Indeed I cannot; but I see that you have advanced; for you now admit that there is a correctness of names, and that not everyone can give a name. But what is the nature of this correctness or truth, you must learn from the Sophists, of whom your brother Callias has bought his reputation for wisdom rather dearly; and since they require to be paid, you, having no money, had better learn from him at secondhand. “Well, but I have just given up Protagoras, and I should be inconsistent in going to learn of him.” Then if you reject him you may learn of the poets, and in particular of Homer, who distinguishes the names given by Gods and men to the same things, as in the verse about the river God who fought with Hephaestus, “whom the Gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander”; or in the lines in which he mentions the bird which the Gods call “Chalcis,” and men “Cymindis”; or the hill which men call “Batieia,” and the Gods “Myrinna’s Tomb.” Here is an important lesson; for the Gods must of course be right in their use of names. And this is not the only truth about philology which may be learnt from Homer. Does he not say that Hector’s son had two names—
“Hector called him Scamandrius, but the others Astyanax”?
Now, if the men called him Astyanax, is it not probable that the other name was conferred by the women? And which are more likely to be right—the wiser or the less wise, the men or the women? Homer evidently agreed with the men: and of the name given by them he offers an explanation;—the boy was called Astyanax (“king of the city”), because his father saved the city. The names Astyanax and Hector, moreover, are really the same—the one means a king, and the other is “a holder or possessor.” For as the lion’s whelp may be called a lion, or the horse’s foal a foal, so the son of a king may be called a king. But if the horse had produced a calf, then that would be called a calf. Whether the syllables of a name are the same or not makes no difference, provided the meaning is retained. For example; the names of letters, whether vowels or consonants, do not correspond to their sounds, with the exception of ε, υ, ο, ω. The name Beta has three letters added to the sound—and yet this does not alter the sense of the word, or prevent the whole name having the value which the legislator intended. And the same may be said of a king and the son of a king, who like other animals resemble each other in the course of nature; the words by which they are signified may be disguised, and yet amid differences of sound the etymologist may recognise the same notion, just as the physician recognises the power of the same drugs under different disguises of colour and smell. Hector and Astyanax have only one letter alike, but they have the same meaning; and Agis (leader) is altogether different in sound from Polemarchus (chief in war), or Eupolemus (good warrior); but the two words present the same idea of leader or general, like the words Iatrocles and Acesimbrotus, which equally denote a physician. The son succeeds the father as the foal succeeds the horse, but when, out of the course of nature, a prodigy occurs, and the offspring no longer resembles the parent, then the names no longer agree. This may be illustrated by the case of Agamemnon and his son Orestes, of whom the former has a name significant of his patience at the siege of Troy; while the name of the latter indicates his savage, man-of-the-mountain nature. Atreus again, for his murder of Chrysippus, and his cruelty to Thyestes, is rightly named Atreus, which, to the eye of the etymologist, is ἀτηρὸς (destructive), ἀτειρὴς (stubborn), ἄτρεστος (fearless); and Pelops is ὁ τὰ πέλας ὁρῶν (he who sees what is near only), because in his eagerness to win Hippodamia, he was unconscious of the remoter consequences which the murder of Myrtilus would entail upon his race. The name Tantalus, if slightly changed, offers two etymologies; either ἀπὸ τῆς τοῦ λίθου ταλαντείας, or ἀπὸ τοῦ ταλάντατον εἶναι, signifying at once the hanging of the stone over his head in the world below, and the misery which he brought upon his country. And the name of his father, Zeus, Διὸς, Ζηνὸς, has an excellent meaning, though hard to be understood, because really a sentence which is divided into two parts (Ζεὺς, Διός). For he, being the lord and king of all, is the author of our being, and in him all live: this is implied in the double form, Διὸς, Ζηνὸς, which being put together and interpreted is δι’ ὃν ζῇ πάντα. There may, at first sight, appear to be some irreverence in calling him the son of Cronos, who is a proverb for stupidity; but the meaning is that Zeus himself is the son of a mighty intellect; ἀρόνος, quasi κόρος, not in the sense of a youth, but quasi τὸ καθαρὸν καὶ ἀκήρατον τοῦ νοῦ, which in turn is begotten of Uranus, who is so called ἀπὸ τοῦ ὁρᾶν τὰ ἄνω, from looking upwards; which, as philosophers say, is the way to have a pure mind. The earlier portion of Hesiod’s genealogy has escaped my memory, or I would try more conclusions of the same sort. “You talk like an oracle.” I caught the infection from Euthyphro, who gave me a long lecture which began at dawn, and has not only entered into my ears, but filled my soul, and my intention is to yield to the inspiration today; and tomorrow I will be exorcised by some priest or sophist. “Go on; I am anxious to hear the rest.” Now that we have a general notion, how shall we proceed? What names will afford the most crucial test of natural fitness? Those of heroes and ordinary men are often deceptive, because they are patronymics or expressions of a wish; let us try gods and demigods. Gods are so called, ἀπὸ τοῦ θεῖν, from the verb “to run”; because the sun, moon, and stars run about the heaven; and they being the original gods of the Hellenes, as they still are of the Barbarians, their name is given to all Gods. The demons are the golden race of Hesiod, and by golden he means not literally golden, but good; and they are called demons, quasi δαήμονες, which in old Attic was used for δαίμονες—good men are well said to become δαίμονες when they die, because they are knowing. Ἥρως is the same word as ἄρως: “the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair”; or perhaps they were a species of sophists or rhetoricians, and so called ἀπὸ τοῦ ἐρωτᾶν, or εέρειν, from their habit of spinning questions; for εἴρειν is equivalent to λέγειν. I get all this from Euthyphro; and now a new and ingenious idea comes into my mind, and, if I am not careful, I shall be wiser than I ought to be by tomorrow’s dawn. My idea is, that we may put in and pull out letters at pleasure and alter the accents (as, for example, Διὶ φίλος may be turned into Δίφιλος), and we may make words into sentences and sentences into words. The name ἄνθρωπος is a case in point, for a letter has been omitted and the accent changed; the original meaning being ὁ ἀναθρῶν ἃ ὄπωπεν—he who looks up at what he sees. Ψυχὴ may be thought to be the reviving, or refreshing, or animating principle—ἡ ἀναψύχουσα τὸ σῶμα; but I am afraid that Euthyphro and his disciples will scorn this derivation, and I must find another: shall we identify the soul with the “ordering mind” of Anaxagoras, and say that ψυχὴ, quasi φυσέχη = ἣ φύσιν ἄχει or ὀχεῖ?—this might easily be refined into ψυχὴ. “That is a more artistic etymology.”
