Volume 1 — CHAPTER IV. PHONOLOGY AND SEMATOLOGY. (continued 2)

Distinct from the exspiratory sounds, whether vowels or consonants, which have now been passed in review, are sounds formed either by inspiration or simply by the air in the mouth itself. Winteler[165] describes certain Swiss dialects which make use of inspiratory sounds to disguise the voice, and the clicks characteristic of the South African languages are examples of sounds produced without either taking in or emitting breath. The Kafirs have borrowed the three easiest clicks (the dental, the cerebral, and the lateral) from their Hottentot neighbours,[166] and there are reasons for thinking that the Hottentots themselves borrowed in turn from the more primitive Bushmen. At all events, the labial and compound dental clicks are wanting in Hottentot, and the Bushman fables put what Dr. Bleck calls “a most unpronounceable click,” which does not occur otherwise in any of the dialects, into the mouth of the hare, the anteater, and the moon.[167] These inarticulate clicks, thus adapted to the purposes of articulate speech, bridge over the gulf between the latter and the cries of animals, and we may see in them a survival of those primæval utterances out of which language was born. Traces of what may thus be termed the germs of language on its phonetic side are met with here and there all over the globe. Thus Haldeman describes at least three clicks heard in Texan, Chinook, and other North American languages, t in the Anadahhas of Texas, for instance, being followed by “an effect as loud as spitting.”[168] According to Klaproth, clicks occur in Circassian; and Bleek states that two clicks are distinguished in the ǀikhe language of Guatemala—one somewhat resembling the Hottentot dental click, and the other the Hottentot palatal combined with some guttural. Mr. Whitmee has heard a click in certain dialects spoken by the Negritos of Melanesia. Clicks are also known among the Gallas; and Miss Lloyd has found a little boy from Lake Ngami using clicks resembling those of Nama Hottentot. Clicks are formed by placing the tongue or lips in the position required by an explosive, and then sucking out the air between the organs thus brought into play, the result being the “cluck” or “smack” with which grooms are accustomed to encourage a horse, but in combination with the explosive for which the organs of speech were set. According to Mr. Sweet, the labial click is an ordinary kiss; the dental click, “the interjection of impatience ordinarily written ‘tut.’”[169] In Káfir the clicks are not pure, as in Bushman—that is to say, they are always accompanied by an exspiratory consonant, which is formed at the same moment as the click. This affords an additional reason for thinking that the Káfir clicks are not survivals from the original condition of speech, but loans from another people, which have been attached by way of ornament to the existing exspiratory sounds of the language. Of the same nature as the clicks are the implosives peculiar to Saxon German, where no distinction is made between d and t, or b and p. Similar sounds are heard in Georgian and the Armenian of Tiflis, and they must have characterized ancient Accadian, since no distinction is made in writing between final d and t, g and k, or b and p. These implosives are due to compression of the air between the closed glottis and the organs of speech when in position for an explosive, by forcing the glottis upwards. No sound is emitted until the sound is fully formed, when the final or transition sound is curiously modified.

We have hitherto dealt with the individual sounds in the same fashion as the lexicographer deals with individual words. But just as a word is really but one of the elements of a sentence, and to be thoroughly understood must be treated as such, individual sounds are but the elements of which syllables are composed. Whatever may be the nature of a sound when regarded apart and by itself, it is necessarily much modified when combined in actual speech with other sounds. The syllable, and not the single sound, is the starting-point of phonetic utterance.

A syllable must contain either a vowel or a semi-vowel, by which are meant such inspiratory utterances as that heard in the interjection ’m, or the vocalic r and l of Slavonic and other tongues. One of the first achievements of the phonograph has been to show that an open syllable like ga can be pronounced either backwards or forwards indifferently when once the organs of speech are in position; and not only so, but that when the waves of air set in motion by the pronunciation of a word are reversed, the word will be reproduced backwards—əsoshiéshun (association), for instance, becoming nushéshiosə.

Mr. Sweet has pointed out that syllables are divided by the stress. Speech has to be carried on by a succession of exspirations or puffs of breath, and naturally the force with which the breath is emitted gradually diminishes during the continuance of the exspiration. Only in special cases—the interjections, for example—the force increases instead of diminishing. When the exspiration is spent, and a new breath is taken, a new syllable begins. Wherever, therefore, the stress is laid we must place the beginning of a new syllable. In “a name” the stress is on the nasal, where accordingly the syllable begins; in “an aim” it is, on the contrary, on the diphthong.

The passage from one sound to another, as has already been noticed, consists of a series of infinitesimal intermediate sounds, corresponding with the series of positions assumed by the vocal organs in passing from one position to another. These intermediate sounds have been conveniently termed “glides” by Mr. Ellis, and they play an important part in the formation of syllables. Glides are of two kinds, as the organs of speech may either be moved from one position to another in the shortest possible time, or be shifted, on the way, towards another position needed for the production of a third sound. Thus, in the syllable ki we have the immediate glide required for the transition from k to i; in the syllable qui, the indirect glide from k to i through the position needed for u. A glide may, of course, be described as either initial or final; in ki, the glide of k is being final, that of i initial. Some of the so-called consonants and vowels are really glides. The neutral vowel (ə) is termed the “voice-glide” by Mr. Sweet, as “produced by emitting voice during the passage to or from a consonant.” It may begin a word, as in “against,” and in English is very frequently replaced by a liquid, as in the words “little,” “possible.” It is also found plentifully in the Semitic languages, the Hebrew sh’wa, for instance, being simply the neutral vowel or voice-glide. In words like “follow,” when pronounced rapidly, we may hear it labialized. A diphthong, again, is a combination of a full vowel with a glide-vowel either before or after it, though the glide-vowels may be prolonged into full vowels without destroying the diphthong, by equalizing the stress upon the two elements of which it is made up. These glide-vowels (like the consonantal glides) are produced by putting the vocal organs into position for pronouncing a particular vowel, but not letting voice sound until this position is being shifted to that required by the full vowel which forms the second part of the compound, and reversing the process when the full vowel forms the first part. Consonantal glides (y, w, r, l, m, n) are illustrated by the sound of y in you, and of r in here, and in a common South-country pronunciation of words like red.[170] According to Mr. Sweet, the aspirate h is a consonant in the glottis, but “a voiceless glide-vowel in the mouth.”[171]

At all events it is often difficult to distinguish the rough breathing from the glide which easily develops into it by the help of a little additional stress. This glide may be detected after mediæ, tenues, and s, whether initial or final, as in our cold (when pronounced emphatically), pack, and big. The Irish and Danish aspirated consonants are formed by laying a separate stress on the glide apart from the stress laid upon the preceding consonant. The aspirated letters of Greek and Sanskrit, described above, are of course different, as here we have a combination of two independent sounds, though the latter of these (h) is in Mr. Sweet’s eyes a mere glide-vowel in the mouth.

Glides may be absent where two consonants formed in the same part of the vocal organs are united together (e.g. and, its), or even where they are formed in different parts. This is especially the case with English. Wherever homorganic sounds are produced, the vocal organs pass at once from the position required for the first to that required for the second, without first falling back into the “position of indifference.” Where an explosive is followed by a nasal, a sudden opening of the velum pendulum is substituted for the usual “explosion,” as first pointed out by Kudelka.

Syllables may differ one from the other in respect of pitch or tone, of stress, and of quantity. Pitch or tone is but little noticed by Englishmen, since with us it serves merely a logical or emotional purpose, such as the expression of surprise or the asking of a question, but in some languages, Chinese or Swedish or Lithuanian, for example, every word has its own separate tone, which helps to distinguish it from other words. This, too, was the case in Vedic Sanskrit, and in ancient Greek and Latin, what we call the Greek accents being really the marks of the pitch at which words were pronounced. Pitch or tone depends on the rapidity of the vibrations of sound, and may be either rising, level, or falling. The rising tone is that indicated by the acute accent. Tone may also be compound, marked in Greek by the circumflex. The compound or circumflex is heard when the tone of a vowel is again raised after it has already passed the moment of its greatest intensity, and it may therefore be described as composed of the acute and the grave, or of the rising and the falling. It may be noticed in Lithuanian as well as in several German dialects, such as the Thuringian, which have a singing character, and when it falls upon a diphthong the second element of the diphthong is distinctly raised in pitch. Naturally it is usually found with diphthongs and long vowels, but short vowels combined with a liquid may also carry the circumflex. In Greek it commonly implies a contraction, the circumflex resulting from the coalescence of a vowel which has the acute accent with one which has the grave.[172]

The Vedic system of accentuation best exhibits the fundamental character of accent of pitch. The udâtta or acute denotes the highest pitch reached by the voice in a group of syllables or words. In the syllable immediately preceding the voice naturally sinks to its lowest, thus producing the anudâtta, or grave tone. After the udâtta, however, the voice falls gradually; consequently the syllable which follows has the swarita or circumflex accent, and it is only the next syllable to that which is again anudâtta.

