ARTICULATION.

It will be my aim in this chapter to take a broad view of Articulation as a special development of the general faculty of sign-making, reserving for subsequent chapters a consideration of the philosophy of Speech.

On the threshold of articulate language, then, we have four several cases to distinguish: first, articulation by way of meaningless imitation; second, meaningless articulation by way of a spontaneous or instinctive exercise of the organs of speech; third, understanding of the signification of articulate sounds, or words; and fourth, articulation with an intentional attribution of the meaning understood as attaching to the words. I shall consider each of these cases separately.

The meaningless imitation of articulate sounds occurs in talking birds, young children, not unfrequently in savages, in idiots, and in the mentally deranged. The faculty of such meaningless imitation, however, need not detain us; for it is evident that the mere re-echoing of a verbal sound is of no further psychological significance than is the mimicking of any other sound.

Meaningless articulation of a spontaneous or instinctive kind occurs in young children, in uneducated deaf-mutes, and also in idiots.[77] Infants usually (though not invariably) begin with such syllables as “alla,” “tata,” “mama,” and “papa” (with or without the reduplication) before they understand the meaning of any word. One of my own children could say all these syllables very distinctly at the age of eight months and a half; and I could detect no evidence at that time of his understanding words, or of his having learnt these syllabic utterances by imitation. Another child of mine, which was very long in beginning to speak, at fourteen and a half months old said once, and only once, but very distinctly “Ego.” This was certainly not said in imitation of any one having uttered the word in her presence, and therefore I mention the incident to show that meaningless articulation in young children is spontaneous or instinctive, as well as intentionally imitative; for at that age the only other syllables which this child had uttered were those having the long [=a], as above mentioned. Were it necessary, I could give many other instances of this fact; but, as it is generally recognized by writers on infant psychology, I need not wait to do so.

We now come to the third of our divisions, or the understanding of articulate sounds. And this is an important matter for us, because it is evident that the faculty of appreciating the meaning of words betokens a considerable advance in the general faculty of language. As we have before seen, tone and gesture, being the natural expression of the logic of recepts—and so even in their most elaborated forms being intentionally pictorial,—are as little as possible conventional; but words, being coined expressly for the subservience of concepts, are always less graphic, and usually arbitrary. Therefore, although it would of course be wrong to say that a higher faculty is required to learn the arbitrary association between a particular verbal sound and a particular act or phenomenon, than is required to depict an abstract idea in gesture; this only shows that where higher faculties are present, they are able to display themselves in gesture as well as in speech. The consideration which I now wish to present is that understanding a word implies (other things equal, or supposing the gesture not to be so purely conventional as a word) a higher development of the sign-making faculty than does the understanding of a tone or gesture—so that, for instance, if an animal were to understand the word “Whip,” it would show itself more intelligent in appreciating signs than it would by understanding the gesture of threatening as with a whip.

Now, the higher animals unquestionably do understand the meanings of words; idiots too low in the scale themselves to speak are in the same position; and infants learn the signification of many articulate sounds long before they begin themselves to utter them.[78] In all these cases it is of course important to distinguish between the understanding of words and the understanding of tones; for, as already observed, both in the animal kingdom and in the growing child it is evident that the former represents a much higher grade of mental evolution than does the latter—a fact so obvious to common observation that I need not wait to give illustrations. But although the fact is obvious, it is no easy matter to distinguish in particular cases whether the understanding is due to an appreciation of words, to that of tones, or to both combined. We may be sure, however, that words are never understood unless tones are likewise so, and that understanding of words may be assisted by understanding of the tones in which they are uttered. Therefore, the only method of ascertaining where words as such are first understood, is to find where they are first understood irrespective of the tones in which they are uttered. This criterion—so far, at least, as my evidence goes—excludes all cases of animals obeying commands, answering to their names, &c., with the exception of the higher mammalia. That is to say, while the understanding of certain tones of the human voice extends at least through the entire vertebrated series,[79] and occurs in infants only a few weeks old; the understanding of words without the assistance of tones appears to occur only in a few of the higher mammalia, and first dawns in the growing child during the second year.[80]

The fact that the more intelligent Mammalia are able to understand words irrespective of tones is, as I have said, important; and therefore I shall devote a few sentences to prove it.