After ψυχὴ follows σῶμα; this, by a slight permutation, may be either = (1) the “grave” of the soul, or (2) may mean “that by which the soul signifies (σημαίνει) her wishes.” But more probably, the word is Orphic, and simply denotes that the body is the place of ward in which the soul suffers the penalty of sin—ἐν ᾧ σώζεται. “I should like to hear some more explanations of the names of the Gods, like that excellent one of Zeus.” The truest names of the Gods are those which they give themselves; but these are unknown to us. Less true are those by which we propitiate them, as men say in prayers, “May he graciously receive any name by which I call him.” And to avoid offence, I should like to let them know beforehand that we are not presuming to enquire about them, but only about the names which they usually bear. Let us begin with Hestia. What did he mean who gave the name Hestia? “That is a very difficult question.” O, my dear Hermogenes, I believe that there was a power of philosophy and talk among the first inventors of names, both in our own and in other languages; for even in foreign words a principle is discernible. Hestia is the same with ἐσία, which is an old form of οὐσία, and means the first principle of things: this agrees with the fact that to Hestia the first sacrifices are offered. There is also another reading—ὠσία, which implies that “pushing” (ὠθοῦν) is the first principle of all things. And here I seem to discover a delicate allusion to the flux of Heracleitus—that antediluvian philosopher who cannot walk twice in the same stream; and this flux of his may accomplish yet greater marvels. For the names Cronos and Rhea cannot have been accidental; the giver of them must have known something about the doctrine of Heracleitus. Moreover, there is a remarkable coincidence in the words of Hesiod, when he speaks of Oceanus, “the origin of Gods”; and in the verse of Orpheus, in which he describes Oceanus espousing his sister Tethys. Tethys is nothing more than the name of a spring—τὸ διαττώμενον καὶ ἠθούμενον. Poseidon is ποσίδεσμος, the chain of the feet, because you cannot walk on the sea—the ε is inserted by way of ornament; or perhaps the name may have been originally πολλείδων, meaning, that the God knew many things (πολλὰ εἰδώς): he may also be the shaker, ἀπὸ τοῦ σείειν—in this case, π and δ have been added. Pluto is connected with πλοῦτος, because wealth comes out of the earth; or the word may be a euphemism for Hades, which is usually derived ἀπὸ τοῦ ἀειδοῦς, because the God is concerned with the invisible. But the name Hades was really given him from his knowing (εἰδέναι) all good things. Men in general are foolishly afraid of him, and talk with horror of the world below from which no one may return. The reason why his subjects never wish to come back, even if they could, is that the God enchains them by the strongest of spells, namely by the desire of virtue, which they hope to obtain by constant association with him. He is the perfect and accomplished Sophist and the great benefactor of the other world; for he has much more than he wants there, and hence he is called Pluto or the rich. He will have nothing to do with the souls of men while in the body, because he cannot work his will with them so long as they are confused and entangled by fleshly lusts. Demeter is the mother and giver of food—ἡ διδοῦσα μήτηρ τῆς ἐδωδῆς. Here is ἐρατή τις, or perhaps the legislator may have been thinking of the weather, and has merely transposed the letters of the word ἀήρ. Pherephatta, that word of awe, is φερεπάφα, which is only an euphonious contraction of ἡ τοῦ φερομένου ἐφαπτομένη—all things are in motion, and she in her wisdom moves with them, and the wise God Hades consorts with her—there is nothing very terrible in this, any more than in the her other appellation Persephone, which is also significant of her wisdom (σοφή). Apollo is another name, which is supposed to have some dreadful meaning, but is susceptible of at least four perfectly innocent explanations. First, he is the purifier or purger or absolver (ἀπολούων); secondly, he is the true diviner, Ἁπλῶς, as he is called in the Thessalian dialect (ἁπλῶς = ἁπλοῦς, sincere); thirdly, he is the archer (ἀεὶ βάλλων), always shooting; or again, supposing α to mean ἃμα or ὃμου, Apollo becomes equivalent to ἃμα πολῶν, which points to both his musical and his heavenly attributes; for there is a “moving together” alike in music and in the harmony of the spheres. The second λ is inserted in order to avoid the ill-omened sound of destruction. The Muses are so called—ἀπὸ τοῦ μῶσθαι. The gentle Leto or Letho is named from her willingness (ἐθελήμων), or because she is ready to forgive and forget (λήθη). Artemis is so called from her healthy well-balanced nature, διὰ τὸ ἀρτεμὲς, or as ἀρετῆς ἵστωρ; or as a lover of virginity, ἄροτον μισήσασα. One of these explanations is probably true—perhaps all of them. Dionysus is ἁ διδοὺς τὸν οἶνον, and οἶνος is quasi οἰόνους because wine makes those think (οἴεσθαι) that they have a mind (νοῦς) who have none. The established derivation of Ἀφροδίτη διὰ τὴν τοῦ ἀφροῦ γένεσιν may be accepted on the authority of Hesiod. Again, there is the name of Pallas, or Athene, which we, who are Athenians, must not forget. Pallas is derived from armed dances—ὐπὸ τοῦ πάλλειν τὰ ὅπλα. For Athene we must turn to the allegorical interpreters of Homer, who make the name equivalent to θεονόη, or possibly the word was originally ἠθονόη and signified moral intelligence (ἐν ἦθει νόησις). Hephaestus, again, is the lord of light—ὁ τοῦ φάεος ἵστωρ. This is a good notion; and, to prevent any other getting into our heads, let us go on to Ares. He is the manly one (ἄρρην), or the unchangeable one (ἄρρατος). Enough of the Gods; for, by the Gods, I am afraid of them; but if you suggest other words, you will see how the horses of Euthyphro prance. “Only one more God; tell me about my godfather Hermes.” He is ἑρμηνεὺς, the messenger or cheater or thief or bargainer; or ὁ εἴρειν μὠμενος, that is, εἰρέμης or ἕρμης—the speaker or contriver of speeches. “Well said Cratylus, then, that I am no son of Hermes.” Pan, as the son of Hermes, is speech or the brother of speech, and is called Pan because speech indicates everything—ὁ πᾶν μηνύων. He has two forms, a true and a false; and is in the upper part smooth, and in the lower part shaggy. He is the goat of Tragedy, in which there are plenty of falsehoods.
