarous new word is the effect of our previous comprehension of these two words. Such appropriateness will secure the repetition of the new creation by the same speaker, and make probable the spontaneous creation of the same term by various speakers living in the same mental and material surroundings, both which effects are essential conditions for the common acceptance of the new expression.
The most obvious class of words to illustrate this connection between sound and meaning is what is known as ‘onomatopoietic;’ i.e. names which were plainly coined in order to imitate sounds. The most common of these are such as seem to be imitations of noises and movements. Such are click, clack, clink, clang, creak, crack, ding, twang, rattle, rustle, whistle, jingle, croak, crash, gnash, clatter, chatter, twitter, fizz, whiz, whisk, whiff, puff, rap, slap, snap, clash, dash, hum, buzz, chirp, cheep, hiss, quack, hoot, whirr, snarl, low, squeak, roar, titter, snigger, giggle, chuckle, whimper, croon, babble, growl.82 Those with the suffix le are used to express iteration, and so to form frequentative verbs. These suffixes are specially noticeable in words of imitative origin, such as the list given in Skeat, English Etymology, p. 278. Some verbs denote at once a noise and an explosion, like bang, puff; French, pan, pouf: others a noise and motion, as fizz, whirr. These are words which appear to date from comparatively modern English. There would be no difficulty in gathering from Greek and Latin parallel instances, namely of words imitative of sounds, which seem to be new creations and have no apparent connection with any other Indo-European language, such as gannire, χρεμετίζειν.
It would seem, therefore, that, as far as we can judge, the original creations of language must have consisted in words expressive of emotion on the one hand, and of sounds on the other.
Because, in such words as we have been considering, we recognise an intimate affinity between the sound and the signification, it does not however follow that all these words must necessarily have been in their origin onomatopoietic. There are some cases in which the words have been consciously modified so as to imitate the sound; as, hurtle, mash, smash. Some may thus, perhaps, only seem to be ‘new creations,’ but it is very unlikely that this is generally the case. Nay, we may say it is certain that most of such words as we have been considering are ‘new creations,’ and we are further strengthened in this conviction by the fact that we frequently find words of similar meaning, and very similar forms, which cannot, according to the laws of sound, be referred to a single original; such are, e.g., crumple, rumple, crimp; slop, slap, slip; squash, gash; grumble, rumble. These seem to support the idea that they were formed as imitative of sound.
Strictly speaking, however, the only absolutely certain original creations are interjections. True interjections, at least those usually employed, are as truly learnt by tradition as any other elements of language, and it is owing to their association that they come to express emotion. But, as reflex-utterances to sudden emotions, they essentially belong to the class of words we are now considering. Once existing, they become conventional, and hence it is that we see different sounds employed to express the same emotions in different languages. Thus we have in English to express surprise, Dear me!—in Greek, Παπαί—German, Aha! The Englishman says Hulló with rising, where the Portuguese would say Holà, with falling intonation. To express pain, we have Alas! Welladay! Woe’s me!—in German, Ach! Weh! Au!—in French, Oh! Hélas! Ciel!—in Gaelic, Och! Och mo chreach! To express joy, we have in English, Hurrah, Good!—in German, Heida! Heisa! Juch! Juchheisa!—in Greek, Εὖγε!—in Latin, Evax!—in French, the old expression, Oh gay! (Molière, Mis., Act. I., sc. iii.). Hence it is, too, that individuals employing the same dialect employ different interjections to express the same emotion. Thus, different individuals in the same linguistic community might employ, to express disgust or disbelief, Pshaw! Fudge! Stuff! Nonsense! etc.
Of the interjections cited above, it may be noticed that some, like Pshaw! and Pooh! seem to be a primitive and simple expression of feeling. Most interjections, however, seem to be made up of existing words or groups of words; cf. farewell, welcome, hail, good, welladay, bother, by ‘r Lady, bosh: and this is the case in the most various languages. In many cases, their origin is quite concealed by sound changes; as in hélas, which is really derived from the natural sound hé, and las, ‘weary,’ and has come to be pronounced ‘hélas.’ Other instances are Welladay! Zounds! (i.e. God’s wounds), Jiminy (i.e. Jesu Domine). Some of these have been assimilated by popular etymology to words existing in the language; such as Welladay! into which meaningless expression the old form wellaway (A.S. wá lá wá = wo! lo! wo!) has been turned. Other instances are harrow, in Chaucer, from N.F. haro; goodbye, from God be wi’ ye; palsangguné = par le sang béni (Molière); cadedis, in Gascon, (= cap de Dieu = caput Dei). Some, again, have come to be used as expressions of emotion, being in their origin foreign words whose signification is partially or wholly forgotten; such are Hosannah!83 (Save, we pray), Hallelujah!84 (Praise ye Jehovah).
