Volume 1 — CHAPTER V. THE MORPHOLOGY OF SPEECH.

“In der Wirklichkeit wird die Rede nicht aus ihr vorangegangenen Wörtern zusammengesetzt, sondern die Wörter gehen umgekehrt aus dem ganzen der Rede hervor.”—W. von Humboldt.

“Rien n’autorise donc à admettre deux moments dans la création du langage: un premier moment, où il n’aurait eu que des radicaux, à la manière chinoise, et un second moment, où il serait arrivé à la grammaire.”—Renan.

We have seen in an earlier chapter that the form under which our thought may express itself in language is capable of many variations. The minds of men and races are very various, and what may seem a perfectly natural mode of thought and expression to one man may be wholly strange and unnatural to another. It is as difficult for us to realize the conception of the sentence formed by the Chinaman, as it is for the Chinaman to realize ours. The world wears a different aspect to different individuals, and the relation of the speaker to the things about him may be regarded in widely different ways. Races start each with a peculiar temperament and peculiar characteristics; indeed, it is just these peculiarities that constitute what we call a race. And race peculiarities become strengthened by time and tradition, by the continuous influence of the circumstances which have at once created and fostered them. What may have been only a tendency in the beginning becomes in the end a settled and permanent feature; the germ develops into the full-grown organism, and in the course of ages makes explicit all the possibilities that lie implicit within it. The manifold races of mankind do not all think in the same manner, and the divergent modes in which they think are reflected in the languages they utter.

Hence it is that languages can be classed morphologically, that is, according to the form assumed by the sentence. Here the sentence may be built, as it were, around a verb, there any conception of a verb may be absent; here its several parts may be regarded as so many equipollent monads, set one against the other, there as interdependent pieces of a Chinese puzzle which all fit into their appropriate places. In one class of tongues the root may be monosyllabic, in another polysyllabic; one language may interpose the stem between the root and the grammatical suffix, another may know nothing of such an intermediary. Morphologically, therefore, languages differ from each other in the structure of the sentence and the grammatical relation of its parts.

Now we must not forget that the idea of race has not the same signification for the glottologist that it has for the physiologist. For the student of language it means an assemblage of psychological and physiological peculiarities which are expressed in articulate speech. For him the European Jew, who has no language but that of the country in which he is settled, is a member of the European race; only the Jew whose mother-tongue belongs to the Semitic stock can be reckoned a Semite. At the outset, no doubt, race meant the same thing in both a glottological and a physiological sense. The characteristics which reflected themselves in language were characteristics of which the physiologist has to take account. But the physiological races of the modern world are far more mixed than the languages they speak; the physiologist has much more difficulty in distinguishing his races than has the glottologist in distinguishing his families of speech.

But, as elsewhere in nature, so, too, in the domain of language, species passes gradually and insensibly into species, class into class. The types remain clear and strongly-marked, but the dividing lines between them are hard to draw. Around each type is grouped a large assemblage of languages which stand at a perpetually widening distance from it; on the one side the furthest member of the group almost loses itself in the outlying member of another, while the most distant member on the other side can with difficulty be distinguished from the most distant member of a third group. Isolating Chinese presents the phænomena of agglutination and even of inflection; the agglutinative Finnic dialects approach so nearly to inflection that attempts have been made to include them in the Aryan family; and English is in many respects highly agglutinative and even polysynthetic, while the French je vous donne is almost as good an instance of incorporation as could be given from Basque itself. But with all this gradual approximation the several types of language still remain fixed and distinct. The Chinese in its main features, in its bone and muscle, so to say, continues true to its isolating type, just as Finnic continues true to its agglutinative type, or French to its inflectional one. The greater or less departure of a language from its primitive type is due to several causes. First of all, race in language may become mixed just as much as race in physiology. Contact between two languages produces not only mixture in their vocabularies, but a mutual influence upon their phonology, and even grammar as well. This is a point to which we shall have to return hereafter. Few languages any more than races in the physiological sense can have remained quite isolated during the long course of their history or been preserved from contact with languages of an alien class. Then, secondly, with all their differences the minds of most men are cast in the same mould. Thought is one, as a philosopher has said, though the forms under which it shows itself are infinitely various. Unity underlies diversity, and this unity finds its expression in the tendency of all languages to break away from their types and assume common forms. It is true that a language cannot wholly break away from its type without becoming another language, and so ceasing to exist; it is true, also, that such a psychological change as would be implied by the occurrence is almost inconceivable, and is certainly contrary to historical experience; but nevertheless languages belonging to two different types may gradually approach one another during the long ages of their development, and the difficulty experienced by the student in deciding to which type they belong may testify to the similarity of the intellectual outfit of all mankind. Here, at any rate, we can discover a common origin, a common descent for the manifold branches of the human family.

Schlegel’s attempt to divide languages morphologically has already been described. He distinguished them primarily as inorganic and organic, the first class including languages “with grammatical structure,” like the Chinese, and languages with affixes, and the second class, including the synthetic or ancient and analytic or modern dialects of the inflectional tongues. Pott, following Wilhelm von Humboldt, established the division which with various modifications is still upheld by most linguistic students. According to this the languages of the world fall into four groups, the polysynthetic (such as the Eskimaux or the Mexican), the isolating (like the Chinese), the agglutinative (like the Turkish), and the inflectional (like Sanskrit). The first group he terms transnormal, the second two intra-normal, and the third alone normal. Bopp falls back upon Schlegel’s classification, making but three kinds of speech, the isolating with monosyllabic roots but “without organism, without grammar;” the languages capable of composition, of which the Indo-European form the highest type; and the Semitic languages which denote the relations of grammar by internal vowel-change. Schleicher, like Max Müller, discards the first or polysynthetic class of Humboldt and Pott, while Max Müller acutely seeks historical support for the threefold division by referring the isolating languages to races which have not risen above family-life, the agglutinative to nomad tribes, and the inflectional to peoples who have arrived at the conception of the state.

All these divisions, so far as they are founded in fact, are really based, not on the word, but on the sentence, and only have a meaning if we explain them as representing the different forms under which the sentence has been conceived by the various races of mankind. To speak of Chinese being “without grammar,” as Bopp does, or to describe the larger number of languages as inorganic or other than normal, like Schlegel and Pott, is simply self-contradictory. Every morphological classification of language must be founded on grammar—that is, on the relations of the several parts of the sentence to one another; and the very existence of a class implies that it has a grammar and an organic life. We shall never have a satisfactory starting-point for our classification unless we put both word and root out of sight, and confine ourselves to the sentence or proposition, and the ways in which the sentence may be expressed. The reason why languages differ morphologically is that the thought which they embody assumes different forms.

In the second chapter (pp. 122-132) the languages of the world have been classed as (1) polysynthetic, (2) isolating, (3) incorporating, (4) agglutinative, (5) inflectional, and (6) analytic, and reason shown from the structure of the sentence why such a classification should be made. Steinthal was the first to make the sentence rather than the word the basis of morphological arrangement, and to point out that where we are dealing with grammar and structure, we must have at least two words standing in grammatical relation to each other. Steinthal’s system is very elaborate. He begins with the division of language into formless and formal, a division, however, of very questionable accuracy. It seems to take us back to the scheme of Schlegel, and to forget that where languages are distinguished from one another by the forms they assume, we cannot describe any of them as having no form at all. The form of speech, indeed, is the mode in which the mind views the connection between the several parts of a proposition, so that wherever we have a proposition, wherever, in fact, we have language, there must be form. Steinthal, however, goes on to divide his formless languages into “juxta-positive” and “compositive,” the Taic languages belonging to the first, and the Polynesian, Ural-Altaic, and American belonging to the second. The formal languages are similarly divided into “juxta-positive” and “compositive,” Chinese coming under the head of the one and Old Egyptian, Semitic, and Aryan coming under that of the other.

Humboldt did better than Steinthal in using the terms “imperfect” and “perfect,” instead of “formless” and “formal.” Like Steinthal, he classed Chinese along with the inflectional languages of Europe, rather than with Burman and the other isolating idioms of the far East. This seems most unnatural, since—so far as outward form is concerned—little difference can be made between isolating Chinese and isolating Burman. It is true that the order in which the parts of the sentence follow one another is more or less free in Chinese, while it is fixed in Burman, but this is a difference essentially unlike that between inflectional Aryan with its suffixes and inflectional Semitic with its internal vowel-change. Besides, both Aryan and Semitic are included in the same class. But both Humboldt and Steinthal found themselves in a difficulty. Starting with the assumption that all language follows a regular course of development, ascending from the isolating stage to the inflectional, they had further to assume that this development was but a reflection of the general development of the mind, and that the passage from one stage of speech to the other was marked by a passage to a higher intelligence and a higher form of civilization. How, then, could it be possible that the Chinese nation, which seems to have originated a considerable civilization, should show no signs of that civilization in its language, the mirror and reflection of the spirit of man? How could it be that the language spoken by the primitive Aryans, when they were still simple shepherds on the Hindu-Kush, before they had learnt the elements of writing and culture from their Semitic neighbours, was so much in advance of that of a race to whom belonged the hard task of initiating a civilization? The only escape from the difficulty was to deny that Chinese should be classed with Burman, in spite of appearances, and so to throw the whole system of classification into confusion.

For that system depends upon the mode in which the grammatical relations of the sentence are expressed, and so long as the mode is the same, the order followed by the several parts of the sentence matters but little. The order of words, in fact, is constantly liable to change, and the simple fact that the definite article is postfixed in Scandinavian, Albanian, Bulgarian, and Wallachian, while it is prefixed in those other members of the Aryan family which possess one, shows how impossible it is to ground any important conclusions upon it. The same language varies from age to age in the position it assigns to the words it uses. The modern moreover, for example, appears as overmore in the Paston letters, and the Coptic, once a postfix language, has now become a prefix one. As we shall see presently, the order assumed by the parts of the sentence depends in great measure upon the development of grammatical forms.

