unrounded, were indistinguishable from the mass of long _i_-vowels. This meant that the long _i_-vowel became a more heavily weighted point of the phonetic pattern than before. It is curious to observe how often languages have striven to drive originally distinct sounds into certain favorite positions, regardless of resulting confusions.[160] In Modern Greek, for instance, the vowel _i_ is the historical resultant of no less than ten etymologically distinct vowels (long and short) and diphthongs of the classical speech of Athens. There is, then, good evidence to show that there are general phonetic drifts toward particular sounds.
[Footnote 159: In practice phonetic laws have their exceptions, but more intensive study almost invariably shows that these exceptions are more apparent than real. They are generally due to the disturbing influence of morphological groupings or to special psychological reasons which inhibit the normal progress of the phonetic drift. It is remarkable with how few exceptions one need operate in linguistic history, aside from “analogical leveling” (morphological replacement).]
[Footnote 160: These confusions are more theoretical than real, however. A language has countless methods of avoiding practical ambiguities.]
More often the phonetic drift is of a more general character. It is not so much a movement toward a particular set of sounds as toward particular types of articulation. The vowels tend to become higher or lower, the diphthongs tend to coalesce into monophthongs, the voiceless consonants tend to become voiced, stops tend to become spirants. As a matter of fact, practically all the phonetic laws enumerated in the two tables are but specific instances of such far-reaching phonetic drifts. The raising of English long _o_ to _u_ and of long _e_ to _i_, for instance, was part of a general tendency to raise the position of the long vowels, just as the change of _t_ to _ss_ in Old High German was part of a general tendency to make voiceless spirants of the old voiceless stopped consonants. A single sound change, even if there is no phonetic leveling, generally threatens to upset the old phonetic pattern because it brings about a disharmony in the grouping of sounds. To reestablish the old pattern without going back on the drift the only possible method is to have the other sounds of the series shift in analogous fashion. If, for some reason or other, _p_ becomes shifted to its voiced correspondent _b_, the old series _p_, _t_, _k_ appears in the unsymmetrical form _b_, _t_, _k_. Such a series is, in phonetic effect, not the equivalent of the old series, however it may answer to it in etymology. The general phonetic pattern is impaired to that extent. But if _t_ and _k_ are also shifted to their voiced correspondents _d_ and _g_, the old series is reestablished in a new form: _b_, _d_, _g_. The pattern as such is preserved, or restored. _Provided that_ the new series _b_, _d_, _g_ does not become confused with an old series _b_, _d_, _g_ of distinct historical antecedents. If there is no such older series, the creation of a _b_, _d_, _g_ series causes no difficulties. If there is, the old patterning of sounds can be kept intact only by shifting the old _b_, _d_, _g_ sounds in some way. They may become aspirated to _bh_, _dh_, _gh_ or spirantized or nasalized or they may develop any other peculiarity that keeps them intact as a series and serves to differentiate them from other series. And this sort of shifting about without loss of pattern, or with a minimum loss of it, is probably the most important tendency in the history of speech sounds. Phonetic leveling and “splitting” counteract it to some extent but, on the whole, it remains the central unconscious regulator of the course and speed of sound changes.
The desire to hold on to a pattern, the tendency to “correct” a disturbance by an elaborate chain of supplementary changes, often spread over centuries or even millennia–these psychic undercurrents of language are exceedingly difficult to understand in terms of individual psychology, though there can be no denial of their historical reality. What is the primary cause of the unsettling of a phonetic pattern and what is the cumulative force that selects these or those particular variations of the individual on which to float the pattern readjustments we hardly know. Many linguistic students have made the fatal error of thinking of sound change as a quasi-physiological instead of as a strictly psychological phenomenon, or they have tried to dispose of the problem by bandying such catchwords as “the tendency to increased ease of articulation” or “the cumulative result of faulty perception” (on the part of children, say, in learning to speak). These easy explanations will not do. “Ease of articulation” may enter in as a factor, but it is a rather subjective concept at best. Indians find hopelessly difficult sounds and sound combinations that are simple to us; one language encourages a phonetic drift that another does everything to fight. “Faulty perception” does not explain that impressive drift in speech sounds which I have insisted upon. It is much better to admit that we do not yet understand the primary cause or causes of the slow drift in phonetics, though we can frequently point to contributing factors. It is likely that we shall not advance seriously until we study the intuitional bases of speech. How can we understand the nature of the drift that frays and reforms phonetic patterns when we have never thought of studying sound patterning as such and the “weights” and psychic relations of the single elements (the individual sounds) in these patterns?
Every linguist knows that phonetic change is frequently followed by morphological rearrangements, but he is apt to assume that morphology exercises little or no influence on the course of phonetic history. I am inclined to believe that our present tendency to isolate phonetics and grammar as mutually irrelevant linguistic provinces is unfortunate. There are likely to be fundamental relations between them and their respective histories that we do not yet fully grasp. After all, if speech sounds exist merely because they are the symbolic carriers of significant concepts and groupings of concepts, why may not a strong drift or a permanent feature in the conceptual sphere exercise a furthering or retarding influence on the phonetic drift? I believe that such influences may be demonstrated and that they deserve far more careful study than they have received.
This brings us back to our unanswered question: How is it that both English and German developed the curious alternation of unmodified vowel in the singular (_foot_, _Fuss_) and modified vowel in the plural (_feet_, _Fuesse_)? Was the pre-Anglo-Saxon alternation of _fot_ and _foeti_ an absolutely mechanical matter, without other than incidental morphological interest? It is always so represented, and, indeed, all the external facts support such a view. The change from _o_ to _oe_, later _e_, is by no means peculiar to the plural. It is found also in the dative singular (_fet_), for it too goes back to an older _foti_. Moreover, _fet_ of the plural applies only to the nominative and accusative; the genitive has _fota_, the dative _fotum_. Only centuries later was the alternation of _o_ and _e_ reinterpreted as a means of distinguishing number; _o_ was generalized for the singular, _e_ for the plural. Only when this reassortment of forms took place[161] was the modern symbolic value of the _foot_: _feet_ alternation clearly established. Again, we must not forget that _o_ was modified to _oe (e)_ in all manner of other grammatical and derivative formations. Thus, a pre-Anglo-Saxon _hohan_ (later _hon_) “to hang” corresponded to a _hoehith_, _hehith_ (later _hehth_) “hangs”; to _dom_ “doom,” _blod_ “blood,” and _fod_ “food” corresponded the verbal derivatives _doemian_ (later _deman_) “to deem,” _bloedian_ (later _bledan_) “to bleed,” and _foedian_ (later _fedan_) “to feed.” All this seems to point to the purely mechanical nature of the modification of _o_ to _oe_ to _e_. So many unrelated functions were ultimately served by the vocalic change that we cannot believe that it was motivated by any one of them.
[Footnote 161: A type of adjustment generally referred to as “analogical leveling.”]
The German facts are entirely analogous. Only later in the history of the language was the vocalic alternation made significant for number. And yet consider the following facts. The change of _foti_ to _foeti_ antedated that of _foeti_ to _foete_, _foet_. This may be looked upon as a “lucky accident,” for if _foti_ had become _fote_, _fot_ before the _-i_ had had the chance to exert a retroactive influence on the _o_, there would have been no difference between the singular and the plural. This would have been anomalous in Anglo-Saxon for a masculine noun. But was the sequence of phonetic changes an “accident”? Consider two further facts. All the Germanic languages were familiar with vocalic change as possessed of functional significance. Alternations like _sing_, _sang_, _sung_ (Anglo-Saxon _singan_, _sang_, _sungen_) were ingrained in the linguistic consciousness. Further, the tendency toward the weakening of final syllables was very strong even then and had been manifesting itself in one way and another for centuries. I believe that these further facts help us to understand the actual sequence of phonetic changes. We may go so far as to say that the _o_ (and _u_) could afford to stay the change to _oe_ (and _ue_) until the destructive drift had advanced to the point where failure to modify the vowel would soon result in morphological embarrassment. At a certain moment the _-i_ ending of the plural (and analogous endings with _i_ in other formations) was felt to be too weak to quite bear its functional burden. The unconscious Anglo-Saxon mind, if I may be allowed a somewhat summary way of putting the complex facts, was glad of the opportunity afforded by certain individual variations, until then automatically canceled out, to have some share of the burden thrown on them. These particular variations won through because they so beautifully allowed the general phonetic drift to take its course without unsettling the morphological contours of the language. And the presence of symbolic variation (_sing_, _sang_, _sung_) acted as an attracting force on the rise of a new variation of similar character. All these factors were equally true of the German vocalic shift. Owing to the fact that the destructive phonetic drift was proceeding at a slower rate in German than in English, the preservative change of _uo_ to _uee_ (_u_ to _ue_) did not need to set in until 300 years or more after the analogous English change. Nor did it. And this is to my mind a highly significant fact. Phonetic changes may sometimes be unconsciously encouraged in order to keep intact the psychological spaces between words and word forms. The general drift seizes upon those individual sound variations that help to preserve the morphological balance or to lead to the new balance that the language is striving for.
I would suggest, then, that phonetic change is compacted of at least three basic strands: (1) A general drift in one direction, concerning the nature of which we know almost nothing but which may be suspected to be of prevailingly dynamic character (tendencies, e.g., to greater or less stress, greater or less voicing of elements); (2) A readjusting tendency which aims to preserve or restore the fundamental phonetic pattern of the language; (3) A preservative tendency which sets in when a too serious morphological unsettlement is threatened by the main drift. I do not imagine for a moment that it is always possible to separate these strands or that this purely schematic statement does justice to the complex forces that guide the phonetic drift. The phonetic pattern of a language is not invariable, but it changes far less readily than the sounds that compose it. Every phonetic element that it possesses may change radically and yet the pattern remain unaffected. It would be absurd to claim that our present English pattern is identical with the old Indo-European one, yet it is impressive to note that even at this late day the English series of initial consonants:
_p_ _t_ _k_
_b_ _d_ _g_
_f_ _th_ _h_
corresponds point for point to the Sanskrit series:
_b_ _d_ _g_
_bh_ _dh_ _gh_
_p_ _t_ _k_
The relation between phonetic pattern and individual sound is roughly parallel to that which obtains between the morphologic type of a language and one of its specific morphological features. Both phonetic pattern and fundamental type are exceedingly conservative, all superficial appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. Which is more so we cannot say. I suspect that they hang together in a way that we cannot at present quite understand.
