A History of Roget's Thesaurus: Origins, Development, and Design

A History of Roget’s Thesaurus

To my friends in the Henry Sweet Society

A History of Roget’s Thesaurus: Origins, Development, and Design Werner Hüllen

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford OX2 6DP Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan South Korea Poland Portugal Singapore Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York © Werner Hüllen 2004 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2004 Reprinted with corrections and first published in paperback 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data (Data available) ISBN 0-19-925472-9 ISBN 0-19-928199-8 (pbk) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Typeset by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles Ltd., King’s Lynn, Norfolk

Contents Preface 1 Introduction 1.1 The initial hypothesis 1.2 Outline of the book

vii 1 1 5

2 Peter Mark Roget 2.1 Facts and ideas 2.2 Roget’s curriculum vitae 2.3 Scientist and lexicographer 2.4 A skeleton history of the Thesaurus from 1852 to 1899 2.5 Early criticism

9 9 11 17 20 24

3 Words, words, words 3.1 Hamlet’s repartee 3.2 Polysemy and homonymy 3.3 Synonymy 3.4 Semantic fields 3.5 Semantic features 3.6 Semantic models 3.7 Reverse theories of synonymy 3.8 Saussure on the linguistic sign

27 29 32 36 40 50 59 64 69

4 Synonymy: Early Statements and Practices 4.1 An ordering grid 4.2 Some classical treatments of synonymy 4.3 Isidore of Seville’s differentiae 4.4 Poetic synonyms in Beowulf 4.5 Erasmus’ De copia verborum 4.6 Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost 4.7 Archbishop Trench on synonymy and morality

73 73 77 93 96 104 109 115

5 The Beginnings of Practical Synonymy 5.1 Hard-word dictionaries 5.2 Synonymy in philosophy and lexicographical practice

119 119 161

6 The Emergence of the English Synonym Dictionary 6.1 Instigation from abroad: Abbé Gabriel Girard 6.2 Girard’s followers on the Continent 6.3 Girard’s followers in Britain

199 199 208 213

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Contents 6.4 The English synonym dictionary appears 6.5 Roget and the English synonym dictionary

236 276

7 The Topical Tradition in English Lexicography 7.1 Onomasiology between 800 and 1700 7.2 The classification of knowledge 7.3 Onomasiological lexicography between 1700 and 1852

277 277 291 298

8 Roget’s Thesaurus: A Topical Dictionary of Synonyms 8.1 On analysing Roget’s Thesaurus 8.2 The ‘Introduction’ 8.3 The macrostructure 8.4 The microstructure 8.5 Pragmatic structures 8.6 Semantic fields 8.7 Semantic features 8.8 Frames, schemata, and scripts

323 323 327 331 337 347 362 368 371

Appendix: ‘Plan of Classification’ and ‘Tabular Synopsis’ of Roget’s Thesaurus Bibliography Index

377 391 405

Preface A delightful cartoon in the Spectator (21st October 2000), shows an angry customer approaching the service counter of a bookshop saying, ‘I’d like to exchange this thesaurus please. It’s an undesired, uninvited, unnecessary, unrequired, unsolicited, unwanted, unwelcome gift.’ This contradictio in adjecto proves that synonyms are a normal feature of linguistic behaviour. The exact manner of their use depends on the constraints of a situation and the intentions of a speaker, as does style, of which synonyms are an essential part. The use itself is an inescapable linguistic fact. In a similarly delightful cartoon in The Times Higher Education Supplement (2nd August 2002), you can see an employee of the British Library displaying a note reading: ‘On Strike (slow down; stoppage; walk-out; mutiny—Roget’s Thesaurus)’. It shows the same linguistic fact, and, in addition, shows that the book by Peter Mark Roget titled Thesaurus, which has acquired a generic meaning since its publication, is the commonly understood classical compilation of synonyms in English.1 It is not only the readers at the British Library, forever eager to learn, who know and possibly use Roget’s Thesaurus; it is also the notorious man and woman in the street who do so. In J. M. Barrie’s homage at the beginning of Peter Pan, for example, the playwright speaks on behalf of them: The night nursery of the Darling family, which is the scene of our opening Act, is at the top of a rather depressed street in Bloomsbury. We might have a right to place it where we will, and the reason Bloomsbury is chosen is that Mr. Roget once lived there. So did we in the days when his Thesaurus was our only companion in London; and we whom he has helped to wend our way through life have always wanted to pay him a little compliment. (Barrie 1930: 25)

Dylan Thomas, famous for the exuberant and abundant lexis of his poems, also resorted to the common man’s linguistic repository. His manuscripts of the ‘Poem on his Birthday’ have numbers which have been identified as references to entry articles of Roget’s 1

My attention was drawn to these two cartoons by Karen Thomsen, South Lindsaylands, and John L. Flood, London.

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Preface

Thesaurus, possibly the Everyman’s Edition (1948–9) which was current at his time (Holbrook 1972: 123–35; Ackerman 1991: 138–9, 195–6). These reasons illustrate that a scientific treatment of synonymy is warranted because it is a genuine property of natural languages and language use. In discussing Roget’s Thesaurus, my treatment focuses on a book which counts as a common commodity of English speakers of all grades of linguistic competence. This does not preclude the fact that some of them look down upon it as a mere unenlightened work of reference. When writing my monograph on English Dictionaries 800–1700: The Topical Tradition (Hüllen 1999a), I realized that I would not be able to include this book in my analytical programme. There was no space to draw parallels between the topical tradition and that of synonymy, and the philosophical changes after 1700, mainly instigated by the works of John Locke, could not be dealt with adequately in the onomasiological context, either. The book therefore ends by noting these limitations (Hüllen 1999a: 445–7). In the present monograph, I try to achieve both these goals. This book is therefore a companion to the earlier one, though independent and self-contained in every scholarly aspect. Both monographs share the central lexicographical concepts and terms (e.g. macrostructure, microstructure, pragmatic structures, entry, headword, etc.), but nothing else. During the four years of preparation, I discussed my thoughts with many colleagues and friends, mostly when asked to lecture at conferences or to contribute to collected volumes (Hüllen 1999c, 2000b, 2001b, 2002b). All these papers have found their way into the present larger treatment, usually without special reference unless there was a particular reason for one. I thank the many people who helped me to shape and sharpen my ideas on these occasions. Moreover, I have every reason to thank the following persons for their unstinting support: John L. Flood, Institute of Germanic Studies, University of London, for his untiring readiness to discuss the subject with me, clear up queries, and help in tricky bibliographical matters; Thorsten Fögen, Humboldt-University of Berlin, for his generous help in selecting and evaluating classical examples of synonymy; David Cram, Jesus College, Oxford, for directing my attention to the works of Aulus Gellius; and Wolf-Dietrich Bald, the English Seminar, University of Cologne, for making the riches of its

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library available to me. Richard Brunt, University of Essen, read this non-native author’s English text with unflagging attention (a service which he has rendered me on many occasions). I sincerely thank these colleagues for their generosity. It goes without saying that any shortcomings or blemishes in the book remain my own. A particularly grateful mention must be made of Mr G. Michael C. Bott of Reading University Library. He provided me with a list of the Longman Impression Books published between 1852 and 1962, from the estates of Longman Publishers where they are located, and permitted its publication, thus giving me a chance to use previously unknown information. For the benefit of my readers, I use reprints of the most important primary sources where such are available. Where this is not the case, I note the shelfmarks of many of the books consulted, for the most part those of the British Library (BL). As my point of view is predominantly historiographical, I prefer earlier editions and publications to later ones, even in cases where the latter are better known. This pertains, above all, to secondary literature. In order to keep the monograph to a manageable size, I have had to limit my research to the nineteenth century and to exclude developments in the United States. Therefore it is only the first and a few other editions of the Thesaurus that I am concerned with. To give the full history of the book would need another monograph. The many quotations and extracts from dictionaries in this monograph have been excerpted with great care, though I am aware that in the course of four years mistakes may have crept in and entered the final version. I have retained the original spelling of quoted texts. An exclamation mark in square brackets [!] has been used only if an error in reproduction, rather than in the original, is at least probable. Round brackets () are part of the quoted text; square brackets [] indicate that I have changed the original in some way. Wherever book titles printed before 1900 were originally capitalized throughout, the capitalization has been retained only in the first letter of each word. In the titles of books appearing after 1900, I have followed the normal convention of capitalizing only content words. W. H. January 2003

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1 Introduction 1.1. The initial hypothesis 1.2. Outline of the book

1.1

The initial hypothesis

Roget’s Thesaurus is an outstanding work of English lexicography. When it appeared (Roget 1852), it was the first of its kind. It has been on the bookshelves of almost every educated man and woman in Britain, the United States, and indeed the whole of the Englishspeaking world ever since, as the many reprints and new editions testify. This is true of both the countries with an indigenous Englishspeaking population and the countries whose inhabitants learn English as a second or foreign language. From these areas it wandered throughout the world to wherever people think they cannot afford to neglect something which enjoys such general acceptance. Moreover, Roget’s Thesaurus gave rise to similar word collections, at least in many of the major European languages. The vast distribution of this book (almost comparable to that of the Bible) is hard to explain. The Thesaurus is now widely regarded as being part of our heritage; so a ‘150th anniversary edition’, published in 2002, was quite natural (Roget 2002). But then the question arises of how this came about in 150 years. Was it because of its eminent usability as an up-to-date tool for conversation and composition, or was it because of its linguistic concept, which allowed a comprehensive and comprehensible presentation of the English language (and, later, of other languages, too)? In other words, is it the practical or the theoretical merits of the Thesaurus which account for its success? There is no way of deciding this question in a straightforward manner. Some voices argue that Roget’s Thesaurus, just like other

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Introduction

thesauri, is one of those volumes which sit on bookshelves and are hardly ever used (Püschel 1986; Wiegand 1994). Again, the question arises of what exactly the reason for this is. Even if a project to investigate present-day thesaurus use were to confirm this assumption, it would be difficult to transfer its findings to the past. Inferring from the present to the past is not a legitimate procedure, because there are so many more sources of linguistic information available now than in 1852 and the decades immediately following, so that the book’s early success might be understandable but not its unbroken, 150-year-long popularity. As for assessing the theoretical qualities of the Thesaurus, nobody has yet tried to do this. But perhaps the ‘theory’ and ‘practice’ of the Thesaurus need not be juxtaposed in this way. Peter Mark Roget certainly did not do this himself. His professional fields were medicine and natural history, not linguistics. He sketched out an ideational framework of his project in the ‘Introduction’, but in doing so he showed his awareness of general philosophical ideas rather than any specific linguistic knowledge. He admitted in the ‘Preface to the First Edition’ to have studied and compiled words in the fashion of the Thesaurus for many years and that he had done so for the practical purposes of literary composition. It may very well be, however, that he did something intuitively and with his own linguistic needs and experiences as a scientist in mind which very soon turned out to be a real achievement in linguistics-based lexicography. This possibility ties in with the general observation that many (perhaps most) of our relevant linguistic ideas have a pre-theoretical (common) as well as a theoretical (academic) status. After all, the analytical system of descriptive linguistics, esoteric as it looks to many, deals with a common type of human behaviour. Here academic experts reflect on and analyse what is part and parcel of everyone’s competence and performance. A phenomenon like ellipsis, for example, was certainly realized in countless texts long before an academic gave it special attention,1 and it has been and still is used all the time parallel to and without any knowledge of the permanent stream of scientific literature devoted to the topic. We might assume that the wide appeal of Roget’s Thesaurus lies in a particularly felicitous fusing of some theoretical and some practical aspects, leaving 1

It is Thomas Linacre (c.1460–1524) who is usually credited with having done this.

Introduction

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open the question of whether the author really knew and understood what he was doing. This would place his book in a position precisely between the (merely) theoretical and the (merely) practical. With the advantages of historiographical hindsight, we can indeed recognize that Roget’s Thesaurus combines various linguistic ideas with quite a long and influential tradition behind them and that this may be an additional covert source of its success.2 It is, first, a dictionary of synonyms. Such dictionaries had been popular for about two hundred years before 1852. Even then, they developed from much older linguistic reflections. Synonyms have been dealt with since the classical authors, though those authors rarely made them a point of theoretical discussion. Synonyms were used in the common handling of language—in dialogues, poems, dramas, sermons, etc.—without speakers and writers being aware that they were doing something which scientists would, at a certain date in history, make the starting point of their studies. We may call this an ‘autonomous tradition’ (Hüllen 1999a: 28–39), i.e. ‘a long established and generally accepted custom or method of procedure’ (OED, definition, 5b) which results from natural conditions, in this case of language use, and needs no further justification. The point in history when this ‘autonomous tradition’ became a ‘deliberate’ one (without ceasing to be autonomous) is worth our special attention. Second, the Thesaurus is a topical dictionary with its entries arranged according to semantic affinity. Such dictionaries had also been popular for at least two hundred years prior to 1852. Again, we encounter the habit of collecting words according to certain domains of meaning as an autonomous tradition. It appears in classical (and even pre-classical) word-lists (e.g. onomastica, scalae) and, in post-classical culture, in countless glosses, glossaries, nomenclators, onomasiological dictionaries, etc. (Hüllen 1999a). Serving various needs, topical dictionaries came into their own when, in the era of humanism, works of this kind were compiled whose philosophical aim it was to mirror the structure of the world. This book proceeds from the historiographical hypothesis that Peter Mark Roget’s possibly unintentional, but nevertheless unique achievement was to integrate these two types of dictionary by 2 ‘Success’ does not refer only to the economic side of the matter, though it includes this. It means the general attention of experts and laypersons, which the Thesaurus managed to attract.