“Will you go on to the elements—sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, seasons, years?” Very good: and which shall I take first? Let us begin with ἥλιος, or the sun. The Doric form ἃλιος helps us to see that he is so called because at his rising he gathers (ἁλίζει) men together, or because he rolls about (εἱλεῖ) the earth, or because he variegates (αἱολεῖ = ποικίλλει) the earth. Selene is an anticipation of Anaxagoras, being a contraction of σελαενονεοάεια, the light (σέλας) which is ever old and new, and which, as Anaxagoras says, is borrowed from the sun; the name was harmonized into σελαναία, a form which is still in use. “That is a true dithyrambic name.” Μεῖς is so called ἀπὸ τοῦ μειοῦσθαι, from suffering diminution, and ἄστρον is from ἀστραπὴ (lightning), which is an improvement of ἀναστρωπὴ, that which turns the eyes inside out. “How do you explain πῦρ and ὕδωρ?” I suspect that πῦρ, which, like ὕδωρ and κύων, is found in Phrygian, is a foreign word; for the Hellenes have borrowed much from the barbarians, and I always resort to this theory of a foreign origin when I am at a loss. Ἀὴρ may be explained, ὅτι αἴρει τὰ ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς; or, ὅτι ἀεὶ ῥεῖ; or, ἃτι πνεῦμα ἐξ αὐτοῦ γίνεται (compare the poetic word ἀῆται). So αἰθὴρ quasi ἀειθεὴρ ὅτι ἀεὶ θεῖ περὶ τὸν ἀέρα: γῆ, γαῖα quasi γεννήτειρα (compare the Homeric form γεγάασι); ὦρα, or, according to the old Attic form, ὅρα, is derived ἀπὸ τοῦ όρίζειν, because it divides the year; ἐνιαυτὸς and ἄτος are the same thought—ὁ ἐν ἑαυτῷ ἐτάζων, cut into two parts, ἐν ἑαυτῷ and ἐτάζων, like δἰ δν ζῇ into Διὸς and Ζηνός.
“You make surprising progress.” True; I am run away with, and am not even yet at my utmost speed. “I should like very much to hear your account of the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in those charming words, wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest?” To explain all that will be a serious business; still, as I have put on the lion’s skin, appearances must be maintained. My opinion is, that primitive men were like some modern philosophers, who, by always going round in their search after the nature of things, become dizzy; and this phenomenon, which was really in themselves, they imagined to take place in the external world. You have no doubt remarked, that the doctrine of the universal flux, or generation of things, is indicated in names. “No, I never did.” Φρόνησις is only φορᾶς καὶ ῥοῦ νόησις, or perhaps φορᾶς ὄνησις, and in any case is connected with φέρεσθαι; γνώμη is γονῆς σκέψις καὶ νώμησις; νόησις is νέου or γιγνομένου ἕσις; the word νέος implies that creation is always going on—the original form was νεόεσις; σωφροσύνη is σωτηρία φρονήσεως; ἐπιστήμη is ἡ ἑπομένη τοῖς πράγμασιν—the faculty which keeps close, neither anticipating nor lagging behind; σύνεσις is equivalent to συνιέναι, συμπορεύεσθαι τὴν ψυχὴν, and is a kind of conclusion—συλλογισμός τις, akin therefore in idea to ἐπιστήμη; σοφία is very difficult, and has a foreign look—the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things, and may be illustrated by the poetical ἐσύθη and the Lacedaemonian proper name Σοῦς, or Rush; ἀγαθὸν is τὸ ἀγαστὸν ἐν τῇ ταχύτητι—for all things are in motion, and some are swifter than others: δικαιοσύνη is clearly ἡ τοῦ δικαίου σύνεσις. The word δίκαιον is more troublesome, and appears to mean the subtle penetrating power which, as the lovers of motion say, preserves all things, and is the cause of all things, quasi διαϊὸν going through—the letter κ being inserted for the sake of euphony. This is a great mystery which has been confided to me; but when I ask for an explanation I am thought obtrusive, and another derivation is proposed to me. Justice is said to be ὁ καίων, or the sun; and when I joyfully repeat this beautiful notion, I am answered, “What, is there no justice when the sun is down?” And when I entreat my questioner to tell me his own opinion, he replies, that justice is fire in the abstract, or heat in the abstract; which is not very intelligible. Others laugh at such notions, and say with Anaxagoras, that justice is the ordering mind. “I think that someone must have told you this.” And not the rest? Let me proceed then, in the hope of proving to you my originality. Ἀνδρεία is quasi ἀνρεία quasi ἡ ἄνω ῥοὴ, the stream which flows upwards, and is opposed to injustice, which clearly hinders the principle of penetration; ἄρρην and ἀνὴρ have a similar derivation; γυνὴ is the same as γονή; θῆλυ is derived ἀπὸ τῆς θηλῆς, because the teat makes things flourish (τεθηλέναι), and the word θάλλειν itself implies increase of youth, which is swift and sudden ever (θεῖν and ἅλλεσθαι). I am getting over the ground fast: but much has still to be explained. There is τέχνη, for instance. This, by an aphaeresis of τ and an epenthesis of ο in two places, may be identified with ἐχονόη, and signifies “that which has mind.”
