By the side of these adjectives, we naturally find adverbs in lice, normally formed from them by the addition of e; as, æðelice, etc.; but as soon as, owing to phonetic decay of the terminations, the adjectives and adverbs in both sets of words (both in those with and without lic) came respectively to coincide,—when, for instance, heard and hearde had both become hard, and adjectives in lic and adverbs in lice had both come to terminate in ly,—then the adjective that had never ended in lic came also to be grouped with the adverb in lice, or rather ly, and ly became the special and normal adverbial termination: as in prettily, carelessly, etc. Thus were produced a great quantity of adverbs, the adjectives corresponding to which never had the termination ly.
Modern English possesses remnants of all the above original formations; as, for instance, the adverbs (with loss of adverbial e) hard, in ‘to hit hard,’ loud, in ‘to speak loud,’ etc.; or, again, the adjectives heavenly, earthly, kingly, goodly, etc.
Language develops by the development of the vocabulary of individual speakers in the same linguistic community: their tendency is to produce synonymous forms and constructions in addition to those already at their disposal. Each individual is, in fact, constantly engaged in increasing the number of synonymous words, forms, and constructions in the language which he speaks. One source of this superfluous development depends on analogical formation: as when in English the imperfect is assimilated to the participle, or the participle to the imperfect; as where forms like spoke and broke appear beside spake and brake or held, beside holden.
A second source of the same superfluity depending on synonyms arises from the fact that of two words, each may develop its meaning on its own lines, and the meanings may come to converge so as to become one and the same. Thus, for instance, the two words relation and relative, the former originally the abstract verbal noun, the latter an adjective, have converged in the meaning ‘a related person;’ and it has thus happened that owing to this process there arise two terms for one and the same idea. To the above a third source may be added; viz., the acceptance of a foreign word into a language where a native word already exists to express the same idea. Of course English is especially rich in words of this kind, owing to the large number of Norman-French words imported at the Conquest and maintained as an integral part of the language; though the process of borrowing from French has been also active since the epoch of the Conquest: such are the pairs nude, naked; pedagogue, schoolmaster; poignant, sharp; peccant, sinning; sign, token: other familiar instances are tether, derived from the Celtic at an old date; and loot, adopted from the Hindi, by the side of plunder. The case is, of course, similar where a synonym is adopted from another dialect, as vetch by the side of fitch, vat beside fat (a vessel), etc.
But though such superfluities in language are continually appearing, they have a constant tendency to disappear on the earliest possible occasion. Language is a careful housewife, who is constantly endeavouring to keep nothing on hand but what she can use, and carefully to retrench the superfluous. We must, of course, never suppose that any body of speakers combine to admit a word into the common language which they employ, and that then, finding that the word or form has its meaning already expressed in their language and is therefore unnecessary, they proceed to discard it. These new words and forms proceed in each instance from individuals, who overlook the existence in their own language of a term already in use for some meaning which they need to express, and so introduce a new form: this is then employed by others, who, hearing the new form and the old, employ both alike indiscriminately. Superfluity in language, then, must be regarded as spontaneously arising, and without the aid of any voluntary impulse on the part of any individual or individuals. The language of common life is, as might be expected, most ready in freeing the vehicle of ordinary communication from superfluities, and in the differentiation of synonyms. The language of poetry and, in a less degree, of written prose, demands a store of synonyms, on which an author may draw at will, thereby forming an individual style and avoiding monotony. It is as useful, nay, as indispensable to the poet that he should have a store of words with similar meanings which he may employ for the purposes of his artificial style, as it is for the ordinary speaker or writer to have a distinct shade of meaning attached to each of the synonyms which he employs. And as poetry makes greater demands upon the taste and powers of an author than prose, we find that the language of poetry preserves archaic forms and words which in prose have been practically obsolete. In fact such words become the stock in trade of all writers of poetry, appearing, of course, most frequently in those who seek to invest their work with a peculiarly archaic caste. Thus, the diction of Spenser must have appeared almost as archaic to his contemporaries as to ourselves.135 Poetry will also maintain constructions which have a tendency in prose to become obsolete: as, meseems; Time prove the rest. The metaphors employed in old Norse poetry are very instructive on this head. They have been treated at great length in the ‘Corpus Poeticum Boreale’ by Vigfusson and York Powell, from whose work136 we cite the following instances. The breast is spoken of as the mind’s house, memory’s sanctuary, the lurking-place of thought, the shore of the mind, the bark of laughter, the hall of the heart. The eye is the moon or star of the brows, the light or levin of the forehead, the cauldron of tears, the pledge of Woden. Herrings are the arrows of the sea, the darts, the tail-barbed arrows of the deep. Ships are characterised by a host of metaphors; as, the tree or beam, the sled, the car, the beam or timber of the sea or waves; the steeds of the helm, oars, mast, sail, yard: and numerous other specimens of ‘pars pro toto.’
The most simple and obvious case of retrenchment in language is where, out of several similar forms and phrases, all disappear and are disused except a single one; as where to grow is used instead of to wax; to go, instead of to fare, etc. We must look upon these retrenchments in language as mainly due to individuals; each speaker expresses himself more or less unconsciously with a certain consistency, and uses, generally speaking, what we may properly call his own dialect. It is owing to such individual influence that the distinctions in language which we call dialects arise, and thus the different opportunities for choice form a main source of the distinctions of dialect.