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Introduction

compiling a topical dictionary of synonyms. In order to confirm this hypothesis, we shall treat the Thesaurus as a kind of a rescript (or palimpsest) of two rich and important linguistic traditions. The history of synonymy as well as the history of onomasiology are, metaphorically speaking, inscribed on it just as old texts are inscribed on a parchment which has been used for new texts time and time again. But there is something more to this palimpsest quality of Roget’s book. If we take seriously the notion that linguistic works are the scientific presentation of common linguistic behaviour, we must also allow room for the idea that not only pre-Thesaurus but also post-Thesaurus linguistics is of importance for its comprehension. Later concepts such as, for example, semantic fields or prototypes are, avant la lettre, incorporated into it just as much as are earlier historical concepts of synonymy and onomasiology. These later concepts determine the thinking of present-day historiographers even more than historical concepts do. They can even be called the indispensable condition of speaking about the past at all, because every historiographer is bound to the language and the thinking of his or her time in his or her dealings with the past (Hüllen 1998). Thus, a book like Roget’s Thesaurus has not only its past but also its future inscribed in it.3 Or, to change the metaphor, it appears as a pivotal point around which certain linguistic ideas before and after 1852 can be arranged. What suggests this position, comparable to the hub of a wheel, for the Thesaurus is, of course, its outstanding success. This judgement is nevertheless a historiographical artefact, a decision of the historiographer who finds the book interesting enough to study. There are plenty of reasons for making other books the pivot of linguistic developments in very much the same way. Although towering high above other books of a similar kind, Roget’s Thesaurus is also a dictionary among other dictionaries, and thus a sample of a certain genre of book. As such, it is part of semantics, as all dictionaries are. At this more general level, Roget’s Thesaurus can therefore also be made the pivotal point of certain aspects of the somewhat hidden history of semantics, as it appears in lexicography before and after 1852, but in particular between 3 I regret that there is no metaphor encompassing future inscriptions on a parchment as palimpsest does for the past.

Introduction

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(roughly) 1700 and 1900.4 The frame of reference is the British tradition (i.e. the English language), but glances at the European tradition on the Continent will also be useful.

1.2

Outline of the book

The starting hypothesis, as explained above, streamlines the sequence of arguments to be unfolded in this book. Chapter 2 aims to shed light on the natural scientist Peter Mark Roget, on certain ideas about the ordering of knowledge which he encountered and favoured during his life, and on the publication history of his Thesaurus. This introduction to the author will deal with the facts of his biography, but also with the scientific and general ideas generated and disseminated in the course of his dealings with his contemporaries. We shall have to observe the difference in the status of facts on the one hand and of ideas on the other for the historiography of (certain areas of ) linguistics. The stage having been set, three tasks must be attended to. First, synonymy must be outlined as an experience of everyday linguistic behaviour and in its more recent scientific conceptualizations. Second, the historical path of English dictionaries of synonyms must be charted and, third, the same must be done for the topical tradition of English lexicography. In Chapter 3, terms such as synonymy, homonymy, and polysemy are assessed as denoting ordinary linguistic experience, and semantic fields, semantic features, and semantic models (e.g. prototypes) are discussed as the most recent and pertinent ways for determining word meanings. It will be argued that synonymy is the hard core of each of them and that they tend to lose precision and acceptance as soon as they reach out to wider and more general statements about language, such as culture, generativism, or cognitivism. Taken together, these discussions will support an explanation of what synonymy actually is, and they will provide the special terms needed for the structural analysis of the Thesaurus itself. Of course, it is impossible to write an exhaustive history of synonymy—the linguistic phenomenon and its concomitant theory. 4

For more on this limitation, see the Preface.

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Introduction

Sketches of early practices and statements must do instead, as is shown in Chapter 4. They oscillate between the autonomous and the deliberate tradition. They extend from selected texts in antiquity via medieval and humanist practice to literary language and are what a backdrop is for the stage. Chapter 5 presents the argument that practical synonymy as a part of interpretative lexicography was used in hard-word and general dictionaries which appeared from the seventeenth century onwards. They are one trail leading to Roget’s work. The role played by synonymy in their procedures of semanticizing will be defined and illustrated. The first peak of this development is to be found in Dr Johnson’s dictionary of the English language (1755). Its elaborate theory of ‘reciprocity’, as explained in the ‘Plan’ and the ‘Preface’, will be considered, with a reference to those Lockean ideas which preceded the dictionary and are the groundwork of Dr Johnson’s lexicographical practice. This will mean dealing with John Locke as a semanticist rather than as a philosopher. Chapter 6 is the first of two essential historiographical sections of the book. After the backdrop mentioned above, the ‘play’, so to speak, starts with the beginnings of what are still pre-theoretical deliberations on synonymy as published by the Abbé Girard (1718). A brief sketch will be given of the extraordinary success those deliberations enjoyed on the Continent and also in England. After Dr Johnson, there is a continuous chain of English synonym dictionaries. Together with the books published in the wake of Abbé Girard, they are a parallel trail leading to Roget’s work. They pave the way to 1852, the year in which the Thesaurus was published, and beyond. William Perry (1805), who explains word meanings simply by placing them in the context of synonyms, brings us methodically to Roget’s doorstep. Of course, all these dictionaries differ from Roget’s in being alphabetically ordered. A similar abundance of relevant publications appeared in the United States, though these works are beyond the scope of this monograph. The long path from Johnson and Girard up to Roget is regarded as a pre-theoretical preparation of semantics, which came into its own as late as Reisig’s lectures, which were delivered in 1825 and published in 1839 but influenced discussions only in the seventies of that century (Schmitter 1996) and, later, in Saussure’s concept of valeur. This preparatory function applies to linguistic material (lexis) as well as to analytical method (semantics, lexicography).

Introduction

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Chapter 7 is the other essential historiographical section of this book. As a detailed history of the topical tradition in English and Continental lexicography is available (Hüllen 1999a), only a short epitome will be given. It ends with a conspectus of Wilkins’s ‘Tables’, i.e. the semantic part of his universal language scheme which, in fact, is a thesaurus of words ordered according to philosophical later principles. Around 1700, this topical tradition came to a halt, but started anew within a different framework inspired by the innovative spirit of John Locke, whose main ideas will have already been outlined in our discussion of Johnson’s dictionary. Works to be discussed are the sketch of Parsigraphie by Jean de Maimieux (1797a, b), which is a new version of John Wilkins’s universal language scheme, and David Booth’s abandoned plan of an analytical dictionary (1835). At this point, the historical prerequisites for Chapter 8, an analysis of Roget’s Thesaurus, the topical dictionary of synonyms, will have been made clear. This analysis makes use of the usual lexicographical concepts of macrostructure, microstructure, and pragmatic structures. The preface of the Thesaurus is read in the Lockean spirit, the ‘Plan of Classification’ (as macrostructure) is commented upon, and the structure of entry articles (as microstructure) is explained by various examples. It is here that the prefiguring function of the Thesaurus for the future development of semantics becomes most clear. It is also here that post-Thesaurus terms are most needed in order to explain why this is the case. The concepts and corresponding terms of fields, features, prototypes, frames, and scripts will be employed. In order to uncover pragmatic structures, contentdependent rules of order will be applied.

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2 Peter Mark Roget 2.1. 2.2. 2.3. 2.4. 2.5.

2.1

Facts and ideas Roget’s curriculum vitae Scientist and lexicographer A skeleton history of the Thesaurus from 1852 to 1899 Early criticism

Facts and ideas

The historiographical treatment of a work like Roget’s Thesaurus almost automatically stimulates an interest in its author.1 It is only natural to imagine a living and working person behind a complex of ideas which, by their very nature, must remain abstract. The basis for this interest in biography is the assumption that there must be a link between the life and the ideas of a human being and that information on one is helpful in order to understand the other. This makes Peter Mark Roget a very interesting case, because as an eminent doctor and natural scientist he was an expert in a field quite different from the work for which he is well known. Biographical curiosity obviously arises in particular when difficulties in establishing this link between the life and ideas are encountered. These difficulties are mainly due to the gap in time between the historiographer and the historical figure under investigation. However, we must keep in mind that ‘life’ and ‘ideas’ are two quite different aspects of history. They belong together like the famous two sides of a coin, but must, like these, be kept apart. Life is realized as facts in space and time. Historians are bound to hard truth in what they say about it. Life facts are recorded by sources, and historians have hardly any choice of how to read and understand 1

This is true, of course, of any work of a scientific character.

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Peter Mark Roget

them. If there are divergent opinions (e.g. on the birthdate of some author) at least one must be wrong. Life is what people do or what is done to them. Ideas, however, are what people think. Ideas constitute sense in a world of arguments whose validity can be queried, discussed, denied, or asserted. Historiographers are bound to soft truth in what they say about them. If there are divergent opinions (e.g. about the nature of synonymy in language), both may be right because both may make sense. Whereas facts remain unalterable in themselves, ideas are usually dependent on other ideas and constitute a wider context. Within such contexts, their meanings can change. Debates on ideas are, in fact, often debates on these changes. Even if we keep ideas and facts apart, because of their different status in history, it is, of course, a bewildering truth that ideas can enter the world only in combination with facts. As an agent of a scientific life, devoted to the creation of ideas, every such agent acts, speaks, writes, and publishes these ideas. They must be expressed either by oral or by written (printed) language or, nowadays, by electronic transmission. Yet ideas are nevertheless of a non-factual kind. They appear as the semantic propositions of utterances, which must be kept separate from the utterances themselves as linguistic acts and from the human beings who make them. We can devote our attention to these two aspects independently of each other. A detailed biography of Peter Mark Roget can be written without saying anything about his ideas on physics, anatomy, public welfare, linguistics, etc. Some entries in biographical encyclopaedias or Who’s Whos are indeed of this sort. They may be useful for some purposes, but most people feel them to be barren and frustrating. On the other hand, a historiographical treatment of scientific (including linguistic) ideas is conceivable which does not comment on their authors at all. We can characterize and compare these ideas with each other, classify them and weigh their historical importance. This is, in fact, what is generally done, and if, by historical accident, the name and character of an author of an idea has not been handed down (which is often the case in older sources), we do not regard this as a serious drawback to comprehending the idea. A monograph which treats linguistic ideas exclusively as a structural process driven by its own nature and logic is certainly possible. But it remains highly abstract.

Peter Mark Roget

11

There is no real solution to this dichotomy, only a prudent position in the middle. This is acceptable on the condition that people realize what they are doing when they cross the borderline between facts and ideas. In the case of Peter Mark Roget, it is truly very difficult to find any illuminating links between his life and his linguistic work. It is particularly regrettable that all his letters written during the years he worked on the Thesaurus were lost in a fire in 1891 and in an air raid during World War II. The following curriculum vitae collects and describes various facts as a complement to the subsequent analysis of linguistic ideas, and leaves open the question of pertinence.

2.2

Roget’s curriculum vitae

Peter Mark Roget’s life is well researched—as far as this is possible. In 1869, the year of his death, anonymous obituaries appeared (Anonymous 1869, 1869–70) which were all well informed about the details and which became the basis of subsequent articles, like the one in Allibone (1882) and the DNB (orig. 1897). It was D. L. Emblen who collected all the available information in his exhaustive biography (1970) and various papers (1967, 1969a, b). But even he deplored the general paucity of sources (Emblen 1967: 543). The following survey depends on his work, adding some new evaluations. Peter Mark Roget was born in London on 18 January 1779. His father, the son of a Swiss clockmaker, lived in Soho as pastor of the French Protestant Church. This gave the paternal family a Frenchconnected, Huguenot background. His mother was Catherine Romilly, the daughter of a well-to-do jewellery trader. After the father’s early death, her brother, Samuel Romilly (later Sir Samuel), accepted the role of lifelong guardian to the boy and his sister, while the mother, seized by an irresistible habit of restlessness, wandered with her two children from place to place in the south of England. She would continue to do so, with brief exceptions, for the rest of her life. Probably her modest means reinforced this habit. It was the period of the French and the American Revolutions. The family had contacts with French émigrés. The ideas of the time were ardently debated, in particular by Samuel Romilly, who made contacts with Diderot, d’Alembert, and Benjamin Franklin in Paris.