If all the phonetic changes brought about by the phonetic drift were allowed to stand, it is probable that most languages would present such irregularities of morphological contour as to lose touch with their formal ground-plan. Sound changes work mechanically. Hence they are likely to affect a whole morphological group here–this does not matter–, only part of a morphological group there–and this may be disturbing. Thus, the old Anglo-Saxon paradigm:
Sing. Plur.
N. Ac. _fot_ _fet_ (older _foti_) G. _fotes_ _fota_
D. _fet_ (older _foti_) _fotum_
could not long stand unmodified. The _o_–_e_ alternation was welcome in so far as it roughly distinguished the singular from the plural. The dative singular _fet_, however, though justified historically, was soon felt to be an intrusive feature. The analogy of simpler and more numerously represented paradigms created the form _fote_ (compare, e.g., _fisc_ “fish,” dative singular _fisce_). _Fet_ as a dative becomes obsolete. The singular now had _o_ throughout. But this very fact made the genitive and dative _o_-forms of the plural seem out of place. The nominative and accusative _fet_ was naturally far more frequently in use than were the corresponding forms of the genitive and dative. These, in the end, could not but follow the analogy of _fet_. At the very beginning of the Middle English period, therefore, we find that the old paradigm has yielded to a more regular one:
Sing. Plur.
N. Ac. *_fot_ *_fet_
G. *_fotes_ _fete_
D. _fote_ _feten_
The starred forms are the old nucleus around which the new paradigm is built. The unstarred forms are not genealogical kin of their formal prototypes. They are analogical replacements.
The history of the English language teems with such levelings or extensions. _Elder_ and _eldest_ were at one time the only possible comparative and superlative forms of _old_ (compare German _alt_, _aelter_, _der aelteste_; the vowel following the _old-_, _alt-_ was originally an _i_, which modified the quality of the stem vowel). The general analogy of the vast majority of English adjectives, however, has caused the replacement of the forms _elder_ and _eldest_ by the forms with unmodified vowel, _older_ and _oldest_. _Elder_ and _eldest_ survive only as somewhat archaic terms for the older and oldest brother or sister. This illustrates the tendency for words that are psychologically disconnected from their etymological or formal group to preserve traces of phonetic laws that have otherwise left no recognizable trace or to preserve a vestige of a morphological process that has long lost its vitality. A careful study of these survivals or atrophied forms is not without value for the reconstruction of the earlier history of a language or for suggestive hints as to its remoter affiliations.
Analogy may not only refashion forms within the confines of a related cluster of forms (a “paradigm”) but may extend its influence far beyond. Of a number of functionally equivalent elements, for instance, only one may survive, the rest yielding to its constantly widening influence. This is what happened with the English _-s_ plural. Originally confined to a particular class of masculines, though an important class, the _-s_ plural was gradually generalized for all nouns but a mere handful that still illustrate plural types now all but extinct (_foot_: feet, _goose_: _geese_, _tooth_: _teeth_, _mouse_: _mice_, _louse_: _lice_; _ox_: _oxen_; _child_: _children_; _sheep_: _sheep_, _deer_: _deer_). Thus analogy not only regularizes irregularities that have come in the wake of phonetic processes but introduces disturbances, generally in favor of greater simplicity or regularity, in a long established system of forms. These analogical adjustments are practically always symptoms of the general morphological drift of the language.
A morphological feature that appears as the incidental consequence of a phonetic process, like the English plural with modified vowel, may spread by analogy no less readily than old features that owe their origin to other than phonetic causes. Once the _e_-vowel of Middle English _fet_ had become confined to the plural, there was no theoretical reason why alternations of the type _fot_: _fet_ and _mus_: _mis_ might not have become established as a productive type of number distinction in the noun. As a matter of fact, it did not so become established. The _fot_: _fet_ type of plural secured but a momentary foothold. It was swept into being by one of the surface drifts of the language, to be swept aside in the Middle English period by the more powerful drift toward the use of simple distinctive forms. It was too late in the day for our language to be seriously interested in such pretty symbolisms as _foot_: _feet_. What examples of the type arose legitimately, in other words _via_ purely phonetic processes, were tolerated for a time, but the type as such never had a serious future.
It was different in German. The whole series of phonetic changes comprised under the term “umlaut,” of which _u_: _ue_ and _au_: _oi_ (written _aeu_) are but specific examples, struck the German language at a time when the general drift to morphological simplification was not so strong but that the resulting formal types (e.g., _Fuss_: _Fuesse_; _fallen_ “to fall”: _faellen_ “to fell”; _Horn_ “horn”: _Gehoerne_ “group of horns”; _Haus_ “house”: _Haeuslein_ “little house”) could keep themselves intact and even extend to forms that did not legitimately come within their sphere of influence. “Umlaut” is still a very live symbolic process in German, possibly more alive to-day than in medieval times. Such analogical plurals as _Baum_ “tree”: _Baeume_ (contrast Middle High German _boum_: _boume_) and derivatives as _lachen_ “to laugh”: _Gelaechter_ “laughter” (contrast Middle High German _gelach_) show that vocalic mutation has won through to the status of a productive morphologic process. Some of the dialects have even gone further than standard German, at least in certain respects. In Yiddish,[162] for instance, “umlaut” plurals have been formed where there are no Middle High German prototypes or modern literary parallels, e.g., _tog_ “day”: _teg_ “days” (but German _Tag_: _Tage_) on the analogy of _gast_ “guest”: _gest_ “guests” (German _Gast_: _Gaeste_), _shuch_[163] “shoe”: _shich_ “shoes” (but German _Schuh_: _Schuhe_) on the analogy of _fus_ “foot”: _fis_ “feet.” It is possible that “umlaut” will run its course and cease to operate as a live functional process in German, but that time is still distant. Meanwhile all consciousness of the merely phonetic nature of “umlaut” vanished centuries ago. It is now a strictly morphological process, not in the least a mechanical phonetic adjustment. We have in it a splendid example of how a simple phonetic law, meaningless in itself, may eventually color or transform large reaches of the morphology of a language.
[Footnote 162: Isolated from other German dialects in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. It is therefore a good test for gauging the strength of the tendency to “umlaut,” particularly as it has developed a strong drift towards analytic methods.]
[Footnote 163: _Ch_ as in German _Buch_.]
IX
HOW LANGUAGES INFLUENCE EACH OTHER
Languages, like cultures, are rarely sufficient unto themselves. The necessities of intercourse bring the speakers of one language into direct or indirect contact with those of neighboring or culturally dominant languages. The intercourse may be friendly or hostile. It may move on the humdrum plane of business and trade relations or it may consist of a borrowing or interchange of spiritual goods–art, science, religion. It would be difficult to point to a completely isolated language or dialect, least of all among the primitive peoples. The tribe is often so small that intermarriages with alien tribes that speak other dialects or even totally unrelated languages are not uncommon. It may even be doubted whether intermarriage, intertribal trade, and general cultural interchanges are not of greater relative significance on primitive levels than on our own. Whatever the degree or nature of contact between neighboring peoples, it is generally sufficient to lead to some kind of linguistic interinfluencing. Frequently the influence runs heavily in one direction. The language of a people that is looked upon as a center of culture is naturally far more likely to exert an appreciable influence on other languages spoken in its vicinity than to be influenced by them. Chinese has flooded the vocabularies of Corean, Japanese, and Annamite for centuries, but has received nothing in return. In the western Europe of medieval and modern times French has exercised a similar, though probably a less overwhelming, influence. English borrowed an immense number of words from the French of the Norman invaders, later also from the court French of Isle de France, appropriated a certain number of affixed elements of derivational value (e.g., _-ess_ of _princess_, _-ard_ of _drunkard_, _-ty_ of _royalty_), may have been somewhat stimulated in its general analytic drift by contact with French,[164] and even allowed French to modify its phonetic pattern slightly (e.g., initial _v_ and _j_ in words like _veal_ and _judge_; in words of Anglo-Saxon origin _v_ and _j_ can only occur after vowels, e.g., _over_, _hedge_). But English has exerted practically no influence on French.
[Footnote 164: The earlier students of English, however, grossly exaggerated the general “disintegrating” effect of French on middle English. English was moving fast toward a more analytic structure long before the French influence set in.]
The simplest kind of influence that one language may exert on another is the “borrowing” of words. When there is cultural borrowing there is always the likelihood that the associated words may be borrowed too. When the early Germanic peoples of northern Europe first learned of wine-culture and of paved streets from their commercial or warlike contact with the Romans, it was only natural that they should adopt the Latin words for the strange beverage (_vinum_, English _wine_, German _Wein_) and the unfamiliar type of road (_strata [via]_, English _street_, German _Strasse_). Later, when Christianity was introduced into England, a number of associated words, such as _bishop_ and _angel_, found their way into English. And so the process has continued uninterruptedly down to the present day, each cultural wave bringing to the language a new deposit of loan-words. The careful study of such loan-words constitutes an interesting commentary on the history of culture. One can almost estimate the role which various peoples have played in the development and spread of cultural ideas by taking note of the extent to which their vocabularies have filtered into those of other peoples. When we realize that an educated Japanese can hardly frame a single literary sentence without the use of Chinese resources, that to this day Siamese and Burmese and Cambodgian bear the unmistakable imprint of the Sanskrit and Pali that came in with Hindu Buddhism centuries ago, or that whether we argue for or against the teaching of Latin and Greek our argument is sure to be studded with words that have come to us from Rome and Athens, we get some inkling of what early Chinese culture and Buddhism and classical Mediterranean civilization have meant in the world’s history. There are just five languages that have had an overwhelming significance as carriers of culture. They are classical Chinese, Sanskrit, Arabic, Greek, and Latin. In comparison with these even such culturally important languages as Hebrew and French sink into a secondary position. It is a little disappointing to learn that the general cultural influence of English has so far been all but negligible. The English language itself is spreading because the English have colonized immense territories. But there is nothing to show that it is anywhere entering into the lexical heart of other languages as French has colored the English complexion or as Arabic has permeated Persian and Turkish. This fact alone is significant of the power of nationalism, cultural as well as political, during the last century. There are now psychological resistances to borrowing, or rather to new sources of borrowing,[165] that were not greatly alive in the Middle Ages or during the Renaissance.
[Footnote 165: For we still name our new scientific instruments and patent medicines from Greek and Latin.]
