RELATION OF TONE AND GESTURE TO WORDS.

We have already seen that spoken language differs from the language of tone and gesture in being, as a system of signs, more purely conventional. This means that for semiotic purposes articulation is a higher product of mental evolution than either gesticulation or intonation. It also means that as an instrument of such evolution articulate speech is more efficient. The latter point is an important one, so I shall proceed to deal with it at some length.

As noticed in a previous chapter, our system of coinage, bank-notes, and bills of sale is a more convenient system of signifying value of labour or of property, than is the more primitive and less conventional system of actually exchanging the labour or bartering the property; and our system of arithmetic is similarly more convenient for the purpose of calculation than is the more natural system of counting on the fingers. But not only are these more conventional systems more convenient; they are likewise conducive to a higher development of business transactions on the one hand, and of calculation on the other. In the absence of such an improved system of signs, it would be impossible to conduct as many or such intricate transactions and calculations as we do conduct. Similarly with speech as distinguished from gesture. Words, like gestures, are signs of thoughts and feelings; but in being more conventional they are more pure as signs, and so admit of being wrought up into a much more convenient or efficient system, while at the same time they become more constructive in their influence upon ideation. The great superiority of words over gestures in both these respects may most easily be shown by the use of a few examples.

I open Colonel Mallery’s book at random, and find the following as the sign for a barking dog:—

“Pass the arched hand forward from the lower part of the face, to illustrate elongated nose and mouth; then, with both forefingers extended, remaining fingers and thumbs closed, place them upon either side of the lower jaw, pointing upwards, to show lower canines, at the same time accompanying the gesture with an expression of withdrawing the lips so as to show the teeth snarling; then, with the fingers of the right hand extended and separated throw them quickly forward and slightly upward (voice or talking).”

Here, be it observed, how elaborate is this pictorial method of designating a dog barking as compared with the use of two words; and after all it is not so efficient, for the signs were misunderstood by the Indians to whom they were shown—the meaning assigned to them being that of a growling bear. What a large expenditure of thought is required for the devising and the interpretation of such ideograms! and, when they are formed and understood, how cumbersome do they appear if contrasted with words! Colonel Mallery, indeed, says of gesture-language that, “when highly cultivated, its rapidity on familiar subjects exceeds that of speech, and approaches to that of thought itself;” but, besides the important limitation “on familiar subjects,” he adds,—“at the same time it must be admitted that great increase in rapidity is chiefly obtained by the system of preconcerted abbreviations before explained, and by the adoption of arbitrary forms, in which naturalness is sacrificed and conventionality established.”[89]

But besides being cumbersome, gesture-language labours under the more serious defect of not being so precise, and the still more serious defect of not being so serviceable as spoken language in the development of abstraction. We have previously seen how words, being more or less purely conventional as signs, are not tied down, as it were, to material objects; although they have doubtless all originated as expressive of sensuous perceptions, not being necessarily ideographic, they may easily pass into signs of general ideas, and end by becoming expressive of the highest abstractions. “Words are thus the easily manipulated counters of thought,” and so, to change the metaphor, are the progeny of generalization. But gestures, in being always more or less ideographic, are much more closely chained to sensuous perceptions; and, therefore, it is only when exercised on “familiar subjects” that they can fairly be said to rival words as a means of expression, while they can never soar into the thinner medium of high abstraction. No sign-talker, with any amount of time at his disposal, could translate into the language of gesture a page of Kant.

Let it be observed that I am here speaking of gesture-language as we actually find it. What the latent capabilities of such language may be is another question, and one with reference to which speculation is scarcely calculated to prove profitable. Nevertheless, as the subject is not altogether without importance in the present connection, I may quote the following brief passage from a recent essay by Professor Whitney. After remarking that “the voice has won to itself the chief and almost exclusive part in communication,” he adds:—

“This is not in the least because of any closer connection of the thinking apparatus with the muscles that act to produce audible sounds than with those that act to produce visible motions; not because there are natural uttered names for conceptions, any more than natural gestured names. It is simply a case of ‘survival of the fittest,’ or analogous to the process by which iron has become the exclusive material of swords, and gold and silver for money: because, namely, experience has shown this to be the material best adapted to this special use. The advantages of the voice are numerous and obvious. There is first its economy, as employing a mechanism that is available for little else, and leaving free for other purposes those indispensable instruments, the hands. Then there is its superior perceptibleness; its nice differences impress themselves upon the sense at a distance at which visible motions become indistinct; they are not hidden by intervening objects; they allow the eyes of the listeners as well as the hands of the speaker to be employed in other useful work; they are as plain in the dark as in the light; and they are able to catch and command the attention of one who is not to be reached in any other way.”[90]