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Peter Mark Roget

So Peter Mark grew up in an intellectually eminent, though ill-fated, family. He was a boy of fragile health with an early interest in astrology and ‘calculations’, as his mother called them (Emblen 1970: 17). There survives a notebook of his from 1787 containing astronomical information and classified lists of Latin words plus their English translations under such headings as ‘Beasts’, ‘Of the weather’, ‘People’, ‘Parts of the body’, ‘In the garden’, and ‘Different things’ (Emblen 1970: 10). These were the usual vocabularies for learning any foreign language, made popular by Johannes Amos Comenius’ illustrated manual Orbis sensualium pictus (1658 with many later editions), introduced to England by James Greenwood’s London Vocabulary (1713), but built upon a tradition reaching much further back in history (Hüllen 1999a). It is a vivid anecdotal detail (but no more) that the earliest item of Roget’s personal belongings coincides in its ideational substance with his last and most successful work. In 1793, the mother and her two children moved to Edinburgh in order to enable the son to study medicine. He was matriculated at fourteen years of age and paid for lessons in Latin, Greek, and medicine. During the following five years, the small family lived on very restricted means, with the mother constantly worrying about the health of her son. On 25 June 1798, he was awarded an MD, at just nineteen. The young doctor was advised by his guardian to continue studying anatomy and to gain experience in medical treatment, so that he would attract patients. Although a nobody in his profession thus far, he mixed with various quite illustrious people. At Clifton near Bristol, he met Dr Thomas Beddoes (1760–1808) and James Watt (1736–1819), who together introduced a palliative treatment of patients using laughing gas, thus pioneering anaesthetics. In London, where he now lived on his own but in constant contact with his mother and sister, Peter Mark worked together with Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) on a ‘frigidarium’, a device to keep food cool and fresh. In October and November 1800, he spent six weeks with the philosopher of utilitarianism, both of them working on a scheme for the utilization of sewage. He met Lord Lansdowne (1737–1805), the Prime Minister of George III, and dined with John Henry Fuseli (1741–1825). In 1802, he was commissioned to tutor the two sons of John Philips, Burton and Nathanael, a wealthy

Peter Mark Roget

13

cotton-mill owner from Manchester on a continental tour. It was the year of the peace treaty of Amiens, which was to end ten years of hostility between England and France, but which was short-lived. This is one of the few periods in Roget’s life from which detailed letters survive (Philips 1904; see also Emblen 1967);2 they describe his journey across France (where ‘Roget and the Philips boys successfully maintained their British prejudices’, Emblem 1970: 70) to Geneva. From here he had to organize a dramatic flight in 1803 across Germany in order to avoid detention in Napoleon’s Switzerland. His many contacts with people were made possible (or perhaps stimulated) by his knowledge of languages, which led him to conduct most of the family correspondence in French. All his life, he read books in French, German, and Italian for his research. So far, Roget’s life had been eventful, but he had not been able to further his medical career. With the help of influential friends, the still very young doctor eventually secured himself a post as surgeon at the Manchester public infirmary, taking up his duties in 1804. At the same time, he started giving lectures under the auspices of the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society. Practising medicine and lecturing at learned societies and institutions for the training of young doctors and for general education, but not at universities, were the two kinds of activity that shaped his future life. This period was the high point of what would later be called Manchester capitalism, marked by incredibly low standards of living and health conditions for the working population. Possibly this experience stimulated Roget’s ideas on improving medical education by adapting the new sciences to the needs of public health. In 1809, Roget, together with his mother and sister, who was becoming more and more overwhelmed by melancholy, moved to 39 Bernard Street in London (near Russell Square), where he was to stay for the next forty years. He started working at the Northern Dispensary, a charity clinic he would do work for as late as 1861. He took up lecturing at the Great Windmill Street School, starting 2 Most of the letters were written by Nathanael and Burton Philips to their parents, though some were by Roget. ‘The fact is that, except for a few scattered letters in a few libraries—e.g. the British Museum and the Huntingdon Library—, there simply is no source other than the Travel and the Philips books’ (Emblen 1967: 543). These letters are descriptive and have a literary charm, but they do not in any way shed light on Roget the author of the Thesaurus.

14

Peter Mark Roget

with two courses of twelve afternoon lectures on animal physiology, introduced with a survey of Cuvier’s classification (see below). Roget also promoted the foundation of the Medical and Chirurgical Society. One of his many committee responsibilities was working out a classification of their library. In the course of this work, he clashed with the famous Anthony Panizzi (1797–1879), the instigator of the catalogue of the British Museum (later British Library) (Emblen 1969b). In 1812, he became a member of the Royal Institution of Great Britain, which encouraged scientific, artistic, and educational developments. In 1814, one of his mathematical papers gave him access to the Royal Society, and he became a member. He collaborated with the increasing number of learned societies that were being founded at the time. All these activities did not preclude private research and writing papers. His daily income now came largely from his medical practice. Between 1824 and 1837, he contributed many publications to learned magazines and to the new edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (1824, suppl. 1837). This gave him a chance to write on his favourite subject, physiology, and to conduct a fierce controversy with the phrenologists which extended over twenty years. He admired the works of Paul Joseph Barthez (1734–1806) and MarieFrançois-Xavier Bichat (1771–1802), who classified all the parts of the body according to the interior structure which determines their function in the organism. This scheme coincided with one that Roget had presented earlier and in many places. For him, the categories of ‘intention’ and ‘utility’ were all-important for the explanation of the living organism, contrary to the categories of ‘cause’ and ‘effect’ which explained inanimate matter. By now, Roget’s public reputation was such that he was called upon to investigate the famous Millbank epidemic in 1823–4. The investigation brought him and his collaborators close to the discovery of the germ theory of contagion, which Louis Pasteur developed only forty years later. His life was torn between such engagements, his personal research (for example, on the nature of the human eye), and the private problems of his small family. In 1818, his friend and guardian Sir Samuel Romilly had committed suicide out of despair over his wife’s untimely death. His mother suffered from disabilities which would today be attributed to Alzheimer’s disease, and died in 1835. His sister expressed dissatisfaction with her unmarried life.

Peter Mark Roget

15

In 1824, Peter Mark married Mary Hobson, the daughter of a very wealthy Liverpool merchant. But she died in 1833 from cancer. They had two children, Kate and John Lewis, the editor of post mortem editions of the Thesaurus (see below). Peter Mark Roget’s professional achievements were rewarded by his being made a charter member of the Athenaeum Club in 1824. In 1827, he became Secretary of the Royal Society, serving in this office until 1848. As with the Medical and Chirurgical Society, whose president he was from 1829 to 1830, he devoted much of his time and energy to the tasks which the Royal Society put before him. However, for many years after 1830 he was entangled in a bitter struggle with his colleague and former friend, the mathematician Charles Babbage (1791–1871), about the organization of the society and Roget’s performance of his duties. Trivial as the charges against him seem now, they can be seen as a symptom of the general unrest that overshadowed Britain in these years and which resulted, for example, in the Great Reform Bill of 1832. It was also a struggle for the self-identification of scientists (or ‘philosophers’, as they called themselves). The Society’s demand was that only successfully practicising scientists should be allowed to become members and that a general reputation and high public position was not a sufficient entry qualification. Nobody denied that Roget belonged to the first group, but unfortunately he was also a representative of the latter. This was evident in the Millbank epidemic investigation and in his work for the so-called Water Commission, which was set up in 1827 because of the fear of cholera from polluted water. The commission’s report is a document of a scientist calling for public water hygiene in the face of the private water firms and also the political authorities. Early in 1834, Roget’s two-volume work Animal and Vegetable Physiology Considered with Reference to Natural Theology appeared as part of the so-called Bridgewater Treatises. It marked the peak of his professional life and, at the same time, the threshold beyond which his ideas and concepts became outdated. It was a compendious presentation of the state of the art, sometimes following the great classifications of the time by Baron Georges de Cuvier (1769–1832) so closely that the author was accused of plagiarism (Emblen 1970: 245). Roget subscribed to the conviction that the classification of animals and plants mirrored the order of the

16

Peter Mark Roget

universe as designed by God (see below). Indeed, his lifelong interest in the orderly classification of natural phenomena acquired a quasireligious status. He launched a bitter attack against Lamarck (1744–1829), whose mechanistic explanations and ideas on evolution competed, he felt, with God’s original design. In 1847, Peter Mark Roget stepped down as secretary. He remained in the Royal Society as vice-president and saw awards given to such new lights as Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–1895) and Charles Darwin (1809–1882). The latter was elected to the Council in 1854. Work on the Thesaurus extended over many years. In the ‘Preface to the first Edition’, Roget mentions ‘a compilation’ of words from 1805. It was the year in which he began to lecture extensively in public, so his compilation may have offered relief from the demands of lecturing. From then until 1852, i.e. over almost fifty years, he compiled vocabulary for his ‘classed catalogue’. The direct preparation of the Thesaurus occupied the years between 1848 and 1852, when he found himself ‘possessed of more leisure’. Roget was still a diligent member of societies and eagerly listened to lectures. But he did not interfere in day-to-day business any more. We do not know anything about these years—how he collected the word lists, what his sources were, how he drew up the classifications, etc. Apart from the preface to the first edition, we have no sources which tell us anything about Roget’s thoughts on this topic. Roget outlived the appearance of his Thesaurus by seventeen years. We do not know whether he felt his age to be a blessing or a burden. During his final years, his daughter looked after his needs. He is said to have worked on the Thesaurus till the very day of his death. He died on 12 September 1869, ninety years old. Throughout his life, Roget lived in circles of acquaintances who expanded his experience in frequently contradictory ways. There was the atheist Bentham and the devout William Whewell (1794–1866), who founded mineralogy and gave much thought to the specialities of technical language; pragmatic scientists like Humphrey Davy (1778–1829) and James Watt; and Romantic poets like Coleridge (1772–1834). It is difficult to imagine, but nevertheless a fact, that a deep-rooted belief in social improvement by scientific means finally emerged out of these conflicting influences. As far as

Peter Mark Roget

17

we can judge, he became a benevolent, public-spirited man, interested in the common good and the improvement of the living conditions of the poor, but without any revolutionary or extreme ideas. He did not, for example, take any part in the great Reform Bill of 1832 or other political events. His growing knowledge of scientific matters brought him to belief in God as the rational Supreme Being and the wise organizer of nature (see below). We must infer this sketch of a character portrait from Roget’s writings and actions, because he never dealt expressly with morals, politics, religion, or the like.

2.3

Scientist and lexicographer

Peter Mark Roget was not an original scientist in the sense in which this can be said of Huxley or Darwin. In spite of some genuine but minor discoveries, for example in mathematics and in optics, his interest seems to have been predominantly directed towards surveying the available scientific knowledge and making it useful to the masses. In 1806, he published, together with two co-authors, a syllabus of their course of lectures: P. Roget, B. Gibson, and J. Hutchinson, Syllabus of a Course of Lectures on Anatomy and Physiology (Manchester). The author of Roget’s authoritative biography regards this early publication3 as significant for what was to come: In his ‘prefaratory observations’, Roget showed that his chief interest in the new science of physiology lay in the organization and order of the several aspects of that subject and in the relationship of the subject to such kindred fields as anatomy. This keen interest in relationships and classification was to develop into Roget’s characteristic way of work and to lead, eventually, to his culminating attempt at classification, the Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. (Emblen 1970: 96; italics in original)

It must, however, be noted that this was not a subsidiary occupation. George Cuvier, Roget’s admired and celebrated model, stated himself that perfecting the ordering system in anatomy and biology meant perfecting these disciplines in toto. Moreover, he thought that this task could appreciably improve one’s general logical abilities. 3 I have not seen this book. It is classified by the National Library of Medicine, Bethesda, Md., which owns a photocopy, as extremely rare.

18

Peter Mark Roget

Note these pedagogical remarks from the preface to the first edition of Cuvier’s Animal Kingdom:4 The habit, necessarily acquired in the study of natural history, of mentally classifying a great number of ideas, is one of the advantages of this science, which is seldom spoken of, and which, when it shall have been generally introduced into the system of common education, will perhaps become the principal one: it exercises the student in the part of logic which is termed method, as the study of geometry does in that which is called syllogism, because natural history is the science which requires the most precise methods, as geometry is that which demands the most rigorous reasoning. (Cuvier 1840: 6)

In the light of such deliberations, it is certainly remarkable that Roget wrote in the ‘Introduction’ to his work, if only in a footnote: ‘The principle by which I have been guided in framing my verbal classification is the same as that which is employed in the various departments of Natural History’ (1852: p. xxiii). Roget did precisely for language what Cuvier recommended in general. We may very well find here a (or the) root of his work on the Thesaurus, which extended over almost fifty years. Roget’s work as a natural scientist was borne along on a sense of admiration for the order of nature. ‘The complicated system of an animal’ displayed to him ‘an exquisite and transcendental skill’ (Roget 1826: 34). He regarded the study of nature as ‘a fountain of intellectual enjoyment’ (Roget 1826: 81–5). More than in other works, this religious background appeared in his contribution to the Bridgewater Treatises mentioned above.5 Of his own work in this context he says: My endeavours have been directed to give to the subject that unity of design, and that scientific form, which are generally wanting in books professedly treating of Natural Theology, published prior to the present series [. . .] Hence the utility of comprehending in our studies the whole range of the organized creation, with a view to the discovery of final causes, and obtaining adequate ideas of the power, the wisdom, and the goodness of God. (Roget 1834: pp. xi, 28)6 4 This edition claims to be not only a translation of the French work but also a new edition by (unnamed) British scientists. 5 The Earl of Bridgewater, who died in 1829, left money in his will for the Royal Society to publish books ‘On the Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifest in the creation’ (Roget 1834: p. xvii). 6 In n. 11 of this book he writes: ‘In order to avoid the too frequent, and consequently irreverent, introduction of the Great Name of the Supreme Being into familiar discourse on the operations of his

Peter Mark Roget

19

This religious background presupposes the general idea of order in nature. This idea can be conceived only by comparisons which reveal ‘the connection and relationship of every part with the rest of the system’ and ‘afford proofs of the perfection with which all its parts are mutually adjusted’ (Roget 1826: 100–1). It is certainly a bold step to proceed from these remarks on biology to the ‘organization’7 of the Thesaurus, but the proximity of Roget’s view of nature to his practice of semantics is certainly impressive. With all necessary circumspection we can say that the Thesaurus breathes a spirit which is very similar to that of Roget’s approach to the natural sciences. It is the general conviction that a general entity, like that of nature or of language, can be presented in toto by its constituent parts and that it makes sense to do this. The characteristic mixture of theory and practice, of general schemata and concrete projects, which marked Roget’s professional activities was certainly also a solid basis of his linguistic work. An interesting attempt has been made at sketching an outline of Roget’s intellectual personality with the help of the books in his library according to the Sotheby catalogue for the auction after his death (Emblem 1967). The result of this attempt is rather disappointing insofar as it does not add any new insights into the mind of its owner. Roget possessed such books as a man of his education and standing, of his activities and connections, would have liked and read.8 As is to be expected, there were a number of books devoted to languages on this list, among them dictionaries in English, power, I have, throughout this Treatise, followed the common usage of employing the term Nature as a synonym, expressive of the same power, but veiling from our feeble sight the too dazzling splendour of its glory’ (Roget 1834: 29). 7 For Roget, the word organization denotes the typical quality of everything organic. See Thesaurus, (357) ORGANIZATION. 8 The author of the obituary in the Proceedings of the Royal Society (Anonymous 1869–70), who was obviously well acquainted with the deceased, stressed the importance of Gregor von Feinaigle’s (Grégoire de Feinaigle 1756–1820) ‘art of memory’ for Roget’s approach and work (Feinaigle 1812). Following ancient rhetorical patterns, this book recommended storing one’s knowledge according to topoi, i.e. to imagined places. ‘The houses he lived in, and those of friends he visited, the old rooms of the Royal Society at Somerset House, and of various Institutions which he frequented, were pictured to his mind’s eye as peopled with an infinitude of facts, and teeming with varied information. The chronicle of universal history, the measurement of earth and sky, the epochs of his life and those of his contemporaries, the sources of his income, the categories of his “Thesaurus”, the general arrangement of human knowledge, were all recorded in this manner on the tablets of his memory’ (Anonymous 1869–70: p. xxxix). I have, however, found not one single source which would corroborate Feinaigle’s influence. We must take this statement as a piece of valuable, but unproved, information from an unknown author who probably had personal contact with the subject of his obituary.