Are there resistances of a more intimate nature to the borrowing of words? It is generally assumed that the nature and extent of borrowing depend entirely on the historical facts of culture relation; that if German, for instance, has borrowed less copiously than English from Latin and French it is only because Germany has had less intimate relations than England with the culture spheres of classical Rome and France. This is true to a considerable extent, but it is not the whole truth. We must not exaggerate the physical importance of the Norman invasion nor underrate the significance of the fact that Germany’s central geographical position made it peculiarly sensitive to French influences all through the Middle Ages, to humanistic influences in the latter fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, and again to the powerful French influences of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It seems very probable that the psychological attitude of the borrowing language itself towards linguistic material has much to do with its receptivity to foreign words. English has long been striving for the completely unified, unanalyzed word, regardless of whether it is monosyllabic or polysyllabic. Such words as _credible_, _certitude_, _intangible_ are entirely welcome in English because each represents a unitary, well-nuanced idea and because their formal analysis (_cred-ible_, _cert-itude_, _in-tang-ible_) is not a necessary act of the unconscious mind (_cred-_, _cert-_, and _tang-_ have no real existence in English comparable to that of _good-_ in _goodness_). A word like _intangible_, once it is acclimated, is nearly as simple a psychological entity as any radical monosyllable (say _vague_, _thin_, _grasp_). In German, however, polysyllabic words strive to analyze themselves into significant elements. Hence vast numbers of French and Latin words, borrowed at the height of certain cultural influences, could not maintain themselves in the language. Latin-German words like _kredibel_ “credible” and French-German words like _reussieren_ “to succeed” offered nothing that the unconscious mind could assimilate to its customary method of feeling and handling words. It is as though this unconscious mind said: “I am perfectly willing to accept _kredibel_ if you will just tell me what you mean by _kred-_.” Hence German has generally found it easier to create new words out of its own resources, as the necessity for them arose.
The psychological contrast between English and German as regards the treatment of foreign material is a contrast that may be studied in all parts of the world. The Athabaskan languages of America are spoken by peoples that have had astonishingly varied cultural contacts, yet nowhere do we find that an Athabaskan dialect has borrowed at all freely[166] from a neighboring language. These languages have always found it easier to create new words by compounding afresh elements ready to hand. They have for this reason been highly resistant to receiving the linguistic impress of the external cultural experiences of their speakers. Cambodgian and Tibetan offer a highly instructive contrast in their reaction to Sanskrit influence. Both are analytic languages, each totally different from the highly-wrought, inflective language of India. Cambodgian is isolating, but, unlike Chinese, it contains many polysyllabic words whose etymological analysis does not matter. Like English, therefore, in its relation to French and Latin, it welcomed immense numbers of Sanskrit loan-words, many of which are in common use to-day. There was no psychological resistance to them. Classical Tibetan literature was a slavish adaptation of Hindu Buddhist literature and nowhere has Buddhism implanted itself more firmly than in Tibet, yet it is strange how few Sanskrit words have found their way into the language. Tibetan was highly resistant to the polysyllabic words of Sanskrit because they could not automatically fall into significant syllables, as they should have in order to satisfy the Tibetan feeling for form. Tibetan was therefore driven to translating the great majority of these Sanskrit words into native equivalents. The Tibetan craving for form was satisfied, though the literally translated foreign terms must often have done violence to genuine Tibetan idiom. Even the proper names of the Sanskrit originals were carefully translated, element for element, into Tibetan; e.g., _Suryagarbha_ “Sun-bosomed” was carefully Tibetanized into _Nyi-mai snying-po_ “Sun-of heart-the, the heart (or essence) of the sun.” The study of how a language reacts to the presence of foreign words–rejecting them, translating them, or freely accepting them–may throw much valuable light on its innate formal tendencies.
[Footnote 166: One might all but say, “has borrowed at all.”]
The borrowing of foreign words always entails their phonetic modification. There are sure to be foreign sounds or accentual peculiarities that do not fit the native phonetic habits. They are then so changed as to do as little violence as possible to these habits. Frequently we have phonetic compromises. Such an English word as the recently introduced _camouflage_, as now ordinarily pronounced, corresponds to the typical phonetic usage of neither English nor French. The aspirated _k_, the obscure vowel of the second syllable, the precise quality of the _l_ and of the last _a_, and, above all, the strong accent on the first syllable, are all the results of unconscious assimilation to our English habits of pronunciation. They differentiate our _camouflage_ clearly from the same word as pronounced by the French. On the other hand, the long, heavy vowel in the third syllable and the final position of the “zh” sound (like _z_ in _azure_) are distinctly un-English, just as, in Middle English, the initial _j_ and _v_[167] must have been felt at first as not strictly in accord with English usage, though the strangeness has worn off by now. In all four of these cases–initial _j_, initial _v_, final “zh,” and unaccented _a_ of _father_–English has not taken on a new sound but has merely extended the use of an old one.
[Footnote 167: See page 206.]
[Transcriber’s note: Footnote 167 refers to the paragraph beginning on line 6329.]
Occasionally a new sound is introduced, but it is likely to melt away before long. In Chaucer’s day the old Anglo-Saxon _ue_ (written _y_) had long become unrounded to _i_, but a new set of _ue_-vowels had come in from the French (in such words as _due_, _value_, _nature_). The new _ue_ did not long hold its own; it became diphthongized to _iu_ and was amalgamated with the native _iw_ of words like _new_ and _slew_. Eventually this diphthong appears as _yu_, with change of stress–_dew_ (from Anglo-Saxon _deaw_) like _due_ (Chaucerian _due_). Facts like these show how stubbornly a language resists radical tampering with its phonetic pattern.
Nevertheless, we know that languages do influence each other in phonetic respects, and that quite aside from the taking over of foreign sounds with borrowed words. One of the most curious facts that linguistics has to note is the occurrence of striking phonetic parallels in totally unrelated or very remotely related languages of a restricted geographical area. These parallels become especially impressive when they are seen contrastively from a wide phonetic perspective. Here are a few examples. The Germanic languages as a whole have not developed nasalized vowels. Certain Upper German (Suabian) dialects, however, have now nasalized vowels in lieu of the older vowel + nasal consonant (_n_). Is it only accidental that these dialects are spoken in proximity to French, which makes abundant use of nasalized vowels? Again, there are certain general phonetic features that mark off Dutch and Flemish in contrast, say, to North German and Scandinavian dialects. One of these is the presence of unaspirated voiceless stops (_p_, _t_, _k_), which have a precise, metallic quality reminiscent of the corresponding French sounds, but which contrast with the stronger, aspirated stops of English, North German, and Danish. Even if we assume that the unaspirated stops are more archaic, that they are the unmodified descendants of the old Germanic consonants, is it not perhaps a significant historical fact that the Dutch dialects, neighbors of French, were inhibited from modifying these consonants in accordance with what seems to have been a general Germanic phonetic drift? Even more striking than these instances is the peculiar resemblance, in certain special phonetic respects, of Russian and other Slavic languages to the unrelated Ural-Altaic languages[168] of the Volga region. The peculiar, dull vowel, for instance, known in Russian as “yeri”[169] has Ural-Altaic analogues, but is entirely wanting in Germanic, Greek, Armenian, and Indo-Iranian, the nearest Indo-European congeners of Slavic. We may at least suspect that the Slavic vowel is not historically unconnected with its Ural-Altaic parallels. One of the most puzzling cases of phonetic parallelism is afforded by a large number of American Indian languages spoken west of the Rockies. Even at the most radical estimate there are at least four totally unrelated linguistic stocks represented in the region from southern Alaska to central California. Nevertheless all, or practically all, the languages of this immense area have some important phonetic features in common. Chief of these is the presence of a “glottalized” series of stopped consonants of very distinctive formation and of quite unusual acoustic effect.[170] In the northern part of the area all the languages, whether related or not, also possess various voiceless _l_-sounds and a series of “velar” (back-guttural) stopped consonants which are etymologically distinct from the ordinary _k_-series. It is difficult to believe that three such peculiar phonetic features as I have mentioned could have evolved independently in neighboring groups of languages.
[Footnote 168: Ugro-Finnic and Turkish (Tartar)]
[Footnote 169: Probably, in Sweet’s terminology, high-back (or, better, between back and “mixed” positions)-narrow-unrounded. It generally corresponds to an Indo-European long _u_.]
[Footnote 170: There seem to be analogous or partly analogous sounds in certain languages of the Caucasus.]
How are we to explain these and hundreds of similar phonetic convergences? In particular cases we may really be dealing with archaic similarities due to a genetic relationship that it is beyond our present power to demonstrate. But this interpretation will not get us far. It must be ruled entirely out of court, for instance, in two of the three European examples I have instanced; both nasalized vowels and the Slavic “yeri” are demonstrably of secondary origin in Indo-European. However we envisage the process in detail, we cannot avoid the inference that there is a tendency for speech sounds or certain distinctive manners of articulation to spread over a continuous area in somewhat the same way that elements of culture ray out from a geographical center. We may suppose that individual variations arising at linguistic borderlands–whether by the unconscious suggestive influence of foreign speech habits or by the actual transfer of foreign sounds into the speech of bilingual individuals–have gradually been incorporated into the phonetic drift of a language. So long as its main phonetic concern is the preservation of its sound patterning, not of its sounds as such, there is really no reason why a language may not unconsciously assimilate foreign sounds that have succeeded in worming their way into its gamut of individual variations, provided always that these new variations (or reinforced old variations) are in the direction of the native drift.
A simple illustration will throw light on this conception. Let us suppose that two neighboring and unrelated languages, A and B, each possess voiceless _l_-sounds (compare Welsh _ll_). We surmise that this is not an accident. Perhaps comparative study reveals the fact that in language A the voiceless _l_-sounds correspond to a sibilant series in other related languages, that an old alternation _s_: _sh_ has been shifted to the new alternation _l_ (voiceless): _s_.[171] Does it follow that the voiceless _l_ of language B has had the same history? Not in the least. Perhaps B has a strong tendency toward audible breath release at the end of a word, so that the final _l_, like a final vowel, was originally followed by a marked aspiration. Individuals perhaps tended to anticipate a little the voiceless release and to “unvoice” the latter part of the final _l_-sound (very much as the _l_ of English words like _felt_ tends to be partly voiceless in anticipation of the voicelessness of the _t_). Yet this final _l_ with its latent tendency to unvoicing might never have actually developed into a fully voiceless _l_ had not the presence of voiceless _l_-sounds in A acted as an unconscious stimulus or suggestive push toward a more radical change in the line of B’s own drift. Once the final voiceless _l_ emerged, its alternation in related words with medial voiced _l_ is very likely to have led to its analogical spread. The result would be that both A and B have an important phonetic trait in common. Eventually their phonetic systems, judged as mere assemblages of sounds, might even become completely assimilated to each other, though this is an extreme case hardly ever realized in practice. The highly significant thing about such phonetic interinfluencings is the strong tendency of each language to keep its phonetic pattern intact. So long as the respective alignments of the similar sounds is different, so long as they have differing “values” and “weights” in the unrelated languages, these languages cannot be said to have diverged materially from the line of their inherent drift. In phonetics, as in vocabulary, we must be careful not to exaggerate the importance of interlinguistic influences.