To these advantages we may add that words, in being as we have seen less essentially ideographic than gestures, must always have been more available for purposes of abstract expression. We must remember how greatly gesture-language, as it now appears in its most elaborate form, is indebted to the psychologically constructing influence of spoken language; and, thus viewed, it is a significant fact that even now gesture language is not able to convey ideas of any high degree of abstraction. Still, I doubt not it would be possible to construct a wholly conventional system of gestures which should answer to, or correspond with, all the abstract words and inflections of a spoken language; and that then the one sign-system might replace the other—just as the sign-system of writing is able similarly to replace that of speech. This, however, is a widely different thing from supposing that such a perfect system of gesture-signs could have grown by a process of natural development; and, looking to the essentially ideographic character of such signs, I greatly question whether, even under circumstances of the strongest necessity (such as would have arisen if man, or his progenitors, had been unable to articulate), the language of gesture could have been developed into anything approaching a substitute for the language of words.

It may tend to throw some light on this hypothetical question—which is of some importance for us—if we consider briefly the psychological status of wholly uneducated deaf-mutes; for although it is true that their case is not fairly parallel to that of a human race destitute of the faculty of speech (seeing that the individual deaf-mute does not find any elaborate system of signs prepared for him by the exertions of dumb ancestors, as would doubtless have been the case under the circumstances supposed), still, on the other hand, and as a compensating consideration, we must remember that the individual deaf-mute not only inherits a human brain, the structure of which has been elaborated by the speech of his ancestors, but is also surrounded by a society the whole structure of whose ideation is dependent upon speech. So far, therefore, as the complex conditions of the question admit of being disentangled, the case of uneducated deaf-mutes living in a society of speaking persons affords the best criterion we can obtain of the prospect which gesture-language would have had as a means of thought-formation in the human race, supposing this race to have been destitute of the faculty of speech. To show, therefore, the psychological condition of an individual thus circumstanced, I will quote a brief passage from a lecture of my own, which was given before the British Association in 1878.

“It often happens that deaf and dumb children of poor parents are so far neglected that they are never taught finger-language, or any other system of signs, whereby to converse with their fellow-creatures. The consequence, of course, is that these unfortunate children grow up in a state of intellectual isolation, which is almost as complete as that of any of the lower animals. Now, when such a child grows up and falls into the hands of some competent teacher, it may of course be educated, and is then in a position to record its experiences when in its state of intellectual isolation. I have therefore obtained all the evidence I can as to the mental condition of such persons, and I find that their testimony is perfectly uniform. In the absence of language, the mind is able to think in the logic of feelings; but can never rise to any ideas of higher abstraction than those which the logic of feelings supplies. The uneducated deaf-mutes have the same notions of right and wrong, cause and effect, and so on, as we have already seen that animals and idiots possess. They always think in the most concrete forms, as shown by their telling us (when educated) that so long as they were uneducated they always thought in pictures. Moreover, that they cannot attain to ideas of even the lowest degree of abstraction, is shown by the fact that in no one instance have I been able to find evidence of a deaf-mute who, prior to education, had evolved for himself any form of supernaturalism. And this, I think, is remarkable, not only because we might fairly suppose that some rude form of fetishism, or ghost-worship, would not be too abstract a system for the unaided mind of a civilized man to elaborate; but also because the mind in this case is not wholly unaided. On the contrary, the friends of the deaf-mute usually do their utmost to communicate to his mind some idea of whatever form of religion they may happen to possess. Yet it is uniformly found that, in the absence of language, no idea of this kind can be communicated. For instance, the Rev. S. Smith tells me that one of his pupils, previous to education, supposed the Bible to have been printed by a printing-press in the sky, which was worked by printers of enormous strength—this being the only interpretation the deaf-mute could assign to the gestures whereby his parents had sought to make him understand, that they believed the Bible to contain a revelation from a God of power who lives in heaven. Similarly, Mr. Graham Bell informs me of another, though similar case, in which the deaf-mute supposed the object of going to church to be that of doing obeisance to the clergy.”