My friend Professor Gerald Yeo had a terrier, which was taught to keep a morsel of food on its snout till it received the verbal signal “Paid for;” and it was of no consequence in what tones these words were uttered. For even if they were introduced in an ordinary stream of conversation, the dog distinguished them, and immediately tossed the food into his mouth. Seeing this, I thought it worth while to try whether the animal would be able to distinguish the words “Paid for” from others presenting a close similarity of sound; and, therefore, while he was expecting the signal, I said “Pinafore;” the dog gave a start, and very nearly threw the food off his nose; but immediately arrested the movement, evidently perceiving his mistake. This experiment was repeated many times with these two closely similar verbal sounds, and always with the same result: the dog clearly distinguished between them. I have more recently repeated this experiment on another terrier, which had been taught the same trick, and obtained exactly the same results.

The well-known anecdote told of the poet Hogg may be fitly alluded to in this connection. A Scotch collie was able to understand many things that his master said to him, and, as proof of his ability, his master, while in the shepherd’s cottage, said in as calm and natural tone as possible, “I’m thinking the cow’s in the potatoes.” Immediately the dog, which had been lying half asleep on the floor, jumped up, ran into the potato-field, round the house, and up the roof to take a survey; but finding no cow in the potatoes, returned and lay down again. Some little time afterwards his master said as quietly as before, “I’m sure the cow’s in the potatoes,” when the same scene was repeated. But on trying it a third time, the dog only wagged his tail. Similarly, Sir Walter Scott, among other anecdotes of his bull terrier, says:—“The servant at Ashestiel, when laying the cloth for dinner, would say to the dog as he lay on the mat by the fire, ‘Camp, my good fellow, the sheriff’s coming home by the ford,’ or ‘by the hill;’ and the poor animal would immediately go forth to welcome his master, advancing as far and as fast as he was able in the direction indicated by the words addressed to him.” And numberless other anecdotes of the same kind might be quoted.[81]

But the most remarkable display of the faculty in question on the part of a brute which has happened to fall under my own observation, is that which many other English naturalists must have noticed in the case of the chimpanzee now in the Zoological Gardens. This ape has learnt from her keeper the meanings of so many words and phrases, that in this respect she resembles a child shortly before it begins to speak. Moreover, it is not only particular words and particular phrases which she has thus learnt to understand; she also understands, to a large extent, the combination of these words and phrases in sentences, so that the keeper is able to explain to the animal what it is that he requests her to do. For example, she will push a straw through any particular meshes in the network of her cage which he may choose successively to indicate by such phrases as—“The one nearest your foot; now the one next the key-hole; now the one above the bar,” &c., &c. Of course there is no pointing to the places thus verbally designated, nor is any order observed in the designation. The animal understands what is meant by the words alone, and this even when a particular mesh is named by the keeper remarking to her the accident of its having a piece of straw already hanging through it.

In connection with the subject of the present treatise it appears to me difficult to overrate the significance of these facts. The more that my opponents maintain the fundamental nature of the connection between speech and thought, the greater becomes the importance of the consideration that the higher animals are able in so surprising a degree to participate with ourselves in the understanding of words. From the analogy of the growing child we well know that the understanding of words precedes the utterance of them, and therefore that the condition to the attainment of conceptual ideation is given in this higher product of receptual ideation. Surely, then, the fact that not a few among the lower animals (especially elephants, dogs, and monkeys) demonstrably share with the human infant this higher excellence of receptual capacity, is a fact of the largest significance. For it proves at least that these animals share with an infant those qualities of mind, which in the latter are immediately destined to serve as the vehicle for elevating ideation from the receptual to the conceptual sphere: the faculty of understanding words in so considerable a degree brings us to the very borders of the faculty of using words with an intelligent appreciation of their meaning.