But the tone is regulated by three different conditions, which sometimes act antagonistically. It may be either a syllable-tone, determined by the relative force with which the syllables of a word can be uttered, dependent on the nature of the sounds of which they are composed; or a word-tone, determined in great measure by the meaning, and serving to distinguish words from one another; or a sentence-tone, mostly determined by logic or the feelings. The Greek accents, like the Vedic ones, were used to denote all three varieties of tone; while the acute and the circumflex sometimes represent the syllable-accent (as in θῖνα, ἔτυπον), sometimes the word-accent (as in νυμφή, νύμφα, ποδῶν), the grave, as Sievers remarks, “is a concession to the requirements of the sentence-tone.” Similarly in Vedic Sanskrit, the udâtta which ordinarily indicates the word-accent, falling as it does upon the syllable (commonly the flection) to which the signification caused the attention to be chiefly directed, seems also to have indicated the sentence-tone, since the verb of the principal clause has no accent whatever attached to it. Previously, however, both in Greek and Sanskrit the accents denoted the word-tone, and the remarkable agreement between the accentuation of the two languages enables us to restore in great measure the accentuation of the undivided parent-speech. It cannot be an accident, for instance, which makes the numeral seven (saptán, ἑπτά) oxyton in both languages, and the numeral five (pánchan, πέντε) paroxyton, or places the acute accent on the last syllable of adjectives in -us; the accentuation in each instance must have been that of the Parent-Aryan. Where the accentuation of the two languages differs, it can generally be explained by the disturbing influence of analogy. Thus while there is so remarkable an agreement between the accentuation of Vedic and Greek nouns, there is next to none between that of the verbs. But an explanation of this is forthcoming. The verb of the principal clause in the Veda loses its accent, as has just been remarked, unless it stand at the beginning of the sentence; in fact, it is regarded as an enclitic, and throws its tone back upon the preceding word however many syllables it may contain. Now in Greek a rule gradually grew up forbidding the accent to be placed further back than the antepenultimate; the accent, accordingly, which in the case of verbal forms of more than two syllables would have been on the last syllable of the preceding word in the Veda fell on the penultima of the corresponding verbal form itself in Greek. The accentuation which thus fixed itself in the verb of the principal clause was extended by analogy to the verb of the subordinate clause, and eventually to verbal forms of less than three syllables; φημι, εἰμι, and ἐστι, however, remained unaccented to bear witness to the process whereby the Greek language had changed the original accentuation of the Aryan verb.[173] This, like the accentuation of the noun, was mostly (and probably at the outset altogether) on the flection-suffix to which it called attention, and thus marked out the symbols that expressed the grammatical relations of the sentence. In the Semitic languages, on the contrary, the primitive accentuation was on the penultima, though there may possibly have been an earlier time when it was upon the ultima.[174] The tendency to throw back the accent set in early in Aryan speech; in Latin, as in the Æolic dialect of Greece, it was uniformly as near the beginning of a word as possible, and the preservation of the original pitch-accent in Lithuanian is one of the most curious marks of archaism in that most conservative of West-Aryan tongues.

In Aryan the word-tone, we have seen, was primarily used in the service of grammar. In Chinese, Siamese, and other Taic languages, however, its use is lexical rather than grammatical; here it serves to distinguish the senses of words which would otherwise be pronounced in the same way. Dr. Edkins has shown that modern Mandarin Chinese is an exceedingly decayed speech; its initial consonants have been worn away; and all its final consonants reduced to the same monotonous nasal. To prevent the confusion that would thus have been occasioned in a monosyllabic language, where the possible number of different syllables denoting words was limited even before the corroding action of phonetic decay, tones were adapted to the expression of meaning, and as old letters disappeared new tones came into existence. To create a new tone, says Dr. Edkins, requires about 1,200 years.

The sentence-tone is inseparable from speech even of the most lifeless character. Each sentence has its own key, and the several parts of it their own pitch. The tone rises when we ask a question, it falls when we answer it, it reaches the “level” point of neutrality when we speak in monotone. But there are dialects and languages in which monotone is either acute or grave. “Thus in Scotch the rising tone is often employed monotonously, not only in questions but also in answers and statements of facts. In Glasgow Scotch the falling tone predominates.”[175] In French, too, the rising tone is often used in making statements of fact.

Quite distinct from accent of pitch is accent of stress, though the close connection between the two may be gathered from the fact that in modern Greek the stress accent regularly answers to the acute and circumflex of the ancient language. Much of this regularity, however, may be due to the same pedantic revival which has resuscitated the dialect of Plato and Thucydides and substituted it for the “modern Greek” spoken half a century ago. Stress is the force with which the different syllables of words are uttered, and increased force is naturally accompanied by increased pitch. Stress, in fact, corresponds to syllable-tone and word-tone, emphasis—the stress of a sentence—corresponding to sentence-tone. Like pitch, it may be regarded as either rising, level, or falling. Stress, however, differs from pitch in its variability; there is no gradual fall, but a tendency “to sway to and fro,” as Mr. Sweet expresses it. Rising stress may consequently be of varying degrees of force and falling stress of weakness, level stress, even in French, being practically unknown. Stress and pitch together give to speech its rhythmic character, and make it the lyric utterance in which man expresses his thoughts and his emotions. Where the rhythm is regular we have poetry and song, where it is irregular the language of ordinary prose. Stress is the great conservator of language; the chief counterpoise to the action of phonetic decay. The accented syllable will be preserved though all the other syllables by which it is surrounded may disappear in pronunciation, just as the idea upon which emphasis is laid will hold out successfully against the attacks of age and forgetfulness. Winteler[176] has laid down the law that in accented syllables, liquids, nasals, and spirants are always long after a short vowel if followed by a consonant (e.g. man̄ly, Germ. al̄t.)

The loss of the accent of pitch in modern English and the consequent extension of the accent of stress have made us less observant of quantity than the grammarians of India or the poets of ancient Greece. All syllables, however, may be classed as long, half-long, or short, due to the duration of the force with which they are uttered. According to Brücke, the duration needed for the production of a long vowel is to that needed for the production of short vowels in the proportion of five to three, but Sievers remarks that this only applies to the oratorical pronunciation of modern literary German. In any case, the length of the same vowel may vary according to circumstances; it is long, for instance, in the English sīz (seize), short in sĭs (cease). Several of the Scotch dialects possess no long vowels at all, while in French most vowels are half-long, distinctly short accented vowels being final, as in oui.[177] Like vowels, consonants, too, may be long or short. In our own language final consonants are long after short vowels (as hill), short after long vowels (as heel), and l and the nasals are lengthened before sonants (as build), shortened before surds (as built). Short final consonants after short vowels make the pronunciation appear clipped, as in German words like mann.

Accent has considerable influence upon quantity. On the one side short vowels may be lengthened and pure vowels converted into diphthongs by the accent falling upon them. This is partly the origin of the Sanskrit guṇa and vṛiddhi, according to which a simple ă is raised to â, an ĭ to ê (ai) and ai (âi), and an u to o (au) and au (âu).[178] The lengthening of short vowels in Hebrew in a “pause,” that is at the end of a sentence, is another example. In the German dialects monosyllables which end in a consonant frequently have their vowel changed into a diphthong by the accent, the original vowel appearing again as soon as an additional syllable is added. In our own English the short vowel of a monosyllable which ends in a sonant frequently becomes half-long when accented (compare fog with fóggy, god with góddess). On the other side, the absence of the accent may bring with it a diminution of quantity. Thus a diphthong may be shortened by being pronounced in the same period of time as is required for the pronunciation of a short vowel, or may even be reduced to the short vowel which lies midway between the two elements of which the diphthong consists. A short vowel, again, may be reduced to a vocalic consonant like the Slavonic r. Since much movement of the lips in speaking implies an energetic enunciation, shortened syllables are naturally pronounced with passive lips. To this fact we must ascribe the numerous short syllables of modern cultivated English.

There is but little difference between a long or “strong” consonant and a doubled one. In the first case, the position of the vocal organs for pronouncing the consonant is retained with gradually decreasing force, until it is suddenly shifted to the position needed for the following vowel; in the second case it is shifted back again, when the force required to produce it is half spent. Strictly speaking, therefore, the consonant cannot be said to be doubled; there is simply a break or pause in the utterance of it, the force necessary to produce it being renewed before it has been fully exhausted. In English, French, German, or Slavonic the double consonants have become long ones; to find them still pronounced we must turn to Italian, Swedish, Finnic, or Magyàr. Analogous to a double consonant is the combination of a sonant with a surd, when assimilation does not take place, as in has to do or has seen. In Sanskrit and Greek aspirated letters could not be doubled, Sanskrit permitting only kkh, tth, and pph, and Greek only κχ, τθ, and πφ; hence it seems plain that there was either no glide or a glide practically inaudible.

It is obvious that the combination of a consonant and a vowel admits of an almost infinite series of variations according as the formation of the one or other sound is made prominent in pronunciation. The consonant may, as it were, swallow up the vowel; on the other hand, the vocal organs may be shifted to form the vowel while they are still in the act of forming the consonant. Hence arise mouillé and labialized letters. If the front part of the tongue be raised and the lips opened while a consonant is being uttered, a palatalized or mouillé letter is the result, of which the Italian gl and gn, the Spanish ll and ñ, or the Portuguese lh and nh, may be regarded as examples. Still better examples, according to Sievers, are combinations of consonants with an original i in many Slavonic languages (e.g. Russian nikto). Certain consonants are incapable of being mouillé; gutturals, for instance, in whose formation the back part of the tongue plays so prominent a part can only be so by becoming palatals. Labialized sounds are those in which the lips are rounded while the pronunciation of a consonant is in process. Labials and gutturals show the same fondness for this labialization or “rounding,” that the palatals and dentals do for mouillation; and a comparison of the derived languages proves that the primitive Aryan speech must have possessed a row of labialized or “velar” gutturals—kw, gw, ghw—of which the Latin qu and our own cw, qu are descendants. There is nothing to show that these velar gutturals were ever developed out of the simple gutturals; so far back as we can go in the history of Indo-European speech the two classes of guttural exist side by side, and the groups of words containing them remain unallied and unmixed. Γυνή and queen (quean) must be separated from γένος, genitrix, kinder, and other derivations of the root which we have in the Sanskrit janâmi, the Greek γίγνομαι, γείνομαι, and the Latin gigno; and the labialized quies can have nothing to do with the Greek κεῖμαι and κώμη (κύμη), our own home and ham-let.[179] Both rounding and mouillation may be combined, as in the Danish kyst, pynte, and when occurring at the end of a word may frequently be explained from the analogy of cases in which the word is followed by a syllable beginning with u and i. Such an explanation, however, is more likely to be true of mouillation than of rounding; indeed, an i or y sound is very apt to develop itself after consonants in affected pronunciation, as in the English kyind, duke (for dook), or the Greek ζορκάς (δyορκας) for δορκάς and the Magyàr ágy, “bed.” Conversely a palatal i or y may develop a dental sonant before it: thus the Italian diacere comes from the Latin jacere, the Low Latin madius from majus,[180] and the Greek ζειά (δyειά) and ζυγόν (δyυγόν) from yava and jugum (Sansk. yugam). In these instances we may trace the influence of emphasis; the parasitic letter is due to the attempt to speak with greater distinctness and solemnity.