To the same effect Mr. Tylor says, in the passage already quoted, that deaf-mutes cannot form ideas of any save the lowest degree of abstraction, and further on he gives some interesting illustrations of the fact. Thus, for instance, a deaf-mute who had been educated said that before his instruction his fingers had taught him his numbers, and that when the number was over ten, he made notches on a piece of wood. Here we see the inherited capability of numerical computation united with the crudest form of numerical notation, or symbolism. And so in all other cases of deaf-mutes before instruction; they present an inherited capacity of abstract ideation, and yet do not find their sign-language of much service in assisting them to develop this capacity: it is too essentially pictorial to go far beyond the region of sensuous perception.

Thus, on the whole, although I deem it profitless to speculate on what the language of gestures might have become in the absence of speech, I think it is highly questionable whether it would have reached any considerable level of excellence; and I think it is not improbable that, in the absence of articulation, the human race would not have made much psychological advance upon the anthropoid apes. For we must never forget the important fact that thought is quite as much the effect as it is the cause of language, whether of speech or of gesture; and seeing how inferior gesture is to speech as a system of language, especially in regard to precision and abstraction, I do not think it probable that, in the absence of speech, gesture alone would have supplied the exact and delicate conditions which are essential to the growth of any highly elaborate ideation.

The next point which I desire to consider is that, although gesture language is not in my opinion so efficient a means of developing abstract ideation as is spoken language, it must nevertheless have been of much service in assisting the growth of the latter, and so must have been of much service in laying the foundation of the whole mental fabric which has been constructed by the faculty of speech. Whether we look to young children, to savages, or in a lesser degree to idiots, we find that gesture plays an important part in assisting speech; and in all cases where a vocabulary is scanty or imperfect, gesture is sure to be employed as the natural means of supplementing speech. Therefore, supposing speech to have had a natural mode of genesis, it is, in my opinion, perfectly certain that its origin and development must have been greatly assisted by gesture. In subsequent chapters I will adduce direct evidence upon this head. At present I wish to draw attention to another point. This is, that although gesture psychologically precedes speech, when once articulate sounds have been devised for the expression of ideas, the faculty of using these articulate sounds as signs of their corresponding ideas does not involve the presence of a higher psychological development than does the faculty of using tones and gestures for the conveyance of similar ideas.

As already shown, it is a matter of observable fact that the only animals which are able to articulate are able to employ nouns, adjectives, and verbs, as expressive of concrete ideas; while animals which are not able to articulate similarly employ tones, and in many cases are able to understand words. Therefore, it is a matter of observable fact that the psychological level required for using tones as vocal gestures, understanding words as expressive of simple ideas, and even uttering words with a correct appreciation of their meaning, is a level not higher than that which obtains in some existing animals.

If we turn from animals to man, we find the same truth exemplified. For in the descending grade of human intelligence as exhibited by idiots, we see that while the use of simple gestures as signs occurs in idiots somewhat too low in the scale to utter any articulate words, nevertheless the interval between such an idiot and one capable of uttering the simplest words is a short interval. Again, in the ascending grade of human intelligence, as exhibited by the growing child, we find the same observation to apply; although, on account of some children requiring a longer time than others to develop the mechanique of articulation, we might by considering their cases alone over-estimate the psychological interval which separates gesticulation from speech.[91]

Thus all the evidence at our disposal goes to show that, while the language of tone and gesture is distinctive, in its least-developed form, of a comparatively low grade of mental evolution, in all but its least-developed form it is not thus distinctive; for as soon as the language of gesture becomes in the smallest degree conventional, so soon is the psychological level sufficiently high to admit of the use of articulate sounds, vocal gestures, or words expressive of concrete ideas—always supposing that these are already supplied by the psychological environment. Whether or not articulate sounds are then actually made depends, of course, on conditions of a purely anatomical kind.

And here it may be as well to remember the point previously mentioned, namely, that although no existing quadrumanous animal has shown itself able to articulate, we may be quite sure that this fact depends on anatomical as distinguished from psychological conditions; for not only are the higher monkeys much more intelligent than talking birds, but they are likewise much more imitative of human gestures; and for both these reasons they are the animals which, more than any others, would be psychologically apt to learn the use of words from man, were it not for some accident of anatomy which stands in the way of their uttering them. And in this connection it is worth while to bear in mind the remark of Professor Huxley, that an imperceptibly small difference of innervation, or other anatomical character of the parts concerned, might determine or prevent the faculty of making articulate sounds.