“A very poor etymology.” Yes; but you must remember that all language is in process of change; letters are taken in and put out for the sake of euphony, and time is also a great alterer of words. For example, what business has the letter ρ in the word κάτοπτρον, or the letter σ in the word σφίγξ? The additions are often such that it is impossible to make out the original word; and yet, if you may put in and pull out, as you like, any name is equally good for any object. The fact is, that great dictators of literature like yourself should observe the rules of moderation. “I will do my best.” But do not be too much of a precisian, or you will paralyze me. If you will let me add μηχανὴ, ἀπὸ τοῦ μήκους, which means πολὺ, and ἄνειν, I shall be at the summit of my powers, from which elevation I will examine the two words κακία and ἀρετή. The first is easily explained in accordance with what has preceded; for all things being in a flux, κακία is τὸ κακῶς ἰόν. This derivation is illustrated by the word δειλία, which ought to have come after ἀνδρεία, and may be regarded as ὁ λίαν δεσμὸς τῆς ψυχῆς, just as ἀπορία signifies an impediment to motion (from α not, and πορεύεσθαι to go), and ἀρετὴ is εὐπορία, which is the opposite of this—the ever-flowing (ἀεὶ ῥέουσα or ἀειρειτὴ), or the eligible, quasi αἱρετή. You will think that I am inventing, but I say that if κακία is right, then ἀρετὴ is also right. But what is κακόν? That is a very obscure word, to which I can only apply my old notion and declare that κακὸν is a foreign word. Next, let us proceed to καλὸν, αἰσχρόν. The latter is doubtless contracted from ἀεισχοροῦν, quasi ἀεὸ ἴσχον ῥοῦν. The inventor of words being a patron of the flux, was a great enemy to stagnation. Καλὸν is τὸ καλοῦν τὰ πράγματα—this is mind (νοῦς or διάνοια); which is also the principle of beauty; and which doing the works of beauty, is therefore rightly called the beautiful. The meaning of συμφέρον is explained by previous examples;—like ἐπιστήμη, signifying that the soul moves in harmony with the world (σύμφορα, συμφέροντα). Κέρδος is τὸ πᾶσι κεραννύμενον—that which mingles with all things: λυσιτελοῦν is equivalent to ὸ τῆς φορᾶς λύον τὸ τέλος, and is not to be taken in the vulgar sense of gainful, but rather in that of swift, being the principle which makes motion immortal and unceasing; ὠφέλιμον is ἀπὸ τοῦ ὀφέλλειν—that which gives increase: this word, which is Homeric, is of foreign origin. Βλαβερὸν is τὸ βλάπτον or βουλόμενον ἰπτειν τοῦ ῥοῦ—that which injures or seeks to bind the stream. The proper word would be βουλαπτεροῦν, but this is too much of a mouthful—like a prelude on the flute in honour of Athene. The word ζημιῶδες is difficult; great changes, as I was saying, have been made in words, and even a small change will alter their meaning very much. The word δέον is one of these disguised words. You know that according to the old pronunciation, which is especially affected by the women, who are great conservatives, ι and δ were used where we should now use η and ζ: for example, what we now call ἡμέρα was formerly called ἱμέρα; and this shows the meaning of the word to have been “the desired one coming after night,” and not, as is often supposed, “that which makes things gentle” (ἥμερα). So again, ζυγὸν is δυογὸν, quasi δέσις δυεῖν εἰς ἀγωγὴν—(the binding of two together for the purpose of drawing.) Δέον, as ordinarily written, has an evil sense, signifying the chain (δεσμὸς) or hindrance of motion; but in its ancient form διὸν is expressive of good, quasi διιόν, that which penetrates or goes through all. Ζημιώδης is really δημιώδης, and means that which binds motion (δοῦντι τὸ ἰόν): ἡδονὴ is ἡ πρὸς τὴν ὄνησιν τείνουσα πρᾶξις—the δ is an insertion: λύπη is derived ἀπὸ τῆς διαλύσεως τοῦ σώματος: ἀνία is from α and ἰέναι, to go: ἀλγηδὼν is a foreign word, and is so called ἀπὸ τοῦ ἀλγεινοῦ: ὀδυνὴ is ἀπὸ τῆς ἐνδύσεως τῆς λύπης: ἀχθηδὶν is in its very sound a burden: χαρὰ expresses the flow of soul: τέρψις is ἀπὸ τοῦ τερπνοῦ, and τερπνὸν is properly ἔρπνον, because the sensation of pleasure is likened to a breath (πνοή) which creeps (ἔρπει) through the soul: εὐφροσύνη is named from φέρεσθαι, because the soul moves in harmony with nature: ἐπιθυμία is ἡ ἐπὶ τὸν θυμὸν ἴουσα δύναμις: θυμὸς is ἀπὸ τῆς θύσεως τῆς ψυχῆς: ἴμερος—ὅτι ἱέμενος ῥεῖ ἡ ψυχή: πόθος, the desire which is in another place, ἄλλοθί που: ἔρως was anciently ἔσρος, and so called because it flows into (ἐσρεῖ) the soul from without: δόξα is ἡ δίωξις τοῦ εἰδέναι, or expresses the shooting from a bow (τόξον). The latter etymology is confirmed by the words βούλεσθαι, βουλή, ἀβουλία, which all have to do with shooting (βολή): and similarly οἴησις is nothing but the movement (οἶσις) of the soul towards essence. Εκούσιον is τὸ εἶκον—the yielding—ἀνάγκη is ἡ ἄν’ ἄγκη ἰοῦσα, the passage through ravines which impede motion: ἀληθεία is θεία ἄλη, divine motion. ψεῦδος is the opposite of this, implying the principle of constraint and forced repose, which is expressed under the figure of sleep, τὸ εὗδον; the ψ is an addition. Ὅνομα, a name, affirms the real existence of that which is sought after—ὄν οὗ μάσμα ἔστιν. Ὅν and οὐσία are only ἰὸν with an ι broken off; and οὐκ ὂν is οὐκ ίόν. “And what are ίὸν, ῥέον, δοῦν?” One way of explaining them has been already suggested—they may be of foreign origin; and possibly this is the true answer. But mere antiquity may often prevent our recognizing words, after all the complications which they have undergone; and we must remember that however far we carry back our analysis some ultimate elements or roots will remain which can be no further analyzed. For example; the word ἀγαθὸς was supposed by us to be a compound of ἀγαστὸς and θόος, and probably θόος may be further resolvable. But if we take a word of which no further resolution seems attainable, we may fairly conclude that we have reached one of these original elements, and the truth of such a word must be tested by some new method. Will you help me in the search?