Familiarity with the facts now before us is apt to blunt this their extraordinary significance; and therefore I invite my opponents to reflect how differently my case would have stood, supposing that none of the lower animals had happened to have been sufficiently intelligent thus to understand the meanings of words. How much greater would then have been the argumentative advantage of any one who undertook to prove the distinctively human prerogative of the Logos. No mere brute, it might have been urged, has ever displayed so much as the first step in approaching to this faculty: from its commencement to its termination the faculty belongs exclusively to mankind. But, as matters actually stand, this cannot be urged: the lower animals share with us the order of ideation which is concerned in the understanding of words—and words, moreover, so definite and particular in meaning as is involved in explaining the particular mesh in a large piece of wire-netting through which it is required that a straw shall be protruded. While watching this most remarkable performance on the part of the chimpanzee, I felt more than ever disposed to agree with the great philologist Geiger, where he says “there is scarcely a more wonderful relationship upon the earth than this accession [i.e. the understanding of words] by the intelligence of animals to that of man.”[82]

I take it then, as certainly proved, that the germ of the sign-making faculty which is present in the higher animals is so far developed as to enable these animals to understand not merely conventional gestures, but even articulate sounds, irrespective of the tones in which they are uttered. Therefore, in view of this fact, together with the fact previously established that these same animals frequently make use of conventional gesture-signs themselves, I think we are justified in concluding a priori, that if these animals were able to articulate, they would employ simple words to express simple ideas. I do not say, nor do I think, that they would form propositions; but it seems to me little less than certain that they would use articulate sounds, as they now use natural or conventional tones and gestures, to express such ideas as they now express in either of these ways. For instance, it would involve the exercise of no higher psychical faculty to say the word “Come,” than it does to pull at a dress or a coat to convey the same idea; or to utter the word “Open,” instead of mewing in a conventional manner before a closed door; or, yet again, to utter the word “Bone,” than to select and carry a card with the word written upon it. If this is so, we must conclude that the only reason why the higher Mammalia do not employ simple words to convey simple ideas, is that which we may term an accidental reason, so far as their psychology is concerned; it is an anatomical reason, depending merely on the structure of their vocal organs not admitting of articulation.[83]

Of course at this point my attention will be called to the case of talking birds; for it is evident that in them we have the anatomical conditions required for speech, though assuredly occurring at a most unlikely place in the animal series; and therefore these animals may be properly adduced to test the validity of my a priori inference—namely, that if the more intelligent brutes could articulate, they would make a proper use of simple verbal signs. Let it, however, be here remembered that birds are lower in the psychological scale than dogs, or cats, or monkeys; and, therefore, that the inference which I drew touching the latter need not necessarily be held as applying also to the former. Nevertheless, it so happens that even in the case of these psychologically inferior animals the evidence, such as it is, is not opposed to my inference: on the contrary, there is no small body of facts which goes to support it in a very satisfactory manner. A consideration of this evidence will now serve to introduce us to the fourth and last case presented in the programme at the beginning of this chapter, or the case of articulation with attribution of the meaning understood as attaching to the words.

Taking, first, the case of proper names, it is unquestionable that many parrots know perfectly well that certain names belong to certain persons, and that the way to call these persons is to call their appropriate names. I knew a parrot which used thus to call its mistress as intelligently as any other member of the household; and if she went from home for a day, the bird became a positive nuisance from its incessant calling for her to come.

And in a similar manner talking birds often learn correctly to assign the names of other pet animals kept in the same house, or even the names of inanimate objects. There can thus be no question as to the use by talking birds of proper names and noun-substantives.

With respect to adjectives, Houzeau very properly remarks that the apposite manner in which some parrots habitually use certain words shows an aptitude correctly to perceive and to name qualities as well as objects. Nor is this anything more than we might expect, seeing, on the one hand, as already shown, that animals possess generic ideas of many qualities, and, on the other, that an obvious quality is as much a matter of immediate observation—and so of sensuous association—as is the object of which it may happen to be a quality.

Again, it is no less certain that many parrots will understand the meaning of active and passive verbs, whether as uttered by others or by themselves. The request to “Scratch Poll” or the announcement “Poll is thirsty,” when intentionally used as signs, show as true an appreciation of the meaning of verbs—or rather, let us say, of verbal signs indicative of actions and states—as is shown by the gesture-sign of a dog or a cat in pulling one’s dress to indicate “come,” or mewing before an open door to signify “open.”