There seems, however, to be a certain number of words which owed their origin immediately to reflex movements, and which come to be employed when we happen to again experience a similar sudden excitement. Such words as these are bang, dash, hurrah, slap, crack, fizz, boom. There are, probably, ‘interjections’ which, in single cases, are natural productions, and in all cases lie near the field of natural production; e.g., the sign of shuddering, or shivering with cold, horror, fright (often written ugh!). It accompanies the shiver of the body and is itself the result of an expulsion of air from the lungs through the vocal passages where all the muscles are in a state of sympathetic contraction. Aau! may also be, in single cases, a natural production. Aautch is a sort of diminutive of it. Again, the sound used in clearing the throat is a purely natural production. Coupled with closure of the lips, forcing an exit by the nasal passages, it assumes the form hm!—or hem! as commonly written. As commonly appearing preparatory to speaking, it comes by association to have value in attracting attention.
Many of these words are, at the same time, substantives or verbs as well; and in this case it is often difficult to say whether the interjectional use, on the one hand, or the nominal and verbal on the other, is the original. For us, however, this is at present immaterial; as long as in the one we have a real ‘original creation,’ the other meaning may be a derived one. Duplication and triplication of sounds is often employed, and often the vowel sounds belonging to the different syllables are differentiated by ablaut. Thus chit-chat, ding-dong, snip-snap (Shakespeare, Love’s Labour’s lost, V. i.), tittle-tattle, kit-kat (in ‘the Kit-kat Club’), sing-song, see-saw, gew-gaw, tick-tack; French, clic-clac, cric-crac, drelin-drelon, cahu-caha (used to express the jolting of a vehicle). Words used as substantives only, are formed in somewhat similar pairs as hurly-burly, linsey-woolsey, hotch-potch; and so also are adverbs such as helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy. Old language material, too, is often employed in the formation of such words as sing-song, ding-dong, boohoo, rub-a-dub, zig-zag. We may compare also such formations as ring-a-ching-a-chink-chink. There are other words due to the same imitative impulse, which, however, are formed according to the regular laws of language. Such are combinations of several words echoing the sound, and differing only in their vowels: such as flicker and flacker, crinkle-crankle, dinging and donging.
Nursery language. Most nursery language is imitative of natural sounds, and reduplication plays an important part in the words in this; cf. bow-wow, puff-puff, gee-gee, etc.85 This language is not invented by children, but is received by them like any other, and welcomed by those who have to teach infants, as facilitating the efforts of the teacher. The relation of the sound to the meaning which often still exists therein, facilitates the acceptance of the word by the child to be taught. Indeed, the words of the language of culture are sometimes actually compounded with words of nursery language, as in the case of moo-cow, baa-sheep, coo-dove. It must further be remarked that, when a language has developed into a state of culture and finds it necessary to create new words, these words accommodate themselves to the forms already existing in the language, and undergo processes of formation similar to those which have operated on the words already existing in the language. They appear with the derivation and flection syllables common in the language at the time when they were created. For instance, supposing cackle and chuckle to be words of this sort, cack, and chuck or chugh are the only parts due to original creation;—the termination le seems a regular iterative form, and the words have come to be classified with others of the same formation, and treated in the same way. Similar instances are αἰάζω (αἰαί) οἰμώζω (οἶμοι), etc.
Roots. We are led to see, then, from such forms as cackle, that what we regard as a root need not necessarily ever have existed as a bare root, as an independent element; but immediately upon its appearance, it is naturally provided with one or more suffixes or prefixes in accordance with the exigencies of the language. Thus, for instance, in the Middle ages a belfry was called clangorium. And further, the function of new creations is determined by the analogy of other words existing in the language; and thus the new words, as soon as they appear in the language, conform to the laws of language, and an element appears in the words which does not depend upon original creation. So φεῦ forms a verb in Æschylus, Agamemnon: τί ταῦτ’ ἔφευξας (1194; see also line 960); cf. ächzen in N.H.G., and the use of such words as crack, crackle, crackling.
In what has been said hitherto, we have mainly considered the form in which language appears; but neither in this nor in its syntax must we suppose that the first creations with which language began were operated upon by any such influences as analogy. We must suppose them to have been entire conceptions, condensed sentences, as when we cry out Fire! Thieves! They are really, it will be seen, predicates; and an impression unspoken but felt by the speaker forms their subject. The impressions made by noises and sounds would be those that would naturally strike first upon man’s consciousness; and to express these he creates the first sounds of language. The oldest words, therefore, seem to have been imperfectly expressed conceptions partaking of an interjectional character.