In addition to this negative process of simply dropping what is useless, there is the positive process of utilising what is superfluous in language by differentiation of meaning in the case of synonymous words and phrases. This process is no more the result of conscious purpose than the other. Since each individual has gradually to learn the different senses of words, inflections, particles, etc., it is clear that when there are several synonyms in use—each of which has several shades of signification—he will almost certainly hear one of them used in one, and another in another of these meanings. If, for instance, we represent the full meaning of a word in its different shades by the letters A + B + C + D, and, similarly, that of its synonym by a + b + c + d, the probability almost amounts to certainty that when a learner first hears the former word, the shade of meaning (say B) in which it happens to be employed will differ from that (say d) in which he first learns the use of the latter. He will then inevitably, though perhaps unconsciously, attach by preference these particular shades of meaning to the two words; and will continue to do so, unless stronger impulses, such as frequent use in other meanings by surrounding speakers, force him to discard the differentiation which he has established. But from the moment when he begins to use, and as long as he uses the word consistently in one sense, he will influence others in the same linguistic community, and lay the basis for definite acceptance of the word in a particular or special sense.
Nor, again, must we assume that a differentiation in sound was purposely and consciously made by speakers with a view to differentiate meanings. Cases taken from modern languages may serve to show the unreasonableness of such assumptions. Especial attention has been paid by writers on Romance Philology to the ‘doublets’ occurring in their own languages. By ‘doublets’ we mean the double derivative forms of one and the same word (such as raison, ‘reason,’ and ration, ‘allowance,’ both coming from rationem): forms commonly appearing in a language at two different periods in the history of the language, and invested, in spite of their common origin, with distinct and special senses. The name of ‘doublets’ was first applied to them by Nicolas Catherinot, who, as early as 1683, published a list of those which he had observed in French, but without giving the reasons for the phenomenon. How imperfect the philological knowledge of his day was may be seen from the following specimens of ‘doublets’ which he gives: from BATTUERE, Low Latin for ‘to fight,’ he derived both battre (to fight) and tuer (to kill): from GRAVIS (heavy), grave, serious; brave, brave: from MARMOR (marble), marble, marble; marmot, guinea-pig.137 A. Brachet has collected many other specimens in the work cited below: Coelho has made a collection from the Portuguese in the Romania, II. 281, sqq.138
It must, however, be noticed that many of the doublets cited in these works stand outside of the class of those with which we have to deal, and such cannot be taken as real cases of differentiation. For instance, a loan word may immediately upon its introduction have been accepted in a sense different from that borne by the word of the same origin which already existed in the language: as in the case of chantée (sung, fem. past part.) and cantata (cantata, a piece which is sung, as distinguished from a sonata, a piece which is sounded or played), borrowed from the Italian by the French; of sexte (term in music and ‘the sixth book’) with its doublet sieste (the hour of rest) borrowed from the Spanish siesta, both derived from the Latin sextam; of façon (manner) with its doublet fashion, borrowed from the English, both from Latin factionem, ‘a making.’ Thus, again, the French chose (a thing) and cause (a cause) alike owe their origin to the Latin causam, but the meanings were not differentiated in France: cause was borrowed as a law-term long after chose had developed into the general meaning of thing. It is the same, moreover, with such English doublets as ticket, etiquette: army, armada: orison, oration: penance, penitence. Such doublets as these, and guitar, zither, cithara may be called pseudo-doublets, producing as they do the effect of differentiation, but serving really as labels to designate a foreign idea or object. Nor, again, must we include cases in which a word became grammatically isolated and then received a special meaning; such as where ‘bescheiden,’ in German, is now employed with the signification of ‘modest,’ while ‘beschieden’ is used as the true participial form, and never means, or has meant, ‘modest.’ Similarly, in French, we have savant (a scholar) originally used as synonymous with present participle sachant (knowing) but in modern French as an adjective or noun only, whilst sachant has always remained present participle and no more: amant, the present participle of amare (to love) is used as a substantive only.139
There are, however, other cases in which words are really differentiated; that is to say, cases in which two words, whose meaning we know to have been identical, have come to be accepted in different meanings. This is a genuine process of economy in language. In French s’attaquer à and s’attacher à at one time were used with identically the same meaning and employed indifferently. Attaquer is used in the sense of ‘attacher’ in this line of the fourteenth century—Une riche escarboucle le mantel ataqua (‘a rich carbuncle attached (= held) the mantel’) (Bauduin de Sebourc, i. 370). On the other hand, attacher is used in the sense of ‘to attack:’ as in the following passage, quoted by M. Brachet140 from a letter of Calvin to the regent of England,—Tous ensemble méritent bien d’estre réprimés par le glayve qui vous est commis, veu qu’ils s’attaschent non seulement au roy, mais à Dieu qui l’a assis au siège royal, = ‘All together deserve to be put down by the sword which has been entrusted to you, seeing that they attack not merely the King, but God who has set him on the royal seat.’ (Lettres de Calvin recueillies par M. Bonnet, ii. 201). In modern French attacher is used exclusively in the sense of ‘to attach’ ‘to fasten;’ attaquer = ‘to attack.’ Another instance is found in chaire and chaise, both of which words came into French from cathedram, and both of which once signified the same thing (Theodore Beza, in 1530, complains of the faulty pronunciation of the Parisians who say chaise instead of chaire). At the present day, of course, chaise means ‘chair,’ and chaire is confined to the signification of ‘pulpit’ or ‘professor’s chair.’ In English, shoal and shallow seem to have been used synonymously, and to have become differentiated.141 Other instances are of, off; naught, not; assay, essay; upset, set up; Master, Mister (Mr.); Miss, Mistress, Mrs. (pronounced Missus). In these cases, the differentiation took place within the given language; and such cases should be carefully distinguished from those cases in which the differentiation was made outside of the language. For instance, in squandered and scatter, both of which seem to have signified the same thing, simply ‘to disperse’; cf., squandered abroad (Merchant of Venice, I. iii. 22). Indict and indite seem to have borne the same meaning, but are now differentiated.