But whether it be emphasis or the other two causes of change described in an earlier chapter, the pronunciation of sounds, like the meaning they convey, is in a constant state of flux. Nowhere is the dogma of Herakleitus, πάντα ῥεῖ, truer than in the history of speech. No two people pronounce exactly alike, nor does the same person always pronounce the same word or group of words in exactly the same way. Apart from the changes undergone by the pronunciation of words according to the sounds of the other words with which they may be associated, it is difficult to pronounce the same word when uttered singly twice in precisely the same way. The very effort to do so produces modification of the sound. Such shades of difference in utterance, however, are imperceptible to any but an unusually sensitive ear; it is only when the difference becomes considerable that it attracts notice. It then constitutes what we may term a variety, and such varieties we may hear sometimes from the lips of a single individual, sometimes from the members of a family, sometimes from those who live in daily contact and under the same conditions of life. The faculty of imitation is strong within us, and a particular pronunciation once started soon spreads, as it were instinctively, amongst those who are much together. It has often been observed how like the members of a family are to each other, not only in general appearance and manner, but still more in the use of similar expressions and idioms and the pronunciation of sounds. It is the same with schools, and to a less degree with universities to which the students come with their habits of phonetic utterance more or less formed: it has been said that the handwriting betrays the school at which the man has been educated; it may be said with equal justice that the mode of speaking does so too. In a savage state of existence, where tribe-life and village-life are on the one hand strict and intense, and the husband on the other hand sees but little of his wife and children, the conditions favourable to the growth of varieties in pronunciation are more numerous than among civilized men. The language of the nursery becomes in time the language of the tribe.

This phonetic variety may be broadly stated as mainly due to differences in the structure of the vocal organs. Putting aside imitation and analogy, putting aside, too, all wilful and conscious changes of pronunciation such as those enumerated on page 205, a particular sound or a particular way of pronouncing a sound may be easier to one speaker than to another. Very slight differences in the physical formation of the organs of speech may produce the most important consequences. And when a habit of pronunciation has once been fixed, it is difficult to alter it. The child who is learning to speak will as readily learn Chinese as English, the Japanese r as the Northumberland burr; it is quite another matter when the attempt to catch the sounds of a new language has to be made in adult years.

Climate and food have, doubtless, an important effect in producing changes in the formation of the vocal organs; but at present we have no means of knowing the nature and extent of their influence. Professor March remarks of the change of i to g in Anglo-Saxon,[181] that “the movement (of consonants to vowels) is sometimes reversed, as when a nation moves northward, or northern peoples mix with a vowel-speaking race.” The Rev. W. Webster has drawn attention to the nasal twang which distinguishes not only American English, but American Spanish, Portuguese, and French as well; and which seems to be due to the dryness and the extremes of the American climate, while he further suggests climatic influences for the origin of the loss of the aspirate in Spanish words like hijo, pronounced ijo, the Latin filius, which in the fourteenth century still had f, and for the intensification of the aspirate in the corresponding Gascon words. We are all well acquainted with the hoarseness and roughness that exposure to the atmosphere lends to the voice, and the exercise and strength that a mountainous region gives to the lungs produce their effect in the vigour with which sounds are uttered. In cold countries the respiration is accelerated, while the air being denser contains a larger volume of oxygen.[182] The prognathism of the lower and older races of men, again, must have considerably modified their powers of utterance. “The lower jaw,” says Dr. Rolleston, “which in every well-marked variety of the human species contributes very importantly towards the making up of its distinctive character, was in the brachycephalous Briton usually a very different bone from the lower jaw of his Silurian predecessor.”[183] The strange fashions, too, which lead the savage to mutilate and deform his person, have frequently a very direct bearing upon phonology. Thus the loss and confusion of the labials and the excessive nasalization in the languages of the natives of the Pacific coast of America must be traced to the rings that are worn through the nostrils and lips of the people.[184] The Otyi-herero of South Africa is lisping in consequence of the custom of knocking out the four lower teeth, and partly filing off the upper front ones, to which also Professor Max Müller suggests the occurrence of the English, th and dh in the language may be due, and the Dinkas, who, like all the negroes of the White River, extract the front teeth of the lower jaw, have no sibilants.[185]

Whatever may be the causes which bring about varieties in pronunciation, certain it is that they are as continually making their appearance as varieties in the realm of natural history. Where they are unrestrained by the conservative tendencies of literature and education, they soon spread from the individual and the household and become species or dialects. The dialect itself may in course of time assume so marked a character of its own, and be so widely spoken as to be accounted a separate language; and will stand to the varieties and species destined to grow out of it in the relation of a genus to its species. But with this further development phonology has little to do.

It is otherwise with the changes which result in the rise of a new dialect. Comparative philology is based on the recognition that the same word will be represented by different combinations of sounds in a group of allied dialects or languages, and that each combination will be governed by a fixed phonetic law. An English h, for example, will answer to a Greek and Latin k, an English t to a German z and a Sanskrit d. When once a sound is given in a language, we may know the sounds which must correspond to it in the cognate languages. Now and then, of course, subordinate laws will interfere with the working of the general law; but unless such an interference can be proved, we must never disregard the general law for the sake of an etymological comparison, however tempting. To compare the Greek θεός with the Latin deus and the Sanskrit devas, rests upon almost as unstable a foundation as the old derivation of whole from ὅλος, and call from καλέω.[186] We must never forget that the laws of phonology are as undeviating in their action as the laws of physical science, and where the spelling does not mislead us will display themselves in every word of genuine growth. Even the vowels cannot be changed and shifted arbitrarily; they, too, follow definite laws of development, and though it is not yet possible to state their equivalence in the several languages of a single family with the same precision as in the case of the consonants, we may feel quite sure that this is the fault of our ignorance and not of the facts themselves.

It was the great Grimm who, following in the wake of Rask, first formulated the empiric law of that regular Lautverschiebung, or shifting of sounds, in our Indo-European family of speech which has since gone under his name. Since his time the law has been the subject of much discussion and examination;[187] his statements have been amended and amplified, and an endeavour made to apply the same law to the vowels that has been applied to the consonants. The following table[188] exhibits the equivalence of sounds in the Aryan family of speech:—

Sanskrit. Zend. Greek. Latin. Oscan and Umbrian. Gothic. English. Modern High German. Lithuanian. Church Slavonic. Gaulish. Old Irish. Old Welsh.

K ś (ç) ç κ c k h, g h, g h, g sz s c c, ch c

Kw } k, ch, p k, ch, p κ, π, τ qu, c, v p hv, f(p), h wh, f w, f k, p k, p p c, ch p

(K²)}

G j, sh z, sh γ g g k k, ch k, ch ż z g g g

Gw } g, j, k g, j, zh, k β, γ[189] [g]v, b b kv qu, c qu, k g g b? b, m? b, m?

(G²)}

G H h z χ h, g h g g, y g z z g g g

G Hw } [g] h g, j, zh χ, φ v, gv, g ? g, v? g, w? g, w? g g b? b b

(G H²)}

T t t τ t t th, d d, th d, t t t t t, th t

D d d δ d, l d t t z, ss, sz d d d d d

D H [d] h d θ f, d, b[190] f d d t, th d d d d d

P p p π p p f, b f, b f, b p p ... ... ...[191]