[Footnote 171: This can actually be demonstrated for one of the Athabaskan dialects of the Yukon.]
I have already pointed out in passing that English has taken over a certain number of morphological elements from French. English also uses a number of affixes that are derived from Latin and Greek. Some of these foreign elements, like the _-ize_ of _materialize_ or the _-able_ of _breakable_, are even productive to-day. Such examples as these are hardly true evidences of a morphological influence exerted by one language on another. Setting aside the fact that they belong to the sphere of derivational concepts and do not touch the central morphological problem of the expression of relational ideas, they have added nothing to the structural peculiarities of our language. English was already prepared for the relation of _pity_ to _piteous_ by such a native pair as _luck_ and _lucky_; _material_ and _materialize_ merely swelled the ranks of a form pattern familiar from such instances as _wide_ and _widen_. In other words, the morphological influence exerted by foreign languages on English, if it is to be gauged by such examples as I have cited, is hardly different in kind from the mere borrowing of words. The introduction of the suffix _-ize_ made hardly more difference to the essential build of the language than did the mere fact that it incorporated a given number of words. Had English evolved a new future on the model of the synthetic future in French or had it borrowed from Latin and Greek their employment of reduplication as a functional device (Latin _tango_: _tetigi_; Greek _leipo_: _leloipa_), we should have the right to speak of true morphological influence. But such far-reaching influences are not demonstrable. Within the whole course of the history of the English language we can hardly point to one important morphological change that was not determined by the native drift, though here and there we may surmise that this drift was hastened a little by the suggestive influence of French forms.[172]
[Footnote 172: In the sphere of syntax one may point to certain French and Latin influences, but it is doubtful if they ever reached deeper than the written language. Much of this type of influence belongs rather to literary style than to morphology proper.]
It is important to realize the continuous, self-contained morphological development of English and the very modest extent to which its fundamental build has been affected by influences from without. The history of the English language has sometimes been represented as though it relapsed into a kind of chaos on the arrival of the Normans, who proceeded to play nine-pins with the Anglo-Saxon tradition. Students are more conservative today. That a far-reaching analytic development may take place without such external foreign influence as English was subjected to is clear from the history of Danish, which has gone even further than English in certain leveling tendencies. English may be conveniently used as an _a fortiori_ test. It was flooded with French loan-words during the later Middle Ages, at a time when its drift toward the analytic type was especially strong. It was therefore changing rapidly both within and on the surface. The wonder, then, is not that it took on a number of external morphological features, mere accretions on its concrete inventory, but that, exposed as it was to remolding influences, it remained so true to its own type and historic drift. The experience gained from the study of the English language is strengthened by all that we know of documented linguistic history. Nowhere do we find any but superficial morphological interinfluencings. We may infer one of several things from this:–That a really serious morphological influence is not, perhaps, impossible, but that its operation is so slow that it has hardly ever had the chance to incorporate itself in the relatively small portion of linguistic history that lies open to inspection; or that there are certain favorable conditions that make for profound morphological disturbances from without, say a peculiar instability of linguistic type or an unusual degree of cultural contact, conditions that do not happen to be realized in our documentary material; or, finally, that we have not the right to assume that a language may easily exert a remolding morphological influence on another.
Meanwhile we are confronted by the baffling fact that important traits of morphology are frequently found distributed among widely differing languages within a large area, so widely differing, indeed, that it is customary to consider them genetically unrelated. Sometimes we may suspect that the resemblance is due to a mere convergence, that a similar morphological feature has grown up independently in unrelated languages. Yet certain morphological distributions are too specific in character to be so lightly dismissed. There must be some historical factor to account for them. Now it should be remembered that the concept of a “linguistic stock” is never definitive[173] in an exclusive sense. We can only say, with reasonable certainty, that such and such languages are descended from a common source, but we cannot say that such and such other languages are not genetically related. All we can do is to say that the evidence for relationship is not cumulative enough to make the inference of common origin absolutely necessary. May it not be, then, that many instances of morphological similarity between divergent languages of a restricted area are merely the last vestiges of a community of type and phonetic substance that the destructive work of diverging drifts has now made unrecognizable? There is probably still enough lexical and morphological resemblance between modern English and Irish to enable us to make out a fairly conclusive case for their genetic relationship on the basis of the present-day descriptive evidence alone. It is true that the case would seem weak in comparison to the case that we can actually make with the help of the historical and the comparative data that we possess. It would not be a bad case nevertheless. In another two or three millennia, however, the points of resemblance are likely to have become so obliterated that English and Irish, in the absence of all but their own descriptive evidence, will have to be set down as “unrelated” languages. They will still have in common certain fundamental morphological features, but it will be difficult to know how to evaluate them. Only in the light of the contrastive perspective afforded by still more divergent languages, such as Basque and Finnish, will these vestigial resemblances receive their true historic value.
[Footnote 173: See page 163.]
[Transcriber’s note: Footnote 173 refers to the paragraph beginning on line 5037.]
I cannot but suspect that many of the more significant distributions of morphological similarities are to be explained as just such vestiges. The theory of “borrowing” seems totally inadequate to explain those fundamental features of structure, hidden away in the very core of the linguistic complex, that have been pointed out as common, say, to Semitic and Hamitic, to the various Soudanese languages, to Malayo-Polynesian and Mon-Khmer[174] and Munda,[175] to Athabaskan and Tlingit and Haida. We must not allow ourselves to be frightened away by the timidity of the specialists, who are often notably lacking in the sense of what I have called “contrastive perspective.”
[Footnote 174: A group of languages spoken in southeastern Asia, of which Khmer (Cambodgian) is the best known representative.]
[Footnote 175: A group of languages spoken in northeastern India.]
Attempts have sometimes been made to explain the distribution of these fundamental structural features by the theory of diffusion. We know that myths, religious ideas, types of social organization, industrial devices, and other features of culture may spread from point to point, gradually making themselves at home in cultures to which they were at one time alien. We also know that words may be diffused no less freely than cultural elements, that sounds also may be “borrowed,” and that even morphological elements may be taken over. We may go further and recognize that certain languages have, in all probability, taken on structural features owing to the suggestive influence of neighboring languages. An examination of such cases,[176] however, almost invariably reveals the significant fact that they are but superficial additions on the morphological kernel of the language. So long as such direct historical testimony as we have gives us no really convincing examples of profound morphological influence by diffusion, we shall do well not to put too much reliance in diffusion theories. On the whole, therefore, we shall ascribe the major concordances and divergences in linguistic form–phonetic pattern and morphology–to the autonomous drift of language, not to the complicating effect of single, diffused features that cluster now this way, now that. Language is probably the most self-contained, the most massively resistant of all social phenomena. It is easier to kill it off than to disintegrate its individual form.
[Footnote 176: I have in mind, e.g., the presence of postpositions in Upper Chinook, a feature that is clearly due to the influence of neighboring Sahaptin languages; or the use by Takelma of instrumental prefixes, which are likely to have been suggested by neighboring “Hokan” languages (Shasta, Karok).]
X
LANGUAGE, RACE AND CULTURE
Language has a setting. The people that speak it belong to a race (or a number of races), that is, to a group which is set off by physical characteristics from other groups. Again, language does not exist apart from culture, that is, from the socially inherited assemblage of practices and beliefs that determines the texture of our lives. Anthropologists have been in the habit of studying man under the three rubrics of race, language, and culture. One of the first things they do with a natural area like Africa or the South Seas is to map it out from this threefold point of view. These maps answer the questions: What and where are the major divisions of the human animal, biologically considered (e.g., Congo Negro, Egyptian White; Australian Black, Polynesian)? What are the most inclusive linguistic groupings, the “linguistic stocks,” and what is the distribution of each (e.g., the Hamitic languages of northern Africa, the Bantu languages of the south; the Malayo-Polynesian languages of Indonesia, Melanesia, Micronesia, and Polynesia)? How do the peoples of the given area divide themselves as cultural beings? what are the outstanding “cultural areas” and what are the dominant ideas in each (e.g., the Mohammedan north of Africa; the primitive hunting, non-agricultural culture of the Bushmen in the south; the culture of the Australian natives, poor in physical respects but richly developed in ceremonialism; the more advanced and highly specialized culture of Polynesia)?
The man in the street does not stop to analyze his position in the general scheme of humanity. He feels that he is the representative of some strongly integrated portion of humanity–now thought of as a “nationality,” now as a “race”–and that everything that pertains to him as a typical representative of this large group somehow belongs together. If he is an Englishman, he feels himself to be a member of the “Anglo-Saxon” race, the “genius” of which race has fashioned the English language and the “Anglo-Saxon” culture of which the language is the expression. Science is colder. It inquires if these three types of classification–racial, linguistic, and cultural–are congruent, if their association is an inherently necessary one or is merely a matter of external history. The answer to the inquiry is not encouraging to “race” sentimentalists. Historians and anthropologists find that races, languages, and cultures are not distributed in parallel fashion, that their areas of distribution intercross in the most bewildering fashion, and that the history of each is apt to follow a distinctive course. Races intermingle in a way that languages do not. On the other hand, languages may spread far beyond their original home, invading the territory of new races and of new culture spheres. A language may even die out in its primary area and live on among peoples violently hostile to the persons of its original speakers. Further, the accidents of history are constantly rearranging the borders of culture areas without necessarily effacing the existing linguistic cleavages. If we can once thoroughly convince ourselves that race, in its only intelligible, that is biological, sense, is supremely indifferent to the history of languages and cultures, that these are no more directly explainable on the score of race than on that of the laws of physics and chemistry, we shall have gained a viewpoint that allows a certain interest to such mystic slogans as Slavophilism, Anglo-Saxondom, Teutonism, and the Latin genius but that quite refuses to be taken in by any of them. A careful study of linguistic distributions and of the history of such distributions is one of the driest of commentaries on these sentimental creeds.