Again, it must be remembered that the new creations of primitive man must have been made with no thought of communication. Until language was created, those who uttered the first sounds must have been ignorant that they could thereby indicate anything to their neighbours. The sounds which they uttered were simply the reflection of their own feelings, or when they came by observation to associate with their neighbours’ feelings. But as soon as other individuals heard these reflex sounds, and at the same time had the same feelings, the sounds and feelings were in some way connected, and must have passed into the consciousness of the community as in some measure connected as cause and effect. We must also suppose that gesture language developed side by side with the language of sounds: and, indeed, it is not until language has reached a high degree of development that it can dispense with gesture language as an auxiliary. The Southern nations, which use most interjections, employ also most gesticulations. The Portuguese language, for instance, is exceedingly rich in interjections, and moreover these interjections are in common use, to an extent which at first strikes a foreigner as excessive and almost unpleasant, but which he soon learns to appreciate. Conversation in Portuguese often derives a peculiar charm and picturesqueness from the frequency with which one of the speakers expresses his meaning, quite clearly, with some interjection (e.g. ora) and some gesticulation.86
We must further remember that, as soon as a speaker has recognised the fact that he can, by the means of language, communicate his thoughts, there is nothing to prevent the sounds uttered consciously as the vehicles of communication from attaching themselves to those which are merely involuntary expressions of feelings. Whether the group of sounds so produced shall disappear or survive must depend on its suitability to fill a need, and on many chance circumstances.
It should also be noticed that we must suppose the original human being, who had never as yet spoken, to have been absolutely unable to reutter at his will any form of speech which he had chanced to produce. He would slowly and gradually, after repeatedly hearing the sound, acquire the capacity for reproducing it. The children of our own day hear a certain number of definite and limited sounds repeated by persons in whom identical motory sensations have developed.
We are driven, therefore, to assume that language must have begun with a confused utterance of the most varying and uncertain articulations, such as we never find combined in any real language. We may thus gather that the consistency in motory sensation necessary to a language must have been very slow in developing.
The result, then, at which we arrive is that no motory sensation can attain to a definite form and consistency except for such sounds as are favoured by their natural conditions. The sounds most open to be acted on by such conditions are those immediately resulting from the attempt to express natural feelings; in the endeavour to express these, nature, which prompted the feelings, must have prompted some uniformity of utterance. The traditional language must at its outset have contented itself with comparatively few sound signs, even though a large quantity of different sounds were, on different occasions, uttered by the different individuals.
The process of utterance must have been long and tedious before anything worthy to be called a language could come into existence. A language cannot be produced until individuals belonging to the same linguistic community have begun to store up in memory the product of their original creations. When they can draw upon their memory at will, and can count upon reproducing the same sound-groups to represent the same ideas, and can likewise count upon these sound-groups being understood in the same sense, then, and not till then, can we speak of language in any true sense.
If this be the true test of the existence of a language, it is no doubt true that we must admit that many beasts possess language. Their calls of warning or of enticement are clearly traditional, and are learnt from those around them. They utter the same cries to express the same emotions, and this consistently. But the language of beasts suffices only for the expression of a simple and definite feeling. The language of man consists in the grouping of several words so as to form a sentence. Man thus develops the power of advancing beyond simple intuition, and of pronouncing judgment on what is not before him.
The process of forming our modal and material groupings of ideas, and of the terms which we use to express those ideas, is essentially a subjective one, and is, as such, productive of results which would seem at first sight to be incapable of scientific generalisation. Within the limits, however, of any given linguistic community, the elements of which such groups can be formed are identical, and—with all possible divergence of width and depth of intellectual development in the members of that community—there is a certain uniformity in the manner in which each individual member employs that part of the common stock of ideas and terms of which he is master. Hence it inevitably follows that the groups which are formed will, IF THE AVERAGE be taken, prove about equal, and we are thus justified in abstracting from the individual, and in generalising concerning such grouping at any given period, in exactly the same manner as we do in speaking of the language of a community or of the pronunciation of a given word by a community. In this process, we may for our purpose neglect individual peculiarities or deviations from that abstract and always somewhat arbitrary norm.
And just as the language of any two periods of time shows that differences arise which permeate the whole, so, if we compare the groupings of which we can prove the existence in former times by the influence they exerted on the preservation or destruction of different forms in the language with those we can observe at present in our own linguistic consciousness, or with those which were prevalent at any other period of time, we notice (1) that what formerly was naturally connected by every member of the linguistic community is no longer felt to belong together, and (2) that what once formed part of different and disconnected groups has been joined together.
It is the former of these two events which we have to discuss in this chapter:87 its chief causes are change in sound and change in, or development of, signification. The effects of the latter in isolating more or less completely some word or some particular use or combination of any word from the group with which, owing to parallelism in meaning, it was once connected, we have already illustrated in Chapter IV. Sound-change has or may have similar effects, and even the influence of analogy, which, as we have seen in Chapter V., is mainly effectual in restoring or maintaining the union between the members of a group, sometimes contributes to the opposite effect when any one particular member happens, from whatever cause it may be, to be excluded from its operation.
Thus, for instance, our present word day is found in Anglo-Saxon as— Nom. and Acc. Sing. dæg Plur. dagas Gen. ” dæges ” daga Dat. ” dæge ” dagum, where æ was pronounced as the a in man, hat, etc., and a as a in father: æ is therefore a ‘front-vowel,’ like the a in fate, ee in feet, etc., while a of dagas was a ‘back-vowel,’ as are o or u.