But not only may talking birds attach appropriate significations to nouns, adjectives, and verbs; they may even use short sentences in a way serving to show that they appreciate—not, indeed, their grammatical structure—but their applicability as a whole to particular circumstances.[84] But this again is not a matter to excite surprise. For all such instances of the apposite use of words or phrases by talking birds are found on inquiry to be due, as antecedently we should expect that they must, to the principle of association. The bird hears a proper name applied to a person, and so, on learning to say the name, henceforth associates it with that person. And similarly with phrases. These with talking birds are mere vocal gestures, which in themselves present but little more psychological significance than muscular gestures. The verbal petition, “Scratch poor poll,” does not in itself display any further psychological development than the significant gesture already alluded to of depressing the head against the bars of the cage; and similarly with all cases of the appropriate use of longer phrases. Thus, supposing it to be due to association alone, a verbal sign of any kind is not much more remarkable, or indicative of intelligence, than is a gesture sign, or a vocal sign of any other kind. The only respect in which it differs from such other signs is in the fact that it is wholly arbitrary or conventional; and although, as I have previously said, I do consider this an important point of difference, I am not at all surprised that even the intelligence of a bird admits of such special associations being formed, or that a wholly arbitrary sign of any kind should here be acquired by this means, and afterwards used as a sign.

And that the verbal signs used by talking birds are due to association, and association only, all the evidence I have met with goes to prove. As showing how association acts in this case, I may quote the following remarks of Dr. Samuel Wilks, F.R.S., on his own parrot, which he carefully observed. He says that when alone this bird used to “utter a long catalogue of its sayings, more especially if it heard talking at a distance, as if wishing to join in the conversation, but at other times a particular word or phrase is only spoken when suggested by a person or object. Thus, certain friends who have addressed the bird frequently by some peculiar expression, or the whistling of an air, will always be welcomed by the same words or tune, and as regards myself, when I enter the house—for my footstep is recognized—the bird will repeat one of my sayings. If the servants enter the room Poll will be ready with one of their expressions, and in their own tone of voice. It is clear that there is a close association in the bird’s mind between certain phrases and certain persons or objects, for their presence or voice at once suggests some special word. For instance, my coachman, when coming for orders, has so often been told half-past two, that no sooner does he come to the door than Poll exclaims, ‘Half-past two.’ Again, having at night found her awake, and having said, ‘Go to sleep,’ if I have approached the cage after dark the same words have been repeated. Then, as regards objects, if certain words have been spoken in connection with them, these are ever afterwards associated together. For example, at dinner time the parrot, having been accustomed to have savory morsels given to her, I taught her to say, ‘Give me a bit.’ This she now constantly repeats, but only and appropriately at dinner-time. The bird associates the expression with something to eat, but, of course, knows no more than the infant the derivation of the words she is using. Again, being very fond of cheese, she easily picked up the word, and always asks for cheese towards the end of the dinner course, and at no other time. Whether the bird attaches the word to the true substance or not I cannot say, but the time of asking for it is always correct. She is also fond of nuts, and when these are on the table she utters a peculiar squeak; this she has not been taught, but it is Poll’s own name for nuts, for the sound is never heard until the fruit is in sight. Some noises which she utters have been obtained from the objects themselves, as that of a cork-screw at the sight of a bottle of wine, or the noise of water poured into a tumbler on seeing a bottle of water. The passage of the servant down the hall to open the front door suggests a noise of moving hinges, followed by a loud whistle for a cab.”[85]

Concerning the accuracy of these observations I have no doubt, and I could corroborate most of them were it necessary. It appears, then, first, that talking birds may learn to associate certain words with certain objects and qualities, certain other words or phrases with the satisfaction of particular desires and the observation of particular actions; words so used we may term vocal-gestures. Second, that they may invent sounds of their own contriving, to be used in the same way; and that these sounds may be either imitative of the objects designated, as the sound of running fluid for “Water,” or arbitrary, as the “particular squeak” that designated “Nuts.” Third, but that in a much greater number of cases the sounds (verbal or otherwise) uttered by talking birds are imitative only, without the animals attaching to them any particular meaning. The third division, therefore, we may neglect as presenting no psychological import; but the first and second divisions require closer consideration.

