Definition is therefore the only remedy which the Science of Thought can prescribe. That thought is often hide-bound in language, that its history is a constant struggle against effete words, that the record of its sufferings and diseases may be read in all mythologies, in all religions, and in all philosophies, all this is well known by this time. All honest philosophers have felt it, and though they have soared high on the pinions of language, yet even in their highest flights their wings have always been a heavy weight. It is in the development of thought as in every other development: the present suffers from the past, and the future struggles hard in escaping from the present. Thought is a constant birth, and language a constant cry of agony: yet there is always new thought springing from old thought, and living words rising from the ashes of dead words. For better or for worse, language and thought are inseparably united: a divorce means destruction to both. We saw how dear Bishop Berkeley forswore the use of words, but could forswear them in words only. Other philosophers, feeling how frail were the wings which their fathers had fashioned for them to fly, like Ikaros, toward the light of truth, were bold enough to think of throwing them away and of forging a new language for themselves. But they found it was more than mortal hands could achieve. Nevertheless, what Leibniz suggested, and what Bishop Wilkins carried out to a certain extent, a completely new philosophical language, would be the best cure for that malady of language which has afflicted our race as long as we know it, though even that could only give temporary relief. Aegri mor tales is true here as elsewhere. Still we must not despair. As in medicine, so in philosophy, a right diagnosis of the disease is something. To know that we are ailing and why we are ailing often suggests the remedy. If we keep aloof from indigestible food, and observe the general laws of health, we may live and work to some purpose. If we keep aloof from ill-defined words, and observe the general laws of thought, we may think and speak to some purpose. The Science of Language has shown us the wonderful structure of the organ of thought-the bones, the muscles, the nerves in grammar and dictionary. The Science of Thought is to the Science of Language what Biology is to Anatomy. It shows us the purpose of the organ, its work, its life. The two are really one. Yet in the progress of human knowledge the firm foundation had to be laid by the Science of Language, before it was possible to erect on it the new edifice of the Science of Thought, or to indicate at least how it might be carried out by those who will come after us. APPENDIX. THE FUNDAMENTAL CONCEPTS EXPRESSED BY SANSKRIT ROOTS. PRELIMINARY REMARKS. The Sanskrit roots in the following list have been given generally in that form in which we find them quoted by Hindu grammarians, leaving out the indicatory letters. Instead of the vowel ri, I have in writing the roots, employed the letter R, though without changing its place in the alphabet. The letter R has been used in roots which Hindu grammarians write with rî, that is in roots the vowel of which varies between ar, fr, ûr, and sometimes ri. In roots in which the nasal is variable, I have written it with a small letter, and have not allowed the nasal to count in the alphabetical arrangement of roots. Where the nasal is permanent, it has been written with a capital letter, and counts. I have not added a final a to roots ending in consonants. Having always defined a root as the last residuum of grammatical analysis, as that which remains after everything that can be shown to be the result of the formative processes of language has been removed, I naturally prefer the form in which Sanskrit grammarians have handed down their roots to us to that which some European scholars have lately adopted. From their point of view, I do not deny that much is to be said for calling, for instance, the root in pra-búdhi (Rv. viii, 27, 19), at the awakening, in buddhás, awakened, in bódhati, he knows, and in bauddha, a follower of Buddha, BaUDH, or even BeUDH, and not BUDH. We then say that BaUDH is weakened, under certain circumstances, not that BUDH is strengthened. Consistency, it has been said, would require us, if we give BUDH as the radical form, to give PT as the radical form, instead of PAT, because in several cases where BaUDH appears as BUDH, PAT appears as PT, provided it be pronounceable. All this, and a great deal more, is perfectly true. But, on the other hand, if we mean by root that which can be reduced no further, BaUDH cannot claim that name, for BaUDH contains one element that can be removed, without destroying the life of the root. That element is not only moveable, but seems to have a definite grammatical purpose. Grammarians may differ about the original purpose of Guna, which takes place when the accent falls on the radical syllable. It may be purely mechanical, but it may also, at least in the beginning,, have been intentional. Certain suffixes, still asserting their modificatory character, may have retained the accent, as a sign of that character; others, having ceased to be felt as modificatory, may have allowed it to fall back on the radical syllable. That accent, the udâtta, whether as pitch or as stress, may have provoked the strengthening of the radical vowel. Hence : Pres. VáID-mi, VáIT-si, VáIT-ti, but VID-más, VIT-thá, VID-ánti. Perf. VáID-a (olda), VáIT-tha (olo-0a), VáID-a (oîde), but VID-má (id-μev), VID-á, VID-úh. In all this we seem to see cause and effect, the accent, if falling on the radical vowel, producing Guna, but leaving the radical vowel unchanged, if on the termination. We have a still clearer instance in the formation of the degrees of comparison. Both comparatives and superlatives in iyas and ishtha, for some reason which it is difficult to explain, throw the accent on the first syllable. Thus from kship-rá, quick, we have kshép-iyas, kshép-ishtha; from