The phonetic development of final or medial g differs according to the vowel which preceded it. If this was a front-vowel the g became y (vowel),88 if it was a back-vowel the g became w. Thus, e.g., A.S. hnægan, E. neigh; A.S. wegan, E. weigh; A.S. hálig, E. holy: but A.S. búgan, E. (to) bow; A.S. boga, E. bow; A.S. ágan, E. to own. Accordingly dæg, etc., in the singular became day, whilst in the plural we find in M.E. dawes, etc. As soon, however, as analogy had established the ‘regular’ s plural to the sing. day, plur. days, the verb (to) dawn, A.S., dagian was thereby isolated completely, and no speaker who is not more or less a student of the history of English, connects the verb with the noun.
Another instance maybe found in the word forlorn.
To understand the history of this word we must know what is meant by Verner’s law.
Among the first illustrations of the regular correspondence of the several consonants in Latin and in the Teutonic languages are such pairs as mater, mother; pater, father; frater, brother; tres, three; tu, thou: in all of which a th is found in English where the Latin shows a t. This and other similar regular interchanges were generalised by Grimm and formulated by him as a law, part of which stated that if the same word was found in Latin, Greek, and Sanscrit, as well as in Teutonic, a k, t, p, in the first three languages appeared as h, th, f in Low German, of which family English is a representative.
All our sets of examples seem to illustrate and confirm this law. If, however, we trace the English words back to older forms, we see that this absolute regularity is disturbed. In Middle-English almost invariably, and in Anglo-Saxon invariably, we find fader, moder, brother, A.S. fæder, módor, bróðor, in perfect agreement with O.S. fadar, môdar, brothar, and Goth. fadar, brothar (cf. Mod. Ger. vater, mutter, but bruder). It was Karl Verner who explained this irregularity, and proved that it was connected with the place of the accent in the Teutonic languages, not as we find it now, but as it can be proved to have existed in those languages, where it corresponded generally with the Greek accents, or more closely still with the accent in Vedic Sanscrit. There we find that in the corresponding forms pitar, mâtar, and bhratar, the accent or stress lay on the FIRST syllable in bhratar, but on the LAST in pitar and mâtar. Verner proved by numerous examples that only where an ACCENTED vowel preceded the p, t, k, Teutonic showed the corresponding f, th, h; but that, on the other hand, where the preceding vowel was UNACCENTED, instead of f we found b, and d instead of th, g instead of h. And also, instead of s, which was elsewhere found both in Latin or Sanscrit as well as in Teutonic, z was found, which z further changed into r in Anglo-Saxon.
Thus—to give one more instance—the suffix ian, used to form causatives in Teutonic, once bore the accent, which afterwards was placed on the root-syllable. Accordingly, the causative of the verb rís-an (to rise) was once rás-ian,89 which, with z, and, later on, r, instead of s, changed into rǽr-an, Mod. Eng to rear.
The so-called Grammatical change in Anglo-Saxon (and other Teutonic languages) now becomes clear: The verb in past sing. plur. p. part. céosan (to choose) has caés curon coren sniðan (to cut; Scotch, sned) snáð snidon sniden téon (to drag) has téah tugon togen and all this series of regular sound-change depends upon the fact that in the past plural and in the past participle the accent fell ORIGINALLY on the termination. Similarly, (for) léosan,—léas,—luron,—loren, from which last form we have our word forlorn, meaning, therefore, ‘completely lost.’ Already, however, in Anglo-Saxon, in very many verbs all traces of this grammatical change have disappeared, and the history of the strong conjugation in Middle-English shows the gradual supersession of the consonants in the past plural and past participle by those found in the present and past singular. Hence those forms in which these older consonants remained were more and more isolated from the groups with which they are etymologically connected; and as little as in popular consciousness to rear is grouped with to rise, so little is the adjective forlorn thought of as a member of the group to lose, lost, etc.
We have had already more than one occasion to point out that not only words, but also syntactical combinations and phrases can and do form matter groups. Nay, even the various meanings of a syntactical relation are thus combined.
Such a relation, for instance, is that expressed by the genitive. Though we employ—and formerly employed more generally than now—this case with various meanings, all these meanings are more or less (rather less) consciously felt as one, or at least are closely related—and they continue to be so felt, i.e. the grouping remains a close one—as long as these various usages remain general and what we may call living. When, however, any one of these usages becomes obsolete, and the relation indicated finds another form of expression in some other syntactical arrangement, some few examples of the older mode of expression, strengthened as they are by, e.g., very frequent employment, remain, but cease to be felt as instances of that relation.