In designating as “vocal gestures”[86] the correct use (acquired by direct association) of proper names, noun-substantives, adjectives, verbs, and short phrases, I do not mean to disparage the faculty which is displayed. On the contrary, I think this faculty is precisely the same as that whereby children first learn to talk; for, like the parrot, the infant learns by direct association the meanings of certain words (or sounds) as denotative of certain objects, connotative of certain qualities, expressive of certain desires, actions, and so on. The only difference is that, in a few months after its first commencement in the child, this faculty develops into proportions far surpassing those which it presents in the bird, so that the vocabulary becomes much larger and more discriminative. But the important thing to attend to is that at first, and for several months after its commencement, the vocabulary of a child is always designative of particular objects, qualities, actions, or desires, and is acquired by direct association. The distinctive peculiarity of human speech, which elevates it above the region of animal gesticulation, is of later growth—the peculiarity, I mean, of using words, no longer as stereotyped in the framework of special and direct association, but as movable types to be arranged in any order that the meaning before the mind may dictate. When this stage is reached, we have the faculty of predication, or of the grammatical formation of sentences which are no longer of the nature of vocal gestures, designative of particular objects, qualities, actions, or states of mind: but vehicles for the conveyance of ever-changing thoughts.

We shall presently see that this distinction between the naming and the predicating phases of language is of the highest importance in relation to the subject of the present treatise; but meanwhile all we have to note is that the naming phase of spoken language occurs—in a rudimentary form, indeed, but still unquestionably—in the animal kingdom; and that the fact of its doing so is not surprising, if we remember that in this stage language is nothing more than vocal gesticulation. Psychologically considered, there is nothing more remarkable in the fact that a bird which is able to utter an articulate sound should learn by association to use that sound as a conventional sign, than there is that it should learn by association similarly to use a muscular action, as it does in the act of depressing its head as a sign to have it scratched. Therefore we may now, I think, take the position as established a posteriori as well as a priori, that it is, so to speak, a mere accident of anatomy that all the higher animals are not able thus far to talk; and that, if dogs or monkeys were able to do so, we have no reason to doubt that their use of words and phrases would be even more extensive and striking than that which occurs in birds. Or as Professor Huxley observes, “a race of dumb men, deprived of all communication with those who could speak, would be little indeed removed from the brutes. The moral and intellectual differences between them and ourselves would be practically infinite, though the naturalist should not be able to find a single shadow even of specific structural difference.[87]

We must next briefly consider the remaining feature in the psychology of talking birds to which Dr. Wilks has drawn attention, namely, that of inventing sounds of their own contrivance to be used as designative of objects and qualities, or expressive of desires—sounds which may be either imitative of the things designated, or wholly arbitrary. And this, I think, is a most important feature; for it serves still more closely to connect the faculty of vocal sign-making in animals with the faculty of speech in man. Thus, turning first to the case of a child beginning to speak, as Dr. Wilks points out—and nearly all writers on the philosophy of language have noticed—“baby talk” is to a large extent onomatopoetic. And although this is in part due to an inheritance of “nursery language,” the very fact that nursery language has come to contain so large an element of onomatopoeia is additional proof, were any required, that this kind of word-invention appeals with ready ease to the infant understanding. But, on the other hand, no one can have attended to the early vocabulary of any child without having observed a fertile tendency to the invention of words wholly arbitrary. As this spontaneous invention of arbitrary words by young children will be found of importance in later stages of my exposition, I will conclude the present chapter by presenting evidence to show the extent to which, under favourable circumstances, it may proceed. Meanwhile, however, I desire to point out that all such cases of the invention of arbitrary vocal signs by young children differ from the analogous cases furnished by parrots only in that the former are usually articulate, while the latter are usually not so. But this difference is easily explained when we remember that hereditary tendency makes as strongly in the direction of inarticulate sounds in the case of the bird, as in the case of the infant it makes in the direction of articulate.