B b b? β b b p? p? pf?, f? b b b b, m b, m

B H [b] h b φ f, b f b b b b b b b, m b, m

N G ṅ ñ γ ng ng ng ng ng ng -n ng ng ng

N n n ν n n n n n n n, -n n n n

M m m μ m m m m m m m, -n m m, b m, b

R r, l r ρ, λ r, l r, l r, l r, l r, l r, l r, l r, l r, l r, l

Y y y y, ζ, δ j j j y j j j j ... j, ddj, dd

V v v ϝ, υ, ῾ v v v w w v v v f, b gu, u

S s h, s σ, ῾ s, r s, r, z s, z s, r s, r s s, ch s s h

A a a ε ĕ e e — — e e — — —

A² â, a — ο ŏ, ĕ — — — — o, à o — — —

A³ a, i, u, î, û — α, ο a, o — a — — a a — — —

 â â ᾱ, ω ā, ō — — — — — — — — —

I i i ῑ i i i — — i i — — —

U u u ῠ u, o, i u u, au — — u u, o, ŭ — — —

Some of the changes of sound recorded in the above table are as old as the undivided Aryan speech itself. They go back to the dialects that existed in the earliest period of which our materials allow us to know. Instead of clinging, with Fick, to a genealogical tree, and deriving the Aryan languages of Europe and Asia from two parent-stems, Western and Eastern Aryan, and these again from a single Ursprache or primitive speech, it is better to follow J. Schmidt in tracing the later languages to co-existent dialects, which by the loss or absorption of intermediate dialects and the migration of the speakers became more and more distinct and divergent one from the other. It is, of course, quite possible that the speakers of the most western of these dialects moved across the Ural range into Europe in a compact body, and there settled for a while in a district westward of a line drawn from Königsberg to the Crimea, where the beech grew, and that it was from this second home of the Aryan race that the waves of European emigrants successively broke off. Certainly Professor Fick seems to have shown the common possession of certain phonetic peculiarities, such as the vowel e, by the Western as distinguished from the Eastern Aryans, and the Eastern or Indic branch of the family clearly once formed a single whole which subsequently divided into Iranian and Hindu. Unfortunately the position of Armenian and the allied dialects is still a matter of doubt; and there are scholars who would regard them as a link between the European and the Asiatic sections of the Aryan group. But Fick labours hard, and apparently with success, to prove that the Aryan dialects of Asia Minor, such as we know them from glosses and inscriptions, belonged to the European, not the Asiatic section, while Armenian, on the other side, is an Iranian tongue. Fick’s conclusion is confirmed by the evidence of the cuneiform inscriptions. Up to the eighth century B.C. Armenia was still inhabited by tribes who spoke non-Aryan languages, and it was only a century previously that the Medes had first forced their way into the country regarded by the agglutinative Accadians as the cradle of their race, but which was afterwards to be the seat of the Aryan Medes. Eastward of the Halys there was nothing Aryan until long after the occupation of Armenia by the new-comers.

We have certain proof that the series of changes which resulted in the formation of High German took place subsequently to the overthrow of the Roman Empire. Latin words for instance like (via) strata or campus, adopted by the Teutons during the era of their wars with Rome, are found in both Low and High German in the very forms which the application of Grimm’s law would require them to have were they native words. Thus strata, Low German strata, our street, becomes straza in Old High German, campus, our camp, similarly becomes kamph, kampf. The Hessians were called Catti in Roman times, and though now High Germans, had the same ancestors as the Batavi, from whom the modern Dutch draw their descent, while the Malbergian glosses show the language of the Franks to have been Low German, although the Franconians of to-day, who are descended from the same stock as the Suabians and Ripuarians, speak High German. Here, at any rate, we have an instance of a series of varieties finally resulting in a new language in historical times.

It must not be supposed that all the changes of pronunciation that serve to distinguish one branch of the Aryan stock from another took place simultaneously. On the contrary, they were slow and gradual; first one and then another new fashion in sounding words sprang up and became general: when once the new pronunciation had, from any cause, taken a firm hold of the community, analogy caused every word to be submitted to its influence, unless special reasons, such as accent, stood in the way, until in course of time the process of shifting the sounds was completed. An instructive illustration of this shifting of sounds has lately been going on almost under our eyes. In the Samoan Islands of the Pacific only fifteen years ago k was an unknown sound except in one small island of the group, where it replaced t. Since then it has practically disappeared from all of them, and t has taken its place. What makes the rapidity of the change the more extraordinary is that the speakers of the language live on separate islands, and that intercourse between them is less intimate now, according to Mr. Whitmee, than it was in the days of heathenism. And yet in spite of books and schools, in spite of education and every effort to check it, the change has come about. The natives will ridicule the foreigner who pronounces in the new fashion, they will themselves take pains to sound the k when reading aloud or making a set speech, but in conversation it has ceased to be heard. The tendency to put k for t seems to be irresistible; it is in the air, like an epidemic, and the spelling, so recently introduced, no longer represents the common pronunciation of the people.[192]

We must be on our guard against thinking that the sounds represented by the same letter of the alphabet in different languages are really identical. We have seen of what numberless variations each sound that we utter is capable, and it does not follow that because the Sanskrit cha and the English church are written with the same palatal ch, that therefore they are to be pronounced alike. And what is true of the consonants is still more true of the vowels. There is much to show that the European scale of three short vowels—ă, ĕ, ŏ—is more primitive than the Indic single vowel ă, in which three distinct vowel-sounds of the parent-speech have coalesced, but we cannot infer from this that the three vowel-sounds of the parent-speech were actually ă, ĕ, and ŏ. Indeed, when we remember that the Greek ἕκατον (for ἕν-καντον) corresponds to the Latin centum, while ferentis is represented by φέροντος, it is quite clear that the Latin ĕ must have developed out of one or more sounds which were distinct from it. In dealing with the hypothetical Parent-Aryan it is best, with Brugman, to symbolize these three primitive vowels as a¹, a², and a³.[193] It is possible that some at least of the earlier sounds out of which more than one articulate sound have afterwards developed, were of a vague indeterminate character, not properly-formed vowel utterances. Professor Max Müller[194] quotes authorities to prove that in the Sandwich Islands k and t are undistinguished, and that “it takes months of patient labour to teach a Hawaian youth the difference between k and t, g and d, l and r.”[195] The confusion between k and t, however, has already been explained by the similar fact observed in Samoan where the sound has actually changed within the last fifteen years, a distinctly-articulated k becoming an equally distinctly-articulated t. But even in English we find people saying a cleast instead of at least, while at Paris and elsewhere the lower classes say amikié for amitié, charkier for charretier, crapu for trapu.[196] So in the old Paris argot j’équions stood for j’étais, and in Canada the uneducated part of the population says mékier for métier, moikié for moitié. Bleek, again, writes of the Setshuana dialects: “One is justified to consider r in these dialects as a sort of floating letter, and rather intermediate between l and r, than a decided r sound.”[197] To these instances of confusion between two consonants which Professor Max Müller believes to be “a characteristic of the lower stages of human speech,” may be added the fluctuation between two forms of the same sound in the North German dialects, where no distinction is made between surd and sonant mediæ, as well as in many of the Armenian dialects.[198] But we must bear in mind that this childlike inability to distinguish between sounds may be due to two very different causes. It may be a result either of the sound being formed at the neutral point, as it were, intermediate between two distinct sounds, or of the ear being unable to discriminate between different articulations. The latter cause is analogous to colour-blindness, and has most to do with the imperfections of childish utterance or the substitution of r for l so often heard; the other cause is of a purely phonetic character, and takes us back to the time when man was gradually fashioning the elements of articulate speech. This infantile state of language had probably been long left behind by the cultivated speakers of the Parent-Aryan; indeed, the very existence of the three vowels marked a₁, a₂, and a₃, would imply that such was the fact. If there was any confusion in the pronunciation of their words it would have to be ascribed rather to sound-blindness than to imperfection of utterance.

The regular action of Grimm’s law may be interfered with by the influence of other laws, just as in physical science the regular action of the law of attraction may be interfered with from time to time. Foremost among these disturbing agencies is the accent. K. Verner has shown[199] that the position of the accent has occasioned that apparent disregard of Grimm’s law in the Teutonic languages which has produced mutter and vater (O. H. G. muotar and fatar) by the side of bruder (O. H. G. brôpar), sieben (Goth. sibun) by the side of fünf (Anglo-Saxon fîf), schwieger (O. H. G. swigar = ἑκυρὰ, so-cru-s) by the side of heil (Greek καλός), or such a curious change in the conjugation of the same verb as the Anglo-Saxon lîðe,“I sail,” but liden, “sailed.” The same cause has brought about the varying representation of an original ſ now by s, and now by z or r. In the Veda, bhrâtar is accented on the first syllable, like the Greek φράτηρ, mâtár and pitár on the last, again like the Greek μητήρ and πατήρ. Sieben answers to the Vedic saptán, the Greek ἑπτά, whereas fünf is the Vedic pánchan and Greek πέντε. Schwieger similarly goes back to the Vedic ´swa´srû´, Greek ἑκυρά, just as the O. H. G. snura from snuza goes back to the Vedic snushâ´, Greek νυός, in contradistinction to nase, nose, the Vedic nâ´sa, the Lithuanian nósis. If we turn to the verb, we find that in Anglo-Saxon, whereas the present lîðe, “(I) sail,” corresponds with a Vedic bhédâmi, and the singular of the past tense lâð with a Vedic bibhéda, the plural of the preterite lidon corresponds with a Vedic bibhidús.[200]

There are other influences besides that of the accent which may change and mar the face of words. Although every change takes place in strict accordance with phonetic laws, and is consequently capable of explanation, the occurrence of the changes is more or less sporadic and arbitrary. That is to say, they may act upon one word and not upon its neighbour. In should or would, for instance, l has been assimilated to d, but in fold and cold it still maintains its existence. Such changes may be either independent or dependent on the action of surrounding sounds. The diversification of the Teutonic a into e and o, or the transition of the Latin ĭ and ŭ into Romanic e and o are instances of independent change. So, too, the modern English pronunciation of the vowels with passive lips, and the consequent loss of the intermediate vowels ü and ö, is another example of the same facts. Wherever, indeed, these intermediate vowel-sounds exist, we may feel sure that the lips take an active part in articulation. In all these cases the change happens in the formation of the sound, uninfluenced by the neighbourhood of other sounds. The extension of a simple vowel into a diphthong may also be brought under this head, though the presence of the circumflex accent seems to have much to do with it. On the other hand, changes in the dentals, the passage of z into r and r into l, or the transition from a guttural to a palatal and a dental, are all examples of purely independent change. When we find an Aryan kw (k²) and gw becoming ch and j in Sanskrit or τ in Greek, we merely see the gradual forward movement of the tongue, which is moved with less exertion towards its tip than towards its root. The change of Aryan kw and gw into p and b in Greek (as in πίσυρες and βίος[201]) is held by Sievers to be due to a sudden “leap” in the articulation, k and g partially assimilating the second part of each compound into p and b, and then falling away altogether.