Humboldt and Steinthal, nevertheless, are quite right in believing that there is a distinction between Chinese and Burman, but the distinction is that between a decrepit and civilized language on the one hand and a fresh and uncultivated language on the other. Chinese civilization is immensely old, and the language which enshrines it is immensely old also; but we must be on our guard against supposing that the antiquity of Chinese is proved by its isolating character. Chinese is no example of arrested growth, no fossilized relic of an earlier condition of speech. Were it so, Chinese civilization, and the originality and progress it implies, would be inexplicable. When we compare classical Chinese with Burman or Siamese, or even with the less cultivated dialects of the Chinese empire itself, we find the progress and development we should expect; but it is progress and development within the limits of “isolation.” All the possibilities of the isolating sentence have been worked out; and if these possibilities are not so numerous or so adequate as in the case of an agglutinative or inflectional sentence, the fault is due to the original conception of the sentence with which the Chinese started, not to fossilization or arrested growth. The Mandarin dialect of China has been affected by phonetic decay to an enormous extent; numerous sounds have perished, and words once dissimilar have become identical in pronunciation. By the help of the ancient rhymes, of the cognate dialects, and of a scientific examination of the written characters, Dr. Edkins has been able to restore the pronunciation of Chinese as it was two thousand and more years ago, and the evidences thus obtained of the wear and tear of the speech are most striking. Dak, “the flute,” for instance, has become yo; zhet, “the tongue,” is now she and the table of correspondent sounds given in the foot-note will show how great has been the changes undergone by the outward form of the cultivated language.[236] Side by side with this decay of sounds went a corresponding grammatical development. Tones were introduced to distinguish words that had come to be pronounced alike, and the different parts of the sentence were marked out by “empty words,” used like our “of” or “if” in a purely symbolical and grammatical sense. It is probable that the spread of education and the extensive employment of ideographic writing had much to do with the phonetic decay that attacked the language. Ambiguities in conversation could always be remedied by an appeal to written symbols. At all events, it is curious that Accadian was almost equally affected by phonetic decay; and Accadian not only possessed a similarly ideographic system of writing, but was spoken in a country where education was similarly widespread, and clay—the ordinary writing material—was always at hand.

We are apt to assume that inflectional languages are more highly advanced than agglutinative ones, and agglutinative languages than isolating ones, and hence that isolation is the lowest stage of the three, at the top of which stands flection. But what we really mean when we say that one language is more advanced than another, is that it is better adapted to express thought, and that the thought to be expressed is itself better. Now, it is a grave question whether from this point of view the three classes of language can really be set the one against the other. So long as thought is expressed clearly and intelligibly, it does not much matter how it is expressed—how, that is, the relations of the sentence or proposition are denoted. When we begin to contrast the morphology of two classes of speech, there is a tendency to import our prejudices into the question, and to assume that the grammatical forms to which we have been accustomed are necessarily superior to those which appear strange to us. The masterpieces of Greek, or Latin, or Sanskrit literature have produced the impression that the languages which embody them must surpass all others as instruments of thought. But such an impression may, after all, be an incorrect one. English literature stands on quite as high a level as the literature of the classical tongues. The English language is quite as good an instrument of thought as Sanskrit or Greek, and yet English can hardly be said to be inflectional in the way that Sanskrit and Greek are. If we turn to China we shall find the Chinaman preferring his own classics to anything produced by the West, and regarding his own language as the best possible instrument of thought. Preferences of this kind can as little be referred to an absolute standard as preferences in the matter of personal beauty. The European, for instance, has a wholly different ideal of beauty from the Negro, and the Negro from the Mongol. If the excellence of a language is to be decided by the number and variety of its grammatical forms, the palm will be borne off rather by the Eskimaux or the Cheroki than by the dialects of Greece and Rome; if by the attainment of terseness and vividness, Chinese will come to the front; if by clearness and perspicacity, English will dispute the prize with the agglutinative languages. Indeed, the agglutinative languages are in advance of the inflectional in one important point, that, namely, of analyzing the sentence into its component parts, and distinguishing the relations of grammar one from another. It has been remarked[237] that “were the development theory true, the inflectional would have developed into the agglutinative, and not the converse.” Thought is obscured, not assisted, by the existence of different terminations to express the same grammatical relation, or of the same termination to express different grammatical relations; and yet this is an anomaly and source of confusion which continually meets us in the inflectional tongues. The ascription of gender to inanimate objects is worthy only of a savage and unreasoning age, and where the signs of gender have lost all reference to their original import, as in modern German, they become merely a relic and survival of barbarism. In fact, when we examine closely the principle upon which flection rests, we shall find that it implies an inferior logical faculty to that implied by agglutination. In a flectional language the relations of the sentence are denoted by particular suffixes or internal vowel-changes, which group themselves, as it were, round the principal thought contained in the sentence. In other words, every subordinate thought should be denoted by a flection. Such a principle, however, cannot be worked. Amabit, it is true, means “he will love;” but in order to express “he must love,” language has to break through its flectional principle and denote the idea, not by flection, but by independent words—necesse est ut amet, or illi amandum est. But this is not the only mode in which the principle of flection is violated by the necessities of developed speech. When sentences come to be brought into relation with one another, the subordinate sentence ought to be pointed out by flectional means. This is done in some cases, as in the Greek use of the inflected article with the infinitive. Generally, however, the subordination is left to be marked by independent words, such as the conjunctions, by the very means, in fact, adopted by Chinese and other isolating languages in accordance with their fundamental principle. In fact, the principle of flection cannot be logically carried out beyond the narrow circle of those simple sentences which sufficed for the needs and intelligence of primitive man, and the progress of thought in modern Europe has been marked by a corresponding revolt from the trammels of flection. It is only dialects like those of Slavs and Lithuanians which still cling to an elaborate system of flection. English has fitted itself to become a universal language by struggling to assimilate its condition to that of Chinese. Even the polysynthetic languages of America can, with a certain show of reason, claim a higher place for themselves than inflectional speech. If the object of language is to express thought, it is obvious that that thought should be expressed as a whole, as in a picture; and this is just what is done by a polysynthetic sentence. Our own language, when it forms such compound epithets as “The Employers’ Liability for Injury Bill,” or German when it interpolates a whole sentence between the article and its substantive, virtually adopt the principle of polysynthetism. Polysynthetism, however, is only to be preferred when we wish to represent our thought as a single whole, to bring it before the mind of another just as it presents itself to our own mind. The best test we really have of a growth in intelligence and reasoning power is an increasing clearness and analysis of thought. The polysynthetic languages are essentially the languages of races whose logical faculties are backward, or who have not yet left behind them the “jelly-fish” stage of development.[238] Division of labour, differentiated organization, analysis of thought and its expression—all these are the signs of advancing civilization.

The whole picture is imaged in the mind before we break it up into its several parts. So, too, the sentence which embodied a thought was conceived as a whole before it was separated into its elements. Gestures were the first makeshift for grammar; they determined the relations of each particular utterance. Then these utterances came to be compared together, and those that agreed were put on one side, and those that disagreed on another. By slow degrees the relations of grammar were thus evolved; gestures became more and more unnecessary, until at last in the most highly cultivated languages, such as modern English, they have disappeared almost entirely or been banished from educated speech. But this primitive monad, this undifferentiated sentence-word, developed very variously in the mouths of different speakers. In one case a number of antecedent circumstances combined to produce a certain conception of the outer world and the relation of things to each other and to the mind, altogether unlike the conception which grew up in other cases. Here the Chinaman regarded the elements of the sentence as co-ordinate and equal, setting part against part, and member against member, and leaving the relations between them to be supplied by the mind. There the Mongol drew a hard and fast distinction between the principal and the subordinate, between the nucleus of the proposition and the ideas dependent on it, but he took care to express each by a corresponding word and to place these words in the exact relation demanded by the thought. Elsewhere, again, the Hindu merged the subordinate in the principal, expressing the relations of the several parts of the sentence by modifications of the individual words or imitating the original form of speech by a long and elaborate compound. But in all cases the developed sentence of the later period would seem to have been evolved out of the primitive undifferentiated one according to the genius of the speakers and the mode in which they conceived the relations of ideas. The American tongues alone preserved a semblance of the form once assumed by all speech, and in the compounds of the inflected idioms we may also trace a reflection of the earliest utterances of man. What these were may still be gathered from the grammar of the Eskimaux, even though there is as great a gap between this and the primæval sentence-words of his forefathers as there is between the social condition of the Eskimaux and the social condition of his first ancestors. A cultured language like the Mexican shows the highest development attainable by the polysynthetic form of speech; here words may be isolated and separated from the sentence by means of the affix tl. Sotsitl, for instance, is “flowers,” ni-sotsi-temoa, “I look for flowers.” All over the world, indeed, wherever we come across a savage race, or an individual who has been unaffected by the civilization surrounding him, we find the primitive inability to separate the particular from the universal by isolating the individual word, and extracting it, as it were, from the ideas habitually associated with it. Thus the Hottentot cannot use a noun without a pronominal suffix indicating not only gender and case but also person as well, except as a predicate;[239] in several of the South American dialects the words which denote “head,” “body,” “eye,” or other parts of the person, cannot be named without personal relation being denoted by a prefixed possessive pronoun or denied by a negative or privative prefix,[240] and in Mr. Wallace’s vocabularies from the river Uapes this inability extends to other words. A Kurd of the Zaza tribe who furnished Dr. Sandwith with a list of words belonging to his dialect, was so little “able to conceive a hand or father, except so far as they were related to himself, or something else, and so essentially concrete rather than abstract were his notions, that he combined the pronoun with the substantive whenever he had a part of the human body or a degree of consanguinity to name,” saying sèrè-min, “my head,” and pie-min, “my father.” Dr. Latham, from whom this fact is quoted, goes on to refer to a similar amalgamation noticed by him in the languages of the Louisiade and mentioned in the appendix to Macgillivray’s “Voyage of the Rattlesnake,” as well as in the ordinary Gipsy dialect spoken in England.[241]