All names, whether primary or secondary, are intended to show the nature of things; and the secondary, as I conceive, derive their significance from the primary. But then, how do the primary names indicate anything? And let me ask another question—If we had no faculty of speech, how should we communicate with one another? Should we not use signs, like the deaf and dumb? The elevation of our hands would mean lightness—heaviness would be expressed by letting them drop. The running of any animal would be described by a similar movement of our own frames. The body can only express anything by imitation; and the tongue or mouth can imitate as well as the rest of the body. But this imitation of the tongue or voice is not yet a name, because people may imitate sheep or goats without naming them. What, then, is a name? In the first place, a name is not a musical, or, secondly, a pictorial imitation, but an imitation of that kind which expresses the nature of a thing; and is the invention not of a musician, or of a painter, but of a namer.
And now, I think that we may consider the names about which you were asking. The way to analyze them will be by going back to the letters, or primary elements of which they are composed. First, we separate the alphabet into classes of letters, distinguishing the consonants, mutes, vowels, and semivowels; and when we have learnt them singly, we shall learn to know them in their various combinations of two or more letters; just as the painter knows how to use either a single colour, or a combination of colours. And like the painter, we may apply letters to the expression of objects, and form them into syllables; and these again into words, until the picture or figure—that is, language—is completed. Not that I am literally speaking of ourselves, but I mean to say that this was the way in which the ancients framed language. And this leads me to consider whether the primary as well as the secondary elements are rightly given. I may remark, as I was saying about the Gods, that we can only attain to conjecture of them. But still we insist that ours is the true and only method of discovery; otherwise we must have recourse, like the tragic poets, to a Deus ex machina, and say that God gave the first names, and therefore they are right; or that the barbarians are older than we are, and that we learnt of them; or that antiquity has cast a veil over the truth. Yet all these are not reasons; they are only ingenious excuses for having no reasons.
I will freely impart to you my own notions, though they are somewhat crude:—the letter ρ appears to me to be the general instrument which the legislator has employed to express all motion or κίνησις. (I ought to explain that κίνησις is just ἴεσις (going), for the letter η was unknown to the ancients; and the root, κίειν, is a foreign form of ἰέναι: of κίνησις or εἶσις, the opposite is στᾶσις). This use of ρ is evident in the words tremble, break, crush, crumble, and the like; the imposer of names perceived that the tongue is most agitated in the pronunciation of this letter, just as he used ι to express the subtle power which penetrates through all things. The letters φ, ψ, σ, ζ, which require a great deal of wind, are employed in the imitation of such notions as shivering, seething, shaking, and in general of what is windy. The letters δ and τ convey the idea of binding and rest in a place: the λ denotes smoothness, as in the words slip, sleek, sleep, and the like. But when the slipping tongue is detained by the heavier sound of γ, then arises the notion of a glutinous clammy nature: ν is sounded from within, and has a notion of inwardness: α is the expression of size; η of length; ο of roundness, and therefore there is plenty of ο in the word γόγγυλον. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the correctness of names; and I should like to hear what Cratylus would say. “But, Socrates, as I was telling you, Cratylus mystifies me; I should like to ask him, in your presence, what he means by the fitness of names?” To this appeal, Cratylus replies “that he cannot explain so important a subject all in a moment.” “No, but you may ‘add little to little,’ as Hesiod says.” Socrates here interposes his own request, that Cratylus will give some account of his theory. Hermogenes and himself are mere sciolists, but Cratylus has reflected on these matters, and has had teachers. Cratylus replies in the words of Achilles: “ ‘Illustrious Ajax, you have spoken in all things much to my mind,’ whether Euthyphro, or some Muse inhabiting your own breast, was the inspirer.” Socrates replies, that he is afraid of being self-deceived, and therefore he must “look fore and aft,” as Homer remarks. Does not Cratylus agree with him that names teach us the nature of things? “Yes.” And naming is an art, and the artists are legislators, and like artists in general, some of them are better and some of them are worse than others, and give better or worse laws, and make better or worse names. Cratylus cannot admit that one name is better than another; they are either true names, or they are not names at all; and when he is asked about the name of Hermogenes, who is acknowledged to have no luck in him, he affirms this to be the name of somebody else. Socrates supposes him to mean that falsehood is impossible, to which his own answer would be, that there has never been a lack of liars. Cratylus presses him with the old sophistical argument, that falsehood is saying that which is not, and therefore saying nothing;—you cannot utter the word which is not. Socrates complains that this argument is too subtle for an old man to understand: Suppose a person addressing Cratylus were to say, Hail, Athenian Stranger, Hermogenes! would these words be true or false? “I should say that they would be mere unmeaning sounds, like the hammering of a brass pot.” But you would acknowledge that names, as well as pictures, are imitations, and also that pictures may give a right or wrong representation of a man or woman:—why may not names then equally give a representation true and right or false and wrong? Cratylus admits that pictures may give a true or false representation, but denies that names can. Socrates argues, that he may go up to a man and say “this is year picture,” and again, he may go and say to him “this is your name”—in the one case appealing to his sense of sight, and in the other to his sense of hearing;—may he not? “Yes.” Then you will admit that there is a right or a wrong assignment of names, and if of names, then of verbs and nouns; and if of verbs and nouns, then of the sentences which are made up of them; and comparing nouns to pictures, you may give them all the appropriate sounds, or only some of them. And as he who gives all the colours makes a good picture, and he who