There still remains one feature in the psychology of talking birds to which I must now draw prominent attention. So far as I can ascertain it has not been mentioned by any previous writer, although I should think it is one that can scarcely have escaped the notice of any attentive observer of these animals. I allude to the aptitude which intelligent parrots display of extending their articulate signs from one object, quality, or action, to another which happens to be strikingly similar in kind. For example, one of the parrots which I kept under observation in my own house learnt to imitate the barking of a terrier, which also lived in the house. After a time this barking was used by the parrot as a denotative sound, or proper name, for the terrier—i.e. whenever the bird saw the dog it used to bark, whether or not the dog did so. Next, the parrot ceased to apply this denotative name to that particular dog, but invariably did so to any other, or unfamiliar, dog which visited the house. Now, the fact that the parrot ceased to bark when it saw my terrier after it had begun to bark when it saw other dogs, clearly showed that it distinguished between individual dogs, while receptually perceiving their class resemblance. In other words, the parrot’s name for an individual dog became extended into a generic name for all dogs. Observations of this kind might no doubt have been largely multiplied, if observers had thought it worth while to record such apparently trivial facts.

In this general survey of articulate language, then, we have reached these conclusions, all of which I take to be established by the evidence of direct and adequate observation.

There are four divisions of the faculty of articulate sign-making to be distinguished:—namely, meaningless imitation, instinctive articulation, understanding words irrespective of tones, and intentional use of words as signs. Cases falling under the first division do not require consideration. Cases belonging to the second, being due to hereditary influence, occur only in infants, uneducated deaf-mutes and idiots. Understanding of words is shown by animals and idiots as well as by infants, and implies, per se, a higher development of the sign-making faculty than does the understanding of tones, or gestures—unless, of course, the latter happen to be of as purely conventional a character as words. And, lastly, concerning the intentional use of words as signs, we have noticed the following facts.

Talking birds—which happen to be the only animals whose vocal organs admit of uttering articulate sounds—show themselves capable of correctly using proper names, noun-substantives, adjectives, verbs, and appropriate phrases, although they do so by association alone, or without appreciation of grammatical structure. Words are to them vocal gestures, as immediately expressive of the logic of recepts as any other signs would be. Nevertheless, it is important to observe that this faculty of vocal gesticulation is the first phase of articulate speech in a growing child, is the last to disappear in the descending scale of idiocy, and is exhibited by talking birds in so considerable a degree that the animals even invent names (whether by making distinctive sounds, as a particular squeak for “nuts,” or by applying words to designate objects, as “half-past-two” for the name of the coachman)—such invention often clearly having an onomatopoetic origin, though likewise often wholly arbitrary.

I will now conclude this chapter by detailing evidence to show the extent to which, under favourable circumstances, young children will thus likewise invent arbitrary signs, which, however, for reasons already mentioned, are here almost invariably of an articulate kind. It would be easy to draw this evidence from sundry writers on the psychogenesis of children; but it will be sufficient to give a few quotations from an able writer who has already taken the trouble to collect the more remarkable instances which have been recorded of the fact in question. The writer to whom I allude is Mr. Horatio Hale, and the paper from which I quote is published in the Proceedings of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, vol. xxxv., 1886.

“In the year 1860 two children, twin boys, were born in a respectable family residing in a suburb of Boston. They were in part of German descent, their mother’s father having come from Germany to America at the age of seventeen; but the German language, we are told, was never spoken in the household. The children were so closely alike that their grandmother, who often came to see them, could only distinguish them by some coloured string or ribbon tied around the arm. As often happens in such cases, an intense affection existed between them, and they were constantly together. The remainder of their interesting story will be best told in the words of the writer, to whose enlightened zeal for science we are indebted for our knowledge of the facts.