20

Peter Mark Roget

French, Italian, and Latin. Most interesting is the fact that the synonym dictionaries of Crabb (1816) and Lafaye (1858) are to be found.9 But Roget did not possess any other books which could have been of much use to his Thesaurus, with the exception of Wilkins’s Essay (1668).10 It is an ironic twist that this man should be widely remembered for something which he did as a retiree, perhaps merely in order not to idle away his time, and that everything else should be forgotten (or remembered only by experts in the history of science). This rather one-sided, though in fact justified, evaluation started immediately after Roget’s death. For example, The Lancet, a leading medical journal, wrote in its obituary: In 1833 he [Roget] wrote his Bridgewater Treatise on Animal and Vegetable Physiology; but the work which has given a lasting and widespread repute to his name is his admirable ‘Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases’ [. . .]. (Anonymous 1869)11

2.4

A skeleton history of the Thesaurus from 1852 to 1899

The sources of this skeleton history are the catalogues of both the British Library and the Bodleian Library, Oxford, the archives of Longmans publishers in the library of the University of Reading, and the National Union Catalogue, Washington. The history of the publishing house which is today called Longman is as renowned as it is complicated (Briggs 1974). One testimony to this is the various names of the firm as printed on the title pages of the books it issued.12 For Roget’s Thesaurus, they were: 1842–56: 1856–9: 1859–62: 1862–5: 9

Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, and Roberts Longman, Green, Longman, and Roberts Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts, and Green

See Chs. 6.4.6 and 6.2 and, for Lafaye, the citations in the Bibliography. Of course, it is possible that members of his family took possession of dictionaries or other books before the auction because they might have been useful for their own purposes. 11 See also Anonymous (1869–70). 12 The BL Catalogue lists all the names of the firm since 1724. 10

Peter Mark Roget

21

1865–89: Longmans, Green, Reader, and Dyer 1889–1926: Longmans, Green, and Co.13 An exact history of the Thesaurus would have to describe each edition in its bibliographical details and, above all, its lexicographical substance, i.e. its entries. It would also have to take into consideration the publication history in the United States and other parts of the English-speaking world. Preferably, adaptations into languages other than English should be included. Depending on the degree of detail, the result could be a treatise nearly as long as a book, which is not possible here. Therefore, the following is merely an outline history between 1852 and 1899, limited to some basic facts, namely (1) the years of publication, (2) editorial remarks on the title page, (3) additional names of editors, and (4) dates plus size of each print run.14 The information available is not always relevant to these four points, and it is sometimes inconclusive. Details will be given for editions in Great Britain only; editions in the United States are mentioned summarily. The permanent properties of the book which will receive no further mention are the title, the ‘Plan of Classification’15 and ‘Tabular Synopsis of Categories’, the sequence of exactly 1,000 entries, and the printing arrangement in two columns. Moreover, all editions have an alphabetical index. The title of the first edition reads: Thesaurus | Of English Words And Phrases, | Classified And Arranged | So AS | To Facilitate The Expression Of Ideas | And Assist In | Literary Composition. | By Peter Mark Roget, M.D., F.R.S., F.R.A.S., F.G.S. | Fellow Of The Royal College Of Physicians; Member Of The Senate Of The University Of London; | Of The Literary And Philosophical Societies Etc. Of Manchester, Liverpool, | Bristol, Quebec, New York, Haarlem, Turin, And Stockholm. | Author Of | The ‘Bridgewater Treatise On Animal And Vegetable Physiology’, | Etc. | ‘It is impossible we should thoroughly understand the nature of the SIGNS, unless | we first properly consider

13 According to Briggs (1974), in the twentieth century the names were: 1926–59, Longmans, Green, and Co. Ltd.; 1959–68, Longmans; and since 1968, Longman. 14 These are taken from the Longman Impression Books kept at Reading University Library. It is not clear whether they give the month when the edition was ordered or when it was printed. For the years 1855 to 1877 amounts in pounds are also mentioned, which I omit. Most probably, they refer to production costs. 15 Over the course of time, the Arabic numerals of the categories in the ‘Plan’ were changed into Roman numerals.

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Peter Mark Roget

and arrange the THINGS SIGNIFIED.’ | London: | Longman, Brown, Green, And Longmans. | 1852.

The edition of 1899, which closes the nineteenth century, has the same title page with the additional statement: ‘Enlarged and Improved, partly from the Author’s Notes, and with a full Index by John Lewis Roget. New Edition.’ Another remark worth noticing is to be found in the ‘Advertisement to the third edition’. It reads: The increasing demand for this Work, as shown by the rapid sale of the last Edition, has encouraged me to devote considerable time and labour to its further extension and improvement. It has, accordingly, been enriched by the insertion of many thousand expressions not contained in any of the former editions; a better arrangement, in various places, both of words and phrases, has been adopted; and the volume has been printed in a more portable and convenient form. (1855: p. vi)

The ‘more portable and convenient form’ refers to the change from 8⬚ to 12⬚ format, which however was reversed in the editions of 1879 and thereafter. In this ‘Advertisement’, the author also called the third edition stereotyped. He expressed his intention ‘for the accommodation of purchasers, to print, from time to time, supplements containing such additional expressions as I may discover to be still wanting to render the collection complete’ (1855: p. vi). This was mainly a criticism of the American edition of 1854, where considerable changes with reference to foreign words and phrases had been made. He obviously wanted to establish an authoritative (‘stereotyped’) version of his work as safeguard for further editions. In the long run, he was, of course, unsuccessful in this intention. No ‘supplement’ ever appeared. Of the three lists mentioned above, the one from Reading is the most detailed. It gives forty-eight print runs with the exact month (see above) and the numbers of copies. When these print runs are matched against the two university catalogues (which, taken together, may be thought of as a complete record, though this is not certain), nineteen editions can be distinguished. The print runs in the reading list are as follows: March 1852 (O, L)16 1,000 March 1853 (O, L) 1,500

February 1855 (O, L) 1,500 December 1855 (O, L) 1,000

16 The letters ‘O[xford]’ and ‘L[ondon]’ indicate copies of editions in stock at these two places. Further copies were not counted.

Peter Mark Roget

December 1856 (O, L) 1,000 September 1857 (O, L) 1,000 September 1858 (O) 250 December 1858 500 June 1859 500 December 1859 750 June 1860 (L) 1,000 May 1861 1,000 May 1862 500 December 1862 500 May 1863 500 October 1863 500 April 1864 500 October 1864 500 February 1865 500 June 1865 500 November 1865 500 March 1866 500 June 1866 500 November 1866 500 March 1867 500 November 1867 500

23

March 1868 500 August 1868 500 December 1868 500 April 1869 1,000 November 1869 1,000 October 1870 1,000 April 1871 2,000 January 1873 2,000 July 1874 2,000 November 1875 2,000 March 1877 2,000 April 1879 (O, L) 4,000 November 1881 2,000 January 1883 (O) 2,000 October 1884 (O, L) 2,000 September 1886 2,000 September 1888 (O, L) 2,000 October 1890 (O, L) 2,000 November 1892 (O, L) 2,000 May 1894 (O, L) 2,000 August 1896 (O, L) 2,000 March 1899 (O, L) 2,000

The Longman Impression Books show the fairly stable figure of 1,000 copies sold each year, with 500 more in 1853 and 1854. From 1862 to 1868, the printing strategy was somewhat timid, although the sales numbers remained the same. This changed in 1869, the year of the author’s death. Two years later, sales doubled, with a peak in 1879.17 In the early years, when the book was on the market, each new print run was called an ‘edition’. The tenth was reached in 1860, because the year 1858 saw two editions, the third and the fourth. Renumbering then ceased. The Impression Books, however, went on counting. Although the edition number is not mentioned in each case, the counting is conclusive up to April 1879, when the thirty-fifth 17 In the twentieth century, there was no print run smaller than 2,000 and many were larger. A maximum was reached in 1962 with 40,000 copies.

24

Peter Mark Roget

edition was reached. Then the renumbering ceased here, too. In the books, the label new edition was regularly used after 1860. Without a thorough comparison, it remains unclear which edition the adjective new refers to, or whether it was intended to refer to a specific edition. Irrespective of this, it was certainly meant to have an advertising effect. In addition to the numbers in the years after 1853 and to the word new after 1860, adjectives like ‘revised’, ‘enlarged’, and ‘improved’ were used. From 1884 on, the phrase ‘improved from the author’s notes’ appears. The name Peter Mark Roget is always given as that of the author. From 1879 on, i.e. ten years after his death, the name of his son, John Lewis Roget, appears as that of the editor and/or the improver.18 Of the editions printed in the United States, the National Union Catalogue mentions a second edition ‘revised and enlarged’ in 1853 (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co.),19 and a third ‘revised and enlarged with a list of foreign words by Rev. B. Sears’ in 1854 (Boston: Gould and Lincoln). This was the one which had aroused Roget’s anger. The remark on the title page is repeated in 1855, with, however, the addition: ‘New American, from the 3rd stereotyped London edition, with additions and improvements’, also by Rev. B. Sears. Further editions follow in 1856, 1858, 1859, 1860, 1863, 1864, 1867, 1870, and 1872. Beginning in 1860, the Boston firm and the New York firm Sheldon, Lampert, and Blakeman were joint publishers. In 1861, another American edition appeared with the remark ‘from the last London edition’. This remark was repeated, without any further specification, in 1873 and in all consecutive editions to the end of the century (1874, 1875, 1876, 1877, 1878, 1879, 1880, 1882, 1883, 1884, 1886, and 1894). From 1879 on, several firms (in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago) published the book.

2.5

Early criticism

The many re-editions after 1852 testify to the generally positive attitude which the general public had to the Thesaurus, although 18 In the editions of the twentieth century, other names of editors are given, among them, since 19 1914, that of the author’s grandson, Samuel Romilly Roget. See Ch. 8.1, fn. 1.

Peter Mark Roget

25

(or because) it was a rather new kind of book. But there was hardly any professional criticism and, if there was, it tended to be negative. According to the Longman Impression Books, the Thesaurus appeared in May 1852. On September 4 of the same year, an anonymous review had already appeared in The Athenaeum, the journal of English and foreign literature, science, and the fine arts (Anonymous 1852). The reviewer was well informed. He referred to the author’s long labour on the book and showed an adequate understanding of the non-alphabetical arrangement of entries, an imitation, as he says, of ‘the methods adopted in Botany and in Natural History’. He also praised the book ‘as to the ability of its execution’. But as to the project in general and its aims he offered doubts and criticism: To have such a copious and well-arranged store as Dr. Roget’s ‘Thesaurus’ ready at hand, will be a convenience, as he himself found it was to himself. But another question is, whether it is not better to be able to dispense with foreign assistance,—and if so, whether the frequent recurrence to a work of this kind is not calculated to interfere with so desirable an end. (Anonymous 1852: 939, 2nd col.)