Looking to the direction in which my argument is tending, this appears to be the most convenient place to dispose of a criticism that is not unlikely to arise. It may be suggested, by way of objection to my views, that if all the foregoing discussion is accepted as paving the way to the conclusion that human intelligence has been developed from animal intelligence, the discussion itself is proving too much. For, if animals possess in so conspicuous a degree the germ of the sign-making faculty, why, it may be asked, has this germ been developed only in the case of our own ancestors?

In answer to this question I must begin by reminding the reader, that during the course of the present chapter I have endeavoured to make good the following positions. First, that in the absence of articulation, or of the power of forming verbal signs, the faculty of language is not likely to have made much advance in the animal kingdom. Second, seeing that words are essentially less ideographic, as well as more precise than gestures—and, therefore, more available for the purpose both of expressing and constructing abstract ideas,—I do not think it is probable that in the absence of articulation the human race would have made much psychological advance upon the anthropoid apes. Third, that although gesture language is not so efficient a means of developing abstract ideation as is articulate language, it must nevertheless have been of much service in assisting the growth of the latter; so that where the power of articulation was present, both systems of sign-making would have co-operated in the development of abstract thought: in the presence of articulation, gestures would themselves gain additional influence in this respect.

From these data there follows the important consequence that only from some species of ape which possessed the requisite anatomical conditions could the human mind have taken its origin. In other words, the above considerations are adduced to show the futility of arguing that, if the human mind has been developed in virtue of the sign-making faculty as this is exemplified in speech, we might therefore have expected that from the same starting-point (namely, the anthropoid apes) some comparably well-elaborated mind should have been developed in virtue of the sign-making faculty as this is exemplified in gesture. I maintain that we can see very good reason why (even if we suppose all the other conditions parallel) the branch of the Primates which presented the power—or the potentiality—of articulation should have been able to rise in the psychological scale, as we evolutionists believe that it has risen; while all the companion branches, being restricted in their language to gesture, should have remained in their original condition.

To this it may be answered that the talking birds might be looked to as the possible—or even probable—rivals of articulating mammals in respect of potential intelligence; and, therefore, that according to the views which I am advocating, it might have been expected that there should now be existing upon the earth some race of bird-like creatures ready to dispute the supremacy of man.

This, however, would be a very shallow criticism. The veriest tyro in natural science is aware that, if there is any truth at all in the general theory of descent, we are everywhere compelled to see that the conditions which determine the development of a species in any direction are always of a complex character. Why one species should remain constant through inconceivably enormous lapses of geological time, while others pass through a rich and varied history of upward change—why this should be so in any case we cannot say. We can only say, in general terms, that the conditions which in any case determine upward growth or stationary type are too numerous and complex to admit of our unravelling them in detail. Now, if this is the case even as between the structures of allied types—where there may be nothing to indicate the difference of the conditions which have led to the difference of results,—much more must it be the case between animals so unlike as a parrot and an ape. I think he would be a bold man who would affirm that even if the orang-outang had been able to articulate, this ape would necessarily, or probably, have become the progenitor of another human race. Absurd, then, it is to argue that, if the human race sprang from some other species of man-like creature, and became human in virtue of the power of articulation plus all the other conditions external and internal, therefore the talking birds ought to have developed some similar progeny, merely because they happen to satisfy one of these conditions.

Take a fair analogy. Flying is no doubt a very useful faculty to all animals which present it, and it is shown to be mechanically possible in animals so unlike one another as Insects, Reptiles, Birds, and Mammals. We might therefore suppose that, from the fact of bats being able to fly, many other mammals should have acquired the art. But, as they have not done so, we can only say that the reason is because the complex conditions leading to the growth of this faculty have been satisfied in the bats alone. Similarly “the flight of thought” is a most useful faculty, and it has only been developed in man. One of the conditions required for its development—power of articulation—occurs also in a few birds. But to argue from this that these birds ought to have developed the faculty of thought, would be just as unwarrantable as to argue that some other mammals ought to have developed the faculty of flight, seeing that they all present the most important of the needful conditions—to wit, bones and muscles actuated by nerves. Indeed, the argument would be even more unwarranted than this; for we can see plainly enough that the most important conditions required for the development of thought are of a psychological and social kind—those which are merely anatomical being but of secondary value, even though, as I have endeavoured to indicate, they are none the less indispensable.