That a group of languages need not in the least correspond to a racial group or a culture area is easily demonstrated. We may even show how a single language intercrosses with race and culture lines. The English language is not spoken by a unified race. In the United States there are several millions of negroes who know no other language. It is their mother-tongue, the formal vesture of their inmost thoughts and sentiments. It is as much their property, as inalienably “theirs,” as the King of England’s. Nor do the English-speaking whites of America constitute a definite race except by way of contrast to the negroes. Of the three fundamental white races in Europe generally recognized by physical anthropologists–the Baltic or North European, the Alpine, and the Mediterranean–each has numerous English-speaking representatives in America. But does not the historical core of English-speaking peoples, those relatively “unmixed” populations that still reside in England and its colonies, represent a race, pure and single? I cannot see that the evidence points that way. The English people are an amalgam of many distinct strains. Besides the old “Anglo-Saxon,” in other words North German, element which is conventionally represented as the basic strain, the English blood comprises Norman French,[177] Scandinavian, “Celtic,”[178] and pre-Celtic elements. If by “English” we mean also Scotch and Irish,[179] then the term “Celtic” is loosely used for at least two quite distinct racial elements–the short, dark-complexioned type of Wales and the taller, lighter, often ruddy-haired type of the Highlands and parts of Ireland. Even if we confine ourselves to the Saxon element, which, needless to say, nowhere appears “pure,” we are not at the end of our troubles. We may roughly identify this strain with the racial type now predominant in southern Denmark and adjoining parts of northern Germany. If so, we must content ourselves with the reflection that while the English language is historically most closely affiliated with Frisian, in second degree with the other West Germanic dialects (Low Saxon or “Plattdeutsch,” Dutch, High German), only in third degree with Scandinavian, the specific “Saxon” racial type that overran England in the fifth and sixth centuries was largely the same as that now represented by the Danes, who speak a Scandinavian language, while the High German-speaking population of central and southern Germany[180] is markedly distinct.
[Footnote 177: Itself an amalgam of North “French” and Scandinavian elements.]
[Footnote 178: The “Celtic” blood of what is now England and Wales is by no means confined to the Celtic-speaking regions–Wales and, until recently, Cornwall. There is every reason to believe that the invading Germanic tribes (Angles, Saxons, Jutes) did not exterminate the Brythonic Celts of England nor yet drive them altogether into Wales and Cornwall (there has been far too much “driving” of conquered peoples into mountain fastnesses and land’s ends in our histories), but simply intermingled with them and imposed their rule and language upon them.]
[Footnote 179: In practice these three peoples can hardly be kept altogether distinct. The terms have rather a local-sentimental than a clearly racial value. Intermarriage has gone on steadily for centuries and it is only in certain outlying regions that we get relatively pure types, e.g., the Highland Scotch of the Hebrides. In America, English, Scotch, and Irish strands have become inextricably interwoven.]
[Footnote 180: The High German now spoken in northern Germany is not of great age, but is due to the spread of standardized German, based on Upper Saxon, a High German dialect, at the expense of “Plattdeutsch.”]
But what if we ignore these finer distinctions and simply assume that the “Teutonic” or Baltic or North European racial type coincided in its distribution with that of the Germanic languages? Are we not on safe ground then? No, we are now in hotter water than ever. First of all, the mass of the German-speaking population (central and southern Germany, German Switzerland, German Austria) do not belong to the tall, blond-haired, long-headed[181] “Teutonic” race at all, but to the shorter, darker-complexioned, short-headed[182] Alpine race, of which the central population of France, the French Swiss, and many of the western and northern Slavs (e.g., Bohemians and Poles) are equally good representatives. The distribution of these “Alpine” populations corresponds in part to that of the old continental “Celts,” whose language has everywhere given way to Italic, Germanic, and Slavic pressure. We shall do well to avoid speaking of a “Celtic race,” but if we were driven to give the term a content, it would probably be more appropriate to apply it to, roughly, the western portion of the Alpine peoples than to the two island types that I referred to before. These latter were certainly “Celticized,” in speech and, partly, in blood, precisely as, centuries later, most of England and part of Scotland was “Teutonized” by the Angles and Saxons. Linguistically speaking, the “Celts” of to-day (Irish Gaelic, Manx, Scotch Gaelic, Welsh, Breton) are Celtic and most of the Germans of to-day are Germanic precisely as the American Negro, Americanized Jew, Minnesota Swede, and German-American are “English.” But, secondly, the Baltic race was, and is, by no means an exclusively Germanic-speaking people. The northernmost “Celts,” such as the Highland Scotch, are in all probability a specialized offshoot of this race. What these people spoke before they were Celticized nobody knows, but there is nothing whatever to indicate that they spoke a Germanic language. Their language may quite well have been as remote from any known Indo-European idiom as are Basque and Turkish to-day. Again, to the east of the Scandinavians are non-Germanic members of the race–the Finns and related peoples, speaking languages that are not definitely known to be related to Indo-European at all.
[Footnote 181: “Dolichocephalic.”]
[Footnote 182: “Brachycephalic.”]
We cannot stop here. The geographical position of the Germanic languages is such[183] as to make it highly probable that they represent but an outlying transfer of an Indo-European dialect (possibly a Celto-Italic prototype) to a Baltic people speaking a language or a group of languages that was alien to Indo-European.[184] Not only, then, is English not spoken by a unified race at present but its prototype, more likely than not, was originally a foreign language to the race with which English is more particularly associated. We need not seriously entertain the idea that English or the group of languages to which it belongs is in any intelligible sense the expression of race, that there are embedded in it qualities that reflect the temperament or “genius” of a particular breed of human beings.
[Footnote 183: By working back from such data as we possess we can make it probable that these languages were originally confined to a comparatively small area in northern Germany and Scandinavia. This area is clearly marginal to the total area of distribution of the Indo-European-speaking peoples. Their center of gravity, say 1000 B.C., seems to have lain in southern Russia.]
[Footnote 184: While this is only a theory, the technical evidence for it is stronger than one might suppose. There are a surprising number of common and characteristic Germanic words which cannot be connected with known Indo-European radical elements and which may well be survivals of the hypothetical pre-Germanic language; such are _house_, _stone_, _sea_, _wife_ (German _Haus_, _Stein_, _See_, _Weib_).]
Many other, and more striking, examples of the lack of correspondence between race and language could be given if space permitted. One instance will do for many. The Malayo-Polynesian languages form a well-defined group that takes in the southern end of the Malay Peninsula and the tremendous island world to the south and east (except Australia and the greater part of New Guinea). In this vast region we find represented no less than three distinct races–the Negro-like Papuans of New Guinea and Melanesia, the Malay race of Indonesia, and the Polynesians of the outer islands. The Polynesians and Malays all speak languages of the Malayo-Polynesian group, while the languages of the Papuans belong partly to this group (Melanesian), partly to the unrelated languages (“Papuan”) of New Guinea.[185] In spite of the fact that the greatest race cleavage in this region lies between the Papuans and the Polynesians, the major linguistic division is of Malayan on the one side, Melanesian and Polynesian on the other.
[Footnote 185: Only the easternmost part of this island is occupied by Melanesian-speaking Papuans.]
As with race, so with culture. Particularly in more primitive levels, where the secondarily unifying power of the “national”[186] ideal does not arise to disturb the flow of what we might call natural distributions, is it easy to show that language and culture are not intrinsically associated. Totally unrelated languages share in one culture, closely related languages–even a single language–belong to distinct culture spheres. There are many excellent examples in aboriginal America. The Athabaskan languages form as clearly unified, as structurally specialized, a group as any that I know of.[187] The speakers of these languages belong to four distinct culture areas–the simple hunting culture of western Canada and the interior of Alaska (Loucheux, Chipewyan), the buffalo culture of the Plains (Sarcee), the highly ritualized culture of the southwest (Navaho), and the peculiarly specialized culture of northwestern California (Hupa). The cultural adaptability of the Athabaskan-speaking peoples is in the strangest contrast to the inaccessibility to foreign influences of the languages themselves.[188] The Hupa Indians are very typical of the culture area to which they belong. Culturally identical with them are the neighboring Yurok and Karok. There is the liveliest intertribal intercourse between the Hupa, Yurok, and Karok, so much so that all three generally attend an important religious ceremony given by any one of them. It is difficult to say what elements in their combined culture belong in origin to this tribe or that, so much at one are they in communal action, feeling, and thought. But their languages are not merely alien to each other; they belong to three of the major American linguistic groups, each with an immense distribution on the northern continent. Hupa, as we have seen, is Athabaskan and, as such, is also distantly related to Haida (Queen Charlotte Islands) and Tlingit (southern Alaska); Yurok is one of the two isolated Californian languages of the Algonkin stock, the center of gravity of which lies in the region of the Great Lakes; Karok is the northernmost member of the Hokan group, which stretches far to the south beyond the confines of California and has remoter relatives along the Gulf of Mexico.
[Footnote 186: A “nationality” is a major, sentimentally unified, group. The historical factors that lead to the feeling of national unity are various–political, cultural, linguistic, geographic, sometimes specifically religious. True racial factors also may enter in, though the accent on “race” has generally a psychological rather than a strictly biological value. In an area dominated by the national sentiment there is a tendency for language and culture to become uniform and specific, so that linguistic and cultural boundaries at least tend to coincide. Even at best, however, the linguistic unification is never absolute, while the cultural unity is apt to be superficial, of a quasi-political nature, rather than deep and far-reaching.]
[Footnote 187: The Semitic languages, idiosyncratic as they are, are no more definitely ear-marked.]
[Footnote 188: See page 209.]
[Transcriber’s note: Footnote 188 refers to the paragraph beginning on line 6448.]
Returning to English, most of us would readily admit, I believe, that the community of language between Great Britain and the United States is far from arguing a like community of culture. It is customary to say that they possess a common “Anglo-Saxon” cultural heritage, but are not many significant differences in life and feeling obscured by the tendency of the “cultured” to take this common heritage too much for granted? In so far as America is still specifically “English,” it is only colonially or vestigially so; its prevailing cultural drift is partly towards autonomous and distinctive developments, partly towards immersion in the larger European culture of which that of England is only a particular facet. We cannot deny that the possession of a common language is still and will long continue to be a smoother of the way to a mutual cultural understanding between England and America, but it is very clear that other factors, some of them rapidly cumulative, are working powerfully to counteract this leveling influence. A common language cannot indefinitely set the seal on a common culture when the geographical, political, and economic determinants of the culture are no longer the same throughout its area.