“At the usual age these twins began to talk, but, strange to say, not their ‘mother-tongue.’ They had a language of their own, and no pains could induce them to speak anything else. It was in vain that a little sister, five years older than they, tried to make them speak their native language—as it would have been. They persistently refused to utter a syllable of English. Not even the usual first words, ‘papa,’ ‘mamma,’ ‘father,’ ‘mother,’ it is said, did they ever speak; and, said the lady who gave this information to the writer,—who was an aunt of the children, and whose home was with them,—they were never known during this interval to call their mother by that name. They had their own name for her, but never the English. In fact, though they had the usual affections, were rejoiced to see their father at his returning home each night, playing with him, &c., they would seem to have been otherwise completely taken up, absorbed with each other.... The children had not yet been to school; for, not being able to speak their ‘own English,’ it seemed impossible to send them from home. They thus passed the days, playing and talking together in their own speech, with all the liveliness and volubility of common children. Their accent was German—as it seemed to the family. They had regular words, a few of which the family learned sometimes to distinguish; as that, for example, for carriage, which, on hearing one pass in the street, they would exclaim out, and run to the window. This word for carriage, we are told in another place, was ‘ni-si-boo-a,’ of which, it is added, the syllables were sometimes so repeated that they made a much longer word.”

The next case is quoted by Mr. Hale from Dr. E. R. Hun, who recorded it in the Monthly Journal of Psychological Medicine, 1868.

“The subject of this observation is a girl aged four and a half years, sprightly, intelligent, and in good health. The mother observed, when she was two years old, that she was backward in speaking, and only used the words ‘papa’ and ‘mamma.’ After that she began to use words of her own invention, and though she understood readily what she said, never employed the words used by others. Gradually she enlarged her vocabulary until it has reached the extent described below. She has a brother eighteen months younger than herself, who has learned her language, so that they can talk freely together. He, however, seems to have adopted it only because he has more intercourse with her than the others; and in some instances he will use a proper word with his mother, and his sister’s word with her. She, however, persists in using only her own words, though her parents, who are uneasy about her peculiarity of speech, make great efforts to induce her to use proper words. As to the possibility of her having learned these words from others, it is proper to state that her parents are persons of cultivation, who use only the English language. The mother has learned French, but never uses the language in conversation. The domestics, as well as the nurses, speak English without any peculiarities, and the child has heard even less than usual of what is called baby-talk. Some of the words and phrases have a resemblance to the French; but it is certain that no person using that language has frequented the house, and it is doubtful whether the child has on any occasion heard it spoken. There seems to be no difficulty about the vocal organs. She uses her language readily and freely, and when she is with her brother they converse with great rapidity and fluency.

“Dr. Hun then gives the vocabulary, which, he states, was such as he had ‘been able at different times to compile from the child herself, and especially from the report of her mother.’ From this statement we may infer that the list probably did not include the whole number of words in this child-language. It comprises, in fact, only twenty-one distinct words, though many of these were used in a great variety of acceptations, indicated by the order in which they were arranged, or by compounding them in various ways....

“Three or four of the words, as Dr. Hun remarks, bear an evident resemblance to the French, and others might, by a slight change, be traced to that language. He was unable, it will be seen, to say positively that the girl had never heard the language spoken; and it seems not unlikely that, if not among the domestics, at least among the persons who visited them, there may have been one who amused herself, innocently enough, by teaching the child a few words of that tongue. It is, indeed, by no means improbable that the peculiar linguistic instinct may thus have been first aroused in the mind of the girl, when just beginning to speak. Among the words showing this resemblance are feu (pronounced, we are expressly told, like the French word), used to signify ‘fire, light, cigar, sun;’ too (the French ‘tout’), meaning ‘all, everything;’ and ne pa (whether pronounced as in French, or otherwise, we are not told), signifying ‘not.’ Petee-petee, the name given to the boy by his sister, is apparently the French ‘petit,’ little; and ma, ‘I,’ may be from the French ‘moi,’ ‘me.’ If, however, the child was really able to catch and remember so readily these foreign sounds at such an early age, and to interweave them into a speech of her own, it would merely show how readily and strongly in her case the language-making faculty was developed.