In short, I am not endeavouring to argue that the influence of articulation on the development of thought is in any way magical. Therefore, the mere fact that certain birds are able to make articulate sounds in itself furnishes no more difficulty to my argument than the fact that they are able to imitate a variety of other sounds. For the psychological use of articulate sounds can only be developed in the presence of many other and highly complex conditions, few if any of which can be shown to obtain among birds. If any existing species of anthropoid ape had proved itself capable of imitating articulate sounds, there might have been a little more force in the apparent difficulty; though even in that case the argument would not have been so strong as in the above parallel with regard to the great exception furnished by bats in the matter of flight.

So far, then, as we have yet gone, I do not anticipate that opponents wall find it prudent to take a stand. Seeing that monkeys use their voices more freely than any other animals in the way of intentionally expressive intonation; that all the higher animals make use of gesture signs; that denotative words are (psychologically considered) nothing more than vocal gestures; that, if there is any psychological interval between simple gesticulation and denotative articulation, the interval is demonstrably bridged in the case alike of talking birds, infants, and idiots;—seeing all these things, it is evident that opponents of the doctrine of mental evolution must take their stand, not on the faculty of articulation, but on that of speech. They must maintain that the mere power of using denotative words implies no real advance upon the power of using denotative gestures; that it therefore establishes nothing to prove the possibility, or even the probability, of articulation arising out of gesticulation; that their position can only be attacked by showing how a sign-making faculty, whether expressed in gesticulation or in articulation, can have become developed into the faculty of predication; that, in short, the fortress of their argument consists, not in the power which man displays of using denotative words, but in his power of constructing predicative propositions. This central position, therefore, we must next attack. But, before doing so, I will close the present chapter by clearly defining the exact meanings of certain terms as they will afterwards be used by me.

By the indicative stage of language, or sign-making, I will understand the earliest stage that is exhibited by intentional sign-making. This stage corresponds to the divisions marked four and six in my representative scheme (p. 88), and, as we have now so fully seen, is common to animals and human beings. Indicative signs, then, whether in the form of gestures, tones, or words, are intentionally significant. For the most part they are expressive of emotional states, and simple desires. When, for example, an infant holds out its arms to be taken by the nurse, or points to objects in order to be taken to them, it cannot be said to be naming anything; yet it is clearly indicating its wants. Infants also cry intentionally, or as a partly conventional sign to show discomfort, whether bodily or mental.[92] They will likewise at an early age learn wholly conventional signs whereby to indicate—though not yet to name—particular feelings, objects, qualities, and actions. My son, for instance, was taught by his nurse to shake his head for “No,” nod it for “Yes,” and wave his hand for “Ta-ta,” or leave-taking: all these indicative gestures he performed well and appropriately when eight and a half months old. This indicative stage of language, or sign-making, is universally exhibited by all the more intelligent animals, although not to so great an extent as in infants. The parrot which depresses its head to invite a scratching, the dog which begs before a wash-stand, the cat which pulls one’s clothes to solicit help for her kittens in distress—all these animals are making what I call indicative signs.

Following upon the indicative stage of language there is what I have called denotative (7 A in the scheme on p. 88). This likewise occurs both in animals and in children when first beginning to speak—talking birds, for instance, being able to learn and correctly use names as notÆ, or marks, of particular objects, qualities, and actions. Yet such notÆ—be they verbal or otherwise—thus learned by special association, are not, strictly speaking, names. By the use of such a sign the talking bird merely affixes a vocal mark to a particular object, quality, or action: it does not extend the sign to any other similar objects, qualities, or actions of the same class; and, therefore, by its use of that sign does not really connote anything of the particular object, quality, or action which it denotes.