A morphological review of the languages of the world reveals one curious and significant fact. Particular types of language belong to particular localities. In other words, a morphological classification of speech is also a geographical one. The polysynthetic idioms are characteristic of America, the isolating dialects of the extreme east of Asia. So, too, the leading inflectional families of speech, the Aryan and the Semitic, have both proceeded, it would seem, from Western Asia, like the Alarodian family, also inflectional, and best represented by the modern Georgian. The prefix-pronominal languages are confined to Southern Africa, as the incorporating Basque to the Pyrenees and the verbless Malayo-Polynesian to the islands of the Pacific. This fact would go to show that the distant emigration of languages, like the distant emigration of races, is very exceptional and chiefly characteristic of the higher species with their greater energy and expansiveness. The wanderings of savage tribes are circumscribed by the climatic and other conditions to which they are peculiarly subject. Without canoes voyages cannot be taken, and mountains, rivers, deserts, or stronger neighbours are all obstacles to movement more or less insurmountable. The fact would also go to show that it is only within the area peculiar to a certain class of languages that we may look for their progress and development. It is only in Eastern Asia or in America that we can hope to discover the highest development of which an isolating or a polysynthetic language is capable, and so regard Chinese and Mexican not as “arrested growths,” but as instinct with the progressive intelligence and cultivated life of the peoples that speak them. Where no traces of a type of speech different from the prevailing one are to be found, we are justified in concluding that it never existed there. And finally the fact will correct that tendency we all have to assume a unity upon insufficient evidence. Types of language, like types of race, are as strongly marked off from one another as the countries to which they belong. Polysynthetism is as much characteristic of America as the hatchet face and red skin of the aboriginal; isolation of Eastern Asia as the yellow skin and oblique eyes of the Chinaman or the Burman. Modern discoveries are gradually producing a conviction that the civilizations of China, of Babylonia, and of Egypt were all independent and self-evolved. Such at all events is the case with their modes of writing, the best product of any civilization, and no one can study the character of these three civilizations without perceiving that they are radically distinct. Egypt, when the monuments first cast light upon her some 6,000 years ago, is in the height of her culture and advancement; but she comes before us as a pharos of light in the midst of utter darkness, self-contained and self-sufficient, but surrounded on all sides by tribes and nations even more barbarous than the untaught Negro of to-day. And such as was the civilization, such too was the language; the civilizations of the Nile, of the Euphrates, and of the Hoang-ho, were not more isolated and peculiar than the languages which embodied them. It is difficult for us with our steamers and railways and telegraphs to realize the separation and practical immobility of the ancient world. Geographical barriers cut off tribe from tribe, race from race, language from language, and war instead of peace was the sole means that existed of overcoming them. It is to these barriers, however, that we owe the persistency of racial and linguistic type which we may still note in so many parts of the world. It has often been remarked that the fauna and flora of America take us back to a geological rather than a historical age; the same may also emphatically be said of the American type of speech. The Eskimaux may or may not be the survivor of the man of the reindeer age; his grammar, at all events, is a relic of a bygone era of speech.

The morphology of speech, then, deals with the relation of the parts of the sentence one to another. This relation is expressed by what we term grammatical forms. Position, it is true, as well as accent, frequently takes the place of grammatical forms, especially in languages like Burman or English, but in this case both position and accent will have to be considered as belonging to the province of morphology. The rule which in Burman makes the first of two substantives a genitive or in English a substantive which follows a transitive verb an accusative is itself a grammatical form. Even in those tongues in which the expression of grammatical relations is fullest and most exact, there is much that can never be expressed by outward means, but only hinted at and understood. “The rudest of men,” says Chaignet,[242] “are yet sages; ils s’entendent à demi-mot; ils parlent par sous-entendus.” “It is,” as he goes on to observe, “the gesture, the tone, the connection of the sense or its abrupt breaking off, the undefinable and speaking expression of the face, that supply and complete our thought, marking its relations, or more truly its formal side, its most spiritual element, whereby language raises itself above mere sensation and matter.” The structure of a language is determined not only by the general type, isolating, agglutinative, or otherwise, to which it conforms, but also by the mode in which its words are linked together, by the way in which its grammatical forms are used and connected, and by the greater or less extent to which the quickness of the hearer in understanding what is not expressed is called upon. Structurally, Coptic belongs to the inflectional class of tongues, but among these it is distinguished by its prefixing its grammatical forms instead of affixing them, as was the case with its parent the Old Egyptian.

We must not forget, however, that whether in Coptic or Old Egyptian, or any other language, the grammatical form, the relation to be expressed, the idea to be developed and formulated, lay quite as much in the mere act of prefixing or affixing as in the sounds which were prefixed or affixed. The Sanskrit ad-mi means “I eat,” not only because it is a compound of a verbal stem or root signifying “eating,” and the personal pronoun mi, but because the pronoun is attached to the stem in such a way as to convey the conception of the relation intended to exist between the two ideas “eating” and “I.” We may therefore lay down that one of the modes adopted by language for denoting the relations of grammar is (1) the attachment of prefixes or affixes which may or may not be significant when used alone. (2) A second is the insertion of what are called infixes, as in Dayak, where from kan, “to eat,” the stem k-um-an comes, or in Malay, where by the side of ka-kan and ma-kan we have also k-um-akan. So, too, in Tagala we find b-in-atin for in-batin, just as in the secondary conjugations of the Semitic verb, iphteal, iphtael, istaphal, the suffix ta is inserted between the first and second consonants of the root instead of being prefixed as elsewhere. No doubt, metathesis aided by analogy was the primary cause of this curious phænomenon, as it is in the Sanskrit yu-na-j-mi, “I join,” instead of yuj-na-mi corresponding with the Greek ζεύγ-νυ-μι. The incorporating and polysynthetic languages are examples of the principle on a large scale. (3) A third mode of expressing the relations of grammar is by a change of vowel. The vowel may either pass into another or receive a different quantity or accent. Professor Pott refers to the use of vṛiddhi in Sanskrit patronymics by way of illustration as well as to change of accent in Greek proper names or vocatives. A difference of vowel which was originally purely phonetic has been adapted to distinguish between singular and plural in the English man and men, between transitive and intransitive in Greek verbs in -όω and -έω. Among the less cultivated languages of the world extended use has been made of this method of indicating the forms of grammar. In Javanese, for instance, iki is “this,” ika, “that,” iku, “that there;” in Japanese ko is “here,” ka, “there;” in Carib, ne is “thou,” ni, “he;” in Brazilian Botocudo ati is “I,” oti, “thou.”[243] In African Tumali ngi is “I,” ngo, “thou,” and ngu, “her.” Even differences of signification may be denoted by the same means; the Carib baba, “father,” is contrasted with bibi, “mother,” just as the Mantschu chacha, “man,” and ama, “father,” stand over against cheche, “woman,” and eme, “mother,” or the Finnic ukko, “old man,” and African Ibo, nna, “father,” over against akka, “old woman,” and nne, “mother.” The numerals have not escaped being distinguished in a similar manner; tizi is “one” in Lushu, and tazi, “two;” “three” and “four” are ngroka and ngraka in Koriak, niyokh and niyakh in Kolyma, gnasog and gnasag in Karaga, and tsúk and tsaak in Kamschatkan, while in Japanese fitó, mi(tsu), and yo, are “one,” “three,” and “four,” fŭtá, mu(tsu), and yá, “two,” “six,” and “eight.”[244] The Grebo of West Africa can distinguish between “I” and “thou,” “we” and “you,” solely by the intonation of the voice, mâ di being equally “I eat” and “thou eatest,” a di, “you” and “we eat,” and in Bâ-ntu Mpongwe tŏnda means “to love,” tōnda, “not to love.”[245] (4) An internal change of consonant will be the next mode adopted by language of marking a grammatical idea. Thus in Burman the active is distinguished from the passive or neuter by aspirating an unaspirated consonant, kya, for instance, being “to fall,” but khya, “to throw,” pri, “to be full,” phri, “to fill.”[246] (5) Fifthly, position may be the determining mark of relations of grammar, as is so pre-eminently the case in Chinese and the Taic languages. It makes a good deal of difference in English whether we say, “The man killed the dog,” or “The dog killed the man.” (6) Another determining mark is reduplication, which is common to all the languages of the world though used to express very different grammatical ideas. Sometimes it may denote a past tense, as in Aryan (δέδωκα, cecidi, did, &c.); sometimes a plural, as in the Bushman tu-tu, “mouths,” the Sonorian qui-qui, “houses,” or the Malay raja-raja, “princes;” sometimes a collective, as in the Canarese nîru gîru, “water and the like;” sometimes a superlative, as in the Accadian gal-gal, “very great,” the Mandingo ding-ding, “a very little child,” or the French beaucoup-beaucoup, “very much;” sometimes continuous action, as in the Dayak kaká-kaka, “to go on laughing loud,” or the Tamil muru-muru, “to murmur;” sometimes intensity, as in the Sanskrit upary-upari, “higher and higher,” the Greek παμ-φαίνω, “to shine brightly,” or the Dayak ku lyang ku lyang, “to think deeply;” sometimes emphasis and asseveration, as in the Dayak kwai kwai, “very strange!” shi shi, “yes, yes;” sometimes frequentative or repeated action, as in the Brazilian acêm, “I go out,” ace-acêm, “I go out frequently,” oce-cem, “they go out one after the other.”[247] The reduplication is often a broken one, that is, only the first syllable or part of a syllable is reduplicated, as in the Latin mo-mordi for mor-mordi. Broken reduplication is very common in the Aryan languages, but Brugman[248] has shown reason for believing that it has arisen out of an earlier complete reduplication through the action of phonetic decay. Now and then the reduplication takes place in the middle of a word, as in the Sonorian Tepeguana where some plurals are formed by repeating the second syllable, as in aliguguli, “boys,” from alguli, “boy,” or a medial syllable, as in hiim, “gourds,” and googosi, “dogs,” from the singulars him and gogosi.[249] Instead of the first syllable, only the initial vowel of a word may undergo reduplication; thus in Tepeguana ali, “child,” is a-ali in the plural, ogga, “father,” is o-ogga, ubi, “woman,” is u-ubi. On the other hand, a word may be lengthened by the repetition of the vowel at the end, as well as in the middle; the Botocudos of Brazil, for instance, turn uatu, “a stream,” into uatu-u-u-u, “ocean;” with the Aponegricans “six” is itawuna, “seven,” itawu-ú-una, while the Madagascar ratchi, “bad,” becomes ra-a-atchi, “very bad.”[250] When whole words are reduplicated a change may be made in the initial consonant of the second part of the reduplication; thus in Canarese the initial consonant becomes the guttural g, as in the example quoted above, and the French pêle-mêle and English hurdy-gurdy are familiar instances of the same fact. Sir John Lubbock[251] has made an interesting calculation of the proportion of reduplicated words found in English, French, German, and Greek on the one side, and some of the barbarous languages of Africa, America, and the Pacific on the other, the result being that whereas “in the four European languages we get about two reduplications in about 1,000 words, in the savage ones the number varies from 38 to 170, being from twenty to eighty times as many in proportion.” Reduplication, in fact, is one of the oldest contrivances of speech. It is largely employed by children in their first attempts to speak, and we need not, therefore, be surprised at finding it so persistently holding its ground both in the nursery and among barbarous tribes. The Polynesians seem to have a special affection for it, though on the other hand, Mr. Matthews tells us that in North America while reduplication is a prominent feature of the Dakota verb it occurs in only one verb in the closely allied Hidacha dialect.[252] Reduplication, however, is one of the most important modes adopted by language for denoting the relations of grammar; it is, in fact, one of the most obvious and natural of its outward means of expressing those inward forms and grammatical conceptions which the human intelligence has painfully struggled to realize.[253]