The dilemma, for the reviewer, is that people with many ideas do not, as a rule, lack the words to express them, but that people who lack ideas cannot be helped with mere words. Another review two years later (Anonymous 1854) struck the same note, if in a biting and cynical tone. It started with the sentence: We congratulate that large, respectable, impressive, and unexpressed class of thinkers, who are continually complaining of the barrenness of their vocabulary as compared with the affluence of their ideas, on the appearance of Dr. Roget’s volume. If it does nothing else, it will bring a popular theory of verbal expression to the test; and if that theory be correct, we count upon witnessing a mob of mute Miltons and Bacons, and speechless Chathams and Burkes, crowding and tramping into print. (Anonymous 1854: 137–8)

The review goes on in this tone for almost twenty pages. It extends to books ‘manufactured on Dr. Roget’s pattern’, where words are not ‘media for the emission and transpiration of character’, but merely show ‘the littleness of soul’ (Anonymous 1854: 146). The reviewer prefers, as he stresses, ‘Dante, Milton, and Goethe on the same themes’. It was written by an author who believed in the

26

Peter Mark Roget

interconnection between genius and language and the literary properties of relevant texts. If we make historical allowances for the style and the mode of arguments, we can even agree with the author—except that what he says does not pertain to Roget’s Thesaurus. Obviously, he did not cherish the sober language of commerce, politics, the sciences, or the press, nor was he aware of sober but unpretentious authors who cared for the right word in the right place. But these are the texts and the people (people of his own calibre, in fact) that Roget was thinking of. The lively and successful history of the book was accompanied by a general silence on the part of philologists and other professionals. It was the period of Romanticism in literature and historicism in philology. It was almost one hundred years before somebody pointed out that Roget’s lexicographical undertaking, just like the style of his scientific writings, met the standards of utilitarian philosophy and the positivistic sciences of the nineteenth century (Ober 1965). According to this author, it was highly structured and complex, concerned with the orderly arrangement of ideas and the hierarchy of relations between them: Finding its background in the classifications of Linnaeus and in the systems of the French encyclopedists, brought to light in the atmosphere of the utilitarianism of Bentham and Mill, the intellectual principle of the Thesaurus foreshadows the distrust of metaphysics, the emphasis on epistemology, and the attention to semantics which became significant currents in the mainstream of twentieth century philosophy (Carnap, Korzybski, Ogden, and Richards). (Ober 1965: 1806)

For Roget, the permanent labour to find the mot juste was guided by rational ideas on the natural order and taxonomy of words. In this respect, he prefigured the twentieth century with its interest in precise communication.

3 Words, words, words 3.1. 3.2. 3.3. 3.4.

3.5.

3.6. 3.7. 3.8.

Hamlet’s repartee Polysemy and homonymy Synonymy Semantic fields 3.4.1. Definitions 3.4.2. Reception 3.4.3. Criticism 3.4.4. Later developments Semantic features 3.5.1. Different formats 3.5.2. General criticism 3.5.3. General observations Semantic models 3.6.1. Prototypes 3.6.2. Frames and scripts Reverse theories of synonymy 3.7.1. Roy Harris 3.7.2. Karen Spark Jones Saussure on the linguistic sign

Roget’s Thesaurus is, first of all, an enormous collection of words. They are not explained in any way—not semantically, etymologically, according to the principles of word-formation, or otherwise. Within various grammatical classes and lexical1 groups, they are merely listed—one after the other. What readers are supposed to do with them is, in principle, determined by the common speaker’s (including Peter Mark Roget’s own) general awareness of the status of words as the prominent meaningful units within language and language use. This is particularly so because the author wrote his 1 As used in this book, the term ‘semantic’ pertains to meaning aspects of language in general, the term ‘lexical’ to meaning aspects of words. Admittedly, there are cases where the distinction is hard to draw.

28

Words, words, words

book for the common speaker. Their awareness of language is a given fact of our linguistic life, but it is also the subject of various subdisciplines of linguistics, among them semantics, as the basis of lexicology and lexicography. Semantics is generally regarded as having originated in Karl Christian Reisig’s lectures on Latin (delivered 1825, publ. 1839), where the term Semasiologie was coined for the first time.2 These are a sequence of observations on synecdoche, metonymy, and metaphor, and on shifts of meaning in transitive, intransitive, and prefixed verbs. Reflection on word meanings, called sémantique, within the framework of the Neogrammarians, was then taken up by Arsène Darmesteter (1886) and Michel Bréal (1897) in France. The former worked on the changes in the phonetic forms and meanings of words, embedding his ideas in a Darwinian concept of language as an organism. The latter freed the investigation of changes of meaning from etymology and phonetic laws, and based them on the principle of analogy. In Germany, Karl Otto Erdmann (1910), however, moved away from diachronic philology altogether to a predominantly psychological approach, asking in what way word meanings contribute to communication. Several years later, Ferdinand de Saussure (1916) marks the threshold of twentieth-century linguistics, also in semantics (see below). It is one of the distinguishing features of Roget’s Thesaurus that it can be seen not only in the light of earlier and contemporary ideas on synonymy and onomasiology,3 but also of later, i.e. of postSaussurean, semantics. For a present-day reading of Roget’s Thesaurus it even seems indispensable to do so. Therefore, we will first elaborate in a pre-theoretical way on the status of words in any natural language as a system of signs. This is to show, as it were, the grassroots of linguistic theorizing. Then, we will discuss three recent theories of lexical meaning. For the reader, this discussion will amount to a short and very selective history of semantics in the twentieth century, which, however, is strictly geared to explaining the ideational background of Roget’s Thesaurus. Finally, we shall discuss the central concept of twentieth-century semantics, the Saussurean notion of ‘value’. 2 According to the OED, the first use of semasiology is to be found in a translation of Martineau 3 from 1877, the first use of semantic(s) in a text from 1895 by M. Bloomfield. See Ch. 7.

Words, words, words

3.1

29

Hamlet’s repartee

When Hamlet was asked by Polonius ‘What do you read, my lord?’, he replied ‘Words, words, words’ (II. ii. 192–3). This famous answer is usually explained as pointing to a linguistic style, like that of the courtier Polonius, where the choiceness of vocabulary hides the paucity of the message. In Hamlet, it makes sense as the protagonist’s remark mimicking the speech of his interlocutor on a descriptive level and, by so doing, criticizing it. But it can also be understood as simply pointing to the surface appearance of any utterance, again on a descriptive level. In this case, it makes no sense, except to show that the apparently mad Hamlet does not understand the textual coherence between words which creates the message. It is the crowning touch of Shakespeare’s perfect dialogue that Hamlet, only pretending to be mad, is able to say something meaningful by uttering something meaningless. Moreover, even the meaningless utterance ‘Words, words, words’ is descriptively correct because, after all, texts do consist of words, and there is a special kind of brain damage, vulgo madness, called agrammatism (contiguity disorder), which is the ability to understand words in isolation but not in their syntactical relations to each other. Hamlet’s repartee confronts us with an elementary fact of common language awareness. Words appear as the elementary units of language. Children start acquiring language by uttering words in isolation. Adults store them, not sentences, in their memories.4 Keeping proverbs, quotations, or linguistic formulae in mind is, on a primitive level, performed as if they were words or, in a more sophisticated way, after the words themselves have been mastered. Although normal speech is contained in sentences and texts, even adults fall back on isolated words, for example, in situations of extreme stress or happiness. For the common speaker, words have phonetically distinct boundaries. This fact is underlined by our habit of writing, in which we mark the boundaries of words by gaps. Semantically5 they often 4 There are borderline cases, e.g. word pairs in idiomatic use (‘part and parcel’) and fixed phrases (‘How are you today?’). 5 Unfortunately, linguistic terminology in semantics and everything connected with it is quite confused and sometimes contradictory. Semantics, semantic is used as a very general term, most frequently in opposition to syntax, syntactic and pragmatics, pragmatic. It is the name of the subdiscipline which

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stand for something clear and discrete, and if they do not, they nevertheless give non-discrete notions a kind of hypostasizing gestalt. As is frequently the case, words are recognizably made up of various elements. It does not need much training to see that ‘appletart’, ‘glasshouse’ and other compounds are made up of two (or more) units. Nevertheless, their meanings even then appear as something integrated. In short, words function as the natural building blocks of language. But as soon as we start reflecting (quite naively, as is, for example, done at school), the picture changes. We become aware of the fact that communication is not achieved with words alone but with words in sentences and texts. On second thoughts, even generally accepted one-word utterances (like Help! or Thanks!) are understood to be clipped sentences. The phonetic shapes of words change inside the stress and intonation patterns of a sentence, without, however, changing the word itself, i.e. the phonemic set. What we generally understand to be the meanings of words appears, moreover, to be quite variable in different sentences. They obviously come into their own only when merging into the larger units of language-in-use, which moreover is determined by the non-linguistic elements of situations. Words are in fact semantically protean. Our word-centred language awareness with its integrated meaningimages is obviously a space-saving trick of our memory, which chooses to store a more limited number of language units as quasi-formal formats instead of a much greater number of possible meanings in utterances. To get from the one to the other, from the formal store of words to their functioning in text, we use an additional set of rules, for example those of metaphor and deals with word-bound or sentence-bound meanings. Reference, referential is used as the general name of a linguistic function which is distinguished from the conative, expressive, poetic, etc. functions. Meaning (of language) is the counterpart of form or expression (of language). Referential or denotational meaning refers to non-linguistic reality, i.e. the outside world. So does extension, extensional meaning. Referent is the thing (object, class of objects) meant. Cognitive or notional meaning refers to the world in the mind, i.e. ideas, concepts, abstractions as different from their linguistic expression. Denotation, denotational, however, also refer to what can be called the core meaning of a word as different from marginal or associative meanings, which are called connotations, connotational. Different from meaning is sense. Apart from being the most abstract and inclusive term, meaning also ‘means’ the relation between the non-linguistic item and the word (sign), as different from the relations between words which constitute sense or intensional meaning, intension. Unfortunately, this distinction is often either neglected or confused (or both). Sometimes the terms meaning and sense are exchanged with each other. As a rule, word meanings always include possible senses. If this is not so, for example in strictly terminological lexis which is solely determined by non-linguistic objects, we speak of designation (see Lyons 1977: index).

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metonymy, feature selection, i.e. narrowing, or generalizing, i.e. broadening. Words are indeed the building blocks of language, but they have this function only in the sense that they hardly count for anything in themselves, yet count for everything as part of a greater linguistic, i.e. communicative, system. If this general sketch of language awareness, including its still pre-theoretical reflection, is correct, we encounter two consequences. The first is that words do not exhibit a uniquely demarcated meaning but rather a certain meaning potential. This is why, in normal communication, we are constantly busy explaining word meanings. In every utterance which exceeds the primitive and simple, we endeavour to explain something new and relevant and are eager to convey it to our interlocutors. Beginning from what is given (thematic) we proceed to new (rhematic) information. In many cases, this presupposes explaining a word by a (shade of its) meaning which is special to the given text and situation and constituted by it. In many cases this presupposes introducing, by explanation, a word which is altogether new to the addressee. In its broadest sense, teaching means conveying new knowledge from a speaker to a listener (or a writer to a reader) with the help of words. By explaining language we explain the world around us and in our own mind—to what extent will depend on the level and the topic of teaching. In particular, controversial discourse of the soft kind (as in politics) abounds with utterances in which we introduce new words, comment on old ones, explain, narrow, or enlarge their meaning potentials, and try to achieve consent about all of this. Explaining (shades of) meanings of words by other words is part and parcel of linguistic communication. The second consequence of our reflection on common language awareness is that the explaining6 type of dictionary does systematically what everybody does in language use ad hoc. This is their true raison d’être. They are the common speaker’s enlarged linguistic memory. Of course, the changing constellations of our cultural history and the huge demands of global communication in and 6 My use of this term here follows Dr Johnson’s definition of explanation (e.g. in Johnson 1747). In the explaining type of dictionaries, lemmata are listed and some explanation (pronunciation, grammatical behaviour, meaning, stylistic value, etc.) is added to each of them. Interpretative dictionaries are a subsection of the explaining type. Roget’s Thesaurus is not an explaining dictionary. Spelling dictionaries constitute a borderline case insofar as the explanation is given in the statement by the spelling of the lemma itself.

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between languages have widened this aspect so colossally that the beginnings of lexicographical word explanations in everyday linguistic behaviour have become next to invisible. Corpus linguistics has, on the other hand, brought back to us the experiential basis of all reliable dictionaries. This is especially the case where communication moves between two (or more) languages, a source language and a target one, i.e. where dictionaries are interpretative. As expressed in Hamlet’s repartee, dictionaries give words, words, words but without intending to do only this. They must explain meanings by showing words in performance, and performance occurs in sentences and texts. The means of doing this are, again, rooted in everyday language behaviour. There are several methods available. One is that, in order to semanticize a lexeme, we point at an object or its image, provided the nature of the object allows us to do this. In print this gesture is, where applicable, replaced by a picture. In other cases we give the word meaning by a (classical) definition or by mentioning the outward shape, the functions, the effects, the applications, etc. of the item meant. In a dictionary, this rendering of meanings is to be found in a more or less rigidly conventionalized form of definitions and paraphrases, depending on the type of the compilation. Also, which forms of explanation are chosen as being applicable depends on the nature of the item meant. Abstract or concrete, extensional or intensional, objective or subjective, cognitive or emotive meanings (and others) all demand their own methods of explanation. Objects or notions which are part of a self-contained conceptual system, as in the natural sciences and mathematics or in a metalanguage, do this in a very special way. Word meanings are also habitually indicated by quotations under the proviso that, by doing this, a token is given in order to stand for a type. All these ways of explaining word meanings, however, have their origins in daily communication and can be found there beneath the level of linguistic theorizing. The systematic methods of lexicography contain essentially what people do spontaneously in meeting the communicative demands of the moment.