To these may be added the German doublets reiter (a rider) and ritter (a knight), which may be paralleled by the use of the English squire and esquire; of which the latter word has lately come into use simply as a title of society, whereas both forms were once used as in Scott’s nine and twenty squires of fame. Other instances are scheuen, ‘to fear,’ and scheuchen, ‘to scare:’ jungfrau, ‘maiden,’ and jungfer, ‘virgin.’
Double forms arising from the confusion of different methods of declension are often used in different senses, as in the case of the Latin locus, whose plurals loca and loci mean ‘places,’ and ‘passages in books’ respectively: the German Franke, the Franconian franken, ‘a franc’ (9½d.): this difference is utilised, together with a difference of gender, in the German der lump, ‘the worthless fellow;’ die lumpe, ‘the rag;’ etc. The difference of gender cannot be utilised in English, but is thus utilised—in German—in such cases as DER band, ‘volume;’ DAS band, ‘ribbon:’ DER see, ‘the lake;’ DIE see, ‘the sea:’ DIE erkenntniss, ‘the act of judging;’ DAS erkenntniss ‘the judgment:’—in French, UN foudre de guerre, ‘a thunderbolt of war’ (personified); UNE foudre, ‘a thunderbolt:’ UN critique, ‘a critic;’ UNE critique, ‘a criticism:’ UN office, ‘a duty;’ UNE office, ‘a pantry:’ LE mémoire, ‘memorandum;’ LA mémoire, ‘memory:’ LE politique, ‘politician;’ LA politique, ‘politics:’ LE Bourgogne, ‘Burgundy wine;’ LA Bourgogne, ‘Burgundy:’ LE paille, ‘straw colour;’ LA paille, ‘the straw.’ To these must be added the cases in which double plural formations are differentiated, as in English clothes, cloths; brothers, brethren; cows, kine (poetical); pence, pennies:—in German, Band, ‘bond’ and ‘ribbon;’ Bande, ‘bonds:’ Bänder, ‘ribbons:’ Bank, ‘bench’ and ‘bank;’ Bänke, ‘benches;’ Banken, ‘banks:’ Gesicht, ‘face’ and ‘vision;’ Gesichte, ‘vision;’ Gesichter, ‘faces:’ Laden, ‘shop’ and ‘shutter;’ Läden, ‘shops;’ Laden, ‘shutters:’ etc.142 In French, we have l’aïeul, ‘the grandfather;’ les aïeux, ‘ancestors;’ and aïeuls, ‘grandfathers:’ les travaux, ‘works;’ and les travails, ‘a minister’s reports:’ l’œil, ‘eye;’ les yeux, ‘eyes;’ and les œils (small oval windows commonly called œils de bœuf). The singular appât means ‘bait;’ les appas signifies ‘charms,’ and has a doublet, les appâts, meaning ‘baits.’ In Russian, the accusative plural is the same as the nominative in the case of inanimate objects: it is in the case of animate beings identical with the genitive form. In Dutch, the plurals in -en and -s are used in the case of some words indifferently, as vogelen and vogels, ‘birds:’ in the case of some others, one alone is commonly used, as engelen, ‘angels,’ but pachters, ‘farmers:’ again, in the case of others, both forms are used, but with different meanings; thus hemelen, ‘the heavens;’ but hemels, ‘canopies of a bed:’ letteren, ‘letters,’ or ‘literature;’ letters, ‘letters of the alphabet;’ etc. From the Danish, we may cite skatte, ‘treasures;’ skatter, ‘taxes;’ vaaben, ‘weapons;’ vaabener, ‘armorial bearings.’ From Italian, we may instance braccia, ‘the two arms of the body;’ bracci, ‘arms of the sea;’ membra, ‘the members of the body;’ membri, ‘the members of an association.’ Similarly, in Spanish the neuter of the second declension takes in many cases a feminine form in the plural; and in Portuguese this manner of differentiation is more common than in any other European language: cf. serra, ‘saw,’ ‘mountain ridge;’ serro, ‘a high mountain;’ etc. In Russian, synovya means ‘descendants’; synui, ‘sons;’ etc. The words (to) purvey and (to) provide have arisen from the same original form, as have respect and respite; deploy and display; separate and sever.
The word as, like also, took its rise from the A.S. ealswâ; it is simply a short form of also; and an intermediate form exists in O.E. alse and als. In Maundeville, p. 153, we find the two forms used convertibly: As foule as thei ben, als evele thei ben = so evil they are; and again, als longe as here vitaylles lasten, thei may abide there, p. 130.
Than and thanne were used in Chaucer’s time where we should use then: Now thanne, put thyn hond down at my bak (Chaucer, Cant. Tales, 7721); and in comparisons then was used where we should employ than, as: ‘I am greater then (i.e. than) you.’
In German, the word verdorben means ‘spoiled’ in a material sense: verderbt is employed in a moral sense only. It is the same with bewegt, ‘moved,’ and bewogen, ‘induced.’ In English we employ aged mostly as a participle proper, but agèd as an adjective; cf. also molten and melted.