The common division of speech into formal and material is at once defective and misleading. The articulate sounds of which words are composed may indeed be called their matter, but they do not become words, do not constitute a part of speech until they have thought and significancy breathed into them like the breath of life into man. This significancy is a relative one, that is to say, the meaning of a word depends upon its relation to some other. But this relation may be of two kinds, it may exist either between the ideas denoted by the words or between the words when coupled together in some particular sentence. In the first case we have to do with sematology, in the second with grammar. We can understand what is meant by the word tree only by comparing and contrasting the idea of tree with other cognate ideas; but the relation between tree and sheds in such a sentence as “the tree sheds its leaves,” is of a totally different nature. The idea of tree remains the same whatever be the outward symbol by which it is expressed, whether tree, or arbor, or baum, or anything else; the relation between tree and sheds is one that can be discovered only by a historical and comparative investigation of English grammar. It is to this grammatical relation alone that the term formal is strictly applicable; it has to do with the forms, or, as in the instance before us, the want of forms, whereby the relations of grammar, the relations, that is, of words in a sentence, are denoted. Going back to the primitive sentence-word, we shall have to distinguish between the material sounds of which it was composed, the meaning it always possessed whenever and however used, and the form (or position) that it assumed according to the occasion on which it was used. The child who says “Up!” always attaches the same signification to the general idea contained in the word, but whether it is to be regarded as an imperative, a hortative, an optative, or any other particular grammatical form is left to the context, the tone and gesture, or the intelligence of the bearer. Language consists of the material, the significant, and the formal, and it is only the latter, that part of language, in fact, the origin of which we have elsewhere traced to gesture, that properly concerns morphology.

Whatever, therefore, belongs to grammar belongs also to morphology. Not only general form and structure, but also grammar in the narrower sense of the word, as well as composition, and what our German neighbours term “word-building” must be included under it. Composition, indeed, is but a species of declension and conjugation. Parricida and patris (oc)cisor, φερέοικος and οἶκον φέρει, have exactly the same force and meaning. The only difference between good-for-nothing as a compound and “he is good for nothing” in a complete sentence, is that the first can be used as an attribute. The ordinary genitive of the Semitic tongues, the so-called “construct state,” is really an instance of composition, the first noun—that which “governs” the second—being pronounced in a single breath with the other, and accordingly losing the case-terminations. This did not happen originally, as may be seen from the occasional occurrence of these terminations even in Assyrian, which is more strict in following out the rule than any other of the cognate idioms. The power of composition is greater in some languages than in others. The polysynthetic sentences of an American dialect present the appearance of gigantic compounds, with this difference, however, that in a true compound the language has put together two words that have already been used independently, or at all events are capable of being used independently, whereas in the less advanced American languages the several members of the sentence have never attained the rank of independent words which can be set apart and employed by themselves. Even in some of the compounds of the Aryan family, where the flectionless “stem” shows itself, it may be questioned whether we have not before us the relics of that earliest stage of speech when the flections had not yet been evolved, and when the relations of grammar were expressed by the close amalgamation of flectionless stems in a single sentence-word. However that may be, the power of forming compounds possessed by the Aryan group of languages stands in marked contrast to the repugnance felt by the Semitic tongues in this respect. Composition is as rare in Semitic as it is common in Aryan, and this contrast between the two families of speech is one of the many that demonstrate the radical difference existing between them. Perhaps the extended use made by the Semitic languages of denoting the relations of grammar by internal vowel-change had much to do with their objection to the employment of compounds. They are less agglutinative in character than the Aryan dialects, truer, in fact, to the principle of flection, and the same instinct that makes them represent the ideas of “killing” and “a killing” by kodhêl and kidhl (kedhel), rather than by trucida-n-s and trucida-ti-o(n), makes them also use two unallied roots like hâlach and yâtsâ where the Aryan would have said ire and exire. Even within the Aryan family itself we find the Greek with compounds like the comic λεπαδο-τεμαχο-σελαχο-γαλεο-κρανιο-λειψανο-δριμ-υπο-τριμματο-σιλφιο-παραο-μελιτο-κατα-κεχυμενο-κιχλ-επι-κοσσυφο-φαττο-περι-στερ-αλεκτρυον-οπτ-εγ-κεφαλο-κιγκλο-πελειο-λαγῳο-σιραιο-βαλη-τραγανο-πτερύγων,[254] and the Latin comparatively poor in them, while modern English, in spite of the loss of its flections, lags but little behind German. Russian can form such specimens of agglutination as bezbozhnichestvovat, “to be in the condition of being a godless person,” from bez Boga, “without God,” and classical Sanskrit almost dispenses with syntax by its superabundant use of composition. Where syntax is highly developed, as it was in Latin, the growth of composition is checked and limited.

Composition has been a fruitful source of grammatical flection, and a still more fruitful source of what is meant by “word-building.” It is highly probable that the person-endings of the Aryan verb as-mi, a(s)-si, as-ti, or ἐσ-μι, ἐσ-σι, ἐσ-τι, are but the personal pronouns closely compounded with the verbal stem. Such, certainly, has been the case with the so-called tempus durans of Aramaic, where kâdhêlnâ, “I am killing,” is resolvable into kâdhêl + ’anâ, “killing + I,” and kâdhlath, “thou art killing,” into kâdhêl + at’, “killing + thou.”[255] The Latin imperfect and future in -bam and -bo seem to be compounds of the verbal stem with the verb fuo, “to exist,”[256] like the perfect in -ui or -vi (fui), while the pluperfect scripseram is a combination of eram or esam and the perfect scripsi (itself formed from the verbal stem scrib- and the old perfect esi of the substantive verb “sum”). So, too, the form amavissem is just as much a compound of amavi (ama + fui) and essem (es + siem) as is amatus sum of the passive participle and the substantive verb. If we turn to our own language we can trace our perfects in -ed back to the Gothic amalgamation of the verb with dide, the reduplicated perfect of the verb do, while the origin of the French aimerai in the infinitive aimer (amare) and the auxiliary ai (habeo) is as plain as that of the Italian dármelo (“to give it to me”) or fáteglielo (“do it for him”). The real character of the compound has come to be forgotten in course of time, and its final part has gradually lost all semblance of independence and been assimilated to the terminations which simply denote grammatical relations. The general analogy of the language has been too strong for it, and the agglutinated word has become a flection.