3.2

Polysemy and homonymy

Generally speaking, words are defined as signs. Signs are generally defined as acoustic or graphical gestalts which we apprehend with

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our senses as such and in their property of pointing to something else. It is a century-old controversy whether the link between the sign and the ‘something else’, i.e. its meaning, is fixed by nature or by convention. In our common awareness, the determination of meanings will be felt much more strongly to be a matter of convention than one of nature (e.g. by sound imitation). The meaning and the linguistic sign are so directly tied to each other that the sign is understood not only to represent but even to replace the item meant. It is thought to be a specific cultural achievement that, in the course of evolution, humans developed a complex acoustic and graphical sign system with which they can symbolically (or semiotically) communicate about everything around them and about all their ideas.7 Therefore, we regard the apprehension of meanings which come from linguistic signs as a genetically given human faculty which does not need any further explanation. In order to be effective in a community, a sign system, including language but also other systems like flags, traffic lights, and uniform dress, must meet two conditions: it must indicate its meanings with sufficient clarity and it must be understood by (almost) everybody.8 The latter is, of course, the result of the former. Basically, clarity of meaning indication is achieved by the phonetic (and/or graphical) differences between signs. The semiotically ideal case is that one sign (as gestalt) indicates one meaning. Our discussion of the protean character of words has already shown that our natural languages meet these two conditions only partly and, as a consequence, imperfectly (but see below). Indeed, it is doubtful whether, apart from deliberately defined technical terms, there is an absolutely single-valued word for all possible uses in a natural language. Two cases where natural language diverges from the semiotic ideal are polysemy and homonymy. A linguistic analysis famous for other reasons (see below) shows, for example, that the English word bachelor can mean: (i) a male person who has never married, (ii) a young male person who serves as a knight under the standard of another, usually older and higher-ranking, knight, 7

This does not mean that animals do not communicate by signs; it is well known that they do. In an ideal speech community, everybody understands the meaning(s) of a word; in a real speech community, we must of course allow for exceptions. 8

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(iii) a male or female person who has the first or lowest academic degree, and the degree itself, (iv) an animal of a certain species, viz. a fur seal, which, during breeding time, is without a mate. (Katz and Fodor 1963) Obviously, there is a common denominator to the four meanings, which could be defined as ‘a young person at the beginning of adult life/a career’. It comes close to the meaning of the Latin etymon baccalaureatus ‘a young man, a holder of a small farm’9 and provides enough semantic unity to prove that, formally speaking, bachelor is indeed one word with four meanings. The deviations from the common denominator can in each case be explained in a different way, for example historically (the degree was, for a long time, given only to men) or metaphorically (the meaning was transferred from humans to animals) or metonymically (the meaning was shifted from the bearer to the degree itself). Moreover, a shift of features takes place in each case, from the world of farming to that of chivalry, of learning, and of animal behaviour. For the German word Absatz, to take another example, it is easy to show that it can mean: (i) the part of the shoe where the heel rests, (ii) the landing which interrupts a flight of stairs, (iii) the paragraph in a printed text which is set off from the previous text by a new, frequently indented, line, and the visual relation of the last line of the previous paragraph to the first of the following, (iv) the sale or marketing of goods in terms of the numbers of objects sold, (v) the weaning of young animals from their mothers. Here again, the common origin of these meanings in the verb absetzen ‘put/move/take down, interrupt [by doing this]’ is quite obvious. But it is so general that it can hardly be said to be a common semantic core. Each of the five meanings mentioned belongs to quite different, non-connected domains of reality. The sentences and texts in which Absatz/absetzen appears must select 9 How the two parts of the Latin word bacca ‘berry’ and laureus ‘laurel’ came to form this meaning remains unclear.

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35

the intended meaning in a planned or given utterance out of the spectrum of possible ones. There are two names for these phenomena. We either speak of polysemy, i.e. one word with several meanings, or of homonymy,10 i.e. several formally identical words with one meaning each. Disregarding historical (etymological) evidence, it is often difficult to decide between these two ways of speaking, as the two examples show. The various meanings of a polysemous lexeme are usually closer to each other than the meanings of various homonyms. This is why bachelor qualifies as a polyseme rather than as four homonyms,11 whereas Absatz has distinct homonyms. But, in spite of these examples, it is next to impossible to define in a generally valid and convincing way what ‘semantic closeness’ actually is. Diachronic investigations can usually show when and in what ways the meanings of one lexeme developed over the course of history, how they changed, split up or were conflated, were made abstract or concrete, were made part of a metaphor or a metonymy. Therefore, etymology is in fact a dependable criterion for solving the problem. In this respect, our two examples belong together because they each derive from one origin. But such investigations are not part of common language awareness, including our pretheoretical reflections on it. It is the word field concept (see below) which will provide us with a criterion that is safely applicable, at least in theory. This state of affairs is to a certain extent regrettable. At first sight, single-valued correlations between signs and their meanings would be so much easier to grasp. But multi-valued correlations are nevertheless very economical, because they considerably reduce the number of words that must be available for daily communication. In fact, language history, which has produced polysemy and homonymy, is the great labour-saving agency of linguistic communication. Outside of strictly scientific discourse, it is polysemy and 10 Strictly speaking we differentiate between homophony (words which sound alike but differ in spelling, e.g. sun/son) and homography (words with the same spelling but different pronunciation, e.g. lead [syn. to guide]/lead [name of metal]). ‘Homonymy’ means sameness in spelling and pronunciation. 11 We might also regard the first three meanings of ‘bachelor’ as cases of polysemy, but the fourth as a homonym with regard to the others. In this division the transference from the human to the animal world, which is a kind of metaphorization, would be regarded as a caesura stronger than those between the other meanings. Decisions like these must be made time and time again in practical lexicography, which shows how arbitrary such decisions are.

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homonymy which are essential for the functioning of the linguistic system. Without them, the number of words needed would become unmanageable.

3.3

Synonymy

Although sign recognition by gestalt differentiation and supported by context can overcome the difficulties of polysemy and homonymy, there is at least one other default case. Assuming the first definition of bachelor, as given above, to be correct and exhaustive, this means that in the statement ‘A bachelor is a male person who has never married’ the word of equation (be) means ‘p is semantically identical with q’ and the expressions before and after be (p, q) have exactly the same meaning. This phenomenon is called synonymy. Words can be synonyms of words, and words can be synonyms of phrases, just as phrases can be synonyms of words or of phrases. What is essential in all these cases is that one and the same meaning can be expressed by two (or more) linguistic expressions. These possibilities are regularly exploited, for example, in translations. The test of synonymy is usually seen to be exchangeability, as in the following two utterances: (i) ‘From the contents of the letter, I assume that it was written by a bachelor’ ⫽ by a male person who has never married. (ii) ‘The officer saluted the guest on the Queen’s behalf’ ⫽ in the Queen’s name. Each of these two utterances has two possible versions with the same meaning. This, however, is not so in all possible cases. It is, for example, difficult to imagine asking somebody, ‘Are you a male person who has never married?’, but not ‘Are you a bachelor?’ Likewise, there may be a difference between ‘on behalf of’ and ‘in the name of’ when a court officer salutes a guest whom the Queen does not wish to salute herself. Exchangeability of synonyms is usually limited by shades of meaning. Exchangeability in all possible instances raises further problems, for example because it cannot be proved.

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But a one-case exchange already flouts the axiom of communication mentioned above: that signs must be distinct from each other in order to indicate their meanings clearly. Homonymy, i.e. the phonetically unique gestalt which expresses several meanings and is therefore classified as several words, makes this axiom somewhat difficult to apply, but does not flout it. It leaves intact the semantic identification of the expression by context, as does a polysemous lexeme. In the face of synonymy, however, we are at a loss as to which of the phonetically different, but exchangeable, signs to choose when speaking (writing) or to understand why a certain one was chosen when listening (reading). Contrary to homonymy, synonymy appears at first sight to be quite uneconomical, because it forces us to store in our memories several linguistic expressions for just one meaning. To put it as a dichotomy: in the case of homonyms, we use one word or phrase in order to express several meanings, and we know which one to select, because the context tells us; in the case of synonyms, we (can) use several words (or phrases) in order to express one meaning, but we do not know from the context which one to choose unless there are additional criteria available. But in the case of exchangeability such criteria do not exist. Indeed, there is not even much sense in looking for such criteria if the synonymy is perfect, i.e. pertains in all cases. However, this dichotomy has more to do with theory than with practice. It is generally assumed to be highly unlikely that natural languages work on such an unproductive principle as total synonymy, certain odd cases perhaps excepted.12 Together with our experience of linguistic varieties, this basic assumption leads to the conviction that synonymous words (and, for that matter, phrases, sentences, and texts) never mean exactly the same thing. Thus, the term synonymy is a name for a possibility in language which is not realized. Note these two definitions from the Collins Cobuild English Language Dictionary (1988): synonymous [. . .]. 1. Two words or expressions that are synonymous have the same meaning as each other. [. . .] 2. If you say that one thing, group, idea, etc. is synonymous with another, you suggest that the two

12 Exceptions can be found, for example, in closed sets of structure words like no one and nobody, everyone and everybody.

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things are very closely associated with each other so that one implies the other or one cannot exist without the other.

The term synonymy obviously has both a strong and a weak sense. The question remains of whether synonymy in the weak sense has any positive function in language use. Polysemy on the one hand and synonymy on the other have in common that they regard the meaning of a word as a complex of partial meanings which constitute the complete meaning only if taken together. They have certain semantic features in common and differ in others. Dawn and dusk have in common that they denote the time between the light of day and the darkness of night, but they differ in that dawn means the morning and dusk the evening. Swim and float have in common that they denote being supported by water, but they differ in that swim means achieving this by moving as animals and humans do, and float means being supported without any effort because of specific weight. Ox and cow have in common the properties of the bovine species, but they differ in being male and female respectively. In each case, the nature of the difference varies and has to be determined. A very special difference is that which juxtaposes two words not as synonyms but as antonyms. In this case, the features of the meanings are identical except that one word expresses them in the positive and the other in the negative, as in alive and dead, light and dark, etc. It is obvious that the technique of defining or circumscribing word meanings in everyday communication and also in explaining dictionaries makes use of, in fact relies on, this complex linguistic phenomenon. Everybody is aware of it, as practice shows, although word meanings also have the appearance of an intuitive unity (see above). Their mental presence, so to speak, it twofold. For unreflective use they are available as semantic units. For explanation they can be broken down into meaning features which serve as points of reference and comparison with those of other words. We do this, for example, when explaining a word by its antonym or by another word with a very similar meaning. It would be no use trying to explain a word by using another word which has nothing in common with the one to be explained, such as gold for law or leopard for pancake. The ideal is to find two words which differ

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only in a small number of features or even in exactly one. Hear and listen are a case in point, because, being otherwise identical, they merely differ in indicating a state and an action respectively. Generalizing these observations, we find that lexis can obviously be ordered in domains of semantic proximity. Starting from any given word, we can arrange other words which have many overlapping semantic features around them, and again others where the number of these overlapping features decreases, and where they finally disappear. Instead, other features will find their companion lexemes. This does not mean that we store the words in our memories in this way. The arrangement around any accidentally selected word is an artificial order we give to lexis according to similarities of meanings. Artificiality does not mean arbitrariness, because the ordering follows communicative interests. In fact, we do not know exactly how lexis is stored in the brain.13 In many cases, such domains look natural as, for example, the names of plants or animals. But others are obviously man-made. They are the result of human activities such as, for instance, orders of merit or holidays in the calendar. Others again are made up on the spot such as, for example, the dishes somebody likes for his Christmas dinner party. What is important about this is not the many possible ways by which such domains of meanings can come into being. They are indefinite in number. The arrangeability of lexemes in fields following domains of varying density is important in its own right. Generalizing on a still higher level, we can say that all the words of a language are bound to each other by a potential of arrangeability which depends on the overlap of semantic features. There is no word in a language which exists in total isolation. As the explanation of words by words is a conditio sine qua non for human communication, and this condition can only be met because of the semantic affinity of words, this affinity itself is a conditio sine qua non of a functioning language. A word in total isolation would be non-explainable and, thus, communicatively speaking, empty. 13 It is the project of contemporary cognitive semantics, however, to find this out. See, for example, Aitchison (1987). Valuable as this project is, it is in my opinion more important to stress the general creativity of the human mind in organizing vocabulary in the brain than to fix certain quasi-objective hierarchies, systems, etc. This creativity is always at work in broad cultural contexts, which have a long tradition behind them, but can also be activated spontaneously.

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Of course, there are lexemes which have nothing in common, like leopard and pancake. But there is an abundance of others mediating between them, so we can eventually get from the one to the other. Moreover, we find that a number of features recur time and time again in various domains, and in classes like nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs. The difference between ‘temporal’ and ‘atemporal’, ‘behaviour’ and ‘thing’, ‘activity’ and ‘state’, ‘natural’ and ‘artificial’, ‘male’ and ‘female’, ‘quantifiable’ and ‘nonquantifiable’, ‘thing’ and ‘notion’, ‘substance’ and ‘accident’, etc. pervades the whole of the lexis of any language. The idea that perhaps there is a universal notional system (or network) beneath all of these domains is not far away. Regarding the use we make of synonymy in explaining word meanings and the importance which the procedure of explaining has for language use in general because of polysemy and homonymy, we find that synonymy in the sense of partial overlap of meaning is another essential feature of human communication. Language would not function at all if words were clearly delimited entities whose meanings excluded each other. We would not have enough words to meet the specialized demands of the many different situations of communication in which we find ourselves. We would not be able to introduce new messages (rhemes) into our speech. Only in this way can we confront the order of things in reality and the order of thoughts in our minds. Using a language without any synonymy in its lexis would be the same as using digits without addition and subtraction, products and fractions. The following discussions of twentieth-century semantic models are meant to provide the historiographer with the concepts and terms which are necessary to analyse Roget’s Thesaurus. They will be indispensable in Chapter 8.

