Secondly, we must notice that this position is maintained only by a certain balance of the tension in the various muscles of our tongue, throat, lips, etc.; and this tension, though we may not indeed be conscious of it, we feel.
Thirdly, we hear, more or less exactly, the sound which we produce.
Fourthly, this feeling and this sound, like every physical occurrence in which we actively or passively participate, leave behind them in our mind a certain impression. This impression, though it may indeed disappear and sink beneath the level of consciousness, remains nevertheless existent, is strengthened by repetition, and can, under certain conditions, be again recalled to consciousness. We consequently come gradually to acquire a permanent mental impression of both feeling and sound. There is formed in our mind what we may call the memory-picture of the position; and
Fifthly, there is likewise formed ‘a memory-picture’ of the sound.
It will be readily seen that of these five ‘elements’ only the last two are permanent, and that they, and they only, are psychical. In every individual case of sound-utterance, all that is physical is momentary and transitory. We abandon the position; the corresponding tensions make way for others; the sound dies away: but the memory-pictures alike of position and sound remain in our mind. There is no physical connection between our utterances of the ‘same’ sound, or word, or phrase; there is only a psychical connection: and this reposes upon the two elements which we have already called the memory-pictures of sound and position respectively.
A word must be added on the nature of the association existing between these two. This association, however intimate it may be, is external only; there is no necessary psychical connection between any sensation of vibration in our organs of hearing and any other sensation of tension in the muscles of our vocal organs. If we gained the first-named sensation again and again from hearing others speak, yet we should still be unable to imitate them at once, even though, for whatever reason, we had set our vocal organs repeatedly in the same position. But the fact that when we ourselves utter a sound we also hear it, associates the physical sensations of sound with those of position, and this invariably; and it thus happens that the respective memory-pictures of the two are left closely associated in our mind.
When we speak of these movement- and sound-pictures as lingering or as existing in our memories, it is not implied that we are necessarily conscious of their existence. On the contrary, the speaker, under ordinary circumstances, is wholly unconscious of them: nor has he anything like a clear notion of the various elements of sound which together make up the spoken word, or it may be the sentence, which he utters. It would seem as though the art of writing and spelling, which presupposes some analysis of the sound of words, proved that the speaker, if capable of spelling and writing, must have at least some notion of those elements. But very little consideration will suffice to prove the contrary. In the first place, strictly speaking, it is absolutely impossible to denote in writing all the various elements of sound which combine to form any word or sentence. A word, however correctly and grammatically spelt, does not consist merely of those sounds which we symbolise in our writing. In reality it consists—or at least the syllable consists—of an unbroken series of successive sounds or articulations, and of this series, even if we spell ‘phonetically,’ our letters represent at best no more than the most clearly distinguished points; whereas, between these sounds so symbolised by our letters, there lie an indefinite number of transition sounds, of which no writer or speller takes any notice.
The above is true in the case of languages like Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and German, where the spelling is more or less consistent: much more is it true in the case of English or French, with their irrational and puzzling inconsistencies. A child which learns that it must represent the sound of the word but by letters to be called respectively bee-you-tea, or the word though by letters nick-named tea-aitch-o-you-gee-aitch, does not receive a lesson in separating the sound-group represented by the letters but into its three, or the sound-group represented by though into its two (or three) elements.
Even in the more correctly spelt languages, there are numerous discrepancies between the spoken and written word, which, until they are pointed out to him, escape the attention of the native speaker or writer. In English, some instances may be here considered. Not a few English people are quite surprised when they are informed that they have two distinct ways of pronouncing th, or of pronouncing x: the th ‘hard,’ as in thin, and ‘soft,’ as in then; the x like ks, as in execution (eksekyushion), and like gz, as in executive (egzekyutiv), exact (egzakt), example (egzampl). And there are fewer still who have ever noticed that in income many pronounce no n at all, but the same guttural and nasal sound as terminates king.
Can is frequently pronounced chan, with a distinct h sound after the c, without the speaker being aware of it; and the same holds good of similar words. Again, none but the trained observer knows that the k in keen is pronounced differently (more to the front of the mouth) from the k (represented by c) in cool; but the fact that perhaps more than all excites incredulous wonder is that the sound i is no vowel, but a diphthong, as may be proved by dwelling on it. The speakers to whom these facts are new may nevertheless all be perfectly correct speakers: no doubt they pronounce the elements of the word; but they have probably never paid any attention to the nature of these elements, or at least have not begun to do so till long after the utterance became habitual and natural.