XVII.—§ 3. Appreciation of Modern Tongues.
Some scholars, however, had an indistinct feeling that this unconditional and wholesale depreciation of modern languages could not contain the whole truth, and I have collected various passages, nearly always of a perfunctory or incidental character, in which these languages are partly rehabilitated. Humboldt (Versch 284) speaks of the modern use of auxiliary verbs and prepositions as a convenience of the intellect which may even in some isolated instances lead to greater definiteness. On Grimm see above, p. [62]. Rask (SA 1. 191) says that it is possible that the advantages of simplicity may be greater than those of an elaborate linguistic structure. Madvig turns against the uncritical admiration of the classical languages, but does not go further than saying that the modern analytical languages are just as good as the old synthetic ones, for thoughts can be expressed in both with equal clearness. Kräuter (Archiv f. neu. spr. 57. 204) says: “That decay is consistent with clearness and precision is shown by French; that it is not fatal to poetry is seen in the language of Shakespeare.” Osthoff (Schriftspr. u. Volksmundart, 1883, 13) protests against a one-sided depreciation of the language of Lessing and Goethe in favour of the language of Wulfila or Otfried, or vice versa: a language possesses an inestimable charm if its phonetic system remains unimpaired and its etymologies are transparent; but pliancy of the material of language and flexibility to express ideas is really no less an advantage; everything depends on the point of view: the student of architecture has one point of view, the people who are to live in the house another.
Among those who thus half-heartedly refused to accept the downhill theory to its full extent must be mentioned Whitney, many passages in whose writings show a certain hesitation to make up his mind on this question. When speaking of the loss of old forms he says that “some of these could well be spared, but others were valuable, and their relinquishment has impaired the power of expression of the language.” To phonetic corruption we owe true grammatical forms, which make the wealth of every inflective language; but it is also destructive of the very edifice which it has helped to build. He speaks of “the legitimate tendency to neglect and eliminate distinctions which are practically unnecessary,” and will not admit “that we can speak our minds any less distinctly than our ancestors could, with all their apparatus of inflexions”; gender is a luxury which any language can well afford to dispense with, but language is impoverished by the obliteration of the subjunctive mood. The giving up of grammatical endings is akin to wastefulness, and the excessive loss in English makes truly for decay (L 31, 73, 74, 76, 77, 84, 85; G 51, 105, 104).
XVII.—§ 4. The Scientific Attitude.
Why are all such expressions either of depreciation or of partial appreciation of the modern languages so utterly unsatisfactory? One reason is that they are so vague and dependent on a general feeling of inferiority or the reverse, instead of being based on a detailed comparative estimation of real facts in linguistic structure. If, therefore, we want to arrive at a scientific answer to the question “Decay or progress?” we must examine actual instances of changes, but must take particular care that these instances are not chosen at random, but are typical and characteristic of the total structure of the languages concerned. What is wanted is not a comparison of isolated facts, but the establishment of general laws and tendencies, for only through such can we hope to decide whether or no we are justified in using terms like ‘development’ and ‘evolution’ in linguistic history.
The second reason why the earlier pronouncements quoted above do not satisfy us is that their authors nowhere raise the question of the method by which linguistic value is to be measured, by what standard and what tests the comparative merits of languages or of forms are to be ascertained. Those linguists who looked upon language as a product of nature were by that very fact precluded from establishing a rational basis for determining linguistic values; nor is it possible to find one if we look at things from the one-sided point of view of the linguistic historian. An almost comical instance of this is found when Curtius (Sprachwiss. u. class. phil. 39) says that the Greek accusative póda is better than Sanskrit padam, because it is possible at once to see that it belongs to the third declension. What is to be taken into account is of course the interests of the speaking community, and if we consistently consider language as a set of human actions with a definite end in view, namely, the communication of thoughts and feelings, then it becomes easy to find tests by which to measure linguistic values, for from that point of view it is evident that THAT LANGUAGE RANKS HIGHEST WHICH GOES FARTHEST IN THE ART OF ACCOMPLISHING MUCH WITH LITTLE MEANS, OR, IN OTHER WORDS, WHICH IS ABLE TO EXPRESS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF MEANING WITH THE SIMPLEST MECHANISM.
The estimation has to be thoroughly and frankly anthropocentric. This may be a defect in other sciences, in which it is a merit on the part of the investigator to be able to abstract himself from human considerations; in linguistics, on the contrary, on account of the very nature of the object of study, one must constantly look to the human interest, and judge everything from that, and from no other, point of view. Otherwise we run the risk of going astray in all directions.
It will be noticed that my formula contains two requirements: it demands a maximum of efficiency and a minimum of effort. Efficiency means expressiveness, and effort means bodily and mental labour, and thus the formula is simply one of modern energetics. But unfortunately we are in possession of no method by which to measure either expressiveness or effort exactly, and in cases of conflict it may be difficult to decide to which of the two sides we are to attach the greater importance, how great a surplus of efficiency is required to counterbalance a surplus of exertion, or inversely. Still, in many cases no doubt can arise, and we are often able to state progress, because there is either a clear gain in efficiency or a diminution of exertion, or both.
There is one objection which is likely to present itself to many of my readers, namely, that natives handle their language without the least exertion or effort (cf. XIV § 6, p. [262]). Madvig (1857, 73 ff. = Kl 260 ff.) admits that a simplification in linguistic structure will make the language easier to learn for foreigners, but denies that it means increased ease for the native. Similarly Wechssler (L 149) says that “der begriff der schwierigkeit und unbequemheit für die einheimischen nicht existiert.” I might quote against him his countryman Gabelentz, who expressly says that the difficulties of the German languages are felt by natives, a view that is endorsed by Schuchardt in various places.[80] To my mind there is not the slightest doubt that different languages differ very much in easiness even to native speakers. In the chapters devoted to children we have already seen that the numerous mistakes made by them in every possible way testify to the labour involved in learning one’s own language. This labour must naturally be greater in the case of a highly complicated linguistic structure with many rules and still more exceptions to the rules, than in languages constructed simply and regularly.
Nor is the difficulty of correct speech confined to the first mastering of the language. Even to the native who has spoken the same language from a child, its daily use involves no small amount of exertion. Under ordinary circumstances he is not conscious of any exertion in speaking; but such a want of conscious feeling is no proof that the exertion is absent. And it is a strong argument to the contrary that it is next to impossible for you to speak correctly if you are suffering from excessive mental work; you will constantly make slips in grammar and idiom as well as in pronunciation; you have not the same command of language as under normal conditions. If you have to speak on a difficult and unfamiliar subject, on which you would not like to say anything but what is to the point or strictly justifiable, you will sometimes find that the thoughts themselves claim so much mental energy that there is none left for speaking with elegance, or even with complete regard to grammar: to your own vexation you will have a feeling that your phrases are confused and your language incorrect. A pianist may practise a difficult piece of music so as to have it “at his fingers’ ends”; under ordinary circumstances he will be able to play it quite mechanically, without ever being conscious of effort; but, nevertheless, the effort is there. How great the effort is appears when some day or other the musician is ‘out of humour,’ that is, when his brain is at work on other subjects or is not in its usual working order. At once his execution will be stumbling and faulty.