Most of the changes recorded in Grimm’s law may be brought under the head of independent change. No doubt the transition of g, d, b, into k, t, and p in German is partially dependent upon the accent, but the growth of an aspirate out of a tenuis, as exemplified in the Irish pronunciation of English, is probably due to nothing but an increase in the energy and duration with which our breath is expired. The want of the stress accent brings about the shortening and loss of final vowels, the tonic accent, on the other hand, tending to lengthen them.

The changes caused by the action of one sound upon another may be divided into those which are due to assimilation, and those that are not. In either case the time occupied in pronouncing the changed sound remains the same as it was before; it is only in cases of independent change that it may differ. Assimilation is effected in one of two ways. The relative positions of the vocal organs needed for the pronunciation of two sounds may be made to approximate, as in the reduction of ai (a + i) to e, or the time that elapses between the pronunciation of two sounds may be reduced or destroyed altogether, as when supmus becomes summus. Where the change is not due to assimilation, it will be found to depend on an alteration in the time needed for the formation of two or more sounds.

Assimilation may be regressive, progressive, or reciprocal. Regressive assimilation is where a sound is assimilated to that which follows it, as in ἕννυμι for ϝεσ-νυμι, from the root vas, or ποσσί, for ποδ-σι (ποδ-σϝ-ι), and γράμμα for γράφ-μα(τ). Progressive assimilation is the converse of this, as in στέλλω for στελ-yω, μᾶλλον for μαλ-ιον, mellis for melv-is, or the Æolic ἔστελλα for ἔστελ-σα. Regressive assimilation largely preponderates in our Aryan languages, progressive assimilation in the Ural-Altaic ones; and it is very possible that Sievers is right[202] in tracing this contrast to the difference of the accentuation, which in Ural-Altaic falls upon the first syllable of the word, while in the parent-Aryan it fell for the most part on the final syllable. Böhtlingk[203] says, very appositely: “An Indo-Germanic word is a real whole of such a kind that the speaker has uttered the whole word, as it were, in spirit, as soon as he has pronounced the first syllable. Only in this way can it be explained how a syllable (or sound) is modified in order to assist the pronunciation of the syllable (or sound) that follows it. A member of the Ural-Altaic race forces out the first syllable of a word—that part of it, namely, which has the accent—little caring for the fortune of the rest; on this he next strings in more or less rude fashion a few more significant syllables, only thinking of a remedy at the moment when he first feels the want of one.” As for reciprocal assimilation, an example of it may be found in the reduction of ai to e quoted above, where both sounds influence one another.

Assimilation may be either complete or partial. There are sounds which can never be thoroughly assimilated to each other, bn, for instance, can never at once become nn, only mn. Partial regressive assimilation meets us very frequently in the classical languages; e.g., λεκ-τός from the root λεγε, ἤνυσμαι from ἀνυτ-, δόγμα from δοκ-; partial progressive assimilation is rarer; e.g., πάσχω for πάσκω from παθ-σκω.

The changes dependent on the presence of a second sound, which are not due to assimilation, are necessarily produced by varying the time needed for pronunciation. Of these the most striking is metathesis. Metathesis must be referred rather to a mental than to a phonetic origin. Our thought and will outstrip our pronunciation, the result being that the sound which ought to follow is made to precede, or else the vocal organs are shaped prematurely for the formation of a sound which ought to be heard later, the consequence being that the sound which should come first has to come last. Metathesis, in fact, is similar to the rapidity, or rather relaxation, of thought which leads us sometimes to write or speak a word which belongs to a subsequent part of the sentence; and it may be of two kinds: either the place of two sounds may be simply inverted, or the second sound may be made to precede the first by two or three syllables. How easily the first case can happen is shown by the phonograph, where each syllable that has been uttered can be reproduced backward by merely turning the handle of the machine the wrong way. R and l are the most subject to metathesis, then the nasals; the other consonants vary according to their relationship to the vowels. More regular than metathesis are the insertion and omission of consonants, as in ἀν-δ-ρὸς, ἄ-μ-β-ροτος, τέτυφθε for τέτυφσθε, rêmus for resmus. Somewhat different are the insertion and omission of vowels, the first of which goes under the technical name of Swarabhakti. This name was imported from the Hindu grammarians by Johannes Schmidt,[204] to mark the growth of a short or reduced vowel from a liquid or nasal, when accompanied by another consonant. Thus ănman, “name,” became ănă-man, and then, by the loss of the first vowel and the compensatory lengthening of the second, nômen and nâmâ. Swarabhakti is, however, incompatible with the acute accent. We may find examples of it in the slow pronunciation which in English turns umbrella into umbĕrella, and Henry into Henĕry.[205] Prosthesis, or prothesis, the insertion of a short vowel at the beginning of a word before two consonants, is another illustration of Swarabhakti. There are many nations which find a difficulty in pronouncing two consonants at the beginning of a word. Thus the Bengali calls the English school yschool, the Arab says Iflatún for Platon, and the Ossete uses a for the same purpose. In other cases, one of the consonants is dropped altogether, as so frequently by children and systematically by the natives of Polynesia. In Latin inscriptions and MSS. later than the fourth century we find forms like istatuam, ispirito, just as in the Romanic tongues we have estar and espée (épée) for stare and spada, or in Welsh ysgol from schola, yspryd from spiritus. According to Wentrup,[206] a is often used as a prothetic vowel in Sicilian; Lithuanian has forms like iszkadà, German “schade,” and Basque and Hungarian prefix a similar aid to the pronunciation. No trace of a prothetic vowel can be found in Latin; in Greek, however, such vowels are very plentiful. Thus we have ἄσταχυς by the side of στάχυς, ἐχθές by the side of χθές, ἰγνύη by the side of γόνυ, Ὀβριαρευς by the side of Βριαρεύς. In Greek, too, as in other languages where prothesis occurs, the complementary vowel may be inserted before a liquid, more especially r, as well as before a strictly double consonant, e.g., ἀμύνω by the side of μύνη, ἐρυθρός by the side of ruber, ὀρέγω by the side of rego. Even the digamma may perhaps take the prefix as in the Homeric ἔεδνον. But it is probable that no other single consonant does so, the apparent exceptions being really explained by the loss of a consonant which once existed along with the one that is left. Ὀκέλλω, for instance, presupposes ὀ-κϝέλλω (Latin pellere), Ἀπόλλων presupposes Α-κϝολιων, “the son of the revolving one” (Sanskrit char, Greek πέλομαι). In other cases we are dealing not with a prothetic vowel, but with a part of the primitive root: ὄνομα, for example, is shown by the Irish aimn and Old Prussian emnes to be more original than the Sanskrit nâmâ or the Latin nomen, and to stand for an earlier an-man; and ὄνυξ, the Latin unguis, the Irish inga, is earlier in form than the Sanskrit nakha and the English nail (nagel)[207]. We may discover a tendency in Greek to adapt the prothetic vowel to that of the root, though it is hardly so regular as in Zend roots beginning with r, where we find i-rith for rith, but u-rud for rud. Sanskrit, like Latin, shows an inclination rather to drop initial vowels than to add them, but even in Sanskrit, Curtius has pointed out[208] the Vedic i-raj-yâmi from raj (rego) and i-radh, “to seek to obtain,” from râdh. As for the loss of a vowel, it is too familiar to every one to need any illustration.

More akin to metathesis is epenthesis, which closely resembles the Teutonic umlaut. Epenthesis is especially plentiful in Greek, where κτέν-yω becomes κτείνω, χερ-ιων χείρων, λόγοσι λόγοις, ἐλαν-ϝω ἐλαύνω, νερϝον νεῦρον. Probably λέγει for λεγειτ is to be explained as resulting from the epenthesis of ι (λεγειτ for λεγετι), just as λέγεις stands for an earlier λεγεσι. Epenthesis thus presupposes a mouillation or labialization in which the articulation of the consonant is absorbed, as it were, by that of the i and u. The greater the participation of the lips and tongue in the formation of these vowels, the greater will be the tendency towards epenthesis.

Lastly, we have to consider the lengthening of vowels, either by way of compensation or before certain consonants. By compensation is meant the additional force with which a vowel is pronounced after the loss of a consonant which followed or preceded it. Thus in Greek the loss of the digamma in βασιλεϝ-ος produced the Ionic βασιλῆος on the one side and the Attic βασίλεως on the other, just as the loss of the yod in πολιy-ος similarly produced πολῆος and πόλεως. So, too, πάνς became πᾶς, δαιμονς δαίμων, ἐφαν-σα ἔφηνα, rĕs-mus rémus, pĕds pês, exăgmen exâmen, măgior mâjor. In certain cases the vowel was raised into a diphthong, as in φέρουσι for φεροντι, τιθείς for τιθενς, ἔστειλα for έστελσα. But a vowel may also be lengthened before liquids, nasals, and spirants when combined with another consonant. If the grave or the circumflex accent fall upon the preceding vowel, the tendency is to lengthen the vowel at the expense of the sonant or spirant following. Hence it is, that whereas in our English tint, or hilt, where the vowel has the acute, the nasal and liquid are long; in kind and mild, on the other hand, where the vowel is circumflexed, it is the vowel (or rather the diphthong) that is long. The vowel, again, may be lengthened to compensate for the loss of a double letter. Thus in Latin we find vīlicus by the side of villicus, from villa, and whereas the grammarians lay down that when ll is followed by i, single l must be written, we find millia in the famous inscription of Ancyra. So, too, the inscriptions vary between Amulius and Amullius, Polio and Pollio, and good MSS. have loquella, medella, instead of loquēla, medēla.