But there are many suffixes which are not flections—that is to say, which do not denote the relations of grammar, or rather the relations that exist between the different parts of the sentence. In I loved for I love-did the grammatical relation which we name a perfect tense, is not really expressed by the suffixed word did, but by the reduplication which that word has undergone. It was the reduplication that gave did (dide) the force of a perfect, and the attachment of did to another verb merely handed on to the latter the perfect force which it already possessed. Strictly speaking the suffix -ed is a flection only because it is the relic of a reduplication, the flection—that is to say, the expression of a grammatical relation—lying in the reduplication or form of the word. So, too, when we find dêv-mã, meaning “in God,” in Gujerati, or andhê-mẽ, meaning “in the blind,” in Hindustani, we must not suppose that the locative sense actually lies in the suffixes mã and mẽ. These suffixes go back to the Sanskrit madhyê, “in the middle,” where the flection is to be sought in the termination i (contained in ê = a + i) not in the stem madhya, “middle.”

When, then, we say that composition may be a fruitful source of flection, what we mean is this. Flection is the means adopted by a certain class of languages for expressing the relations that exist between the members of a sentence, but a perception of these relations must first grow up in the mind before external means are found for embodying them. The idea of past time must be arrived at and realized before the simple process of reduplication can be adopted to denote it. Not only in other languages but also in the Aryan family of speech reduplication serves to represent other relations of grammar than that of past time. When the Frenchman says beaucoup beaucoup—meaning “very much”—he is employing reduplication to express the superlative relation just as much as the old Accadian with his galgal, “very great,” while the very fact that there are Greek presents like δίδωμι and τίθημι, ought to show that there was once a time in the history of Aryan speech when reduplication served other purposes than that of denoting past time. So it is with all the rest of the grammatical machinery which we call flection. First of all the growing intelligence came to have, as it were, an intuition of certain relations between the parts of a sentence, and then sounds and forms already existing were adapted to denote these. And the very same form might at successive periods in the development of a language be adapted to denote different relations, as we have just seen was the case with reduplication. When suffixes were used for a similar purpose, they too had to follow the general analogy. Many of these suffixes seem coeval with the beginnings of Aryan speech, at least so far as we know anything about it, but others of them, like the person-endings of the verb, are really instances of composition, the final part of the compound having become a mere suffix, and so, like many other suffixes, been adapted to the use of flection.

This brings us to those suffixes which have never been applied to a purely flectional purpose. If we turn over the pages of an English dictionary we shall come across the two familiar words knowledge and wedlock, which at first sight seem to have nothing in common. On tracing them back to earlier forms, however, we find that knowledge, Old English know-leche, like wed-lock, Old English wed-lâc, are both compounded with the Anglo-Saxon lâc, “sport” or “gift,” the Old High German leih, the Old Norse leikr, and the Gothic láiks. The word still survives in the north of England under the form of laik, “to play,” and the provincial lake-fellow is merely “play-fellow.”[257] Several abstracts were formed in Anglo-Saxon by the help of it; thus we have feoht-lâc, “fight,” gudh-lâc, “battle,” bryd-lâc, “marriage,” reaf-lâc, “robbery.”

Now what has happened in the case of the English lâc has happened in the case of a good number of other words in all the languages spoken throughout the world. Words originally independent and distinct become so glued together in composition that one of them loses its personal identity, as it were, and comes to be the mere shadow of the other, whose meaning it qualifies and classifies. Thus, for instance, the Greek κατὰ, when compounded with the verb ἄγω, “to lead,” limits the sense of the latter to “leading down,” and our own hood or head, the Anglo-Saxon hâd, “a state,” in words like Godhead or maidenhood, refers the nouns to which it is attached to a new and particular class.

Besides flectional suffixes, then, classificatory or formative suffixes also may ultimately be due to the process of composition. Upon them, too, analogy will have worked its influence, assimilating them to the other suffixes which in course of time they had come to resemble. When composition had once reduced a word to the condition of a mere adjunct of another word, there was no reason why it should not be put to the same uses as other similar adjuncts. When the root bhar, “to bear,” in such Latin compounds as leti-fer could no longer be distinguished from the suffix -tio(n) in words like na-tio, it was naturally treated in the same way.

But it does not follow, as a good number of writers on language have assumed, that because some of the classificatory suffixes are examples of composition, all of them are so, any more than in the case of flection and the flectional suffixes. Indeed, we have only to glance at the numerous suffixes employed by our own Aryan family of speech in forming or “building” words to see how impossible it would be to trace back a large proportion of them to independent words. How, for instance, could we claim any such origin for the suffixes -la- and -ra- in querela and λαμπρὸς, or the suffixes -ana-, -na, and -an in pecten, donum, and ἱκανός? With such suffixes all we can do is to watch the changes they have undergone, or caused other sounds to undergo, through the action of phonetic decay and false analogy. Thus in Latin where the combination sr changes into the softer br, stems like ceres (Sanskrit śiras), “head,” and fes (as in festus) have turned into cerebrum and Februus when combined with the suffix -ra; and if we take the suffix as itself, we shall find its sibilant passing into r before another vowel, and so originating a long series of curious transformations. The r which we get in the genitive of temporis was transferred by analogy to the nominative also, where no vowel followed it, and though there was a struggle at first between the twin forms in s and r, traces of which survive in the twin arbos and arbor, the later and incorrect form with r finally carried the day, and classical Latin knows only of a sopor, not a sopos. But it may be asked why should the penultimate syllable of sopōris be long whereas it is short in tempŏris and arbŏris, and why, too, should sopor be masculine while tempus is neuter? Here, again, false analogy has been at work. A certain number of masculine nouns terminating in -tor and denoting agents, like dator or victor, existed in the language, and when sopos was changed to sopor, it was assimilated to these both in gender and in declension. Even victor, however, had passed under the action of false analogy. When we compare the Latin victor with pater, or the Greek σωτήρ with πατήρ, it is at once clear that we are dealing in each case with the same suffix, although in victor the vowel has been thickened into the fuller o. But while victor and σωτήρ have a long vowel in the oblique cases, this is not the case with the much older words pater and πατήρ (accusative πατέρα). It is evident, therefore, that this long vowel must have been a sort of after-thought; and so, in fact, it was. First of all the vowel of the nominative was lengthened to compensate for the loss of the final sibilant (paters), and the quantity of the vowel in the nominative was then analogically extended to the other cases as well. How far this was from having been originally the case may be gathered from another form of the same suffix which we have in the Sanskrit patram, the Greek πτέρον, and the Latin ara-tr-um. Here the vowel between the two consonants of the suffix has disappeared altogether, as it has also in words like the Latin sæclum for sæ-culu-m, or the Gothic nê-thla, our needle, where the suffix, in spite of the change it has suffered, really goes back to tar. The latter group of words (in tar), however, is distinguished from the former (in trum) in both signification and gender, the masculine agent being replaced by a neuter noun of instrumentality. We can easily see how such a transition of meaning must have come about. The agent presupposes the act just as much as the act presupposes the agent. Agent and act, in fact, are co-relative terms, and the parent-Aryan distinguished them, not by the classificatory suffix—for they both belonged to the same class—but by the flectional suffix, which was in the one case -s in the nominative singular, and in the other -m. The Latin trucidator and the English murder (formerly murther, like slaugh-ter and laugh-ter) have precisely the same suffix, and it is only a recollection of the difference in meaning in the flectional suffixes which has survived their loss that prevents them from being used with the same signification. Even these flectional suffixes themselves—as we shall see hereafter—did not originally imply that difference of meaning to the expression of which they were afterwards adapted. In nouns like the Latin virus or the Sanskrit śiras-, the final sibilant denoted a neuter rather than a masculine or a feminine, while servum or humum show that the final labial might characterize the objective case of both masculine and feminine nouns.

The suffix tar (ter) brings us back to those classificatory suffixes which trace their descent from independent words, if, as is very probable, we have to connect it with the root found in our through, the Latin trans and ter-minus, the Zend tarô, “across,” the Sanskrit tar-âmi, “I pass over,” and perhaps, too, the numeral tri, tres, three.[258] It is not difficult to understand how a word signifying “to go through with a thing,” could be taken to form nouns of agency. What more suitable description could be given of “a giver” than “one who goes through with giving,” dator(s)? The antiquity of this use of the suffix in our family of speech may be gathered from the fact that it is employed to form those nouns of relationship which are the first to require a name. Brother, sister, daughter, mother, father, all contain this ancient suffix. Brother (bhrâ-tar) is “the bearer,” from the root bhar, daughter, “the milker” or rather “sucker,” from the root dugh, while the Sanskrit grammarians derive father (pitar) and mother (mâtar) from the roots pâ and mâ, which respectively mean “to defend” and “to create.” It is obvious, however, that both “father” and “mother” must have received names long before it was necessary to speak of “going across” or “passing through,” and that our Aryan ancestors would not have waited to compound two words together before giving names to the nearest and dearest of relationships. As a matter of fact, in almost all languages names have been found for the parent in the two simple labial utterances pa and ma; and the identity of these with the Aryan roots pâ and mâ must be a pure accident. What seems to have happened in the case of our names of relationship was this. When the Aryan family first comes before us in the records of speech, it is as a civilized clan with a vast but indeterminate background of unknown history lying behind them. They had long since entered upon what may be termed the epithetic stage, when man discovered that he was a poet, and began to invent epithets for the objects about him, and to form compounds. It was at this stage of culture and civilization that the Aryan community coined compound epithets for brother, for daughter, and for sister, which succeeded in driving out and replacing the older words that had preceded them. The new compounds in tar took the fancy of the community, and were widely extended by the force of analogy. The old labials which had done duty for the ideas of “father” and “mother” followed the fashion set by the younger names of relationship, and so just as bhrâ-tar had come to signify “brother,” pa-tar and mâ-tar came to signify “father” and “mother.”