The words formed with the suffixes -hood, -ness, -dom generally cover the same ground in English as in Anglo-Saxon. There are, however, here also, a few cases in which differentiation seems to have set in. Such are hardihood and hardiness; humble-hede, humble-ness, humility: young-hede, youth. In German, kleinheit and neuheit were used convertibly with kleinigkeit and neuigkeit: now the former = smallness, newness, the latter = trifle, novelty.
In the case of adjectives, we may see the same process in mobile, movable: and in German, in ernstlich and ernsthaft which were once used convertibly, but are now differentiated.
Sometimes a word originally of a different meaning encroaches on the domain of another word, and gradually arrogates the latter’s meaning to itself. Thus, in French, the meaning of en, the form taken in French for the Latin in, has been encroached upon by the preposition à, and by the adverb dans (O.Fr. denz = de intus), and dans has completely ousted the prepositional meaning of dedans. Molière could still write dedans ma poche = ‘in my pocket.’ Böse, in German, is now almost restricted to the sense of ‘morally bad’ by the encroachments of schlecht (originally ‘smooth,’ ‘straight’) English slight. The English word sick, once the general word for ill, has been restricted in meaning by the encroachments of the latter word.
Sometimes a newly formed word encroaches on the domain of meaning covered by a word in existence, as to utilise on to use; serviceable upon useful; gentlemanly upon genteel and gentle; magnificence on munificence:143 mainly is encroached upon by chiefly, pursuer by persecutor and prosecutor: and sometimes it practically ousts it from its previous meaning, as in the case of methodist, naturalist, purist, etc.
The above examples may serve to show us some of the main factors in the differentiation of meaning, and with how little conscious design on the part of the speakers they were carried out.
The divisions into which grammarians have distributed words, such as gender, number, and, in the case of verbs, voice and tense, are based upon the function which each word discharges in the sentence. Now, these functional differences rest ultimately upon psychological categories: that is to say, upon differences which depend upon the view taken by our mind of the natural grouping and classification of ideas. In other words, the divisions formed by grammarians depend ultimately upon the classification of the relations in which the ideas suggested by words stand to each other, as it appears to our imagination. Grammatical classification was, in fact, originally nothing but an attempt to express and group the order and connection of ideas as they were conceived of by the human mind. Immediately that this influence of imagination has made itself felt in the usage of language, it becomes a grammatical factor: and the groups which it forms become grammatical categories. But the action of the psychological category does not cease when it has thus produced the grammatical; and the difference between the two kinds is that, whereas the grammatical categories become, so to speak, stereotyped and fixed, those created by the imagination are ever changing; just as the human mind itself is ever changing its ideas. Besides this, changes in sound-groups are always occurring, and are constantly operating to prevent the grammatical categories coinciding with the psychological. Then, as a tendency makes itself felt to bring about a coincidence of the two categories, the grammatical category suffers a displacement, whence arise what we are accustomed to call grammatical irregularities. A consideration of the way in which these irregularities arise may help us to understand the origin of the grammatical categories, to which we now proceed.
The foundation of grammatical gender is the natural distinction between the sexes in mankind and animals. Fancy may endow other objects or qualities with sex; but sex, whether fanciful or real, has no proper connection with grammar. The truth of this may be well seen from the English language, in which we have in most cases discarded the use of grammatical gender. In order, therefore, to study the conditions of gender, we have to turn to languages more highly inflected than English.
The test whereby we now recognise the grammatical gender of a substantive is the concord existing between the substantive and its attribute and predicate, or between it and a pronoun representing it—Domus nigra est, ‘The house is black;’ Domus quam vidi, ‘The house which I saw;’ It is the moon; I ken her horn (Burns); etc. The rise, therefore, of grammatical gender is closely connected with the appearance of a variable adjective and pronoun. One theory to explain this is, that the difference in form, before it yet marked the gender, had become attached to a particular stem-ending: as if, e.g., all stems ending in n- admitted the ending -us—as bonus, ‘good,’—and all those in g- the ending -ra—as nigra, ‘black;’—and that the ending may have been an independent word which, while yet independent, had acquired a reference to a male or female.144 Gender appears in English, in the first place, as an artificial and often arbitrary personification, as when the sun and moon are spoken of as he and she respectively, under the influence of the ideas attaching to Sol and Luna: Phœbus and Diana, etc.: and, again, as an expression of interest in objects or animals, it frequently occurs in the language of the people and of children; though it sometimes enters into the language of common life, as when a dog is referred to as he and a cat as she, in cases where sex is not spoken of. (See Storm, die lebende Sprache, p. 418.)
In the pronoun, as in the adjective, the distinction of gender may appear in the stem-ending: as ‘une’ (‘one,’ ‘a’); ‘quæ,’ (‘which’). It may, however, also be expressed by distinct roots, such as er, sie; he and she. It is, indeed, probably in substantive pronouns that grammatical gender was first developed, as in fact it has longest maintained itself; as in English, where, in adjectives and nouns, it has almost entirely disappeared.