There is another fact to be remembered when we are looking for the application of Grimm’s law—a fact which the law itself ought to bring to our minds. Different languages have different phonetic tendencies; the same sound is not equally affected by phonetic decay in two different dialects or modified in the same way; each language has phonetic laws and phænomena peculiar to itself. Thus, in Greek, σ between two vowels is lost, in Latin it becomes r; in Greek a nasal preserves, or perhaps introduces, the vowel a, in Latin it prefers the vowel e. Because τ between vowels becomes σ in Greek, or sr in Latin is changed into br (as in cerebrum for ceresrum, κέρας, śiras), we are not justified in expecting similar changes in other tongues. In fact we have only to look at the table of sound-changes, known as Grimm’s law, to see that it is just because two languages do not follow the same course of phonetic modification that a scientific philology is possible.

To speak of Grimm’s law being “suspended,” of “exceptions to Grimm’s law,” and the like, is only to show an ignorance of the principles of comparative philology. Grimm’s law is simply the statement of certain observed phonetic facts, which happen invariably, so far as we know, unless interfered with by other facts which, under given conditions, equally happen invariably. The accidental has little place in phonology, at all events in an illiterate and uncultivated age. Literature and education are no doubt disturbing forces: a writer may borrow a word without modifying its sound according to rule; and the word may be adopted into the common speech through the agency of the schoolmaster; but such words are mere aliens and strangers, never truly naturalized in their new home, and the philologist must treat them as such. Native words, as well as words which, though borrowed from abroad, have been borrowed by the people and so given a native stamp, undergo, and must undergo, all those changes and shiftings of sound which meet us in Grimm’s law, in the phonetic laws peculiar to individual languages, or in any other of the generalizations under which we sum up the phænomena of spoken utterance. False analogy, it is true, may divert a word from the path it would naturally have taken; one word may be assimilated to another regardless of its real etymology, or words whose real origin has been forgotten may be modified so as to convey a new meaning to the speaker. But, in such cases, the worst that could happen would be the loss of the true etymology; Grimm’s law would still hold good, and the originals of the existing sounds would be those demanded by the regular Lautverschiebung. So far as the present form of a word like Shotover (for château vert) is concerned, it is to the mere phonologist, as to the ordinary speaker, a compound of shot and over, and in comparing these two words with allied words in other languages the prescribed letter-change holds good. It is only the comparative philologist, who has to deal with the psychological as well as with the phonetic side of language, that needs to know more, and to determine that Shotover is not what it professes to be, but the product of a more or less conscious imagination. In most cases of analogy we have to do with mental as opposed to phonetic assimilation, and they fall, therefore, under sematology, the science of meanings, rather than under phonology, the science of sounds. No doubt we find instances of analogy, like the Greek accusative βεβαῶτα, modelled after the nominative βεβαώς,[209] or the Latin genitives diei, dierum, modelled after the accusative diem for diam, but such instances fall under the laws and conditions of that phonetic assimilation which has been already described. Let us hold fast to the fact that the generalizations, the chief of which are summed up in the formula known as Grimm’s law, are at once uniform and unvarying. If an etymology is suggested, which violates these generalizations, that etymology must be rejected, however plausible or attractive. It is upon the fixed character of these generalizations that the whole fabric of scientific philology rests.

Necessarily similar generalizations may be made in the case of other languages which, like the Aryan, can be grouped into single families of speech; nay, they must be made before we are justified in grouping them together, or in comparing and explaining their grammar and vocabulary. It is not always, however, that the changes of sound are so marked and violent as in the Indo-European. A group of allied languages may be as closely related to one another as the modern Romanic dialects of Europe, and various causes may have combined to give a stability and fixity to their phonology which has made it change but slightly in the course of centuries. This is the case with the Semitic dialects, whose laws of sound-change are extremely simple. Practically the sound shiftings are confined to the sibilants, where the equivalence of sounds is as follows:—

Assyrian. Hebrew. Ethiopic. Arabic. Aramaic.

s (sh) s (sh) s, ´s sh, s, th ´s, s, th

´s ´s s, ´s s, sh ´s

ts ts ts ts, ds, dhs ts, dh, ’e

z z z z, dh z, d[210]

One or two other general laws of phonetic change may be laid down for special members of the Semitic group; thus, in Assyrian, s before a dental becomes l, and kh is dropped when it answers to the Arabic and Ethiopic weak kh. In the Babylonian dialect, again, k took the place of g, and the n of the other dialects is sometimes replaced by r in Aramaic.

But the Semitic idioms are dialects rather than languages, so intimate is the connection between them, so slight the differences by which they are separated. It is quite otherwise if we turn to a group like the Malayo-Polynesian, where the word oran, “man,” may be represented in the different dialects by rang, olan, lan, ala, la, na, da, and ra.[211] But here, too, the law of equivalence is fixed and determinate: the Samoan s is changed into h in Tongan and Maori, while the Maori k is dropped in Samoan.

Equally extensive is the series of changes undergone by sounds in the Ugro-Finnic tongues, and when the law of sound-shifting has been determined not only for the Ugro-Finnic division of the Turanian family, but for the whole Turanian family, comprising Turkish, Mongol, and Mandshu, we may expect it to include a far larger number of changes of sound than that summed up in Grimm’s law. So far as the Ugro-Finnic dialects are concerned, M. de Ujfálvy, in continuance of the investigations of Riedl,[212] has been able to lay down the following rules for the phonetic permutations observable in these idioms: (1) The Finnish and Bulgar k becomes kh in Ostiak, Vogul, and Old Magyár, and h in modern Magyár; (2) k = ts; (3) k or g = s, z, ṣ, j, ts, &c.; (4) Finnish ks = Votiak hs (earlier ht); (5) Finnish kl, pl = Lapp vl; (6) Medial Finnish k and h = Bulgar and Ugrian v and f; (7) Initial Finnish h disappears in Livonian and Lapp (in Lapp also becomes v before a dental); (8) Finnish h = s, ṣ, ts, sy, ts (c), ẓ, tsy, &c.; (9) Finnish and Bulgar k, g, h = Lapp and Ostiak ng, n = Magyar g; (10) Medial Finnish nk = Lapp gg; (11) Finnish nt = Lapp dd; (12) gy, ny = y, v; (13) t = s (Finnish t = s, ṣ, sy, ts, z, ẓ, &c.); (14) Finnish s, h = Ostiak and Vogul t; (15) Finnish p = Votiak b = Magyar b, f; (16) Finnish t = Magyar s, z, ts; (17) Finnish m = Lapp bm; (18) Lapp dn = Finnish nn or n; (19) Finnish mb = Lapp bb; (20) Finnish kk, tt, pp = Vêpse and Livonian k, t, p; (21) Finnish k, t, p = Vêpse and Livonian g, d, b. This list of phonetic equivalents will make it clear that the original phonology of the Ugro-Finnic group is generally best represented by Suomi or Finnish; in some cases, however, Vêpse (or Tchude) is more archaic than Finnish, and in one case, that of the change of t into s, Ostiak and Vogul are more primitive than Suomi. Vêpse, again, shows that the long vowels of Suomi are due to contraction. Within Suomi itself kk, tt, and pp, after a liquid are softened into simple k, t, and p. The diphthongal consonants of Magyár (ly, my, ty, &c.), are the result of a contraction of a consonant and a vowel or diphthong following. The changes undergone by sounds within the Ugro-Finnic group may be summed up as a whole in the two formulæ: (1) The Finnish hard explosives are represented by soft explosives in the other languages of the group; (2) spirants, and the sounds derived from them, answer in the allied dialects to the explosives of Finnish. As for the Samoied idioms, similar phonetic permutations may be discovered in them also. In the Yurak dialect h = s, ng = nr, and k = ts; in Tavghi k and t tend to become g and d; in Yenissei dd = md (nt, nd, ntt, ltt), gg = rk (rg) or nk, and tt = bt, while in Ostiak-Samoied and Kamassinche the hard explosives pass into the soft g, d, b.[213]

Quite as regular as the permutations of sounds in the Finnic group is the law of sound-change discovered by Bleek to exist in the Bâ-ntu or Kafir family. The following table gives it for the principal members of the group:—

Kafir. Setshuana. Herero. Ki-suahili. Ki-nika. Mpongwe. Bunda.

k kh, h k k, g k, g k, g k

ng k ng ng ng ng ng

t r, s t t h r, ty t

d l, r t nd nd nd, l nd, r

p p, f, h p p v, h v b

b b, p v b, w b, ’ v —

s ts, s t, ty s, k s, dz z, k, ’ s, k

z ts, l, r z, h z, dz z, ts dz, g, s sh, g

f f, h, s s f f w f

v b, r s f f — f

l l, r r l’ r, l l, nl l

n n n n n n n

m m m m m m m

The Bâ-ntu law of sound-shifting has the advantage over its Aryan analogue, that it deals with actually existing sounds which can still be heard and noted by the scientifically trained ear, whereas many of the Aryan languages and sounds recorded in Grimm’s law are now extinct. The Aryan philologist, accordingly, has to assume that the spelling of Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Gothic words is a fair approximation to their pronunciation. It is upon this assumption that the whole fabric of historical grammar is built; nay, comparative philology itself, which began with the comparison of allied forms and words in the classical languages of India and Europe, is also based upon it. The assumption offers little difficulty to the Italian, whose spelling accurately represents his pronunciation, or to the German, who writes pretty much as he speaks; but it need not be pointed out how strange and unnatural it seems to the Englishman. English spelling, under the guidance of the printers, has become a mere system of marks and symbols, arranged upon no principle, selected with no rational purpose, each of which by a separate effort of the memory is associated with some sound or word.