gives only some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but still a picture; so he who gives all the sounds makes a good name, and he who gives only some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but a name still. The artist of names, that is, the legislator, may be a good or he may be a bad artist. “Yes, Socrates, but the cases are not parallel; for if you subtract or misplace a letter, the name ceases to be a name.” Socrates admits that the number 10, if an unit is subtracted, would cease to be 10, but denies that names are of this purely quantitative nature. Suppose that there are two objects—Cratylus and the image of Cratylus; and let us imagine that some God makes them perfectly alike, both in their outward form and in their inner nature and qualities: then there will be two Cratyluses, and not merely Cratylus and the image of Cratylus. But an image in fact always falls short in some degree of the original, and if images are not exact counterparts, why should names be? if they were, they would be the doubles of their originals, and indistinguishable from them; and how ridiculous would this be! Cratylus admits the truth of Socrates’ remark. But then Socrates rejoins, he should have the courage to acknowledge that letters may be wrongly inserted in a noun, or a noun in a sentence; and yet the noun or the sentence may retain a meaning. Better to admit this, that we may not be punished like the traveller in Egina who goes about at night, and that Truth herself may not say to us, “Too late.” And, errors excepted, we may still affirm that a name to be correct must have proper letters, which bear a resemblance to the thing signified. I must remind you of what Hermogenes and I were saying about the letter ῥ, which was held to be expressive of motion and hardness, as λ is of smoothness;—and this you will admit to be their natural meaning. But then, why do the Eritreans call that σκληρότηρ which we call σκληρότης? We can understand one another, although the letter ῥ is not equivalent to the letter ς: why is this? You reply, because the two letters are sufficiently alike for the purpose of expressing motion. Well, then, there is the letter λ; what business has this in a word meaning hardness? “Why, Socrates, I retort upon you, that we put in and pull out letters at pleasure.” And the explanation of this is custom or agreement: we have made a convention that the ρ shall mean ς and a convention may indicate by the unlike as well as by the like. How could there be names for all the numbers unless you allow that convention is used? Imitation is a poor thing, and has to be supplemented by convention, which is another poor thing; although I agree with you in thinking that the most perfect form of language is found only where there is a perfect correspondence of sound and meaning. But let me ask you what is the use and force of names? “The use of names, Socrates, is to inform, and he who knows names knows things.” Do you mean that the discovery of names is the same as the discovery of things? “Yes.” But do you not see that there is a degree of deception about names? He who first gave names, gave them according to his conception, and that may have been erroneous. “But then, why, Socrates, is language so consistent? all words have the same laws.” Mere consistency is no test of truth. In geometrical problems, for example, there may be a flaw at the beginning, and yet the conclusion may follow consistently. And, therefore, a wise man will take especial care of first principles. But are words really consistent; are there not as many terms of praise which signify rest as which signify motion? There is ἐπιστήμη, which is connected with στάσις, as μνήμη is with μένω. Βέβαιον, again, is the expression of station and position; ἱστορία is clearly descriptive of the stopping (ἱστάναι) of the stream; πιστὸν indicates the cessation of motion; and there are many words having a bad sense, which are connected with ideas of motion, such as συμφορὰ, ἁμαρτία, etc.: ἀμαθία, again, might be explained, as ἡ ἄμα θεῷ ἰόντος πορεία, and ἀκολασία as ἡ ἀκολουθία τοῖς πράγμασιν. Thus the bad names are framed on the same principle as the good, and other examples might be given, which would favour a theory of rest rather than of motion. “Yes; but the greater number of words express motion.” Are we to count them, Cratylus; and is correctness of names to be determined by the voice of a majority?
Here is another point: we were saying that the legislator gives names; and therefore we must suppose that he knows the things which he names: but how can he have learnt things from names before there were any names? “I believe, Socrates, that some power more than human first gave things their names, and that these were necessarily true names.” Then how came the giver of names to contradict himself, and to make some names expressive of rest, and others of motion? “I do not suppose that he did make them both.” Then which did he make—those which are expressive of rest, or those which are expressive of motion? … But if some names are true and others false, we can only decide between them, not by counting words, but by appealing to things. And, if so, we must allow that things may be known without names; for names, as we have several times admitted, are the images of things; and the higher knowledge is of things, and is not to be derived from names; and though I do not doubt that the inventors of language gave names, under the idea that all things are in a state of motion and flux, I believe that they were mistaken; and that having fallen into a whirlpool themselves, they are trying to drag us after them. For is there not a true beauty and a true good, which is always beautiful and always good? Can the thing beauty be vanishing away from us while the words are yet in our mouths? And they could not be known by anyone if they are always passing away—for if they are always passing away, the observer has no opportunity of observing their state. Whether the doctrine of the flux or of the eternal nature be the truer, is hard to determine. But no man of sense will put himself, or the education of his mind, in the power of names: he will not condemn himself to be an unreal thing, nor will he believe that everything is in a flux like the water in a leaky vessel, or that the world is a man who has a running at the nose. This doctrine may be true, Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue; and therefore I would have you reflect while you are young, and find out the truth, and when you know come and tell me. “I have thought, Socrates, and after a good deal of thinking I incline to Heracleitus.” Then another day, my friend, you shall give me a lesson. “Very good, Socrates, and I hope that you will continue to study these things yourself.”