Grammatical gender probably corresponded originally to natural sex. Exceptions to this rule must gradually have come about, partly through changes of meaning setting in,—as where a word is used metaphorically, like love (neuter, abstract), love (masc. or fem.—‘the beloved object’); or where it has ‘occasionally’ modified its meaning, like Fr. le guide, strictly ‘the guidance,’ and so used in Old French; your fatherhoods (Ben Jonson). Consequently we find natural sex again influencing the genders as fixed by grammar. Thus, in German, Die hässlichste meiner kammermädchen = ‘the ugliest of my chambermaids’ (Wieland), where the article die is of the feminine gender, though the word kammermädchen, being a diminutive in chen is, like all others of that class, neuter. In French, we have UNE (fem.) brave enfant, ‘a brave girl.’ The word gens, again, is, properly speaking, feminine, like the word la gent, which still survives in the restricted sense of ‘a race:’ but in combinations like ‘tous les braves gens’ (‘all worthy people’) the grammatical gender is neglected; and this neglect is fostered by the use of such a word as braves, which in form might apply to either sex. On the other hand, in combinations like ‘les bonnes gens,’ (‘good people’), where an adjective with a specifically feminine termination is joined to the substantive, the grammatical gender maintains itself. Cf., also, instances like ‘un enseigne’ (‘an ensign’), ‘un trompette’ (‘a trumpeter’); and, in Provençal, ‘lo poestat,’ for ‘the magistrate’ (‘il podestà’). In Latin and Greek, these so-called violations of the concord in gender are very common; we are familiar with them as constructions πρός σύνεσιν, i.e. according to the sense; cf. Thracum auxilia (neuter) ... cæsi (masc.) (Tac., Ann., iv. 48), ‘The Thracian auxiliaries were killed;’ Capita (neut.) conjurationis virgis cæsi (masc.) ac securi percussi (masc.) (Livy, x. 1), ‘The heads of the conspiracy were slain and their heads cut off;’ Septem millia (neut.) hominum in naves impositos (masc.) (Livy, xl. 41), ‘Seven thousand men put on board ships;’ Hi (masc.) summo in fluctu pendent ... tres Notus abreptas (i.e. naves—fem.) in saxa latentia torquet (Vergil, Æn., i. 106-8), ‘Some (of the ships) hang on the crest of the waves ...; three, swept away, the South wind whirls upon hidden rocks.’ In Greek, ὦ φίλτατ’, ὦ περισσὰ τιμηθεὶς (masc.) τεκνον (neut.) (Eur., Tro. 735), ‘O dearest, O much honoured child;’ τὰ τέλη (neut.) καταβάντας (masc.) (Thuc., IV. xv. 1), ‘The magistrates having descended:’ and similar instances frequently in Thucydides.
We next find cases where the grammatical gender has completely changed. Thus, in Greek, masculine designations of persons and animals are turned into feminines by simply referring them to female objects: thus, we have either ὁ or ἡ ἄγγελος (‘messenger’), διδάσκαλος (‘teacher’), ἰατρός, (‘healer’), τύραννος (‘ruler’), ἔλαφος (‘deer’), ἵππος (‘horse’ or ‘mare’), etc. In Christian times, a form ὁ παρθένος (‘an unmarried man’) was constructed (Apocal., xiv. 4), translated into Italian by Vergine. Neuter diminutives in German readily become masculine or feminine when the diminutive meaning has been obscured: as, e.g., the occasional construction die Fräulein, ‘the young lady;’ cf., also, in Latin, Glycerium mea, Philematium mea (Plaut., Most., I. iii. 96), mea Gymnasium (Plaut., Cist., I. i. 2). In English, there are a great number of words which would, in the first instance, be thought of as masculines, as containing a suffix commonly associated with masculine words. These are, however, very frequently used as feminines; and, in some cases, even when a feminine termination exists side by side with the masculine one—as, She is heir of Naples (Shakespeare, Tempest, II. i.): others are enemy, rival, novice, astronomer, beggar, teacher, botanist, etc. Cf. she is a peasant (Longfellow); The slave loves her master (Lord Byron); His only heir a princess (Temp., I. 2); She is his only heir (Much Ado, I. i.); The daughter and heir of Leonato (ibid., I. iii.); She alone is heir to both of us (ibid., V. i.); etc.
If collectives or descriptions of qualities become descriptions of persons, the result may be a change of gender. The Fr. le garde (‘the watchman’) was once identical with la garde (‘the watch,’ vigiliæ); cf. further, in Spanish, el cura (‘the priest’), el justicia (‘the magistrate’): the Old Bulgarian junota (‘youth’), as a masculine, means ‘a youth.’ The Russian Golova means ‘a head,’ and, in the masculine, ‘a conductor.’ Portuguese furnishes numerous instances of this; as, a bolsa (fem.), ‘the purse,’ ‘exchange;’ o bolsa (masc.), ‘the treasurer:’ a corneta, ‘the cornet;’ o corneta, ‘the trumpeter:’ a lingua, ‘the tongue;’ o lingua, ‘the interpreter:’ etc.145 In Italian, podestà (‘magistrate’) is an instance of this. Feminine surnames, again, are frequently added to masculine personal names: cf. Latin Alauda, Capella, Stella; Ital. Colonna, Rosa, Barbarossa, Malespina, etc. So, in French, we find names like Jean Marie.
