Now this is all untrue. Such names as orange and violet are some of the latest names of color. They presuppose such late, nay exotic, concepts, as orange and violet. The question why an orange was called an orange, and a violet a violet remains unasked and unanswered. In the old names for black, white, red, green, and blue, there is not a trace of ink, or snow, or blood, or sea, or sky. They are all derived, so far as we can analyse them at all, from roots meaning to shine, to grow, to beat black and blue, and not from oranges, roses, or violets.
Again, what can be the meaning of such a sentence as:[138] 'Words referring to quantity furnish cases of more marked dissociation of abstract from concrete. Grouping various things as small in comparison either with those of their kind or with those of other kinds; and similarly grouping some objects as comparatively great, we get the opposite abstract notions of smallness and greatness.' Does Mr. Spencer really believe that we can call things small and great, that our language can possess two adjectives expressive of these qualities, and that yet at the same time we are without an abstract notion of smallness and greatness? Mr. H. Spencer constantly calls on the facts of language, to confirm his views, but his facts are hardly ever correct. For instance: after having explained that, according to his ideas, greater coherence among its component motions broadly distinguishes the conduct we call moral from the conduct we call immoral, he appeals to the word dissolute, when meaning immoral, as proving this theory. But dissolutus in Latin meant originally no more than negligent, remiss. Dissolutio meant languor, weakness, effeminacy, and then only licentiousness and immorality. Language, therefore, in no way confirms Mr. H. Spencer's speculations, still less does experience, for no man is so coherent in his acts, so calculating, so self-restrained, as the confirmed criminal; no one is often so careless, so little shrewd, so easily duped as the thoroughly moral and therefore trustful and confiding man.
[138] L. c., p. 125.
But to return to the history of the word for matter. The process by which materies, wood, came to mean matter, is intelligible enough, whether we call it generalisation, or abstraction. But how came materies to mean wood? That is the question which has to be solved, and in solving it, we shall find that while in the second period of thought-language the progress is from the particular to the general, the progress in the first period is the reverse, namely from the general to the particular. In the case of materes this is very clear. No one can doubt that in materies the radical element is mâ, the derivatives ter and ies. The radical element mâ is found in Sanskrit mâ-tram, measure, mâ-nam, measuring, mâ-na-s, a building; in Greek μέ-τρον, measure; in Latin me-tare, to measure. We can hardly doubt that the oldest Aryan name for mother also, namely mâtar, Greek μήτηρ, Latin mater, English mother, is derived from that root, though it is doubtful in what sense. It may have meant originally no more than maker or fashioner, and it is important to observe that in the Veda the same word mâtar, occurs as a masculine and means maker, and actually governs an accusative. But it may also have meant arranger, controller, and mistress of all household affairs. Whatever its original intension was, mâtar soon became a mere name. Its etymological keynote was no longer audible, and mâtar meant mother and all that was implied in that name when used by children and others.
If we compare all the words which contain this mâ as their common element, we can see that it meant originally to put two or more things together. This led to two applications. What we call measuring is really putting two things together, one by the side of another, to see how far they agree and how far they differ. Thus mâ took the special meaning of measuring, in such words as Greek μέτρον and Sanskrit mâtram. But to put together could also be used in the sense of joining, carpentering, building, and making, and this meaning we find in such words as (Sanskrit) mânas, a building, mâti, he measures, he makes, and likewise materies, what has been fashioned, what can be used for building a hut, timber, wood, building material, then any kind of material, and at last matter, substance in its most general acceptation.
You can see here very clearly the twofold process in the formation of words, first, from the general to the particular,—from measuring to wood, and then from the particular to the general, from timber to matter.
If you ask, what is this syllable mâ which has the general meaning of measuring and making, I can only answer, We know, and we do not know. We know as a fact that it is the common element in a number of words, which are differentiated by a number of derivative elements, called suffixes, prefixes, and infixes, but which can all be shown to share in common the general meaning of making and measuring. These common elements have been called roots. The question whether these roots ever existed by themselves, and whether any language could ever have consisted of these roots, is a foolish question. For as soon as a root occurs in a sentence, it is either a subject or a predicate, a noun or a verb, and it has ceased to be a mere root. But on the other hand, it is quite true that in certain languages, as, for instance, in Chinese there is no formal difference between a root and a word—there are no suffixes or prefixes. But the strict rules of the collocation of words in every sentence make it quite clear whether a word is to be taken as a substantive, a verb, an adjective, an adverb, and all the rest.
By the same process by which we have reduced a number of words to the root mâ, the whole dictionary of Sanskrit, and of English also, in fact of all the Aryan and likewise of the Semitic languages, has been reduced to a small number of roots. Given that small number of roots, we undertake to account for the whole wealth of words in any language, simply by means of derivation with suffixes and prefixes, and by means of composition.
In all this we are dealing with fact, facts which are as well ascertained as any facts in physical science.
Making allowance for a small margin of words which have as yet resisted all attempts at etymological analysis, we can state that the vast majority of words in Sanskrit has been reduced to about 800 roots. In the progress of language whole families of words derived from some of these roots become extinct while others continue prolific and take their place. The consequence is that the number of roots in English has dwindled down to 461, while the sum total of words has risen to about 250,000.