For the scientific philologist, no less than for the practical teacher, a return to the phonetic spelling of our English language is of the highest importance. What the philologist wishes to know is not how words are spelt, but how they are pronounced, and this end can be obtained only by means of an alphabet in which all the chief sounds of the language are represented, and each character represents but one sound. No doubt the practical man does not want the alphabet required by the phonologist, who must denote every shade of sound and have separate symbols for the sounds heard not in English only, but in other languages as well, but the alphabet of the practical man should be based on that of the phonologist. The reformed alphabet should be one which would enable the child or the foreigner to recognize at once the sound of the word he is reading, and the philologist to determine the pronunciation of the writer.

Thanks to Messrs. Ellis, Pitman, and others, the question of reforming our English spelling has not only been brought before the public, but the conditions under which it is practicable have been discussed and ascertained, and the merits of rival schemes put to the test. The sounds of the English language have been analyzed, and the great work of Mr. A. J. Ellis on the “History of English Pronunciation” has shown how our absurd and anomalous spelling grew up. At the present time we have in the field the phonology of Mr. Pitman—an alphabet of thirty-eight letters—a large proportion of which have new forms; the palæotype and glossic of Mr. Ellis, the former retaining the type now used by the printers, but enlarging the alphabet by turning the letters, and similar devices, the latter by its likeness to the present spelling intended to bridge over the passage from the present or “Nomic” mode of spelling to the reformed one; the narrow and the broad Romic of Mr. Sweet, the second an adaptation of the first to practical use; the ingenious system of Mr. E. Jones, which by the employment of optional letters for the same sound contrives to introduce little apparent difference in the spelling of English words; and several other English and American systems that have been proposed, more especially the reformed alphabet of the American Philological Association, together with the transitional alphabet intended to lead on to it. Some of these are true phonetic alphabets, words spelt in them varying according to the pronunciation of the writer, others are merely attempts to reform the present spelling of English words by making it more consistent, and bringing it more into harmony with their actual pronunciation. Such attempts would only substitute a less objectionable mode of spelling for the existing one, a mode of spelling, too, that would in course of time become as stereotyped and far removed from the pronunciation of the day as is the present system. With such attempts, therefore, the scientific philologist can have but little sympathy; his efforts must rather be directed towards the establishment of a phonetic alphabet, based on a thorough analysis of English sounds and conformed to practical requirements.

The question of spelling reform is nothing new. Mr. Ellis has brought to light a MS. written in 1551 by John Hart of Chester, and entitled “The Opening of the unreasonable writing of our inglish toung: wherin is shewed what necessarili is to be left, and what folowed for the perfect writing therof.” This the author followed up by a published work in 1569, called “An Orthographie, conteyning the due order and reason, howe to write or painte thimage of mannes voice, most like to the life or nature.”[214] The object of this, he says, “is to vse as many letters in our writing, as we doe voyces or breathes in our speaking, and no more; and neuer to abuse one for another, and to write as we speake.” Hart, however, it would seem, tried to amend the pronunciation as well as the spelling of English. The year before (1568) Sir Thomas Smith, Secretary of State in 1548, and successor of Burleigh, had published at the famous press of Robert Stephens in Paris, a work, “De recta et emendata linguæ anglicæ scriptione, dialogus.” In this he had suggested a reformed alphabet of thirty-four characters, c being used for ch, ð for th (in then), and θ for th (in think), long vowels being indicated by a diæresis. In 1580 came another book in black letter on the same subject, by William Bullokar. His alphabet consisted of thirty-seven letters, most of which have duplicate forms, and in which c’, g’, and v’, represent s, j, and v. He composed a primer and a short pamphlet in the orthography he advocated. In 1619, Dr. Gill, head-master of St. Paul’s School, published his “Logonomia Anglica,” which was quickly followed by a second edition in 1621. His alphabet contained forty characters, and, as might be expected from his position, his attempt to reform English spelling was a more scholarly one than those of his predecessors. He found a rival in the Rev. Charles Butler, an M.A. of Magdalen College, Oxford, who brought out at Oxford, in 1633, “The English Grammar, or the Institution of Letters, Syllables, and Words in the English Tongue.” He printed this phonetically, according to his own system, as well as another book, “The Feminine Monarchy or History of the Bees” (Oxford, 1634). “These,” says Mr. Ellis, “are the first English books entirely printed phonetically, as only half of Hart’s was so presented. But Meigret’s works were long anterior in French.” Butler represents the final e mute by ’. In 1668 Bishop Wilkins published his great work, the “Essay towards a Real Character and a Philosophical Language.” In this he has a good treatise on phonetics, in which he probably made use of an important work on the physiological nature of sounds, brought out by John Wallis, Savilian Professor of Geometry at Oxford, in 1653;[215] and he has transcribed the Lord’s Prayer and Creed in his phonetic alphabet of thirty-seven letters. After Bishop Wilkins the matter rested for a while; but in 1711 the question of reforming English spelling was once more raised, this time, however, in a practical direction. Dean Swift appealed to the Prime Minister to appoint a commission for “the Ascertaining, Correcting, and Improving of the English Tongue.”[216] His appeal, however, was without effect; and the next to apply himself to the subject was Benjamin Franklin, who, in 1768, put forth “A Scheme for a New Alphabet and reformed mode of Spelling, with Remarks and Examples concerning the same, and an Enquiry into its Uses.” Franklin embodied his views in a letter to Miss Stephenson (dated September 20th, 1768), written in his phonetic alphabet, and intended to meet objections to the proposed reform. It is curious to find the wholly mistaken objection already put forward that “all our etymologies would be lost” by a reform of spelling.

But spelling reformers have not been confined to England. Ninety years ago a reform of Dutch spelling was successfully carried out, though the result was unsatisfactory, as might have been expected from the ignorance of phonology that existed at the time. Spanish spelling has recently undergone revision on the part of the Academy; and even German, which seems to the Englishman so far advanced on the road towards perfection, is in process of reformation. The work was begun by Schleicher, who not only struck out the aphonic h and other useless letters, but even emulated the Emperor Claudius by inventing a new character. A committee was lately appointed by the Minister of Education to decide upon such changes of spelling as seemed to them desirable, and a thorough-going system of reform, with a new alphabet, like that of Mr. Pitman, has been inaugurated through the exertions of Dr. Frikke and others.[217]

Of scientific alphabets, also, the phonologist has now his choice. Putting aside Melville Bell’s “Visible Speech,” in which each character symbolizes by lines the action of the vocal organs in forming the sound it represents, the best are the well-known “Standard” and “Missionary Alphabets” of Lepsius and Max Müller, the alphabets of Ellis and Prince L-L. Bonaparte, and the alphabet of Sweet. Max Müller’s alphabet is founded on that of Sir W. Jones, and he brings with justice the charge against Lepsius’s “Standard Alphabet” that its physiological analysis is sometimes wrong, and that many of its characters have been found too complicated for use. Sweet’s alphabet has the advantage of avoiding new type, of having special signs for voice and whisper, for quantity and stress, force, pitch, and glide, and of indicating by a full stop the place of a “force-impulse.” Prince L-L. Bonaparte’s alphabet, however, as edited by Ellis, is the most complete; indeed, out of his 385 characters, there occur a few which have not been detected in any known language. The two last alphabets will be found in the Appendix to the present chapter.

It is possible that the phonograph may hereafter assist us in constructing a more perfect alphabet than is now possible. Just as Melville Bell’s letters have a physiological origin, so the letters of the alphabet of the future may be derived from the forms assumed by sounds on the sensitive plate of the phonograph. The phonautograph had already informed us that every sound we utter has a distinct shape and pattern; it only remained to apply this fact practically by the invention of the phonograph.

The phonautograph as constructed by Barlow, Léon Scott, and König, is made to record the sounds of the human voice by the help either of a pencil or of a gas-flame. The pencil is set in motion by a thin membrane, against which sounds and words are spoken, and draws on a cylinder covered with sand the curves which delineate the sounds uttered. When a gas-flame is employed, the forms assumed by it take the place of those drawn on the sand. In Edison’s phonograph the fact that the form of every sound can thus be imprinted on a tangible substance has been utilized for the reproduction of speech. A plate of tin-foil is folded round a revolving cylinder indented from one end to the other with a spiral groove. As the cylinder revolves the groove is kept constantly beneath a needle, which is attached to a membrane or sounding-board, against which the voice is impinged through a conical aperture: with each sound that is uttered the needle presses the tin-foil into the furrow below, imprinting upon it at the same time the form of the sound. By reversing the process the needle is made to travel once more over the indented tin-foil, and the sounding-board being thus set in motion reproduces the sounds originally spoken. Before the tin-foil is thus reduced to its original smoothness, a cast of it may be taken, and at any subsequent period another piece of tin-foil may receive the impression of the cast, and so reproduce the words which first caused the indentations. It is needless to point out the assistance which the phonograph is likely to render to phonology. It is still, of course, new and faulty, and unable, for instance, to reproduce sibilants; but it cannot fail to be improved and become almost as perfect a speaking-machine as the human throat itself. Already it has contributed some facts of importance to phonetic science. Thus we find that all sounds may be reproduced backwards by simply beginning with the last forms indented on the tin-foil, sociability, for example, becoming ytilibaishos. Diphthongs and double consonants may be reversed with equal clearness and precision, so that bite, which the phonograph pronounces bâ-eet, becomes tee-âb In this way we have learnt that the ch of cheque is really a double letter, the reversed pronunciation of the word being kesht.