3.4

Semantic fields14

3.4.1

Definitions

In 1931, the German linguist Jost Trier published his monograph Der deutsche Wortschatz im Sinnbezirk des Verstandes: Die 14 The central terms in field theory are in German Wortfeld, in French le champ lexical, and in English either semantic field or lexical field. I have chosen semantic field because this harmonizes with

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Geschichte eines sprachlichen Feldes (German vocabulary in the domain of the mind: the history of a linguistic field). It was the first part of his projected history of German vocabulary expressing intellectual processes and activities, which he was never to finish. The fame of the book derives from its subtitle. It made the concept of the semantic field (Wortfeld)15 popular and was therefore hailed as an important contribution to the still nascent discipline of semantics (Ullmann 1953; Geckeler 1971; Lehrer 1974; Lyons 1977; Lutzeier 1981; Gordon 1982; various papers in Lehrer 1992; and many others16). It brought to the fore the idea that the vocabulary of any language is not just a mass of words with an individual semantic history, i.e. etymology, behind each one, but a vast, ever-growing number of words in an orderly arrangement (German Gliederung) which is ultimately dictated by present-day language use. This idea was the prerequisite for semantics to become a scientific discipline, outside diachronic philology, and paved the way for the later concept of structure. Indeed, although growing out of the philological work which integrated Humboldtian ideas into linguistics, field theory is nowadays regarded as a pre-structuralist version of semantics and many of its adherents—such as Eugenio Coseriu, Horst Geckeler, and Peter Lutzeier—have endeavoured to give it a more thoroughly structuralist design. In fact, Trier took up a term and a concept which had been introduced earlier to the linguistic discussion by G. Ipsen (1924), who had applied it to such words as appear in various languages of the Indo-European group. Note his much-quoted definition: [D]ie Eigenwörter stehen in einer Sprache nicht allein, sondern sind eingeordnet in Bedeutungsgruppen; damit ist nicht eine etymologische Gruppe gemeint, am wenigsten um chimärische ‘Wurzeln’ aufgereihte Wörter, sondern solche, deren gegenständlicher Sinngehalt mit andern Sinngehalten verknüpft ist. Diese Verknüpfung aber ist nicht als semantic feature and semantic model in later chapters, although lexical would perhaps be more apt in indicating that we are dealing with words, i.e. lexis. Lyons (1977) also uses semantic. Wherever lexical is used in quotations, it refers to semantic in our terminology. 15 Besides the alternatives semantic/lexical (see n. 1), there is an abundance of terms in use for special aspects of the field concept: English word field, or just field; German Wortfeld, Bedeutungsfeld, Begriffsfeld, semantisches Feld; French champ associatif, champ morphosémantique, champ notionelle, champ de mots, champ des idées. 16 Among French linguists who employed the methods of field theory were B. Pottier (1963) and A. J. Greimas (1965).

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Aneinanderreihung an einem Assozationsfaden gemeint, sondern so, dass die ganze Gruppe ein ‘Bedeutungsfeld’ absteckt, das in sich gegliedert ist; wie in einem Mosaik fügt sich hier Wort an Wort, jedes anders umrissen, doch so, dass die Konturen aneinander passen und alle zusammen in einer Sinneinheit höherer Ordnung auf [!], nicht in einer faulen Abstraktion untergehen. Content words in a language do not stand in isolation but are arranged in clusters of meanings; this does not indicate a group [of] etymological[ly related words], much less words strung together with dubious roots, but such as have an objective meaning which is linked to other objective meanings. This link is not thought of as a thread of associations, but in such a way that the whole cluster delimits a field of meaning which has an internal order; as in a mosaic, word dovetails with word, each with a different outline, yet in such a way that the outlines fit and, taken together, merge in a conceptual unity of a higher order rather than drowning in a dubious abstraction. (Ipsen 1924: 225, quoted by Trier 1931: 418–19; my translation)

Ipsen challenged the claim of historical philology that etymology was the only scientific method for dealing with meanings, and also the claim of psychology that the relations of word meanings were dictated by mental association. Instead, he spoke of meaning as a linguistic property in its own right. Note Trier’s own statement, which is also symptomatic of his style: Und dass wir genau wissen, was mit [dem Wort] gemeint ist, das liegt gerade an diesem sich Abheben von dem Nachbarn und diesem sich Einordnen in die Ganzheit der den Begriffsbezirk überlagernden Wortdecke, des lückenlosen Zeichenmantels. Die Worte im Feld stehen in gegenseitiger Abhängigkeit voneinander. Vom Gefüge des Ganzen her empfängt das Einzelwort seine inhaltliche begriffliche Bestimmtheit. We know precisely what [the word] means because it contrasts with its neighbours and merges with the whole of the lexical blanket, the coat of signs without gaps which covers the conceptual domain. The words in the field are interdependent. From the composition of the whole the single word receives its semantic conceptual determination. (Trier 1931: 28; my translation)

Using present-day terms, we can say that the ‘field’ is a principle of semanticization which makes extensive use of synonymy. More recent definitions state this fact, whether or not they use the term itself. For Lyons (1977: passim17), the meaning of a word is the 17 After Ullmann (1953), Lyons’s panoramic monograph on semantics (1977) contains the most extensive discussion of the German field concept in British-based linguistics.

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function of the relationships it contracts with other words in a lexical subsystem. Lehrer (1974: 15) maintains: ‘A word acquires its meaning by its opposition to its neighbouring words in the pattern.’ Ipsen and after him Trier and Weisgerber (reported in Geckeler 1971: 84–176; Herbermann 1995) postulated that lexemes with overlapping meanings complement each other perfectly in their differing features and that the fields which come into existence in this way complement each other perfectly within the framework of a whole language. Thus synonymy in its special meaning of partial semantic identity and complementing difference accounts for the ordering of vocabulary on at least two levels: inside the clusters and at large. The general determination of a field can be given as an archelexeme, but it need not be lexicalized itself. It can also appear in a descriptive phrase. It is not an abstraction from its member lexemes, but a hierarchically higher concept which may again be part of a field. This means that, within a whole language, fields are arranged hierarchically and operate on various levels of meaning. According to Trier, the semantic definition of a single lexeme is possible only by referring to the total field it belongs to and by observing the (often minimal) contrasts between such lexemes as are close to each other. As ‘overlap’ and ‘contrast’ are relative in their extent, semantic fields can have quite different sizes. At the extreme ends of a continuum one could call an entire language a semantic field,18 but one could also think of a field made up of only two lexemes, like left and right. In between these extremes, Trier and his followers assumed many fields of quite different sizes, obviously in analogy to the different domains of reality and of human thought and activities which require language. In fields, word meanings disclose themselves top-down, i.e. by the analysis of an entire field, and not bottom-up, i.e. by the collection of individual word meanings. The internal order of fields can be discerned only holistically, and this is a prerequisite for understanding any of its members. 3.4.2

Reception

Looking back on Trier’s contribution to semantics (Lyons 1977: 250–69), it is somewhat astonishing that it made such an impact. 18

This is, of course, only a theoretical possibility without any practical value.

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After all, the concept of synonymy had been known for centuries and, even if it lacked a theoretical basis as presently conceived, it had been constantly exploited for the determination of word meanings. In addition, many non-alphabetical dictionaries had, for many centuries, grouped words together according to some overall semantic plan, a procedure which had a strong affinity to the field concept, although the philosophical (epistemological) foundations were different (Hüllen 1999a). Quite early, Carl Abel (1885) had analysed colour terms, expressions of love and joy, and expressions of order in various old and new languages and had, in so doing, extended the concept of the word field avant la lettre to the comparative analysis of national habits and characters as they (were supposed to) manifest themselves in language use. Finally, Ferdinand de Saussure (Saussure 1916) had developed his concept of valeur (see below). The concept of Ipsen and Trier marked a turning away from the positivism of the Neogrammarians and the equally positivistic psychology of associations. Both these redirections became popular after 1920, when Humboldtian ideas gained new ground. Although Trier presented a diachronic study,19 his field concept conformed to Saussure’s demand for a separation between synchrony and diachrony, because he presented a cross-section through the German language of the thirteenth century, i.e. a synchronic view located in the past. For Trier and in particular for Leo Weisgerber (e.g. 1954), the field was a mediating link between the single lexeme and the vocabulary of a whole language, and this link was supposed to bear the stamp of national culture. The early reception of Saussure in Germany had generally seen the Cours in this light (Hüllen 1990). Finally, the intriguing associations of the metaphor ‘field’ may account for Trier’s success. It lent itself easily to many kinds of metaphorization. The term was, moreover, well known from German Gestaltpsychologie, which was internationally successful at that time, and it also played a role in physics. In sum, during the 19 His sample words were wîsheit, kunst, list, and wizzen. Around 1200, wîsheit was a cover-term for kunst (‘courtly knowledge’) and list (‘technical knowledge’). By 1300, wîzheit had narrowed in its meaning to ‘religious and mystical knowledge’, kunst stood for ‘worldly knowledge’ while wizzen, which had ousted list, denoted ‘technical knowledge’.

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early 1920s the field concept was what would today be called ‘modern’ and ‘progressive’. 3.4.3

Criticism

Trier’s concept triggered a lively discussion which has not come to an end even today. He had faithful followers, like Susanne Öhmann (1951). The wave of success which Leo Weisgerber was able to instigate, mainly after World War II (1950, 1950–1), carried Trier’s concept along with it. A close reading of some of his successors and critics shows, however, that many of the rigorous statements in the initial theory have become looser, so much so that it is sometimes difficult to find the old idea in the more recent garb (Herbermann 1995). First, there is the ubiquity and purity of the original idea. Trier had claimed that the field principle was without exception, that it extended over the whole language and that no meaning could be otherwise constituted. Moreover, he had claimed that the outlines of meanings, on whatever level, fitted ideally, though in a patchwork manner. Later critics pointed out that this was an idealistic assumption which could not be proved. Nobody could ever give an inventory of semantic fields or draw their contours in a convincing manner. They were always set up ad hoc (verbs for dying, verbs for speedy movements, etc.). Second, the existence of semantic gaps created special problems. First of all, it is easy to point out gaps that arise in translation. Swim and float are a clear contrast in the English field ‘supported in water’, but not so in the German one, where both verbs appear as schwimmen. The meaning of float obviously points to a gap in German. But, of course, there are ways of filling it even in German, as in vom Wasser getragen werden (be supported by the water). Moreover, there is treiben, which means float along, float down (a river), i.e. it is a German lexeme which straddles two English ones ( float and float along). For the meaning ‘written language’ we find the English pair letter(s) and text, and the German Buchstabe(n) and Text in perfect parallel. For the meaning ‘written music’, however, only German has the analogous pair Note(n) and Partitur. This points to a gap in English. ‘Written music’ is not expressed by English note(s) (not equivalent to German Noten, because notes does not mean the ‘text of music’ but merely the plural of individual

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notes) but by music. German Musik, however, can only mean acoustic, not graphic music. Again there are, of course, paraphrasing expressions in both languages. Obviously, a gap in lexicalization does not mean a gap in expressibility. If this is so, the question arises of how we can speak of a gap at all. Lyons (1977: 302–3) discusses the lexemes corpse and carcass, meaning ‘the dead body of a human being’ and ‘the dead body of a non-human animal’. There is no analogous lexeme for ‘the dead body of a plant’, obviously because there is no need to have one. But if there is no need, can we speak of a gap? These examples show that gaps can be constructed by logical deduction or by analogy. However, they do not qualify as communicative gaps in the language. Third, the assumption that understanding word meanings presupposes understanding the semantic field to which the word belongs clearly requires an ideal language user (long before this construct was introduced into linguistics) who is in full command of a whole language. The mental reality, however, is quite different. Word meanings are grasped intuitively according to degrees of prototypicality (see below): they are delimited by just a small number of words with similar meanings or by antonyms. Certainly language users do not run through all the possibilities of a semantic field in order to arrive at the apprehension of a single lexeme. This has been proved by experiment. Meaning determination may not be bottomup in the strict empirical sense, but it is certainly not top-down either. Here common linguistic practice disqualifies an ideal. Fourth, the semantic field proves to be a very vague concept in what is its most outstanding feature, internal composition. Trier and other authors’ preferred examples are military ranks, school marks, family relations, and colours. Military ranks and school marks clearly depend on societal decisions arrived at by convention. Family relations depend on complex biological and legal relations where the opposites ‘male–female’, ‘older generation–younger generation’, and ‘blood–law’ cross each other. Colours depend on physical facts which, however, are subject to individual and often idiosyncratic impressions. Fields like ‘die’ or ‘the days of the week’ again follow different criteria. It looks as if each semantic field has its own internal relational system. Even if we admit that there are some overarching categories like ‘antonymy’ or ‘hyponomy’ (Lyons 1977; see below), we must certainly allow for other differences; for

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example between fields pertaining to natural, to cultural, and to mental phenomena. The root of this problem lies in what can be called Trier’s idealist objectivism. He regards the various topics of fields as objectively given. Fields mirror the world in its order, even if this order is interpreted by human culture. This latter idea was stressed by Leo Weisgerber (1950), who, in the spirit of Humboldt, claimed that semantic fields reveal the culture-shaped ‘interworld’ (Zwischenwelt) between nature and the human mind. For him, this ‘interworld’ is in many respects nationally biased. But even in this case, fields are topically preordained. In Weisgerber’s opinion the language user finds them and has to bow to them. He does not make them up of his own accord. In a somewhat simplified Humboldtian sense, they are, according to Weisgerber, the result of the energetic powers of language which become effective in national history. This concept of a cultural interworld in the mother tongue (Muttersprache) has not been entirely discarded, e.g. it is still used by ethnolinguistics, but it has been denationalized. Present-day semantics looks for general cognitive principles that are revealed in the vocabulary of a language rather than for traits of national character or national culture. 3.4.4