Languages do not begin with composition. If the sentence is anterior to the word, a considerable time must elapse between the first beginnings of a language and the piecing together of two independent words. Isolating tongues like the Chinese or the Burman, where so much use is made of composition in order to create new conceptions or to define old ones, are shown by this very fact to have passed into a decrepit stage of existence. The epithetic stage is one far advanced in the history of a speech; it implies poetic imagination, a certain measure of culture and civilization, and the germs of a mythology. The new compounds of this epithetic stage follow the genius and analogy of the language to which they belong. If the formation of words depends largely on the use of suffixes, the newly coined words will in time adapt themselves to the old rule; what were once independent words will become suffixes, and be employed in exactly the same way as the other suffixes of the language.

The very existence, then, of classificatory suffixes due to composition in our Indo-European idioms implies the existence of earlier suffixes for which we cannot claim a similar origin. We have already seen that this is the case with many of the suffixes which serve the purposes of flection; though the person-endings of the verb go back to separate words, every attempt to discover such a derivation for the principal case-endings has ended in failure. What is true of the case-endings is pre-eminently true of those suffixes which are neither flectional nor classificatory. If we analyze the Latin alumnus, we find first of all the flectional suffix -(u)s, then the classificatory suffix mino, which relegates the word to the same class of middle participles as the Greek τυπτόμενος, and lastly, the suffix u, which intervenes between the root al and the classificatory suffix mino. We may call this u a “connecting-vowel,” or “an euphonic vowel,” or anything else we choose, but the fact remains that it is a suffix which can be separated from the root al. It is a suffix, however, which is neither flectional nor classificatory, and may be termed secondary for want of a better name. Secondary suffixes play an important part in our family of speech, and just as a flectional suffix often appears as a classificatory one, so, too, a classificatory suffix may appear as a secondary one. If, for example, we compare a word like civitas (civ-i-ta-t-s) with sec-ta, we may not only get the secondary suffix -i-, following immediately upon the root, but also a reduplication of the classificatory suffix ta, which here at least can have no classificatory sense. We may accordingly define a secondary suffix as one which does not refer the word of which it forms a part to any particular class; and where we have several classificatory suffixes amalgamated together the first of these have generally become secondary. Thus the English songstress is a combination of two suffixes, one Saxon and the other Romanic, which equally denoted the feminine. By the side of sang-ere, “the singer,” stood in Anglo-Saxon sang-estre, “the songstress;” it was only when the classificatory significance of the termination had died out that a new one which really went back to the Greek -ισσα through the Latin issa (as in abbatissa), and the French -esse (as in justesse),[259] was attached to it, and so the old classificatory suffix became a merely secondary one. In fact, as soon as the force of a classificatory suffix has been weakened in a word, a fresh classificatory suffix is always ready to be attached to it, just as children will talk of more-er and most-est, or as Lord Brougham introduced the equally anomalous worser.

Now these secondary suffixes play a most important part in a large number of languages, and more especially in our own Aryan ones. It is seldom that a classificatory or flectional suffix can be added immediately to the root, as in the Sanskrit ad-mi, “I eat;” a secondary suffix has usually to intervene, by means of which the root is raised to what has been variously termed a base, a theme, or a stem. So far as the Indo-European family of speech is concerned, it is probable that even such exceptions to the general rule as that of ad-mi are really due to phonetic decay, which has worn away the original stem to a simple monosyllable, as it has done in so many English words like man or fall. When we come to deal with roots, we shall see good reason for believing that they were all or for the most part once dissyllabic, and the tendency that many children show to turn the monosyllables of modern English into dissyllabic words may be but an instinctive reversion to the early type of speech. No doubt it is very possible that just as classificatory suffixes have been changed into secondary ones, so on the other hand secondary suffixes may have come in course of time to assume a classificatory character. A conspicuous example of this may be found in the suffix ya, which in Greek words like φέρουσα for φερο-ντ-yα, or δότειρα for δοτ-ερ-yα, has become a mark of the feminine gender. A distinction of gender is by no means engrained in the nature of things, and the majority of spoken languages, such as most of those which are agglutinative or isolating, know nothing at all of it. In some idioms, those of the Eskimo, Chocktaw, Mushtogee, and Caddo, for instance,[260] the place of gender is taken by the division of objects into animate and inanimate, while elsewhere they are divided into rational and irrational. In the Bâ-ntu dialects of South Africa, nouns are separated into a number of classes, in one case as many as eighteen, by means of prefixes which were originally substantives like our -dom, -ship, or -hood; and the agreement of the pronoun, adjective, and verb with the substantive is denoted by the employment of the same suffix. Bleek has not inaptly compared these classes of the Bâ-ntu noun with the genders of our own family of speech. Thus if we were to take a noun like I-SI-zwe, “nation,” which belongs to the si-class or gender, in order to express the sentence “our fine nation appears, and we love it,” the Kafir would have to say I-SI-zwe S-etu E-SI-χ’le SI-ya-bonakala si-SI-tanda, literally “nation ours appears, we-it-love.” Similarly the noun U-LU-ti, “stick,” would require a corresponding change of prefix in the words in agreement with it; and the sentence would run: U-LU-ti LW-etu O-LU-χ’le LU-ya-bonakala si-LU-tanda.[261] There are many indications that the Aryan language, or rather the ancestor of that hypothetical speech which we term the parent-Aryan, was once itself without any signs of gender. We have only to turn to Latin and Greek to see that the words which denote “father” and “mother,” pater and mater, πατὴρ and μητὴρ, have exactly the same termination, while so-called diphthongal stems as well as stems in i (ya) and u (like ναῦς and νέκυς, πόλις and λῖς) may be indifferently masculine and feminine. Even stems in o and a, though the first are generally masculine and the second generally feminine, by no means invariably maintain the rule, and feminines like humus and ὁδός or masculines like advena and πολίτης show us that there was a time when these stems also indicated no particular gender, but owed their subsequent adaptation, the one to mark the masculine and the other to mark the feminine, to the influence of analogy. How analogy came to act seems to have been as follows. First of all the idea of gender was suggested by the difference between man and woman, male and female, and, as in so many languages at the present day, was represented not by any outward sign, but by the meaning of the words themselves. Thus in the Hidacha of North America we are told that “gender is distinguished by using, for the masculine and feminine, different words, which may either stand alone or be added to nouns of the common gender,”[262] and in the Sonorian languages further south it can only be denoted by the addition of words which signify “man” and “woman.”[263] Then when the conception of gender had once been arrived at it was extended to other objects besides those to which it properly belongs. The primitive Aryan had not yet distinguished the object thought of from the subject that thought of it; he was still in the stage of childhood, and just as he transferred the actions and attributes of inanimate objects to himself, so too he transferred to them the actions and attributes of himself, and endowed them with a life similar to his own. The same age which saw the creation and growth of a mythology saw also the origin of gender in nouns, and the distinction of gender in the demonstrative pronouns, due to their reference to animate beings, reacted on the nouns expressive of inanimate objects to which they likewise referred. As soon as the preponderant number of stems in o in daily use had come to be regarded as masculine on account of their meaning, other stems in o, whatever might be their signification, had to follow the general rule and be classed as masculine nouns. How readily the gender of a word may be determined by its termination has been already seen in the history of the Latin stems in -os. Here and there the constant use of a word with particular pronouns or its obvious and natural meaning resisted the common tendency, and hence the preservation of such anomalies as ὁδός, humus,[264] and advena mentioned above. The suffix ya, however, like the suffix -ιδ- (as in αὐλητρίς) in Greek or the suffix -ic- (as in victrix) in Latin, formed part of a class of words which all followed the dominant type; neither use nor meaning interfered with the appropriation of them all to express the feminine gender. The accident by which the suffix was attached to words which chiefly denoted female agents eventually caused it to become a classificatory instead of remaining a mere secondary suffix. But the Aryans were not contented with only two genders, as the Semites and some other races were. A time came when the Aryan awoke to the consciousness that he was essentially different from the objects about him, that the life with which he had clothed them was really but the reflection of his own. He began to distinguish the agent from the patient, and to turn his middle conjugation into a passive one. The first sign of this new-grown consciousness was the formation of a nominative for the first personal pronoun; ego, ἐγών, the Sanskrit aham, is a far later creation than the objective me or mâ, and whether it be a compound or not, as some scholars believe, at all events it marks the epoch when the “me” became an “I.” The discovery had been made that a difference existed between the nominative and the accusative. But this difference existed only in the case of animate beings, or of those objects which the custom of language and the habits of thought it had produced regarded as animate; there was another class of objects and ideas which were beginning to require a name and yet could not be reckoned as coming under either of the two genders with which the language was already acquainted. The same development of thought which had revealed the distinction between subject and object brought with it also the conception of abstracts or general terms. Besides the individual trees which had long ago received their names, the idea of “tree” itself now needed a word to express it, and the speaker was no longer contented with detailing his single utterances one by one, but wanted a general term like “word” or “speech” wherein to sum them up. And so the new class of neuter nouns came into existence, which were really nothing more than old accusative cases or bare stems used as nominatives and given a separate life of their own. So far as form goes, the Greek δένδρον and ἔπος cannot be distinguished from λόγον and ὄπες, the Sanskrit vâchas representing both ἔπος and ὄπες alike, any more than the Latin regnum and vulgus can be distinguished from dominum and reges. In the pronouns the bare stem in t or d, which had once served for all cases and all genders, was set apart for neuter nouns, and the Aryan declension was made complete with its encumbrance of three genders, which it has needed the practical genius of the English language to shake off. The further changes that took place in the distribution of these three genders must be described by the historical grammars of the special languages of the Aryan family: the age came when their original meaning and intention was as much forgotten as that of mythology; they were looked upon as the functions of certain suffixes which thus became classificatory, and, as in Latin stems in -as or French nouns like mer which owe their gender to the confusion of the plural nominative maria with the singular nominative of musa, they became the sport and puppet of false analogy. The mixture of dialects which varied as to the genders they assigned to particular nouns completed the confusion, and modern German is an instance of a language which still clings to an outward excrescence of speech which originated in childish habits of thought and has now lost all sense and reason for its existence. A mere tax upon the memory and an embarrassment to free literary expression, it is no wonder that German genders are a sore trial to the children, who are sometimes several years before they learn to use them correctly. In this respect they resemble the Swedish peasantry, who are said to find an equal difficulty with the genders of their own tongue.