We may now consider (I) how far Plato in the “Cratylus” has discovered the true principles of language, and then (II) proceed to compare modern speculations respecting the origin and nature of language with the anticipations of his genius.
I. (1) Plato is aware that language is not the work of chance; nor does he deny that there is a natural fitness in names. He only insists that this natural fitness shall be intelligibly explained. But he has no idea that language is a natural organism. He would have heard with surprise that languages are the common work of whole nations in a primitive or semi-barbarous age. How, he would probably have argued, could men devoid of art have contrived a structure of such complexity? No answer could have been given to this question, either in ancient or in modern times, until the nature of primitive antiquity had been thoroughly studied, and the instincts of man had been shown to exist in greater force, when his state approaches more nearly to that of children or animals. The philosophers of the last century, after their manner, would have vainly endeavoured to trace the process by which proper names were converted into common, and would have shown how the last effort of abstraction invented prepositions and auxiliaries. The theologian would have proved that language must have had a divine origin, because in childhood, while the organs are pliable, the intelligence is wanting, and when the intelligence is able to frame conceptions, the organs are no longer able to express them. Or, as others have said: Man is man because he has the gift of speech; and he could not have invented that which he is. But this would have been an “argument too subtle” for Socrates (429 D), who rejects the theological account of the origin of language “as an excuse for not giving a reason,” which he compares to the introduction of the “Deus ex machina” by the tragic poets when they have to solve a difficulty; thus anticipating many modern controversies in which the primary agency of the divine Being is confused with the secondary cause; and God is assumed to have worked a miracle in order to fill up a lacuna in human knowledge. (Compare “Timaeus,” 46.)
Neither is Plato wrong in supposing that an element of design and art enters into language. The creative power abating is supplemented by a mechanical process. “Languages are not made but grow,” but they are made as well as grow; bursting into life like a plant or a flower, they are also capable of being trained and improved and engrafted upon one another. The change in them is effected in earlier ages by musical and euphonic improvements, at a later stage by the influence of grammar and logic, and by the poetical and literary use of words. They develop rapidly in childhood, and when they are full grown and set they may still put forth intellectual powers, like the mind in the body, or rather we may say that the nobler use of language only begins when the framework is complete. The savage or primitive man, in whom the natural instinct is strongest, is also the greatest improver of the forms of language. He is the poet or maker of words, as in civilised ages the dialectician is the definer or distinguisher of them. The latter calls the second world of abstract terms into existence, as the former has created the picture sounds which represent natural objects or processes. Poetry and philosophy—these two, are the two great formative principles of language, when they have passed their first stage, of which, as of the first invention of the arts in general, we only entertain conjecture. And mythology is a link between them, connecting the visible and invisible, until at length the sensuous exterior falls away, and the severance of the inner and outer world, of the idea and the object of sense, becomes complete. At a later period, logic and grammar, sister arts, preserve and enlarge the decaying instinct of language, by rule and method, which they gather from analysis and observation.
(2) There is no trace in any of Plato’s writings that he was acquainted with any language but Greek. Yet he has conceived very truly the relation of Greek to foreign languages, which he is led to consider, because he finds that many Greek words are incapable of explanation. Allowing a good deal for accident, and also for the fancies of the conditores linguae Graecae, there is an element of which he is unable to give an account. These unintelligible words he supposes to be of foreign origin, and to have been derived from a time when the Greeks were either barbarians, or in close relations to the barbarians. Socrates is aware that this principle is liable to great abuse; and, like the “Deus ex machina,” explains nothing. Hence he excuses himself for the employment of such a device, and remarks that in foreign words there is still a principle of correctness, which applies equally both to Greeks and barbarians.
(3) But the greater number of primary words do not admit of derivation from foreign languages; they must be resolved into the letters out of which they are composed, and therefore the letters must have a meaning. The framers of language were aware of this; they observed that α was adapted to express size; η length; ο roundness; ν inwardness; ῥ rush or roar; λ liquidity; γλ the detention of the liquid or slippery element; δ and τ binding; φ, ψ, σ, ξ, wind and cold, and so on. Plato’s analysis of the letters of the alphabet shows a wonderful insight into the nature of language. He does not expressively distinguish between mere imitation and the symbolical use of sound to express thought, but he recognises in the examples which he gives both modes of imitation. Gesture is the mode which a deaf and dumb person would take of indicating his meaning. And language is the gesture of the tongue; in the use of the letter ῥ, to express a rushing or roaring, or of ο to express roundness, there is a direct imitation; while in the use of the letter α to express size, or of η to express length, the imitation is symbolical. The use of analogous or similar sounds, in order to express similar analogous ideas, seems to have escaped him.
In passing from the gesture of the body to the movement of the tongue, Plato makes a great step in the physiology of language. He was probably the first who said that “language is imitative sound,” which is the greatest and deepest truth of philology; although he is not aware of the laws of euphony and association by which imitation must be regulated. He was probably also the first who made a distinction between simple and compound words, a truth second only in importance to that which has just been mentioned. His great insight in one direction curiously contrasts with his blindness in another; for he appears to be wholly unaware (compare his derivation of ἀγαθὸς from ἀγαστὸς and θοὸς) of the difference between the root and termination. But we must recollect that he was necessarily more ignorant than any schoolboy of Greek grammar, and had no table of the inflections of verbs and nouns before his eyes, which might have suggested to him the distinction.
(4) Plato distinctly affirms that language is not truth, or “philosophie une langue bien faite.” At first, Socrates has delighted himself with discovering the flux of Heracleitus in language. But he is covertly satirising the pretence of that or any other age to find philosophy in words; and he afterwards corrects any erroneous inference which might be gathered from his experiment. For he finds as many, or almost as many, words expressive of rest, as he had previously found expressive of motion. And even if this had been otherwise, who would learn of words when he might learn of things? There is a great controversy and high argument between Heracleiteans and Eleatics, but no man of sense would commit his soul in such enquiries to the imposers of names … In this and other passages Plato shows that he is as completely emancipated from the influence of “Idols of the tribe” as Bacon himself.