Thus, though the meaning of the genitives in This is my father’s house, and in God’s goodness is essentially different—the one expressing an ownership of one person with regard to a material external object, the other the relation between a being and an immaterial inherent quality,—both are felt as one kind of relation; nay, the superficial thinker has some difficulty in fully realising that they express really TWO meanings. More easily felt is the difference between the Latin and French ‘genitivus subjectivus’ and ‘genitivus objectivus:’ amor patriæ, l’amour de la patrie (the love for our fatherland, ob. gen.), and amor matris, l’amour de la mère (the love which our mother feels for us, sub. gen.). Yet, once more, even this difference is not always realised by every one who uses both constructions. Another use of the genitive once was to form adverbs. As long as any genitive could be thus employed, we may be sure that the ordinary speaker will have grouped, when thus using it, not only the particular form with other cases of the same noun, etc., but also the genitives, as such, with other genitives. When, however, other modes of forming the adverbs prevailed, the old genitival adverbs which remained were no longer felt as genitives, and became isolated and no longer productive as examples for other formations. A remnant of this genitive survives in needs, and perhaps in Shakespeare’s Come a little nearer this ways (Merry Wives, II. ii.; ed. Collier);90 in straightways, and certainly in M.E. his thankes, here unthankes (libenter, ingratis), or A.S. heora ágnes ðances (eorum voluntate). It further survives in adverbs derived from adjectives: else (from an adj. pron. el) unawares, inwards, upwards, etc.
Similarly the preposition of, which early began to serve as a substitute for the genitive, has been employed in some adverbial and other expressions. This usage, however, if it ever was really “alive,” is now completely dead. We find I must of force (Shakespeare, 1 Henry IV., II. ii.) and my custom always of the afternoon (Hamlet, I. v.); and still can say of an evening; all of a sudden; but not, e.g., of a moment. Nor should we now imitate Shakespeare’s not be seen to wink of all the day (Love’s Labour’s Lost, I. i. 43); Did you not of late days hear (Henry VIII., II. i. 147), though we still have of late, of old.
Many other prepositions offer in their constructions illustrations of isolation. Thus, e.g., the combination of any preposition with a noun without an article was exceedingly common in the older language, and we still possess a numerous collection of such combinations in almost daily use. Thus we find indeed, in fact, in truth, in reality, in jest, etc., a construction which perhaps may yet be considered a living one when the noun is an abstraction. Adverbs of place, however, such as in bed, in church, are no longer formed at will: no one would say in house, in room.
So, again, we have at home, at sea, at hand, but not at house,91 at water, at foot. We can throw something overboard, but not over wall or over river. We can stand on shore, on land, on foot, on board, but do not speak of standing on bank, on ship. We can sit at table, not at sideboard. One may come to grief, to ruin, but cannot omit his or her in come to ... death. We can say by night, by day, by this day week, but not by spring, by winter. Lastly: we travel by land, by sea, by water, by rail; we send a packet by parcel delivery; we communicate by letter, or by word of mouth, but should not ask for information by saying, Let me know by line (instead of by a line), will you?
In the isolation of the genitives, which we discussed above, and in all similar syntactical isolations, it would perhaps be correct to distinguish two phases of development, or—as they are not necessarily chronologically separated—two sides of the same process. For while in course of time, as we have seen, one of the SYNTACTICAL MEANINGS OF THE GENITIVE CASE became isolated from the other relationships expressed by that same case, we must, on the other hand, also remember that this involved an isolation of certain formal or modal groups (in this case, of —s forms) from their historical nominatives, which in most cases in its turn caused, or was accompanied by, a more or less clearly marked separation in development of meanings. When the genitive case was no longer generally employed to form adverbs from nouns and adjectives, words like needs, straightways, else, upwards, were no longer felt as genitives, and we now feel that the adverb needs is not in our consciousness grouped with the noun need, in the same way as, for instance, the nom. plur. needs with the sing. need; nay, if we carefully examine the meaning of the adverb, we find that its material meaning no longer completely coincides with that of the noun.
The various meanings of the NOUN need are urgent want, poverty, position of difficulty, distress, necessity, compulsion; the ADVERB answers only to the last two: He must needs go could not be used for He must go on account of urgent want, or as a consequence of poverty or distress, but only for He must go of necessity, indispensably, inevitably.
Such formal isolation, then, is almost always at the same time a material one. Thus, we may say that the noun tilth is not so intimately connected with the group I till, tilling, well tilled, etc., as, e.g., writing is connected with to write, etc.; and this because the suffix -ing is a living and productive one, i.e. one which still forms verbal nouns at our will, whenever the need arises, and from whatever verb; whilst the suffix th is no longer so used, being at the present day comparatively rare in English (health, wealth, strength, length, breath, width), and, indeed, more often occurring as an adjectival than as a verbal suffix.