The origin of gender is one of the questions belonging to what some German scholars have termed “the metaphysics of language.” The metaphysics of language deals with the source and nature of grammatical ideas as distinct from the phonetic machinery by which they are expressed; it seeks by a comparison, firstly of cognate dialects and then of families of speech, to discover the conception which lay at the bottom of such grammatical facts as gender, number, and the like. We want to know not merely how the relations between the several parts of the sentence are expressed, but what those relations actually are. The idea must exist before phonetic means are adapted to represent it, and in order to reach it we must scientifically trace the history of the phonetic means. The metaphysics of speech, therefore, is but the second branch and division of its morphology, bearing the same relation to the inquiry into the growth and origin of stems and suffixes and suchlike phonetic forms of grammar that sematology does to phonology. The morphology of language is as much concerned with grammatical ideas as with the external form in which they are embodied. It is these grammatical ideas more than their phonetic embodiment that constitute the structure of a tongue.

Let us see, for example, whether we can track the conception of number back to its first starting-point. Strange as it may seem there are some uncivilized languages which make as little distinction between the singular and the plural as we do ourselves when we use words like sheep. Thus Mr. Matthews states that “Hidatsa nouns suffer no change of form to indicate the difference between singular and plural,”[265] and in the Sonorian tongues, according to Buschmann,[266] “the simple word in the singular serves also for the plural,” while the monosyllabic Othomi can distinguish between singular and plural only by the prefixed article na and ya,[267] and the Amara of Africa can only say fŭrŭsn ayŭhu, “I have seen horse,” leaving the hearer to decide whether the horse is one or many. In spite of the vast length of time during which these languages have been shaping and perfecting themselves, the conception of number is still so far from being consciously realized that no phonetic means have yet been adapted or devised to express it. If we turn to the Tumali of Africa we find in the case of the personal pronouns ngi, “I,” ngo, “thou,” and ngu, “he,” a slight advance upon this poverty of thought. Here the plural is denoted by the postposition da, “with,” so that ngi-n-da, “we,” is literally “(some one) with me.” The mind has come to distinguish between itself and that which is outside itself, to realize, in fact, that it has an individual existence distinct from that of some one else, and so the conception of duality is attained. At this conception mankind stopped for a long while; indeed, there are many races and tribes who have not even yet passed beyond it. Wherever the so-called plural is formed by means of reduplication—that is to say, wherever the doubling of a thing is the furthest point of multiplicity to which the mind can reach, there we have not yet a true plural, but only a dual. All over the world reduplication seems to have been the earliest contrivance for denoting something beyond the singular, and to this day in Bushman, as in many other savage jargons, it serves for a plural.[268] The same evidence that is borne by the so-called reduplicated plural is borne also by the numerals. The aborigines of Victoria, according to Mr. Stanbridge, “have no name for numerals above two;”[269] the Puris of South America call “three” prica or “many,” which is also the original meaning of the same numeral in Bushman, and “the New Hollanders,” says Mr. Oldfield of the western tribes, “have no names for numbers beyond two.” It is even possible, as has been already noticed, that our own Aryan tri, three, goes back to the same root as that of the Sanskrit tar-ô-mi, “I pass beyond,” and once signified nothing more than that which is “beyond” two. The fact that the conception of duality preceded the conception of plurality, explains how it is that the seemingly useless dual has been preserved in so many languages by the side of the plural. It is a relic of a bygone epoch, a survival, as Mr. Tylor would call it, which tends to be more and more restricted in use until it disappears altogether. In both Aryan and Semitic the dual appears only as an archaic and perishing form. The Æolic, in this as in the throwing back of the accent, the least conservative of the Greek dialects, has lost it entirely; the Latin keeps it merely in duo, octo, and ambo, and if we pass to the Semitic idioms, the dual of the noun is preserved only in words which denote natural pairs like “the eyes” or “the ears,” while in the verb it has been maintained by Arabic alone, and in some exceptional cases by Assyrian. Language, however, did not always proceed at once from the dual to the plural, from the conception, that is, of limited plurality to the conception of unlimited plurality. Many languages possess a trinal number, or what are called inclusive and exclusive forms of the personal pronouns, and in one of the Melanesian idioms, as well as in Vitian or Fijian, we even find a quadruple number formed by the attachment of tavatz or tovatz, “four,” to the pronouns na, “you,” and dra, “we.”[270] In Cheroki the dual of the first person has one form when one of two persons speaks to the other, another form when the one speaks of the other to a third, inaluiha being “we two (i.e. thou and I) are tying it;” awstaluiha, “we two (i.e. he and I) are tying it.” In Annatom, again, aniyak is “I,” akaijan, “you two + I,” ajumrau, “you two - I,” akataij, “you three + I,” aijumtaij, “you three - I.” More usually the reduplicated dual led to a plural without the intervention of a trinal number, or the plural was denoted by some word like “multitude” or “heap,” which in course of time came to be a plural sign, just as in other instances it came to signify the numeral “three.” In the Aryan languages M. Bergaigne has shown[271] that the plural of the weak cases (nominative, accusative, and vocative) was identical with the singular of abstract nouns, and their formatives, -as or -âs, -i or -î, -â or -yâ, and -an, continued to the last to mark abstracts like the Sanskrit áhan, “the day,” lipi, “writing,” vrajyâ, “the act of travelling,” or mudâ, “joy.” So in Semitic Assyrian, where an abstract is generally regarded as feminine, the feminine plural in -utu has become the termination of singular nouns like śarrutu, “a kingdom,” and then by a curious change of function been appropriated to a certain class of masculine plurals. There are reasons for thinking that the Semitic plural has been based on the dual; however this may be, the suffixes of the Aryan plural, so far at least as the weak cases are concerned, are suffixes which we find elsewhere used as secondary and not classificatory ones.

Even the genitive case, necessary as it appears to us to be, once had no existence, as indeed it still has none in groups of languages like the Taic or the Malay. Instead of the genitive, we here have two nouns placed in apposition to one another, two individuals, as it were, set side by side without any effort being made to determine their exact relations beyond the mere fact that one precedes the other, and is therefore thought of first. Which of the two should thus precede depended on the psychological point of view of the primitive speaker. We are all acquainted with the distinction between the objective genitive where the governed word is the object of the other, as in amor Socratis, “love felt for Socrates,” and the subjective genitive where the converse is the case, as in Socratis amor, “love felt by Socrates,” and this distinction has led to two different conceptions of the genitive relation being formed by different races. In the Aryan family, for instance, the genitive must precede its governing noun; Horsetown, equally with horse’s town, means “town of the horse.” In Semitic, on the contrary, the position of the words is reversed; here the genitive has to follow, not precede. Perhaps we may see in the position of the genitive in the two great inflectional families of speech a symbol of the characters of the two races. The Aryan, the inventor of induction and the scientific method, fixes his first attention on the phænomenon and traces it up to its source; the Semite, on the other hand, makes the first cause his starting-point, and derives therefrom with easy assurance all the varying phænomena that surround him.

Now, this apposition of two nouns, which still serves the purpose of the genitive in many languages, might be regarded either as attributive or as predicative. If predicative, then the two contrasted nouns formed a complete sentence, “cup gold,” for instance, being equivalent to “the cup is gold.” If attributive, then one of the two nouns took the place of an adjective, “gold cup” being nothing more than “a golden cup.” The apposition of two substantives is thus the germ out of which no less than three grammatical conceptions have developed—those of the genitive, of the predicate, and of the adjective. It is but another instance of that principle of differentiation which we have found at work upon the phonetic forms whereby the relations of grammar are expressed. Dr. Friedrich Müller has observed[272] that, as a general rule, the attribute and the genitive, or as he terms it the possessive, occupy the same place, and are treated as one and the same relation. In Hottentot, as in Chinese, where the defining noun must precede that which is defined, “right-path” means equally “the right path” and “the path of right,” and our own English language is another example of the same usage. In Malay, on the contrary, as in the Semitic tongues, both adjective and genitive have to follow the noun they define; thus the Malayan ōran ūtan, or “man of the wood,” is literally “man-wood,” and gūmin besar, “a great mountain,” “mountain-great.” On the other hand, the predicative relation is marked off from the attributive and genitival by a converse order of words; in Malay, for instance, the predicate is placed before its subject, as in besar gūmin, “great (is) the mountain,” and the Semitic perfect is formed by affixing the pronouns of the first and second persons to a participle or verbal noun.[273] These primitive contrivances for distinguishing between the predicate, the attribute, and the genitive, when the three ideas had in the course of ages been evolved by the mind of the speaker, gradually gave way to the later and more refined machinery of suffixes, auxiliaries, and the like.