Language, race, and culture are not necessarily correlated. This does not mean that they never are. There is some tendency, as a matter of fact, for racial and cultural lines of cleavage to correspond to linguistic ones, though in any given case the latter may not be of the same degree of importance as the others. Thus, there is a fairly definite line of cleavage between the Polynesian languages, race, and culture on the one hand and those of the Melanesians on the other, in spite of a considerable amount of overlapping.[189] The racial and cultural division, however, particularly the former, are of major importance, while the linguistic division is of quite minor significance, the Polynesian languages constituting hardly more than a special dialectic subdivision of the combined Melanesian-Polynesian group. Still clearer-cut coincidences of cleavage may be found. The language, race, and culture of the Eskimo are markedly distinct from those of their neighbors;[190] in southern Africa the language, race, and culture of the Bushmen offer an even stronger contrast to those of their Bantu neighbors. Coincidences of this sort are of the greatest significance, of course, but this significance is not one of inherent psychological relation between the three factors of race, language, and culture. The coincidences of cleavage point merely to a readily intelligible historical association. If the Bantu and Bushmen are so sharply differentiated in all respects, the reason is simply that the former are relatively recent arrivals in southern Africa. The two peoples developed in complete isolation from each other; their present propinquity is too recent for the slow process of cultural and racial assimilation to have set in very powerfully. As we go back in time, we shall have to assume that relatively scanty populations occupied large territories for untold generations and that contact with other masses of population was not as insistent and prolonged as it later became. The geographical and historical isolation that brought about race differentiations was naturally favorable also to far-reaching variations in language and culture. The very fact that races and cultures which are brought into historical contact tend to assimilate in the long run, while neighboring languages assimilate each other only casually and in superficial respects[191], indicates that there is no profound causal relation between the development of language and the specific development of race and of culture.
[Footnote 189: The Fijians, for instance, while of Papuan (negroid) race, are Polynesian rather than Melanesian in their cultural and linguistic affinities.]
[Footnote 190: Though even here there is some significant overlapping. The southernmost Eskimo of Alaska were assimilated in culture to their Tlingit neighbors. In northeastern Siberia, too, there is no sharp cultural line between the Eskimo and the Chukchi.]
[Footnote 191: The supersession of one language by another is of course not truly a matter of linguistic assimilation.]
But surely, the wary reader will object, there must be some relation between language and culture, and between language and at least that intangible aspect of race that we call “temperament”. Is it not inconceivable that the particular collective qualities of mind that have fashioned a culture are not precisely the same as were responsible for the growth of a particular linguistic morphology? This question takes us into the heart of the most difficult problems of social psychology. It is doubtful if any one has yet attained to sufficient clarity on the nature of the historical process and on the ultimate psychological factors involved in linguistic and cultural drifts to answer it intelligently. I can only very briefly set forth my own views, or rather my general attitude. It would be very difficult to prove that “temperament”, the general emotional disposition of a people[192], is basically responsible for the slant and drift of a culture, however much it may manifest itself in an individual’s handling of the elements of that culture. But granted that temperament has a certain value for the shaping of culture, difficult though it be to say just how, it does not follow that it has the same value for the shaping of language. It is impossible to show that the form of a language has the slightest connection with national temperament. Its line of variation, its drift, runs inexorably in the channel ordained for it by its historic antecedents; it is as regardless of the feelings and sentiments of its speakers as is the course of a river of the atmospheric humors of the landscape. I am convinced that it is futile to look in linguistic structure for differences corresponding to the temperamental variations which are supposed to be correlated with race. In this connection it is well to remember that the emotional aspect of our psychic life is but meagerly expressed in the build of language[193].
[Footnote 192: “Temperament” is a difficult term to work with. A great deal of what is loosely charged to national “temperament” is really nothing but customary behavior, the effect of traditional ideals of conduct. In a culture, for instance, that does not look kindly upon demonstrativeness, the natural tendency to the display of emotion becomes more than normally inhibited. It would be quite misleading to argue from the customary inhibition, a cultural fact, to the native temperament. But ordinarily we can get at human conduct only as it is culturally modified. Temperament in the raw is a highly elusive thing.]
[Footnote 193: See pages 39, 40.]
[Transcriber’s note: Footnote 193 refers to the paragraph beginning on line 1256.]
Language and our thought-grooves are inextricably interwoven, are, in a sense, one and the same. As there is nothing to show that there are significant racial differences in the fundamental conformation of thought, it follows that the infinite variability of linguistic form, another name for the infinite variability of the actual process of thought, cannot be an index of such significant racial differences. This is only apparently a paradox. The latent content of all languages is the same–the intuitive _science_ of experience. It is the manifest form that is never twice the same, for this form, which we call linguistic morphology, is nothing more nor less than a collective _art_ of thought, an art denuded of the irrelevancies of individual sentiment. At last analysis, then, language can no more flow from race as such than can the sonnet form.
Nor can I believe that culture and language are in any true sense causally related. Culture may be defined as _what_ a society does and thinks. Language is a particular _how_ of thought. It is difficult to see what particular causal relations may be expected to subsist between a selected inventory of experience (culture, a significant selection made by society) and the particular manner in which the society expresses all experience. The drift of culture, another way of saying history, is a complex series of changes in society’s selected inventory–additions, losses, changes of emphasis and relation. The drift of language is not properly concerned with changes of content at all, merely with changes in formal expression. It is possible, in thought, to change every sound, word, and concrete concept of a language without changing its inner actuality in the least, just as one can pour into a fixed mold water or plaster or molten gold. If it can be shown that culture has an innate form, a series of contours, quite apart from subject-matter of any description whatsoever, we have a something in culture that may serve as a term of comparison with and possibly a means of relating it to language. But until such purely formal patterns of culture are discovered and laid bare, we shall do well to hold the drifts of language and of culture to be non-comparable and unrelated processes. From this it follows that all attempts to connect particular types of linguistic morphology with certain correlated stages of cultural development are vain. Rightly understood, such correlations are rubbish. The merest _coup d’oeil_ verifies our theoretical argument on this point. Both simple and complex types of language of an indefinite number of varieties may be found spoken at any desired level of cultural advance. When it comes to linguistic form, Plato walks with the Macedonian swineherd, Confucius with the head-hunting savage of Assam.
It goes without saying that the mere content of language is intimately related to culture. A society that has no knowledge of theosophy need have no name for it; aborigines that had never seen or heard of a horse were compelled to invent or borrow a word for the animal when they made his acquaintance. In the sense that the vocabulary of a language more or less faithfully reflects the culture whose purposes it serves it is perfectly true that the history of language and the history of culture move along parallel lines. But this superficial and extraneous kind of parallelism is of no real interest to the linguist except in so far as the growth or borrowing of new words incidentally throws light on the formal trends of the language. The linguistic student should never make the mistake of identifying a language with its dictionary.
If both this and the preceding chapter have been largely negative in their contentions, I believe that they have been healthily so. There is perhaps no better way to learn the essential nature of speech than to realize what it is not and what it does not do. Its superficial connections with other historic processes are so close that it needs to be shaken free of them if we are to see it in its own right. Everything that we have so far seen to be true of language points to the fact that it is the most significant and colossal work that the human spirit has evolved–nothing short of a finished form of expression for all communicable experience. This form may be endlessly varied by the individual without thereby losing its distinctive contours; and it is constantly reshaping itself as is all art. Language is the most massive and inclusive art we know, a mountainous and anonymous work of unconscious generations.
XI
LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE
Languages are more to us than systems of thought-transference. They are invisible garments that drape themselves about our spirit and give a predetermined form to all its symbolic expression. When the expression is of unusual significance, we call it literature.[194] Art is so personal an expression that we do not like to feel that it is bound to predetermined form of any sort. The possibilities of individual expression are infinite, language in particular is the most fluid of mediums. Yet some limitation there must be to this freedom, some resistance of the medium. In great art there is the illusion of absolute freedom. The formal restraints imposed by the material–paint, black and white, marble, piano tones, or whatever it may be–are not perceived; it is as though there were a limitless margin of elbow-room between the artist’s fullest utilization of form and the most that the material is innately capable of. The artist has intuitively surrendered to the inescapable tyranny of the material, made its brute nature fuse easily with his conception.[195] The material “disappears” precisely because there is nothing in the artist’s conception to indicate that any other material exists. For the time being, he, and we with him, move in the artistic medium as a fish moves in the water, oblivious of the existence of an alien atmosphere. No sooner, however, does the artist transgress the law of his medium than we realize with a start that there is a medium to obey.
[Footnote 194: I can hardly stop to define just what kind of expression is “significant” enough to be called art or literature. Besides, I do not exactly know. We shall have to take literature for granted.]
[Footnote 195: This “intuitive surrender” has nothing to do with subservience to artistic convention. More than one revolt in modern art has been dominated by the desire to get out of the material just what it is really capable of. The impressionist wants light and color because paint can give him just these; “literature” in painting, the sentimental suggestion of a “story,” is offensive to him because he does not want the virtue of his particular form to be dimmed by shadows from another medium. Similarly, the poet, as never before, insists that words mean just what they really mean.]
Language is the medium of literature as marble or bronze or clay are the materials of the sculptor. Since every language has its distinctive peculiarities, the innate formal limitations–and possibilities–of one literature are never quite the same as those of another. The literature fashioned out of the form and substance of a language has the color and the texture of its matrix. The literary artist may never be conscious of just how he is hindered or helped or otherwise guided by the matrix, but when it is a question of translating his work into another language, the nature of the original matrix manifests itself at once. All his effects have been calculated, or intuitively felt, with reference to the formal “genius” of his own language; they cannot be carried over without loss or modification. Croce[196] is therefore perfectly right in saying that a work of literary art can never be translated. Nevertheless literature does get itself translated, sometimes with astonishing adequacy. This brings up the question whether in the art of literature there are not intertwined two distinct kinds or levels of art–a generalized, non-linguistic art, which can be transferred without loss into an alien linguistic medium, and a specifically linguistic art that is not transferable.[197] I believe the distinction is entirely valid, though we never get the two levels pure in practice. Literature moves in language as a medium, but that medium comprises two layers, the latent content of language–our intuitive record of experience–and the particular conformation of a given language–the specific how of our record of experience. Literature that draws its sustenance mainly–never entirely–from the lower level, say a play of Shakespeare’s, is translatable without too great a loss of character. If it moves in the upper rather than in the lower level–a fair example is a lyric of Swinburne’s–it is as good as untranslatable. Both types of literary expression may be great or mediocre.