The closest groups are naturally always those consisting of the different inflected forms of the same noun or verb, and the ties connecting the members of such a group are undoubtedly stronger than those between words of different functions, etymologically connected, but whose mode of formation or derivation is not so vividly realised by the ordinary speaker. This is so true, that the same form, when used as present participle, must be said to be more closely connected with the other parts of the verb than when used as an adjective; and this can be proved by the fact that often such an adjective has undergone changes in meaning in which the verb and even the present participle, as such, has not participated. Thus, e.g., the present part. living, in ‘he is living,’ whether we mean this for ‘he is alive’ or ‘he is dwelling in ...’ has the same usage as the verb he lives, and no more. This is, however, no longer true of the ADJECTIVE living, in a phrase like ‘I give you living water.’ To realise this we need but replace the adjective by a relative clause, ‘which lives,’ when we at once feel that we extend the use of the verb in an unusual way. Thus, again, the NOUN writing, in ‘These are the writings of ...’ for ‘These are his (perhaps printed) works,’ has an application which we could not give to the verb to write.
This illustrates the fact that a development in meaning of a derivative is not necessarily shared by or transferred to the primary word, whilst any extension of usage of such parent-word is likely to spread to its derivatives. The same is of course true of simple and compound words. Hence the process of isolation of derivative from primary, or compound from simple, generally originates in change of meaning in the former of each of these groups. Thus, the noun undertaker is isolated from the verb to undertake in consequence of a restriction of its meaning to the person who makes it his profession to undertake the management, etc., of funerals. So, again, though the noun keeper = guardian, watchman, protector, is applied to a certain gold ring, we could hardly say that such a ring keeps the others. A beggar, originally ‘one who begs,’ is now one who ‘habitually begs and obtains his living by doing so,’ while, if ever we do apply the term in the wider and older sense, we often indicate—in writing at least—the closer connection with the verb to beg by using the termination er, the characteristic termination of the nomen agentis begger. There is, in German, a very interesting word which illustrates this fact to an extent which it would be difficult to parallel completely in English. By the side of the verb reiten, ‘to ride,’ a noun ritter exists, of which the original meaning was merely a rider. Like our word ‘beggar,’ this ritter was specialised in meaning, and applied to one who rides habitually and as a profession, i.e. a warrior who fights on horseback. When these warriors began to form a privileged body (an order to which many were admitted who never, at least professionally, rode) the noun attained a meaning to which no verb could correspond.
Again, some adverbs, especially such as emphasise our expressions, have developed in meaning often much further than the primary adjective has followed them. Thus very, as adverb a mere emphatic word, has, as adjective, retained much more fully its original meaning of true: cf. this is very true, very false, with, a very giant. It is the same with the adverb awfully, now indeed common, but noted by Charles Lamb as a Scotticism, and with the adjective sore, and the adverb sorely.
It is, however, not always the derivative which, in its isolation, assumes the modified signification. The primitive may change, and the derivative remain stationary. Thus the English shop, as a place for retail trade, has been displaced in America by store, while shop comes to have the value of work-shop, machine-shop, etc. Yet the derivative shopping, a much-used word in America, retains a reminiscence of the older value of shop.
To return for a moment to the example which we gave from German: the verb reiten (pronounced with a vowel sound closely resembling that of i in to ride) and the noun ritter (i nearly like i in rid, or, more correctly, like ee of need, but shortened), show a gradation of vowel-sound, of the same nature and origin as that in such pairs as write, wrote; sing, sang; give, gave. This change in vowel-sound without doubt co-operated in effecting the isolation, and so facilitated the change in meaning in the one form; a change in which the other did not participate. Thus, speaking generally, phonetic development, by creating numerous meaningless distinctions, loosens the modal and material groups, and serves to forward isolation of meaning. Thus, again, the special meaning which we now attach to the verb to rear would have been more likely to transfer itself to the primary verb to rise, or—vice versâ—the meaning of the primary to rise would have almost certainly prevented the special development of to rear, if the etymological connection had not been obscured by the phonetic development which we formulate as Verner’s law, i.e. if the grouping had not been loosened.
It is, moreover, clear that if, from whatever cause, an interchange of certain sounds becomes less frequent in a language, those words which do preserve that interchange become ipso facto more strongly separated. Thus, e.g., the umlaut, i.e. the change of u (sounded as oo) to ü (sounded as u in French, the Devonshire u; more like English ee than like English u), or of a (a as in father) to ä (sound much like a in fate, but without the ee sound which in English follows it), etc., is in German so common that in no case is its presence or absence alone sufficient to effect the isolation of any form from its related group. In English, this interchange has almost completely disappeared, and the few traces of it which we preserve in the plural formation (foot, feet; tooth, teeth; mouse, mice; man, men, etc.) are only preserved as so-called ‘irregularities,’ and no longer form a model or pattern for other formations. Hence in English, where, besides umlaut, we have difference in function (e.g. adjective and noun), the isolation has often been complete. Thus, no ordinary speaker groups the adjective foul with the noun filth; and the connection, though still felt, between long and length, broad and breadth, is undoubtedly less clearly felt than between, e.g., long and longer, or broad and to broaden, high and height: similarly, the difference in vowel between weal and wealth, (to) heal and health, has facilitated isolation of these forms.