“Of words formed by imitation of sounds, the language shows barely a trace. The mewing of the cat evidently suggested the word mea, which signified both ‘cat’ and ‘furs.’ For the other vocables which make up this speech, no origin can be conjectured. We can merely notice that in some of the words the liking which children and some races of men have for the repetition of sounds is apparent. Thus we have migno-migno, signifying ‘water, wash, bath;’ go-go, ‘delicacies, as sugar, candy, or dessert,’ and waia-waiar, ‘black, darkness, or a negro.’ There is, as will be seen from these examples, no special tendency to the monosyllabic form. Gummigar, we are told, signifies ‘all the substantials of the table, such as bread, meat, vegetables, &c.;’ and the same word is used to designate the cook. The boy, it is added, does not use this word, but uses gna-migna, which the girl considers as a mistake. From which we may gather that even at their tender age the form of their language had become with them an object of thought; and we may infer, moreover, that the language was not invented solely by the girl, but that both the children contributed to frame it.

“Of miscellaneous words may be mentioned gar, ‘horse;’ deer, ‘money of any kind;’ beer, ‘literature, books, or school;’ peer, ‘ball;’ bau, ‘soldier, music;’ odo, ‘to send for, to go out, to take away;’ keh, ‘to soil;’ pa-ma, ‘to go to sleep, pillow, bed.’ The variety of acceptations which each word was capable of receiving is exemplified in many ways. Thus feu might become an adjective, as ne-pa-feu, ‘not warm.’ The verb odo had many meanings, according to its position or the words which accompanied it. Ma odo, ‘I (want to) go out;’ gar odo, ‘send for the horse;’ too odo, ‘all gone.’ Gaan signified God; and we are told—When it rains, the children often run to the window, and call out, Gaan odo migno-migno, feu odo, which means, ‘God take away the rain, and send the sun’—odo before the object meaning ‘to take away,’ and after the object, ‘to send.’ From this remark and example we learn, not merely that the language had—as all real languages must have—its rules of construction, but that these were sometimes different from the English rules. This also appears in the form mea waia-waiaw, ‘dark furs’ (literally, ‘furs dark’), where the adjective follows its substantive.

“The odd and unexpected associations which in all languages govern the meaning of words are apparent in this brief vocabulary. We can gather from it that the parents were Catholics, and punctual in church observances. The words papa and mamma were used separately in their ordinary sense; but when linked together in the compound term papa-mamma, they signified (according to the connection, we may presume), ‘church,’ ‘prayer-book,’ ‘cross,’ ‘priest,’ ‘to say their prayers.’ Bau was ‘soldier;’ but, we are told, from seeing the bishop in his mitre and vestments, thinking he was a soldier, they applied the word bau to him. Gar odo properly signified ‘send for the horse;’ but as the children frequently saw their father, when a carriage was wanted, write an order and send it to the stable, they came to use the same expression (gar odo) for pencil and paper.

“There is no appearance of inflection, properly speaking, in the language; and this is only what might be expected. Very young children rarely use inflected forms in any language. The English child of three or four years says, ‘Mary cup,’ for ‘Mary’s cup;’ and ‘Dog bite Harry’ will represent every tense and mood. It is by no means improbable that, if the children had continued to use their own language for a few years longer, inflections would have been developed in it, as we see that peculiar forms of construction and novel compounds—which are the germs of inflection—had already made their appearance.

“These two recorded instances of child-languages have led to further inquiries, which, though pursued only for a brief period, and in a limited field, have shown that cases of this sort are by no means uncommon.”

The author then proceeds to furnish other corroborative instances; but the above quotations are, I think, sufficient for my purposes.[88] For they show (1) that the spontaneous and to all appearances arbitrary word-making, which is more or less observable in all children when first beginning to speak, may, under favourable circumstances, proceed to an astonishing degree of fulness and efficiency; (2) that although the words, or articulate signs, thus invented are sometimes of a plainly onomatopoetic origin, as a general rule they are not so; (3) that the words are far from being always monosyllabic; (4) that they admit of becoming sufficiently numerous and varied to constitute a not inefficient language, without as yet having advanced to the inflexional stage; and (5) that the syntax of this language presents obvious points of resemblance to that of the gesture-languages of mankind previously considered.