[Footnote 196: See Benedetto Croce, “Aesthetic.”]
[Footnote 197: The question of the transferability of art productions seems to me to be of genuine theoretic interest. For all that we speak of the sacrosanct uniqueness of a given art work, we know very well, though we do not always admit it, that not all productions are equally intractable to transference. A Chopin etude is inviolate; it moves altogether in the world of piano tone. A Bach fugue is transferable into another set of musical timbres without serious loss of esthetic significance. Chopin plays with the language of the piano as though no other language existed (the medium “disappears”); Bach speaks the language of the piano as a handy means of giving outward expression to a conception wrought in the generalized language of tone.]
There is really no mystery in the distinction. It can be clarified a little by comparing literature with science. A scientific truth is impersonal, in its essence it is untinctured by the particular linguistic medium in which it finds expression. It can as readily deliver its message in Chinese[198] as in English. Nevertheless it must have some expression, and that expression must needs be a linguistic one. Indeed the apprehension of the scientific truth is itself a linguistic process, for thought is nothing but language denuded of its outward garb. The proper medium of scientific expression is therefore a generalized language that may be defined as a symbolic algebra of which all known languages are translations. One can adequately translate scientific literature because the original scientific expression is itself a translation. Literary expression is personal and concrete, but this does not mean that its significance is altogether bound up with the accidental qualities of the medium. A truly deep symbolism, for instance, does not depend on the verbal associations of a particular language but rests securely on an intuitive basis that underlies all linguistic expression. The artist’s “intuition,” to use Croce’s term, is immediately fashioned out of a generalized human experience–thought and feeling–of which his own individual experience is a highly personalized selection. The thought relations in this deeper level have no specific linguistic vesture; the rhythms are free, not bound, in the first instance, to the traditional rhythms of the artist’s language. Certain artists whose spirit moves largely in the non-linguistic (better, in the generalized linguistic) layer even find a certain difficulty in getting themselves expressed in the rigidly set terms of their accepted idiom. One feels that they are unconsciously striving for a generalized art language, a literary algebra, that is related to the sum of all known languages as a perfect mathematical symbolism is related to all the roundabout reports of mathematical relations that normal speech is capable of conveying. Their art expression is frequently strained, it sounds at times like a translation from an unknown original–which, indeed, is precisely what it is. These artists–Whitmans and Brownings–impress us rather by the greatness of their spirit than the felicity of their art. Their relative failure is of the greatest diagnostic value as an index of the pervasive presence in literature of a larger, more intuitive linguistic medium than any particular language.
[Footnote 198: Provided, of course, Chinese is careful to provide itself with the necessary scientific vocabulary. Like any other language, it can do so without serious difficulty if the need arises.]
Nevertheless, human expression being what it is, the greatest–or shall we say the most satisfying–literary artists, the Shakespeares and Heines, are those who have known subconsciously to fit or trim the deeper intuition to the provincial accents of their daily speech. In them there is no effect of strain. Their personal “intuition” appears as a completed synthesis of the absolute art of intuition and the innate, specialized art of the linguistic medium. With Heine, for instance, one is under the illusion that the universe speaks German. The material “disappears.”
Every language is itself a collective art of expression. There is concealed in it a particular set of esthetic factors–phonetic, rhythmic, symbolic, morphological–which it does not completely share with any other language. These factors may either merge their potencies with those of that unknown, absolute language to which I have referred–this is the method of Shakespeare and Heine–or they may weave a private, technical art fabric of their own, the innate art of the language intensified or sublimated. The latter type, the more technically “literary” art of Swinburne and of hosts of delicate “minor” poets, is too fragile for endurance. It is built out of spiritualized material, not out of spirit. The successes of the Swinburnes are as valuable for diagnostic purposes as the semi-failures of the Brownings. They show to what extent literary art may lean on the collective art of the language itself. The more extreme technical practitioners may so over-individualize this collective art as to make it almost unendurable. One is not always thankful to have one’s flesh and blood frozen to ivory.
An artist must utilize the native esthetic resources of his speech. He may be thankful if the given palette of colors is rich, if the springboard is light. But he deserves no special credit for felicities that are the language’s own. We must take for granted this language with all its qualities of flexibility or rigidity and see the artist’s work in relation to it. A cathedral on the lowlands is higher than a stick on Mont Blanc. In other words, we must not commit the folly of admiring a French sonnet because the vowels are more sonorous than our own or of condemning Nietzsche’s prose because it harbors in its texture combinations of consonants that would affright on English soil. To so judge literature would be tantamount to loving “Tristan und Isolde” because one is fond of the timbre of horns. There are certain things that one language can do supremely well which it would be almost vain for another to attempt. Generally there are compensations. The vocalism of English is an inherently drabber thing than the vowel scale of French, yet English compensates for this drawback by its greater rhythmical alertness. It is even doubtful if the innate sonority of a phonetic system counts for as much, as esthetic determinant, as the relations between the sounds, the total gamut of their similarities and contrasts. As long as the artist has the wherewithal to lay out his sequences and rhythms, it matters little what are the sensuous qualities of the elements of his material.
The phonetic groundwork of a language, however, is only one of the features that give its literature a certain direction. Far more important are its morphological peculiarities. It makes a great deal of difference for the development of style if the language can or cannot create compound words, if its structure is synthetic or analytic, if the words of its sentences have considerable freedom of position or are compelled to fall into a rigidly determined sequence. The major characteristics of style, in so far as style is a technical matter of the building and placing of words, are given by the language itself, quite as inescapably, indeed, as the general acoustic effect of verse is given by the sounds and natural accents of the language. These necessary fundamentals of style are hardly felt by the artist to constrain his individuality of expression. They rather point the way to those stylistic developments that most suit the natural bent of the language. It is not in the least likely that a truly great style can seriously oppose itself to the basic form patterns of the language. It not only incorporates them, it builds on them. The merit of such a style as W.H. Hudson’s or George Moore’s[199] is that it does with ease and economy what the language is always trying to do. Carlylese, though individual and vigorous, is yet not style; it is a Teutonic mannerism. Nor is the prose of Milton and his contemporaries strictly English; it is semi-Latin done into magnificent English words.
[Footnote 199: Aside from individual peculiarities of diction, the selection and evaluation of particular words as such.]
It is strange how long it has taken the European literatures to learn that style is not an absolute, a something that is to be imposed on the language from Greek or Latin models, but merely the language itself, running in its natural grooves, and with enough of an individual accent to allow the artist’s personality to be felt as a presence, not as an acrobat. We understand more clearly now that what is effective and beautiful in one language is a vice in another. Latin and Eskimo, with their highly inflected forms, lend themselves to an elaborately periodic structure that would be boring in English. English allows, even demands, a looseness that would be insipid in Chinese. And Chinese, with its unmodified words and rigid sequences, has a compactness of phrase, a terse parallelism, and a silent suggestiveness that would be too tart, too mathematical, for the English genius. While we cannot assimilate the luxurious periods of Latin nor the pointilliste style of the Chinese classics, we can enter sympathetically into the spirit of these alien techniques.
I believe that any English poet of to-day would be thankful for the concision that a Chinese poetaster attains without effort. Here is an example:[200]
[Footnote 200: Not by any means a great poem, merely a bit of occasional verse written by a young Chinese friend of mine when he left Shanghai for Canada.]
Wu-river[201] stream mouth evening sun sink, North look Liao-Tung,[202] not see home. Steam whistle several noise, sky-earth boundless, Float float one reed out Middle-Kingdom.
[Footnote 201: The old name of the country about the mouth of the Yangtsze.]
[Footnote 202: A province of Manchuria.]
These twenty-eight syllables may be clumsily interpreted: “At the mouth of the Yangtsze River, as the sun is about to sink, I look north toward Liao-Tung but do not see my home. The steam-whistle shrills several times on the boundless expanse where meet sky and earth. The steamer, floating gently like a hollow reed, sails out of the Middle Kingdom.”[203] But we must not envy Chinese its terseness unduly. Our more sprawling mode of expression is capable of its own beauties, and the more compact luxuriance of Latin style has its loveliness too. There are almost as many natural ideals of literary style as there are languages. Most of these are merely potential, awaiting the hand of artists who will never come. And yet in the recorded texts of primitive tradition and song there are many passages of unique vigor and beauty. The structure of the language often forces an assemblage of concepts that impresses us as a stylistic discovery. Single Algonkin words are like tiny imagist poems. We must be careful not to exaggerate a freshness of content that is at least half due to our freshness of approach, but the possibility is indicated none the less of utterly alien literary styles, each distinctive with its disclosure of the search of the human spirit for beautiful form.
[Footnote 203: I.e., China.]
Probably nothing better illustrates the formal dependence of literature on language than the prosodic aspect of poetry. Quantitative verse was entirely natural to the Greeks, not merely because poetry grew up in connection with the chant and the dance,[204] but because alternations of long and short syllables were keenly live facts in the daily economy of the language. The tonal accents, which were only secondarily stress phenomena, helped to give the syllable its quantitative individuality. When the Greek meters were carried over into Latin verse, there was comparatively little strain, for Latin too was characterized by an acute awareness of quantitative distinctions. However, the Latin accent was more markedly stressed than that of Greek. Probably, therefore, the purely quantitative meters modeled after the Greek were felt as a shade more artificial than in the language of their origin. The attempt to cast English verse into Latin and Greek molds has never been successful. The dynamic basis of English is not quantity,[205] but stress, the alternation of accented and unaccented syllables. This fact gives English verse an entirely different slant and has determined the development of its poetic forms, is still responsible for the evolution of new forms. Neither stress nor syllabic weight is a very keen psychologic factor in the dynamics of French. The syllable has great inherent sonority and does not fluctuate significantly as to quantity and stress. Quantitative or accentual metrics would be as artificial in French as stress metrics in classical Greek or quantitative or purely syllabic metrics in English. French prosody was compelled to develop on the basis of unit syllable-groups. Assonance, later rhyme, could not but prove a welcome, an all but necessary, means of articulating or sectioning the somewhat spineless flow of sonorous syllables. English was hospitable to the French suggestion of rhyme, but did not seriously need it in its rhythmic economy. Hence rhyme has always been strictly subordinated to stress as a somewhat decorative feature and has been frequently dispensed with. It is no psychologic accident that rhyme came later into English than in French and is leaving it sooner.[206] Chinese verse has developed along very much the same lines as French verse. The syllable is an even more integral and sonorous unit than in French, while quantity and stress are too uncertain to form the basis of a metric system. Syllable-groups–so and so many syllables per rhythmic unit–and rhyme are therefore two of the controlling factors in Chinese prosody. The third factor, the alternation of syllables with level tone and syllables with inflected (rising or falling) tone, is peculiar to Chinese.