If phonetic development were the only agent in the history of language, we see that, shortly, an infinite variety of forms, absolutely unconnected, or at best but loosely connected, would be the result. But here, as always, we have action and counteraction.92 This counteracting influence is chiefly exerted by analogy, as we explained in Chapter V. It is, however, not always analogy which brings about the readjustment or unification.
We have already had occasion to point out that our word-division, though undoubtedly based on real and sufficient grounds, is not consistently or even commonly observed in SPEAKING. Our thoughts are, indeed, expressed not in words but in word-groups; and letters, even though they stand at the end or at the beginning of words, have often had a special phonetic development, in cases where these words occurred in very frequent or in very intimate connection with other words. The differences so created have very commonly, though not by any means universally, found expression in writing. As an instance of a differentiation of which the written language takes no cognisance, we may take the French indefinite article. Few are unaware that when un stands before a consonant the n is not pronounced, leaving in the spoken word only a trace of its existence in the fact that the vowel is nasalised. When un comes before a vowel, on the other hand, the vowel is much less strongly, if at all, nasalised, and the n is clearly pronounced. Thus (using the circumflex to indicate the nasal quality of the vowel and ö for the sound of u in un), un père = ö̂ père, but un ami = ön ami or ö̂n ami. The corresponding difference which exists in English is expressed in writing: a father, an aunt.
Just as the article is closely connected with the noun, so preposition and noun, or preposition and verb, are very intimately connected in pronunciation. Hence—though many, who have never carefully observed either their own pronunciation or that of others, may dispute or deny the assertion—in ORDINARY conversation, in the phrases, in town, in doors, we employ the n sound; but when the word in stands before Paris and Berlin, we use an m sound, just as we say impossible by the side of interest. Similarly, we pronounce generally ‘in coming’ with ng for n, just as we speak of a man’s ingcome. This differentiation of the pronunciation of the preposition in into three forms—in, im, ing—is not, however, consistently expressed by us in writing. The Greeks, on the other hand, who similarly differentiated the terminal consonants of the prepositions in their spoken language, but on a much larger scale (accustomed as they were to a far closer correspondence between their spoken and their written language than the Englishman observes), did actually, in many cases, write as they spoke: κάδ δὲ,—κὰκ κεφαλὴν, κὰγ γόνυ—κὰπ πεδιόν, etc., instead of employing the normal form of the preposition, κατά. So we find in inscriptions τὴμ πόλιν, τὴγ γυναῖκα, τὸλ λογόν, ἐμ πόλει, etc.
The first step on the road towards unification is frequently that the external reason which caused the difference in form, disappears or loses force, and one form is found in connections where, historically or phonetically speaking, the other is correct. We may instance this by the common mistake of children when they say, e.g., a apple instead of an apple. In this case, however, the correct form is so very frequently heard that the encroachment of a on the domains of an is not likely to lead to permanent confusion. Where, however, circumstances are less favourable to the preservation of the historically correct usage, it happens that either form encroaches on the domain of the other, or else it may result that the encroachment is reciprocal,—when, after a period of confusion in which both forms are used indifferently, one becomes obsolete and falls into oblivion, not without often leaving some striking form or phrase to testify to what once existed. Thus, for instance, our word here, Old High German hier, or hêr, was, in the period of transition from Old to Middle High German, differentiated in accordance with a phonetic law of that time, viz. that final r was dropped after a long vowel. If not final however, r remained untouched, and this whether it stood in the body of a word or within a group of intimately connected words. Of the two forms hie and hier, the former, as the form employed when the word was used independently, was in Middle High German often set before words beginning with a vowel; and we find hie inne (= here-in) or even, by contraction, hinne, for hier-inne. On the other hand, it is probably owing to the frequency of combinations similar and equivalent to our here-in, here-upon, etc., that the form hier encroached successfully upon the domain of hie, and finally supplanted it. Hie, however, remained, singularly enough, in the one expression hie und da (here and there), where the form without r is not and has never been, phonetically speaking, correct. An excellent example of this differentiation is furnished by one, an.