A word often takes a particular gender from the fact that it belongs to a particular category. The gender of the type of the species, in fact, fixes the gender for other members classed with it. Thus, in English, the word for beast comes from the O.Fr. beste (bête), which is feminine: but this word, and the names of beasts generally, are treated in poetry as masculines, because the Teutonic usage is to treat beasts generally as masculine. Cf. The beast is laid down in his lair (Cowper); And when a beste is deed he ne hath no peyne (Chaucer, Cant. Tales, 1321); The forest’s leaping panther shall hide his spotted hide (Bryant). Numerous other instances are given by Mätzner.146 It is probable that personification aids in fixing the gender in these cases. Similarly, in French, été (‘summer’), from æstatem, has become masculine because the other seasons of the year were masculine. Minuit (‘midnight’) has followed midi (‘midday’); val (‘valley’) has followed mont (‘mountain’), font (‘fount’) fontaine (‘fountain’); aigle (‘eagle’) is masculine because oiseau (‘bird’) is masculine; brebis (‘wether’) is feminine because ovis (‘sheep’) is feminine; sort (‘lot’) is masculine because bonheur (‘happiness’) is masculine; art (‘art’) is masculine because métier (‘profession’) is masculine: mer (‘sea’) is feminine because terra (‘land’) is feminine. In German, again, the names of Tiber and Rhone have followed the model of most German river names, and appear as feminine. In Greek, many names of plants and trees have become feminine, following the model of δρῦς (‘tree’) and βοτάνη (‘grass’); cf. ὁ κύανος (‘steel’), ἡ κύανος (‘the corn-flower’), so called from a fancied resemblance between the plant and the metal. Towns, again, in Greek, show an inclination to follow the gender of πόλις, ‘a city:’ cf. ἡ Κέραμος, from ὁ κέραμος, ‘clay;’ ἡ Κισσός, from ὁ κισσός, ‘ivy;’ ἡ Μάραθος, from ὁ μόραθος, ‘fennel.’
In other cases formal reasons have brought about a change in gender. We have a striking example of this in the feminine gender assumed by abstract nouns in -or in the Romance languages, to which flos (‘flower’) has also added itself. The fact was felt that most abstract substantives were feminine, e.g. those terminating in -tas, -tus, -tudo, -tio, -itia, -ia; and, especially, the feminine termination -ura sometimes was employed as an alternative to -or; cf. pavor (‘fear’), Ital. paura. Again, in Latin, words in -a, when these were not, like poeta, the names of males, were commonly feminine. Consequently, we find that Greek neuters in -μα appear in popular Latin as feminines, a gender which they have in many cases preserved in the Romance languages. Examples of this are seen in schème, dogme, diademe, anagramme, énigme, épigramme, etc. In the same way, in Modern Greek, the old Greek feminines in -ος have in many cases became masculine, as ὁ πλάτανος, ὁ κυπάρισσος, ‘the plain,’ ‘the cypress.’
Sometimes the termination appears altered to suit the gender; thus the Lat. socrus (‘a father-in-law’) produces the Spanish word suegra (‘a mother-in-law’): and, again, sometimes the traditional was the natural gender; and this was an additional reason why the word should alter its termination, instead of being modified by the gender,—thus, in Greek, the α stems which have become masculine, like νεανίας (‘a youth’), have adopted the characteristic s of the masculine nominative.
The way in which natural gender, as viewed by imagination, has affected grammatical gender may be well seen in English. The personal pronouns give the only real traces of grammatical gender left in English, he, she, it; his, her, its, etc. On the other hand, substantives are very commonly referred to one sex or another by writers, and to some extent personified. In these cases sometimes a faint tradition of their Anglo-Saxon gender seems to have lingered, as when, for instance, mammals and reptiles are in poetry spoken of as masculine; e.g., Like the roe (A.S. rá, fem.) when he hears (Longfellow); I have seen the hyena’s (Lat. and Fr. fem.) eyes of flame, and heard at my side his stealthy tread (Bryant). Birds, on the other hand, are treated very often as feminines, irrespective of the grammatical gender possessed by their Anglo-Saxon or French original; cf. But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest (Cowper); A bird betrays her nest by striving to conceal it (Byron); Jealous as the eagle of her high aiery (ibid.); The raven flaps her wing (ibid.); A hawk hits her prey (Halliwell, s.v. ruff); The swan rows her state (Milton).
We must mention one more point which ought not to be overlooked, though, owing to the scanty survival of grammatical gender in modern English, it cannot easily be illustrated by English examples. We have indicated some of the causes which have been active in producing a change of gender; but, besides these, there is a negative one, viz., the absence of impediment to such change, which, in a certain sense, may be said to have contributed to the same effect. The distinction in gender which is even yet marked in French and German by the different forms of the singular article (le, der, masc.; la, die, fem.; das, neut.) has long since disappeared in the plural. We find les, die for all genders. And hence it is clear that such words as were most frequently used in the plural were least closely associated with a particular gender, and were therefore more especially amenable to the influence of any force tending to group them with words of a gender different from their own. For instance, most feminine nouns in German form their plural by adding -en to the singular, while few masculine and only six or seven neuter nouns do the like; as a result of which many nouns, formerly masculine, are now feminine, and this especially applies to cases where the plural was in frequent use.
The neuter, the sexless, owes its origin as a grammatical category merely to the development and differentiation of the two other genders.
As in the case of gender, so, before number passed into a grammatical category, concord must have been developed. Even in languages which, like English, would naturally express the plural by some plural termination, we find words denoting a plurality, and, indeed, a definite number, conceived and spoken of as a unity. Such are a pair, a leash, a brace, a triplet, a trio, a quartette, a dozen, a score.
We find similar cases in the most varied languages: cf. the Fr. une dizaine (‘a collection of ten’), une douzaine (‘a dozen’), centaine (‘a collection of a hundred’), etc.; Ital. una diecina, dozzina, etc.; trave, in Danish, means ‘a score of corn sheaves;’ schock, in German, means ‘sixty;’ tchetvero, in Russian, means ‘a set of four.’ We may add, the curious Latin word quimatus, ‘the age of five years.’