Now it will be noticed that while the predicative relation is contrasted with the attributive and the genitival, the two latter assume the same form. Where the relations of grammar are denoted by position alone, no distinction is made between the attribute and the possessive. There is nothing in the outward form to tell us whether in expressions like horsetown or ōran ūtan, horse and ūtan are to be considered as adjectives or as genitives. And in point of fact there is at bottom little or no difference between them. The primitive instinct of language did not err in treating the two conceptions as essentially one and the same. A “gold cup” is exactly equivalent to a “cup of gold.” The adjective describes the attribute which defines and limits the class to which its substantive belongs; and so, too, does the genitive. Both indicate the species of a genus, limiting the signification of the substantive, and so having the same functions as those determinatives which, as we have seen, play so large a part in a Chinese or Burman dictionary. In such languages these defining words perform the same classificatory office as the classificatory suffixes of an Aryan dialect; but whereas the classificatory suffixes of an inflectional tongue are neither adjectives nor attributes, the classificatory substantives of the isolating language are really both. We are told that a school-inspector plucked some children a short time ago for saying that cannon in cannon-ball was a noun instead of an adjective; the pedantry of the act was only equal to the ignorance it displays, and illustrates how often the artificial nomenclature of grammar breaks down when confronted with the real facts of language.

So long therefore as the adjective or genitive is denoted by position only, we cannot draw any true line of distinction between them and the determinatives of the Taic idioms. They all have the same end—that of limiting and defining a noun—of referring it to some special class or investing it with some special quality. Hence it is that the genitive case so frequently assumes the form of an adjective, even in those languages in which the adjective and the genitive have been eventually distinguished from one another. In the Tibetan dialects adjectives are formed from substantives by the addition of the sign of the genitive, as ser-gyi, “golden,” from ser, “gold;” and in Hindustani the genitive takes the marks of gender according to the words to which it refers.[274] Greek adjectives like δημό-σιο-ς remind us of the old genitive δημοσιο, which has become δημοῖο in Homer, or the Sanskrit genitive śiva-sya and the pronouns ta-syâ-s and ta-sya-i, and though the suffix of δημό-σιο-ς was originally rather -tya than -sya, since a Greek sibilant between two vowels tends to disappear, the two suffixes once performed the same functions and bore the same relation to each other as the demonstratives sa and ta. The Aryan genitive stands on the same footing as the other cases of the nouns which have been traced back by M. Bergaigne to adjectives used adverbially. If we look at the Bâ-ntu languages we shall have little difficulty in understanding the reason of this close connexion between adjective and genitive. As we have seen, the agreement of words together in these languages is pointed out by the use of common prefixes, which were once independent substantives, and have come to answer somewhat to the marks of gender in Greek and Latin. The same prefixes, however, not only indicate the concord of adjective and substantive, of verb and subject, but also of nominative and genitive. Thus the Zulu would say I-SI-tya S-O-m-fazi, “the dish of the woman,” where the common prefix si declares the relation that exists between the two ideas. If we assume that the primary meaning of si was “mass,” the words I-SI-tya S-O-m-fazi would properly be read “mass-dish mass-woman.” The word si is thus the standard and connecting link by means of which the other two are brought together and compared. It had been attached to a certain group of words at a time when the conception of adjective or genitive had not yet been clearly realized, and when mere position, mere apposition, indicated by itself the association of two ideas. This close association caused it finally to lose all distinctive existence of its own, to become, in short, an “empty word” or formative, the index of a particular class like the classificatory suffixes of our own tongues. Like these suffixes, again, it came to have what would be called in Sanskrit or Greek a flectional power; it not only marked the class to which the substantive belonged, but also the fact that another word was in concord with it. Whether this were a concord of the adjective or the genitive, however, the Kafir dialects have never advanced so far as to determine.

Unlike either the Kafir with prefixes which denote at once attribute, possessive, and even predicate, or the Aryan languages with their suffixes each fulfilling a special function, the Semitic tongues distinguished between genitive and adjective by subordinating the governing word to its “genitive,” and keeping the attention fixed on the characteristics which separated species from species within a common genus. While the adjective constituted an independent word by the side of the substantive with which it was joined, the genitive was regarded merely as the latter half of a compound of which the word defined by it was the first part. In the so-called construct state, the governing noun is pronounced, as it were, in one breath with the genitive that follows it; its vowels are shortened, and its case-terminations tend to disappear. Thus in Assyrian, while śarru rabu is “great king,” śar rabi is “king of great ones,” and in Hebrew the construct dhiv’rê hâ’âm, “words of the people,” stands in marked contrast to the simple dhĕvârim, “words.”

The agglutinative languages of Western Asia, again, traversed an altogether different road. In the Accadian of ancient Chaldea, we still find instances in the oldest inscriptions of a genitive by position, which only differs from an adjective by the meaning it bears. Thus, lugal calga is “strong king,” lugal’Uru, “king of Ur.” But a postposition soon came to be added to the second substantive in order to point out more distinctly its place in the sentence, and these postpositions seem originally to have been verbs. At all events, such is the case with one of the postpositions, lal, used for the genitive; lugal ’Uru-lal, for instance, being literally “king Ur-filling,” though the more usual postposition -na has lost all traces of its source and derivation. The latter postposition is found throughout the Ural-Altaic family, as in the Turkish evin, “of a house,” or the Votiak murten, “by a man.” It indicates the genitive in Finnish and Lapp, in Mordvin and Samoyed, in Mongol (-yin, -un), and Mantschu (-ni). It is somewhat remarkable that though the Ural-Altaic family is characterized by the use of postpositions, that is, by making the defining word follow that which it defines, the modern dialects, with a few exceptions,[275] have discarded the general rule and placed the adjective before its noun. This change of position must be ascribed to a wish for differentiation, when the employment of a special postposition for the genitival relation had familiarized the speaker with the distinction between adjective and genitive. Elsewhere the distinction was brought into relief by the help of special words or symbols to denote the genitive relation. Just as the Accadians or the Finns employed a postposition which was originally an independent word with a meaning of its own, so, too, the Semites replaced the “construct state” by the insertion of the demonstrative or relative pronoun, śarru sa rabi, for example, literally “king that (is) the great ones,” coming to signify simply “king of the great ones,” and the Chinese assigned the same office to their tchi, “place.” The analytic languages of modern Europe have followed in the same track, only employing prepositions like de, of, or von, instead of demonstrative pronouns or other words. When the conception of the genitive had once been clearly recognized, means were soon found for making it as clear in phonetic expression as it was in idea, and the ambiguous machinery of flection was superseded by a method of expression which had been familiar to the more advanced Ural-Altaic idioms from a very remote period.

The history of the genitive has shown us that the same germ may develop very differently in different families of speech. The conception of the genitival relation, when fully realized, has worn a varying aspect to Aryans and Semites, to Accadians and Kafirs. The same grammatical relation admits of being looked at from many points of view, and of being expressed in many ways. Let us now turn to another adjunct of grammar which has assumed more than one form within the same family of speech itself. A definite article is by no means a universal possession of language; on the contrary, the majority of languages want it altogether, and wherever it makes its appearance we can trace it back to the demonstrative pronoun, with which it is still identical in German. “That man” and “the man” are in fact one and the same, the only difference between them being that the demonstrative draws emphatic attention to a particular individual, while the article acts like a classificatory suffix by narrowing the boundaries of a genus and reducing it to the condition of a species. The article has thus the same ultimate function as the adjective or the genitive, and we should therefore expect to find it following the lead of the latter and occupying the same position in the sentence. This, however, is not the case. It is true that in English and German the article precedes the noun, but it does the same in Hebrew and Arabic, as also in Old Egyptian, where the adjective follows its substantive; while, on the other hand, in Scandinavian, as in Wallach, Bulgarian, and Albanian, the place of the article is after its noun. The cause of this irregularity is the fact that the article is a very late product in any speech; it does not grow out of the demonstrative until an age which has lost all recollection of the early contrivances of language and found other means than mere position for indicating the attribute of the noun. How late this is may be judged from the absence of the definite article in dialects cognate to those which possess one. Thus in the Semitic languages there is none in either Ethiopic or Assyrian, except in the very latest period of the latter tongue; among the Aryan dialects, Russian and the other Slavonic idioms (Bulgarian excepted) have no article, the Greek article being very inadequately represented by the relative pronoun ije in Old Slavonic, while Sanskrit also may be said to be without one, though the demonstrative sa sometimes takes its place, as in sa purusha like ille vir in Latin. Neither the Finnic nor the Turkish-Tatar languages have an article, Osmanli Turkish alone occasionally having recourse to the Persian mode of expressing it by a kezra (i) or hemza (ʾ) as in nawale-y-ushk, “the lamentations of love;” Hungarian, however, has been so far influenced by the neighbouring German dialects as to turn the demonstrative az or a into a genuine article, as in az atya, “the father,” a leány, “the daughter.” On the other hand, the objective case, or “casus definitus,” as Böhtlingk terms it, seems formed by a demonstrative affix not only in Turkish-Tatar, but also in Mongol and even Tibetan; in Mongol, for instance, it is marked by a suffix which is commonly pronounced -yighi.[276] This definite case very often answers exactly to the use of a definite article with the noun, and has arisen through a similar desire to give definiteness and precision to the expression. So, too, Castrén tells us that an affix -et or -t, which he believes to be the pronoun of the third person, is sometimes attached to the Ostiak accusative, and in Hindustani, where there is no definite article, its place is taken before the accusative by a dative with the suffix -ko, and in Persian by the suffix -ra, a suffix, by the way, which Schott considers to have been borrowed from the Tatar or Mongol tongues. We may judge how attributive and defining is the nature of the objective case from the Chinese, where the same empty word tchi, which, according to Dr. Edkins, was originally ti, is the affix of both the objective and the possessive cases. Passing to the New World, we find the Algonkins alone among the North American Indians prefixing the article mo or m’, originally a contracted form of the demonstrative monko, “that,” while the monosyllabic Othomis use na and ya in the same sense.