The best example of the process is furnished by the history of the working of Verner’s law, and of the gradual disappearance of its effects. We have before (pp. 172, 173) explained this law and quoted instances of forms created in agreement with it, which have now been replaced by others. To repeat this explanation here with other examples would be superfluous; to give a full history, even confining ourselves to an enumeration of all the various ways in which it has been operative and the areas of its influence, would transcend the scope of this work. To carefully note all instances of its occurrence and its neglect, and to closely investigate the possible courses of the latter, is a task which may most usefully challenge the attention of philologists. We will illustrate the truth of this by a single example: (though even this we cannot discuss exhaustively). The forms which we employ at present as the past tense of the verb to be—sing. was and plur. (with grammatical change according to the law) were, belong to a root which in old English and Anglo-Saxon furnished a complete verb: pres. wese, past. wæs, p. part. wesen. Now we should naturally expect that in a time when the grammatical change was still preserved in freóse, fréas, fruron, froren, (to freeze) etc. ceóse, céas, curon, coren, (to choose) seóðe, seáð, sudon, soden, (to seethe, to boil) we should also find that change here, and that accordingly the past participle should be *weren. That such a form once existed is proved by the past participle forweorone (cf. Sievers, Anglo-Saxon Grammar, § 391). Everywhere, however, in Anglo-Saxon, in the past participle of this verb and in that of all similarly conjugated, such as lesan, læs, lesen; genesan, genæs, genesen, etc., the s has once more been fully established. The fact that these past participles had already so far proceeded on the road to unification, while the others as yet remained isolated, may be explained in this way,—the latter, IN ADDITION to the differentiation in accordance with Verner’s law, showed a difference of vowel-sound, which in the case of others did not exist. Hence the forms differentiated in two distinct ways were able to resist the tendency towards unification long after those which differed only in one respect had succumbed. In fact, of the former we still have such remnants as forlorn, from to lose; sodden, from to seethe. We may formulate the result which we have illustrated, thus: The greater the phonetic distance of two differentiated forms, the greater is the power of resistance against unification and equalisation.
But the ORDER in which we see the traces of the working of Verner’s law disappear one after another, and the study of such few remnants as still exist, brings out two other general truths concerning unification. We may without hesitation affirm that, close as is the etymological connection between the various tenses of the same verb, or, to speak perhaps more correctly, that clearly as that connection is felt by the speech-making community, it is still more strongly felt as between the various forms of the same tense, or the various cases of the same noun. Now, it is against the differentiation between the members of these most intimate groups that unification first takes place. In the declension of the noun, where nothing but the operation of Verner’s law had separated the various cases, the re-assimilation first took place, and though we can prove that, in this case also, the differences actually once existed—in the historic periods of the Teutonic dialects almost all traces thereof have been obliterated. In the past tenses of the verbs they are still at first found, supported as the differentiation had been by that other force—the gradation of vowels (the ‘ablaut’).93 But again: unification between the singular and plural of the past tense took place first in cases where the vowels were alike in both, and next in those where the vowels differed—and again, this occurred before the unification of the past participle with the whole group. In agreement with this same rule, that very difference of vowel-sound has completely disappeared in all past singulars and plurals, even where—as, e.g., in German generally—the past participle still preserves the ‘ablaut.’
We can then lay it down as a second rule, that the closer the etymological connection is between differentiated forms, the sooner will unification be effected; whilst a consideration of such rare instances as the preservation of the interchange of s and r in I was, we were, which is clearly due to the very exceptional frequency with which these forms must always have been used, and the consequent firmness with which they are impressed on every speaker’s memory, exhibits a third law, viz. that the greater the intensity with which differentiated forms are impressed upon the minds of the community, the greater will prove their power of resistance against unification.
It is further evident that in cases where the differentiation of form had been accompanied by one in meaning, the tendency towards unification was counteracted, or rather can never have existed. Thus, the pair of words glass (etymologically = the shining substance) and glare (to shine) is separated once and for ever. We have seen the plur. dawes re-united to sing. day; the verb to dawn has not followed suit.
Though thus much is clear, and when once apprehended, almost self-evident, we must acknowledge that much is as yet obscure and unexplained. It is often already very difficult to find any reason why in one case unification has taken place and not in another, which apparently presented the same conditions: it is generally harder still to find an answer to the question why in any given case one form has prevailed over another, instead of the converse having happened. Omniscience alone could answer all such questions: but here, again, a few general observations may serve to explain some points, though, as we have said, much as yet remains inexplicable. Thus, for example, when unification replaces the confusion which followed differentiation, members of the same formal or modal group (that is to say, for instance, the same parts of speech) are likely to follow in the same direction. Thus, e.g., in the original Teutonic, when the suffix no was preceded by a vowel, that vowel varied in the different (strong and weak) cases of the declensions of nouns, adjectives, and participles, according to fixed rules, between u and e. This u developed into o or a, and e into i. Soon unification took place, in some cases in one, in others in another direction, so that we find, for instance, in Gothic a form like ðiudAns (king) by the side of maurgIns (morning), whilst now, the past participles (formed with this same suffix) all have ans throughout; such participles as became pure adjectives or nouns have often ins, e.g. gafulgins (adj. ‘secret’), past participle, of filhan, ‘to hide,’ with fulhans as past participle, = hidden; aigin (neuter, hence without s in nom.) = property, is past participle of aigan, ‘to have.’
Sometimes—as, for instance, in the singular and plural of past tense in strong verbs—a differentiation coincides with difference in function, though its origin was independent of any such functional divergence. This, of course, strengthens the phonetic differentiation, and, if such a coincidence affects simultaneously a formal group of large extent, and thus becomes a model for analogical formations (Chap. V.), the originally meaningless phonetic divergence may become indissolubly associated with difference of function, and so become expressive of the latter.