Thus, in like manner, so-called collective nouns are simply comprehensive singular designations of plurality. Now, the speaker or writer may choose to think of the collective of which he is speaking as a unity or as a plurality, and the way in which he chooses to regard it may affect the concord; nay, it may even affect the gender.
The most common case is where a plural verb follows a singular collective noun: as, ‘The whole nation seem to be running out of their wits’ (Smollett, Humphrey Clinker); ‘The army of the Queen mean to besiege us’ (Shakespeare, 3 Hen. VI., I. ii.);147 cf. ‘Even until King Arthur’s table, man by man, had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord’ (Tennyson, Idylls of the King); ‘Pars perexigua, duce amisso, Romam inermes delati sunt’ (Livy, ii. 14) = ‘A very small part, their leader lost, were brought unarmed to Rome;’ ‘Cetera classis, prætoria nave amissa, fugerunt’ (Livy, xxxv. 26) = ‘The rest of the fleet, with the loss of the prætorian ship, fled (plur.).’ Sometimes there is a mixture of singular and plural, e.g. ‘Fremit improba plebes (sing.) Sontibus accensæ (plur.) stimulis’ (Stat., Theb., v. 488) = ‘The impatient people murmur (sing.), inflamed (plur. part.) etc.:’ cf. the following examples from the Greek—Μέρος τι (sing.) ανθρώπων οὐκ ἡγοῦνται (plur.) θεούς (Plato., Leg., 948) = ‘A portion of mankind do not believe in gods;’ Τό στράτευμα ἐπορίζετο (sing.) σῖτον, κόπτοντες (plur.) τοὺς βοῦς καὶ ονους (Xen., Anab., II. i. 6) = ‘The army provided itself with food (by) cutting up (plur. part.) the oxen and asses.’
In A.S., when ðæt or ðis is connected with a plural predicate by means of the verb ‘to be,’ the verb is put in the plural: ‘Eall ðæt sindon micle and egeslice dæda’ (‘All that are great and terrible deeds.’) Conversely, where we should say ‘each of those who hear,’ the idiom in Anglo-Saxon was to say ‘each of those who hears:’ as, ‘Ælc ðára ðe ðás míne word gehyrð’ (= ‘Each of those who hears these my words’, where the verb is made to agree, not with ðara ðe, but with ælc. Cf. Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Reader, p. xci.).
We find many words so commonly combined with the plural, that we more naturally apprehend them as plural than as singular; such a word is the English ‘people,’ which we instinctively connect with a plural verb. In such cases, we sometimes even find that the grammatical form actually assimilates itself to the psychological number, as when we speak of folks; cf. also sheeps in Shakespeare (Love’s Labour’s lost, II. i.); while from the French word gent, which was used in Old French with the plural, we find formed, in the same way, the word gens: in Italian we find genti beside gente. In Anglo-Saxon, -waru denotes ‘a nation,’ ‘a defence:’ the plural -ware, ‘citizens;’ as Rómware, ‘the men of Rome;’ Cantwáre, ‘the men of Kent,’ etc. In Gothic, there is a collective neuter fadrein, which we may illustrate or parallel, though not exactly translate, by the word ‘fathership.’ In the singular (genitive) it is used in the meaning of ‘race’ or ‘family’ (Eph. iii. 15), thus showing its original abstract and then collective sense; and again it is found (Luke viii. 56) still singular but with a plural verb: jah usgeisnodedun fadrein izos = and were-astonished fathership (i.e. PARENTS) her = and her parents were astonished. We even find the singular noun with the article (i.e. demonstrative pronoun) in the plural: Andhofun ðan im ðai fadrein is jah qeðun = Answered then to him those fathership his and said = Then answered his parents and said (John ix. 20). It is, thus, this plural meaning which caused the word to be used in the plural form, exactly as we use folks quoted above, while the etymological meaning as abstract collective was overlooked. For example: Ni auk skulun barna FADREINAM huzdjan, ak FADREINA barnam = not eke shall bairns for FATHERSHIPS hoard, but FATHERSHIPS for bairns, i.e. For the children shall not hoard for the parents, but the parents for the children (2 Cor. xii. 14).148
The converse of this also happens. A plural expression receives the function of a singular when the parts thus indicated are thought of as a whole. Thus we can talk of another sixpence, another hundred yards; or even use phrases like There’s not another two such women (Warren); this seven year (Shakes., Much Ado, III. 3.); What is six winters? (Rich. II., I. iii.). Amends, gallows, sessions, shambles are plurals, but are generally treated as singulars; e.g., a shrewd unhappy gallows (Love’s Labour’s lost, V. ii. 12). So, too, works, scales, etc.: e.g., that crystal scales (Rom. and Jul., I. ii. 101); Stoppage of a large steelworks (Weekly Times and Echo, August 19, 1888); Fire in a Liverpool chemical works (Liverpool Daily Post, June 30, 1884, p. 7); This is good news; etc. Finally, such plurals become singular, not only in sense, but even in form, and are treated and declined as such. Thus, in English, we talk of an invoice (Fr. envois, plur.). In Latin, castra (plur.) sometimes formed a genitive of singular form, castræ:149 the plural litteræ, in sense of ‘an epistle,’ has passed into the French lettre as singular, with a new plural, lettres; the Latin plural vela, ‘sails,’ into French une voile: minaciæ has become the French menace, ‘threat,’ and the Italian minaccia: nuptiæ, ‘nuptials,’ has become, in French, noce, ‘a wedding,’ as well as noces: tenebræ, ‘darkness’ has become, in Spanish, tiniebla, as well as tinieblas; deliciæ, ‘delights,’ in French, délice, as well as délices. Pâques, ‘Easter,’ Athènes, ‘Athens,’ are used as singulars.