ur-ú, wide, vár-iyas, vár-ishtha, etc. The same rule obtains in Greek. The suffixes ra and u do not require the accent invariably, for we have gridh-ra (not gárdh-ra), greedy, by the side of kship-rá, quick; we have vás-u, good, by the side of ur-ú, wide. But there is no exception with regard to the accent of comparatives and superlatives (unless we think of gyeshthá), and it is but natural therefore to ascribe the strengthening of the radical vowel to one and the same cause, the accent on the first, as required by the suffixes îyas and ishtha. I do not say that these arguments are unanswerable; what arguments are, when we have to deal with the immense variability of language? All I maintain is that, according to our own definition of what a root is, namely that which resists further analysis, but, at the same time, is pronounceable, KSHIP has a better right to be called root than KSHaIP. Those who maintain that the palatalisation of initial gutturals was due to the influence of a following a, that is, e, would find it difficult to account for such forms as kopayati by the side of kup, for kup and kopati, except, of course, by analogy. I have nothing to say against another argument, namely that those who give BUDH as the most primitive form of the root, should likewise give KRI, and not KAR. But if Boehtlingk and Roth in their great Dictionary prefer to write these roots as KAR, everybody surely understands why they do so, and if we understand each other, why not allow a certain amount of individual freedom? I prefer to write such roots which may represent their vowel by ri or ar, with Æ; for instance, KÆR, BHÆ, etc., but as this is sometimes troublesome in printing, I am quite satisfied with either ri or ar. Granted that those who write BUDH, should write KRI, what about such roots as RABH? I think it was Lepsius who first pointed out that nasalisation is in every respect the same as Guna, namely a strengthening of the root under certain circumstances. Those therefore who write BaUDH and KAR, should likewise write RAMBH, because, under certain conditions, this and other roots are nasalised, e.g. Aor. arambhi, Caus. â-rambhayati. They should write even BANDH, because this root also, as well as others of the same class, though it forms the Pass. badh-yáte, p. p. baddhák, requires the nasal in the fut. bhantsyáti, where RABH would have no nasal. Nor do I see why TUD should be treated differently from BUDH, for, though not in the special tenses, it takes Guna in several of the general tenses, such as tot-syáti, totta, and even Vriddhi in átaut-sit. There are advantages and disadvantages on both sides. And what applies to verbs, applies to nouns. Where we have nouns with two bases, Anga and Pada, or with three bases, A nga, Pada, and Bha, I always prefer to look upon the Pada-base as the most primitive; but if others prefer to begin with either the Anga or the Bha base, they might, no doubt, produce some arguments in favour of their views. My reason for preferring the Pada-base is that it appears in composition, at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end, e. g. pratyag-bhâva, mat-pitri-dhanam, su-hrid, su-manas. We can understand that the terminations which have no accent (sarvanâmasthâna) might allow the base to be strengthened, as we see in pratyank-as, hrindi, manâmsi, but we should hardly admit an original hrind, manâms, or amp, because we find in the Anga-cases hrindi, manâmsi, and even svâmpi, possessed of good water, scil. tadâgâni1. Is there any reason why a root DVESH, if there is such a root, should as a noun be shortened to dvish (devadvit), or MARDH to mridh, or YUNAG to yug (asva-yug)? And, if there is not, can the strengthening of yug in the plur. neut. to yungi be regarded as anything but the result of the same almost mechanical process which changes hrid to hrindi? What we have to remember when dealing with roots is that many of them exist under different forms. Some look upon these various forms as derived from one typical form, and as changed for a definite grammatical purpose. Others look upon these varieties as remnants of dialectic growth, though they admit that, after a time, such varieties were used more and more consistently for different grammatical purposes. Both may be right, though I prefer the latter view as the more comprehensive. Roots like DHÂ Roots like STHÂ DHI weakened as STHI (στη and στα). Roots like DÂ appear weakened as DÎ (dw and do). But, if certain scholars prefer it, and if they think they can explain the change of i to â, instead of â to i, they may look upon DHỈ, STHÎ, and DÎ as strengthened so as to become DHÂ, STHÂ, and DÂ, and in Greek on ◊e, σTα, and do as having been raised to oŋ, orŋ(ā), and do. Other roots admit both of weakening and strengthening. Thus PAT is raised to PÂT and weakened to PT; AG is raised to ÂG, and weakened to G; SV-AD is raised to SVÂD, and weakened to SUD. Now, if corresponding to these three classes we have in Greek πέτομαι, raised to ποτ-ή, and weakened to #т-éσlai; άy-w, raised to (kʊv-)ny-ós, and shortened to o-y-μos (where ő is supposed to be not radical, but prosthetic); o(w, raised to od-wd-a, and weakened to ỏ-d-μń (provided that here also the o is prosthetic), is it not preferable to use the middle form PAT, ñeт, AG, ȧy, AD, őd, instead of either PÂT or PT, etc.? If, however, DHI is a variety of DHÂ, STHI of STHÂ, there is this difference between this variation, and another, such as STHÂ and STHU, namely that STHU never replaces STHÂ to produce certain grammatical forms. We want STHU in order to explain derivatives such as sthurá, sthávira, etc., but we never see it in such forms as sthitá, sthiyate, etc. The same applies to such parallel roots as DRÂ, DRU, SNÂ, SNU (ghrita-snâ and ghrita-snu, bathed in ghrita, i. e. dropping ghrita, Germ. triefend). Still this is no more than an historical fact, and there is no principle involved why STHU should not have been adapted to certain grammatical purposes quite 1 Sanskrit Grammar, § 211. |