The problem of reproducing human speech has thus been approached more successfully from the physical and acoustic side than from the physiological side, where it was attacked by Faber, Kempelen, and others. They attempted to construct instruments in which the vocal organs could be represented with the greatest exactness attainable, the lungs being replaced by a pair of bellows, the trachea by a hollow tube, and so on. But though these instruments spoke, it was not in human speech, or anything like it. The utmost they could do was to imitate the first utterances of a child, or the imperfect and laboured syllables of one who is learning a foreign tongue.

Nevertheless, it is not in the organs of the human voice any more than in the mechanism of a lifeless instrument that we have to discover the source and creator of speech. All that the vocal organs can do is to supply the skeleton into which the mind breathes the breath of life. Unmeaning sounds do not constitute language: until a signification has been put into them, the sounds that have been described and analyzed are no better than the singing of the birds, the stirring of the trees, or even the dead utterances of a machine. Phonology, like anatomy, deals only with the dry bones which have yet to be clothed upon with living flesh.

But by its very nature a science of meanings, sematology, as it has been named, can never have the same certitude, the same exactness, as a science of sounds. The laws of sematology are far less distinct and invariable; significant change cannot be reduced to the same set of fixed rules as phonetic change. The phenomena with which sematology deals are too complicated, too dependent on psychological conditions; the element of chance or conscious exertion of will seems to enter into them, and it is often left to the arbitrary choice of an individual to determine the change of meaning to be undergone by a word. Still this meaning must be accepted by the community before it can become part of language; unless it is so accepted it will remain a mere literary curiosity in the pages of a technical dictionary. And since its acceptance by the community is due to general causes, influencing many minds alike, it is possible to analyze and formulate these causes, in fact, to refer significant change to certain definite principles, to bring it under certain definite generalizations. Moreover, it must be remembered that the ideas suggested by most words are what Locke calls “mixed modes.” A word like just or beauty is but a shorthand note suggesting a number of ideas more or less associated with one another. But the ideas associated with it in one mind cannot be exactly those associated with it in another; to one man it suggests what it does not to another. So long as we move in a society subjected to the same social influences and education as ourselves we do not readily perceive the fact, since the leading ideas called up by the word will be alike for all; but it is quite otherwise when we come to deal with those whose education has been imperfect as compared with our own. A young speaker often imagines that he makes himself intelligible to an uneducated audience by using short and homely words; unless he also suits his ideas to theirs, he will be no better understood than if he spoke in the purest Johnsonese. If we are suddenly brought into contact with experts in a subject we have not studied, or dip into a book on an unfamiliar branch of knowledge, we seem to be listening to the meaningless sounds of a foreign tongue. The words used may not be technical words; but familiar words and expressions will bear senses and suggest ideas to those who use them which they will not bear to us. It is impossible to convey in a translation all that is meant by the original writer. We may say that the French juste answers to the English just, and so it does in a rough way; but the train of thoughts associated with juste is not that associated with just, and the true meaning of a passage may often depend more on the associated thoughts than on the leading idea itself. Nearly every word, in fact, may be described as a complex of ideas which is not the same in the minds of any two individuals, its general meaning lying in the common ideas attached to it by all the members of a particular society. The significations, therefore, with which the comparative philologist has to concern himself, are those unconsciously agreed upon by a body of men, or rather the common group of ideas suggested by a word to all of them alike. Here, again, some general causes must be at work which may yet be revealed by a careful analysis. The comparative philologist has not to trouble himself, like the classical philologist, with discovering the exact ideas connected with a word by some individual author; it is the meaning of words as they are used in current speech, not as they illustrate the idiosyncrasies of a writer, which it is his province to investigate.

“The genealogies of words,” says Pott,[218] “are the genealogies of concepts.” As in phonology we have the growth or decay of sounds, so in sematology we have the growth or decay of ideas. The three principles of linguistic change, imitation, emphasis and laziness, are incessantly at work on the meanings as well as upon the sounds of words. Analogy is ever lending them new senses, and the metaphorical senses may come to be used to the utter forgetfulness of the original one. The Latin who spoke of his “mind” or “soul” as animus had altogether forgotten that at the outset animus was merely the “wind” or “breath.” Here analogy or imitation is helped by laziness, which makes us forget a little-used meaning. Impertinent has almost lost its prior and proper signification, and our children will have to seek it in the records of an obsolescent literature. But a dead meaning may again rise to life; the early meaning of a word, whether recovered from books or from the fresh spring of a local dialect, may once more impress itself upon a community anxious to emphasize and mark out an idea by an unfamiliar term.

Professor Whitney[219] has summed up significant change under the two heads of specialization of general terms and generalization of special terms, but a more thorough-going attempt to determine its laws and distinguish its causes has been made by Pott.[220] First of all, he points out, words may be more accurately defined either by widening or by narrowing their signification. While in the Neo-Latin languages caballus, “a nag,” has taken the wider meaning of “horse” in general, under the form of cavallo or cheval, the modern Greek ἄλογον is no longer the “irrational beast,” but is narrowed into the specific sense of “horse.” Like our deer, which once meant “wild animals” generally (German thier), so emere has narrowed its primary signification of “taking” into the special one of “buying.” But, on the other hand, when we speak of “going to town,” it is not “town” in general or any town whatsoever that is meant, but London alone.

Then, secondly, there is metaphor, with its ceaseless play upon speech. Language is the treasure-house of worn-out similes, a living testimony to the instinct of man to find likeness and resemblance in all he sees. The Tasmanians, who had no general terms, had yet the power of seeing resemblances between things: though they could not form the concept “round,” they said “like the moon” or some other round object. All the words which have a spiritual or moral meaning go back to a purely sensuous origin: Divus, Deus, Dieu was once “the bright sky;” soul was nothing but the “heaving” sea. It is only by likening such ideas to the objects of sense that we can imagine them at all, or convey a hint of our meaning to others. The vocabulary of a language on its significant side grows by metaphor and analogy. We have only to take a word like post, once the Latin positum, “what is fixed” or “placed,” and trace it through its many derived meanings of “stake,” “position,” “office,” “station,” “public medium of correspondence,” and “receptacle for letters,” to see how endless are the shades of colour which a single word may catch from those with which it is associated. To know the idioms of a language and the conditions under which its speakers live, is often to know the history of the changes in signification undergone by its vocabulary. The mere expression “send to the post” gave to the word post its last meaning of a building in which letters are deposited and sorted, and the conditions of schoolboy life are a clue to many of the metaphorical uses of words which bear quite another meaning in school life from what they do in ordinary language. Where else but in a country of examinations could “pass” signify to go through an examination with success? Each craft, each industry has its own store of technical words, many of which are merely words in common use employed in particular senses intelligible only to those who belong to it.

Words, thirdly, will vary in meaning according to their application to persons or things, to what is good or bad, great or small. What a difference there is, for instance, between a “beautiful woman” and a “beautiful picture,” “a fine day” and “a fine fellow.” Silly, again, is simply the German selig, “blessed,” and such is still its meaning in Spenser’s “silly sheep;” but in modern English it has long lost its favourable sense, and is used only in an unfavourable one. Diminutives, originally the symbols of affection, have in many cases become the symbols of contempt, while “childishness” is as much a compliment when applied to a child as it is the reverse when applied to a man.

In the fourth place, words change their signification according to their use as active or passive, as subjects or as objects. “The sight of a thing” has a very different meaning from “the enjoyment of a sight,” as different, in fact, as is the meaning of venerandus when applied to the object of veneration or to his admirer. The passive has been evolved from the middle τύπτομαι, “I beat myself” passing gradually into “I am beaten.” In English we may say indifferently “a matter is reflected,” or “a matter reflects itself,” after the usage of French. Similarly a neuter verb may be regarded as an active followed by the reflective pronoun; our “to be silent,” or “to walk,” for example, are the French “se taire,” “se promener.”

Fifthly, an idea may be expressed either by a compound or periphrasis, or by a single word. The Latin nepos is the French petit fils, our “ninety” the French quatre-vingt-dix. The Taic languages of Further India preserve the primitive habit of denoting a new idea by comparing it with some other to which it stands in the relation of species to genus. Thus in Siamese “a heifer” is lúk nghoa, “child (of a) bull;” “a lamb” is lúk-ké, “child (of a) sheep,” much as in English inkstand is “a stand for ink.” It is only by comparison that an object can be known, its limits marked and determined; it is equally only by comparison that an idea can be defined and made intelligible. But when this has once been done, there is no longer any need of setting genus and species side by side in speech and thought; to do so is but a survival of the early machinery of language. The fact that the derivatives of the Aryan speaker are replaced by compounds, or rather antithetic words, in Taic, shows not only the mental superiority of the former, but also the fundamental contrast that exists between the two modes of thought. Collectives imply no small power of abstraction, and the collectives formed by antithesis in Taic are as much a proof of it as the existence of our “contentment” by the side of the Siamese arói chái, literally “pleasant heart.”