[Footnote 204: Poetry everywhere is inseparable in its origins from the singing voice and the measure of the dance. Yet accentual and syllabic types of verse, rather than quantitative verse, seem to be the prevailing norms.]
[Footnote 205: Quantitative distinctions exist as an objective fact. They have not the same inner, psychological value that they had in Greek.]
[Footnote 206: Verhaeren was no slave to the Alexandrine, yet he remarked to Symons, _a propos_ of the translation of _Les Aubes_, that while he approved of the use of rhymeless verse in the English version, he found it “meaningless” in French.]
To summarize, Latin and Greek verse depends on the principle of contrasting weights; English verse, on the principle of contrasting stresses; French verse, on the principles of number and echo; Chinese verse, on the principles of number, echo, and contrasting pitches. Each of these rhythmic systems proceeds from the unconscious dynamic habit of the language, falling from the lips of the folk. Study carefully the phonetic system of a language, above all its dynamic features, and you can tell what kind of a verse it has developed–or, if history has played pranks with its phychology, what kind of verse it should have developed and some day will.
Whatever be the sounds, accents, and forms of a language, however these lay hands on the shape of its literature, there is a subtle law of compensations that gives the artist space. If he is squeezed a bit here, he can swing a free arm there. And generally he has rope enough to hang himself with, if he must. It is not strange that this should be so. Language is itself the collective art of expression, a summary of thousands upon thousands of individual intuitions. The individual goes lost in the collective creation, but his personal expression has left some trace in a certain give and flexibility that are inherent in all collective works of the human spirit. The language is ready, or can be quickly made ready, to define the artist’s individuality. If no literary artist appears, it is not essentially because the language is too weak an instrument, it is because the culture of the people is not favorable to the growth of such personality as seeks a truly individual verbal expression.
INDEX
_Note_. Italicized entries are names of languages or groups of languages.
A
Abbreviation of stem,
Accent, stress,
as grammatical process,
importance of,
metrical value of
“Accent,”
“Adam’s apple,”
Adjective,
Affixation,
Affixing languages,
African languages, pitch in,
Agglutination,
Agglutinative languages,
Agglutinative-fusional,
Agglutinative-isolating,
_Algonkin_ languages (N. Amer.),
Alpine race,
Analogical leveling,
Analytic tendency,
Angles,
_Anglo-Saxon_,
Anglo-Saxon:
culture,
race,
_Annamite_ (S.E. Asia),
_Apache_ (N. Amer.),
_Arabic_,
_Armenian_,
Art,
language as,
transferability of,
Articulation:
ease of,
types of, drift toward,
Articulations:
laryngeal,
manner of consonantal,
nasal,
oral,
place of consonantal,
vocalic,
_Aryan_. See _Indo-European_.
Aspect,
Association of concepts and speech elements, Associations fundamental to speech,
_Athabaskan_ languages (N. Amer.),
Athabaskans, cultures of,
_Attic_ dialect,
Attribution,
Auditory cycle in language,
Australian culture,
_Avestan_,
B
Bach,
Baltic race,
_Bantu_ languages (Africa),
Bantus,
_Basque_ (Pyrenees),
_Bengali_ (India),
_Berber_. See _Hamitic_.
Bohemians,
_Bontoc Igorot_ (Philippines),
Borrowing, morphological,
Borrowing, word,
phonetic adaptation in,
resistances to,
_Breton_,
Bronchial tubes,
Browning,
Buddhism, influence of,
_Burmese_,
_Bushman_ (S. Africa),
Bushmen,
C
_Cambodgian_ (S.E. Asia),
Carlyle,
_Carrier_ (British Columbia),
Case,
See _Attribution_; _Object_; _Personal relations_; _Subject_. Case-system, history of,
Caucasus, languages of,
Celtic. See _Celts_.
_Celtic_ languages,
Celts,
Brythonic,
“Cerebral” articulations,
Chaucer, English of,
_Chimariko_ (N. California),
_Chinese_:
absence of affixes,
analytic character,
attribution,
compounds,
grammatical concepts illustrated,
influence,
“inner form,”,
pitch accent,
radical words,
relational use of material words,
sounds,
stress,
structure,
style,
survivals, morphological,
symbolism,
verse,
word duplication,
word order,
_Chinook_ (N. Amer.),
_Chipewyan_ (N. Amer.),
C. Indians,
Chopin,
Christianity, influence of,
Chukchi,
Classification:
of concepts, rigid,
of linguistic types,
See _Structure, linguistic_.
“Clicks,”
Composition,
absence of, in certain languages,
types of,
word order as related to,
Concepts,
Concepts, grammatical:
analysis of, in sentence,
classification of,
concrete,
concrete relational,
concreteness in, varying degree of, derivational,
derivational, abstract,
essential,
grouping of, non-logical,
lack of expression of certain,
pure relational,
radical,
redistribution of,
relational,
thinning-out of significance of,
types of,
typical categories of,
See _Structure, linguistic_.
Concord,
Concrete concepts. See _Concepts_.
Conflict,
Consonantal change,
Consonants,
combinations of,
Cooerdinate sentences,
_Corean_,
Croce, Benedetto,
Culture,
language and,
language as aspect of,
language, race and,
reflection of history of, in language, Culture areas,
D
_Danish_,
Demonstrative ideas,
Dental articulations,
Derivational concepts. See _Concepts_. Determinative structure,
Dialects:
causes of,
compromise between,
distinctness of,
drifts in, diverging,
drifts in, parallel,
splitting up of,
unity of,
Diffusion, morphological,
Diphthongs,
Drift, linguistic,
components of,
determinants of, in English,
direction of,
direction of, illustrated in English, examples of general, in English,
parallelisms in,
speed of,
See _Phonetic Law_; _Phonetic processes_. Duplication of words,
_Dutch_,
E
Elements of speech,
Emotion, expression of:
involuntary,
linguistic,
_English_:
agentive suffix,
analogical leveling,
analytic tendency,
animate and inanimate,
aspect,
attribution,
case, history of,
compounds,
concepts, grammatical, in sentence, concepts, passage of concrete into derivational, consonantal change,
culture of speakers of,
desire, expression of,
diminutive suffix,
drift,
duplication, word,
esthetic qualities,
feeling-tone,
form, word,
French influence on,
function and form,
fusing and juxtaposing,
gender,
Greek influence on,
influence of,
influence on, morphological, lack of deep, interrogative words,
invariable words, tendency to,
infixing,
Latin influence on,
loan-words,
modality,
number,
order, word,
parts of speech,
patterning, formal,
personal relations,
phonetic drifts, history of,
phonetic leveling,
phonetic pattern,
plurality,
race of speakers of,
reference, definiteness of,
relational words,
relations, genetic,
rhythm,
sentence, analysis of,
sentence, dependence of word on,
sound-imitative words,
sounds,
stress and pitch,
structure,
survivals, morphological,
symbolism,
syntactic adhesions,
syntactic values, transfer of,
tense,
verb, syntactic relations of,
verse,
vocalic change,
word and element, analysis of,
_English, Middle_,
English people,
_Eskimo_,
Eskimos,
_Ewe_ (Guinea coast, Africa),
Expiratory sounds,
“Explosives,”
F
Faucal position,
Feeling-tones of words,
Fijians,
_Finnish_,
Finns,
_Flemish_,
“Foot, feet” (English), history of, Form, cultural,
feeling of language for,
“inner,”
Form, linguistic:
conservatism of,
differences of, mechanical origin of, elaboration of, reasons for,
function and, independence of,
grammatical concepts embodied in,
grammatical processes embodying,
permanence of different aspects of, relative, twofold consideration of,
See _Structure, linguistic_.
Form-classes,
See _Gender_.
Formal units of speech,
“Formlessness, inner,”
_Fox_ (N. Amer.),
_French_:
analytical tendency,
esthetic qualities,
gender,
influence,
order, word,
plurality,
sounds,
sounds as words, single,
stress,
structure,
tense forms,
verse,
French, Norman,
French people,
Freud,
Fricatives,
_Frisian_,
_Ful_ (Soudan),
Function, independence of form and, Functional units of speech,
Fusion,
Fusional languages,
See _Fusion_.
Fusional-agglutinative,
Fusional-isolating,
“Fuss, Fuesse” (German), history of,
G
_Gaelic_,
Gender,
_German_:
French influence on,
grammatical
concepts in sentence,
Latin influence on,
phonetic drifts, history of,
plurality,
relations,
sound-imitative words,
sounds,
tense forms,
“umlaut,”
unanalyzable words, resistance to, _German, High_,
_German, Middle High_,
_German, Old High_,
_Germanic_ languages,
_Germanic, West_,
Germans,
Gesture languages,
Ginneken, Jac van,
Glottal cords,
action of,
Glottal stop,
_Gothic_,
Grammar,
Grammatical element,
Grammatical concepts. See _Concepts, grammatical_. Grammatical processes:
classified by, languages,
particular, development by each language of, types of,
variety of, use in one language of, _Greek_, dialectic history of,
_Greek, classical_:
affixing,
compounds,
concord,
infixing,
influence,
pitch accent,
plurality,
reduplicated perfects,
stress,
structure,
synthetic character,
verse,
_Greek, modern_,
H
_Haida_ (British Columbia),
_Hamitic_ languages (N. Africa),
_Hausa_ (Soudan),
_Hebrew_,
Heine,
Hesitation,
History, linguistic,
_Hokan_ languages (N. Amer.),
_Hottentot_ (S. Africa),
Hudson, W.H.,
Humming,
_Hupa_ (N. California),