Pronouns referring to abstract expressions stand sometimes in the plural; as, Nobody knows what it is to lose a friend till THEY have lost him (Fielding). Again, the predicate may stand in the plural;150 as, Quisque suos PATIMUR manes (Verg., Æn., 743)—‘We each suffer our own ghostly punishment,’ where quisque ‘each’ in singular, but the verb patimur is plural. Similar are uterque educunt (Cæs., C., iii. 30); uter ERATIS (Plaut., Men., 1119); neuter ad me IRETIS; Every one of these letters ARE in my name (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, II. v.); Neither of them ARE remarkable (Blair); Every one to rest THEMSELVES BETAKE (Rape of Lucrece, 125); when neither ARE alive (Cymb., IV. ii. 252). Most Indo-European languages possess pairs of pronouns, in each of which sets one properly denotes the singular, the other plurality; as in English all, every; or each, and any: and these are readily interchanged; e.g., without all doubt (Shakes., Hen. VIII., IV. i. 113), less attemptable than any the rarest of our ladies (Cymb., I. iv. 65). Thus, even in Latin, the singular omnis is used where we should have expected omnes; as, militat omnis amans (Ovid, Amor., I. ix. 1). Tu pulses omne quod obstat (Hor., Sat. II., vi. 30). Thus totus has passed into the French tout, ‘all.’ We find both in Shakespeare, connected with the singular; Both our remedies within thy help and holy physic lies, i.e. the remedy for us both (Rom. and Jul., II. iii. 51). Thus, also, autrui, ‘others,’ in French, really the oblique case of autre, is in fact a singular, but is looked upon as a plural; as, la rigueur envers autrui (Massillon).
Number, in the sense of singular or plural, cannot, again, be properly predicated of the simple names of materials. We do not think of them as individuals, except in connection with form as well as matter,—in fact, till we think of substances as divided as well as divisible. Hence it is that the names of materials occur mostly in the singular number; the fact being that if there were a neuter number, i.e. a grammatical form expressive of neither plural nor singular, we should naturally employ it.
But the name of a material is readily used as that of an individual object, and, on the other hand, the name of an individual object may easily come to be the designation of a material. The imagination supplies or withdraws, as it may be, the form and definite shape which, as we have seen, is essential to number. Take such instances as hair, grass, bloom, fruit, weed, grain, cloth, stone, wood, field, meadow, marsh, heath, earth, land, bread, cake, etc. Similarly, when we talk of fowl as a viand, we individualise and give form to a general conception; as, in French, when we talk about du porc, du mouton. In the same way, we have in Latin such expressions as leporem et gallinam et anserem for ‘the flesh of the hare, the fowl, and the goose;’ and fagum atque abietem for ‘the beech tree and the fir-tree’ (Cæsar, Bell. Gall., v. 12). In the same way, we must explain the singular in cases like The enemy is approaching; The Russian is within hail. Similarly, Livy uses the singular, as Romanus for ‘the Romans,’ Poenus for ‘the Carthaginians,’ eques for ‘the cavalry,’ pedes for ‘the infantry,’ etc.; nay, he even goes as far as to combine Hispani milites et funditor Balearis (xxvii. 2).
Thus, too, Horace ventures on the combination miles nautæque (Sat. I., i.). Vergil has plurima mortis imago, ‘many an image of death’ (Æn., ii. 369); in Seneca, we even find multo hoste, ‘many an enemy.’
In German, the singular of many words stands constantly after numerals; as, tausend mann, ‘a thousand men,’ zehn stück Pferde, ‘ten head (lit. pieces) of horses.’ Similarly it was usual to write in English such expressions as many score thousand: twenty score paces.151 The fact is, that there is no need for any special designation of plurality to follow a number; the plurality is already sufficiently denoted by the number itself.152 We thus see that the form taken by such a word would naturally be numberless, or absolute, in fact, would be treated in the same way as it would have been treated before the rise of grammatical number.
It is the function of the various ‘tenses’ to express the temporal relation of an event, when considered with regard to a certain moment. At the outset, however, we must observe that the tenses actually existing in any given language do not by any means perfectly correspond to the varieties possible and logically distinguishable in these relations. We will first consider what would be indispensable to a logically complete system.
Any event whatever must necessarily be anterior, contemporary, or posterior, to the moment with respect to which it is considered; and this moment must itself be past, present, or future. Hence, according as the moment of comparison is varied, we get the following sets:—
I. Moment of comparison Present.
The event is stated as—
(a1) NOW past.
(b1) NOW present.
(c1) NOW still to come.
II. Moment of comparison Past.
The event is stated to have been—
(a2) THEN already past.
(b2) THEN present.
(c2) THEN still to come.
III. Moment of comparison Future.
It is stated that the event—
(a3) will THEN be past.
(b3) will THEN be present.
(c3) will THEN be still to come.
The above nine subdivisions exhaust all possibilities as long as we employ but a single ‘moment of comparison’ in each case; and it is so important that this point should be fully realised, that, simple as it appears, we proceed to illustrate each division as follows:—