So much, then, for signs as denotative. By signs as connotative, I mean signs which are in any measure attributive. If we call a dog Jack, that is a denotative name: it does not attribute any quality as belonging to that dog. But if we call the animal “Smut,” or “Swift,” or by any other word serving to imply some quality which is distinctive of that dog, we are thereby connoting of the dog the fact of his presenting such a quality. Connotative names, therefore, differ from denotative, in that they are not merely notÆ or marks of the things named, but also imply some character, or characters, as belonging to those things. And the character, or characters, which they thus imply, by the mere fact of implication, assign the things named to a group: hence these connotative names are con-notÆ, or the marking of one thing along with another—i.e. express an act of nominative classification. This is an important fact to remember, because, as we shall afterwards find, all connotative terms arise from the need which we experience of thus verbally classifying our perceptions of likeness or analogy. Moreover, it is of even still more importance to note that such verbal classification may be either receptual or conceptual. For instance, the first word (after Mamma, Papa, &c.) that one of my children learnt to say was the word Star. Soon after having acquired this word, she extended its signification to other brightly shining objects, such as candles, gas-lights, &c. Here there was plainly a perception of likeness or analogy, and hence the term Star, from having been originally denotative, began to be also connotative. But this connotative extension of the term must evidently have been what I term receptual. For it is impossible to suppose that at that tender age the child was capable of thinking about the term as a term, or of setting the term before the mind as an object of thought, distinct from the object which it served to name. Therefore, we can only suppose that the extension of this originally denotative name (whereby it began to be connotative) resembled the case of a similar extension mentioned in the last chapter, where my parrot raised its originally denotative sign for a particular dog to an incipiently connotative value, by applying that sign to all other dogs. That is to say, both in the case of the child and the bird, connotation within these moderate limits was rendered possible by means of receptual ideation alone. But, with advancing age and developing powers, the human mind attains to conceptual ideation; and it is then in a position to constitute the names which it uses themselves objects of thought. The consequence is that connotation may then no longer represent the merely spontaneous expression of likeness receptually perceived: it may become the intentional expression of likeness conceptually thought out. In the mind of an astronomer the word Star presents a very different mass of connotative meaning from that which it presented to the child, who first extended it from a bright point in the sky to a candle shining in a room. And the reason of this great difference is, that the conceptual thought of the astronomer, besides having greatly added to the connotation, has also greatly improved it. The only common quality which the name served to connote when used by the child was that of brightness; but, although the astronomer is not blind to this point of resemblance between a star and a candle, he disregards it in the presence of fuller knowledge, and will not apply the term even to objects so much more closely resembling a star as a comet or a meteor. Now, this greater accuracy of connotation, quite as much as the greater mass of it, has been reached by the astronomer in virtue of his powers of conceptual thought. It is because he has thought about his names as names that he has thus been able with so much accuracy to define their meanings—i.e. to limit their connotations in some directions, as well as to extend them in others.

Obviously, therefore, we are here in the presence of a great distinction, and one which needs itself to be in some way connoted. It is, indeed, but a special exhibition of the one great distinction which I have carried through the whole course of this work—namely, that between ideation as receptual and conceptual. But it is none the less important to designate this special exhibition of it by means of well-defined terms; and I can only express surprise that such should not already have been done by logicians. The terms which I shall use are the following.

By a connotative name I will understand the connotative extension of a denotative name, whether such extension be great or small, and, therefore, whether it be extended receptually or conceptually. But for the exclusively conceptual extension of a name I will reserve the convenient term denomination. This term, like those previously defined, was introduced by the schoolmen, and by them was used as synonymous with connotation. But it is evident that they (and all subsequent writers) only had before their minds the case of conceptual connotation, and hence they felt no need of the distinction which for present purposes it is obviously imperative to draw. Now, I do not think that any two more appropriate words could be found whereby to express this distinction than are these words connotation and denomination, if for the purposes of my own subsequent analysis I am allowed to define them in accordance with their etymology. For, when so defined, a connotative sign will mean a classificatory sign, whether conferred receptually or conceptually; while a denominative sign will mean a connotative sign which has been conferred as such with a truly conceptual intention—i.e. with an introspective appreciation of its function as all that logicians understand by a name.

I will now sum up these sundry definitions.

By an indicative sign I will understand a significant tone or gesture intentionally expressive of a mental state; but yet not in any sense of the word denominative.

By a denotative sign I will understand the receptual marking of particular objects, qualities, actions, &c.

By a connotative sign I will understand the classificatory attribution of qualities to objects named by the sign, whether such attribution be due to receptual or to conceptual operations of the mind.

By a denominative sign I will understand a connotative sign consciously bestowed as such, or with a full conceptual appreciation of its office and purpose as a name.

By a predicative sign I will mean a proposition, or the conceptual apposition of two denominative terms, expressive of the speaker’s intention to connote something of the one by means of the other.