The lesson which may be gathered from words is not metaphysical or moral, but historical. They teach us the affinity of races, they tell us something about the association of ideas, they occasionally preserve the memory of a disused custom; but we cannot safely argue from them about right and wrong, matter and mind, freedom and necessity, or the other problems of moral and metaphysical philosophy. For the use of words on such subjects may often be metaphorical, accidental, derived from other languages, and may have no relation to the contemporary state of thought and feeling. Nor in any case is the invention of them the result of philosophical reflection; they have been commonly transferred from matter to mind, and their meaning is the very reverse of their etymology. Because there is or is not a name for a thing, we cannot argue that the thing has or has not an actual existence; or that the antitheses, parallels, conjugates, correlatives of language have anything corresponding to them in nature. There are too many words as well as too few; and they generalize the objects or ideas which they represent. The greatest lesson which the philosophical analysis of language teaches us is, that we should be above language, making words our servants, and not allowing them to be our masters.
Plato does not add the further observation, that the etymological meaning of words is in process of being lost. If at first framed on a principle of intelligibility, they would gradually cease to be intelligible, like those of a foreign language, he is willing to admit that they are subject to many changes, and put on many disguises. He acknowledges that the “poor creature” imitation is supplemented by another “poor creature,”—convention. But he does not see that “habit and repute,” and their relation to other words, are always exercising an influence over them. Words appear to be isolated, but they are really the parts of an organism which is always being reproduced. They are refined by civilization, harmonized by poetry, emphasized by literature, technically applied in philosophy and art; they are used as symbols on the border-ground of human knowledge; they receive a fresh impress from individual genius, and come with a new force and association to every lively-minded person. They are fixed by the simultaneous utterance of millions, and yet are always imperceptibly changing;—not the inventors of language, but writing and speaking, and particularly great writers, or works which pass into the hearts of nations, Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, the German or English Bible, Kant and Hegel, are the makers of them in later ages. They carry with them the faded recollection of their own past history; the use of a word in a striking and familiar passage gives a complexion to its use everywhere else, and the new use of an old and familiar phrase has also a peculiar power over us. But these and other subtleties of language escaped the observation of Plato. He is not aware that the languages of the world are organic structures, and that every word in them is related to every other; nor does he conceive of language as the joint work of the speaker and the hearer, requiring in man a faculty not only of expressing his thoughts but of understanding those of others.
On the other hand, he cannot be justly charged with a desire to frame language on artificial principles. Philosophers have sometimes dreamed of a technical or scientific language, in words which should have fixed meanings, and stand in the same relation to one another as the substances which they denote. But there is no more trace of this in Plato than there is of a language corresponding to the ideas; nor, indeed, could the want of such a language be felt until the sciences were far more developed. Those who would extend the use of technical phraseology beyond the limits of science or of custom, seem to forget that freedom and suggestiveness and the play of association are essential characteristics of language. The great master has shown how he regarded pedantic distinctions of words or attempts to confine their meaning in the satire on Prodicus in the “Protagoras.”
(5) In addition to these anticipations of the general principles of philology, we may note also a few curious observations on words and sounds. “The Eretrians say σκληρότης for σκληρότηρ”; “the Thessalians call Apollo Απλῶς”; “The Phrygians have the words πῦρ, ὓδωρ, κύνες slightly changed”; “there is an old Homeric word ἐμήσατο, meaning ‘he contrived’ ”; “our forefathers, and especially the women, who are most conservative of the ancient language, loved the letters ι and δ; but now ι is changed into η and ε, and δ into ζ; this is supposed to increase the grandeur of the sound.” Plato was very willing to use inductive arguments, so far as they were within his reach; but he would also have assigned a large influence to chance. Nor indeed is induction applicable to philology in the same degree as to most of the physical sciences. For after we have pushed our researches to the furthest point, in language as in all the other creations of the human mind, there will always remain an element of exception or accident or free will, which cannot be eliminated.
The question, “whether falsehood is impossible,” which Socrates characteristically sets aside as too subtle for an old man (429 D; compare “Euthydemus” 284), could only have arisen in an age of imperfect consciousness, which had not yet learned to distinguish words from things. Socrates replies in effect that words have an independent existence; thus anticipating the solution of the medieval controversy of Nominalism and Realism. He is aware too that languages exist in various degrees of perfection (435), and that the analysis of them can only be carried to a certain point (422). “If we could always, or almost always, use likenesses, which are the appropriate expressions, that would be the most perfect state of language” (439 D). These words suggest a question of deeper interest than the origin of language; viz. what is the ideal of language, how far by any correction of their usages existing languages might become clearer and more expressive than they are, more poetical, and also more logical; or whether they are now finally fixed and have received their last impress from time and authority.
On the whole, the “Cratylus” seems to contain deeper truths about language than any other ancient writing. But feeling the uncertain ground upon which he is walking, and partly in order to preserve the character of Socrates, Plato envelopes the whole subject in a robe of fancy, and allows his principles to drop out as if by accident.
II. What is the result of recent speculations about the origin and nature of language? Like other modern metaphysical enquiries, they end at last in a statement of facts. But, in order to state or understand the facts, a metaphysical insight seems to be required. There are more things in language than the human mind easily conceives. And many fallacies have to be dispelled, as well as observations made. The true spirit of philosophy or metaphysics can alone charm away metaphysical illusions, which are always reappearing, formerly in the fancies of neoplatonist writers, now in the disguise of experience and common sense. An analogy, a figure of speech, an intelligible theory, a superficial observation of the individual, have often been mistaken for a true account of the origin of language.