Later developments

Eugenio Coseriu and Horst Geckeler (Geckeler 1971, 1973, 1988, 1993; Coseriu 1976; Coseriu and Geckeler 1974) have done more than anyone else to fuse field theory with the demands of structuralist semantics. They introduced the term ‘opposition’ (of the elementary semantic units called semes) for differences in synonyms, after the model of opposition in phonology and morphology. They moved semantic fields away from their unique position in semantic order and made them one possibility of lexical structures among several. In addition to the well-known paradigmatic structures they introduced so-called lexical classes, i.e. categorizations like ‘animate–non-animate’, ‘male’–‘female’, ‘transitive–intransitive’, which rank higher than semantic fields. These classes cut across most of these fields and have semantic as well as grammatical corollaries. Moreover, these two linguists introduced the regularities of word formation as another structural system of lexis. They pointed

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to syntagmatic structures, which are in many cases just as important as the paradigmatic ones. Much earlier, Walter Porzig had already spoken of solidarities (wesenhafte Bedeutungsbeziehungen) (Porzig 1934), i.e. collocations and restrictions of word selection between noun and adjective or noun (as subject) and verb (as predicate). They pertain to lexemes like ‘eye’ and ‘naked’ or ‘dog’ and ‘bark’ as discussed in early generative grammar. These solidarities were recognized by Coseriu (1967) as a principle of order in its own right. He and Geckeler also stressed the difference between (referential, extensional) meaning and (linguistic) sense, i.e. between lexemes as determined by reality and lexemes as determined by the relation to other lexemes and by the various intentions of utterances, as did Lyons (1977). The classical examples of this difference are the (intensional) lexemes morning star and evening star, which both refer (extensionally) to the planet Venus (Wilhelm Frege’s example), and ‘the winner of Austerlitz’ and ‘the loser of Waterloo’, which both refer to Napoleon (Edmund Husserl’s example). According to Coseriu, the concept of semantic fields originates precisely because of the difference between intensional and extensional meanings. Fields are only to be found in the former. Consequently, language which is solely determined by reality (referents) and is not susceptible to sense-interpretations, as in the sciences, does not qualify for any field order at all. This leads to the exclusion of all terminologies, taxonomies, and nomenclatures. Many linguists would question this position, arguing that the scientific approach to reality is just as culture-specific and language-dependent as other linguistic significations and therefore allows just as many interpretations according to sense. Moreover, the so-called metalanguage, i.e. language on language and language use, which is a normal part of communication, as we have noted, is also excluded from semantic fields. All this amounts to a considerable reduction in that part of the vocabulary which is eligible for semantic fields in general. Recent linguistic analyses have elaborated on various types of fields (e.g. Cruse 1986; Lipka 1990). There are closed sets which can hardly be extended such as ‘days of the week’ (Monday, Tuesday, etc., but also weekend) or ‘cardinal points’ (north, south, etc., but also north-northwest), and also open sets to which those new items may be added which the speech community develops, such as ‘colour and colour shades’.

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Furthermore, there are good reasons for distinguishing between fields with morphologically simple items only and those which contain extended ones (prefixations, suffixations, compounds). The former may have gaps (if we allow this concept at all), but scarcely the latter. There are linear fields with member lexemes in co-hyponymy like ‘colours’ (red, yellow, green, blue, purple) or ‘temperature’ (hot, warm, tepid, cool, cold), and hierarchical fields with several ranked hyponyms like ‘plant’ (plant/tree/bush/tulip; but then tulip, carnation, rose) or ‘animal’ (animal/mosquito, elephant, horse/mare, stallion, foal, filly, colt) (Lipka 1990: 152–7). Which hierarchical order prevails will depend on the semantic nature of the items given in the archelexeme. Finally, Peter Rolf Lutzeier (1981) gave field theory a new framework taken from symbolic logic and set theory. He distinguished between three levels of decision for setting up semantic fields: (i) grammatical category (e.g. noun, verb, etc.) and aspect (the general semantic determination or archelexeme), (ii) dimension (an element of meaning which recurs in every member lexeme), and (iii) semantic relations of lexemes to each other. The positions of the lexemes shed, stable, sty, for example, are the consequence of (i) the decision for nouns and the aspect ‘farm(ing)’, (ii) the decision for the dimension ‘buildings’, and (iii) the relations determined by the various animals. For Lutzeier, ‘aspect’, which already figured in the previous field theories, just like ‘dimension’, is not a part of the field itself but preordained. This means that language users can create fields by choosing aspects and dimensions according to their communicative needs and intentions. This refutes the linguistic objectivism of the first generation of field theorists, for whom Wortfelder were inherently given in reality together with the cosmos of culture-bound expressions used at a certain time in history. The quite extensive discussion after 1931 stripped field theory of all its high-flown ambitions which, ultimately, depended on a very idealistic philosophy pertaining to reality, language, thought and national culture seen as orderly correlated spheres. What remains is a much more modest linguistic hypothesis on the connexivity of lexis according to several paradigmatic and syntagmatic principles which language users can use according to their own communicative needs. These may change—certainly in the course of history, but also within a lifetime. In consequence, semantic fields may change, too.

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Another consequence of the more modest version of the nowprevailing field theory is that it embraces only linguistic facts. Fields are not domains of reality and they are not nets of associations. They do not mirror epistemological concepts either. They are inherent properties of languages. What is left of field theory and proves useful, for example, in lexicography is the central position of synonymy. Fields are a concretization of the general assumption that all words in a language have neighbours because of overlaps and differences in meaning. Basically, this coincides with the long experience of lexicographers and the more thoughtful kind of ordinary language users that there are synonymous relations between words, that they must be used for the sake of meaning definitions, and that they play a large role in the understanding of sentences and texts. This falling back on what can be called an enlightened practice also means falling back on a huge body of knowledge delivered either in dictionaries or in deliberations which expressly deal with synonymy. Roget’s Thesaurus is certainly among them. Field theory is part of a tradition extending deep into the past and not at all as revolutionary as its early exponents believed. Perhaps this is the hidden reason that accounts for the permanent interest in a hypothesis which has met with so much criticism. People found at least a partial confirmation of their own experience there.

3.5

Semantic features

3.5.1

Different formats

Louis Hjelmslev’s book Omkring sprogteoriens grundlaeggelse (1943), translated into English as Prolegomena to a Theory of Language (1953), is generally acknowledged as the founding text of linguistic structuralism in Europe. His own term was ‘glossematics’. In the United States, Ernst Cassirer’s paper on ‘Structuralism in Modern Linguistics’ (1945) had a similar effect by making the concepts and methods of Roman Jakobson (1896–1982) and Prince Nikolai Sergeyewich Trubetzkoy (1890–1938) known (see below). The term and the concomitant ideas were to dominate linguistics in the second half of the twentieth century, drawing such seminal older works as those by Ferdinand de Saussure (1916) and Leonard Bloomfield (1979) into their own deliberations.

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Hjelmslev’s hypothesis of structuralism is to look at language as a synchronic system or structure in its own right. This is defined as the totality of relations between items which together constitute a complex entity such as language. It is autonomous, i.e. existing solely in itself, and not, for example, in the human mind or in an objective reality of the cultural or the physical kind. Starting from these assumptions, a linguistic theory must be deductive, moving from higher levels (classes) to lower ones (components), but it must also be empirical, i.e. it must allow application to empirical data, which are always on the lowest level. This means it is to be autonomous and, at the same time, appropriate. Its aim is a general and therefore strictly formal calculus which allows predictions for all conceivable cases of application. If, however, the exhaustive description of language use should lead to contradictions with the theory, the coherence of this theory takes precedence over the aim of exhaustiveness. The linguistic model is more important than language-in-use. Hjelmslev knew that his programme had much in common with medieval thinking, for example with logic and natural history, yet thought of it rightly as an almost revolutionary innovation in linguistics. His definition of a linguistic theory was modelled on mathematical principles. In the area of semantics, Hjelmslev suggested explaining the unlimited number of lexemes by a very limited number of recurring content figurae (his original term) which appear in special configurations, such as ‘male–female’, ‘animal–human’, ‘child–adult’. For example, the lexemes ram and ewe, man and woman, boy and girl, stallion and mare are explainable in this way. The idea that the figurae are universal, but their configuration language- and culturespecific, immediately suggests itself. It contains the central idea of structuralism: to explain the plethora of empirical (historical) facts by a closed set of universal principles. Hjelmslev had an ancient and a modern model. The ancient model was Raimundus Lullus’ ars generalis (thirteen century), where the potential vocabulary of any language is explained as the exponential combination of nine and six fundamental, hence semantic, categories. The modern model was that of Roman Jakobson and Prince Trubetzkoy, who had explained the phonemes of any language as the configuration of a closed set of phonetic features (Jakobson 1962; Jakobson and Halle 1973; Trubetzkoy 1939, 1973).

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They did this at the First International Congress of Linguists in 1928, an occasion which, because of this, is also called the birth of structuralism. Just as the phonemes /b/ and /p/ are regarded, respectively, as a configuration of the features plosive ⫹ bilabial ⫹ voiced and plosive ⫹ bilabial ⫹ voiceless, and therefore differ only in one phonetic feature, lexemes like those mentioned above are to be understood by the similarity and difference of their ‘semantic features’, which is what Hjelmslev’s figurae were later called.20 The term opposition was also transferred from phonology to semantics. Unfortunately, Hjelmslev did not test his approach against linguistic reality. But many later linguists did so under the name of componential analysis (Lyons 1977: 317–35). Among them were Greimas (1965, Greimas et al. 1970) in France, Coseriu and Geckeler (1974) in Germany, and Nida (1964, 1975) and Weinreich (1966/1970) in the United States. Three formats were used: (i) feature grids, (ii) feature trees, and (iii) feature (atomic) predicates. It is part of the mathematical design of componential analysis in all three formats that the features were given non-syntagmatic, quasipre-linguistic names in which grids and trees were accompanied by plus (⫹) and minus (⫺) signs in the manner of algebra. The aim was to make unambiguous and universally valid statements on semantics—an area of linguistics which had so far been characterized as ambiguous and culture-specific. The features were arranged by these algebraic signs as privative oppositions. The assumption was that precise features placed in relation to each other result in precise relations. A well-known example is Bernard Pottier’s (1963, 1964) grid analysis of chaise, fauteuil, tabouret, canapé, pouf with the help of the features ‘⫹/⫺ avec dossier’, ‘⫹/⫺ sur pied’, ‘⫹/⫺ pour un personne’, ‘⫹/⫺ pour s’asseoir’, ‘⫹/⫺ avec bras’, and ‘⫹/⫺ avec matériau rigide’.21 The idea of this analysis is to arrange features in such a way that they differentiate the meaning of various lexemes precisely by inclusion and opposition. Each lexeme shows them in 20 Terminology again varies according to certain aspects of the semantic theories: seme, lexical or semantic component, lexical or semantic marker, distinguisher (for non-overlapping markers), lexical or semantic features, atomic predicates are all to be found. I shall stick to semantic features as the general term. 21 Chair, armchair, stool, couch, pouffe; ⫹/⫺ with back, ⫹/⫺ on legs, ⫹/⫺ for one person, ⫹/⫺ for sitting down, ⫹/⫺ with arms, and ⫹/⫺ with hard material.

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a different configuration. By shifting (commutating) only one feature, one lexeme can be semantically transposed into another one. The prerequisite for all this is that the features, taken together as a configuration, provide an exhaustive list for indicating the meaning of the word. They are understood to be purely linguistic properties, although they are obviously taken from the physical shape of the object and the social functions it is supposed to fulfil. They are also understood to be precise, so that oppositions mark clear differences. An even better-known treatment of the problem is Katz and Fodor’s (1963) analysis of the lexeme bachelor (see above). In the shape of a tree diagram, it allocates semantic features to the various polysemous meanings: (i) A male person who has never married: ⫹ noun, ⫹ human, ⫹ male, ⫹ adult, ⫹ never married (ii) A young male person who serves as a knight [. . .]: ⫹ noun, ⫹ human, ⫹ male, ⫹ young, ⫹ knight (iii) A male or female person who has the first or lowest academic degree [. . .]: ⫹ noun, ⫹ human, ⫹/⫺ male, ⫹ academic degree (iv) A seal during breeding time without a mate: ⫹ noun, ⫹ animal, ⫹ male, ⫹ young, ⫹ seal The conditions for this analysis are similar to those of the previous one in that the features chosen present the full meaning of each polysemous version, and thereby differentiate exactly (or at least sufficiently) between the various meanings. While Pottier makes the overlappings and differences between the lexemes of a semantic field visible, Katz and Fodor do the same with the meanings of four polysemes. The format of a grid, in Pottier, suggests a two-dimensional argument, whereas the format of a tree diagram, in Katz and Fodor, suggests, besides the two dimensions of plus and minus, a hierarchical argument. Note that the different meanings of the polysemes occur at exactly one point in the diagram. This means that the last feature in each of the four derivations is the decisive one. Because of its special function this feature is called the distinguisher. In order to understand Katz and Fodor’s analysis fully, we must not forget its position and function in early generative grammar. According to this concept, the syntactic description of a sentence S (in the deep structure), which operates on universal rules, was to be

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‘interpreted’ by a phonological and a semantic description (in the surface structure), which was the structure of the expression of individual utterances in sentence form. This was supposed to be the universally valid schema of the linguistic (not psychological) generation of sentences. It guaranteed syntactically correct and semantically meaningful sentences. Katz and Fodor’s influential theory showed how this could be done without generating meaningless sentences like the notorious ‘Colourless green ideas (which were said to) sleep furiously.’ The semantic features must be compatible with the other features (of the deep structure), which were given in tree diagrams. This was ensured by so-called projection rules. They were again purely formal, i.e. consisting of a mechanical mapping of symbols. This means that Katz and Fodor were giving the solution not to a paradigmatic but to a syntagmatic problem within the framework of a theory which aimed to subsume, besides phonology, syntax and semantics into a unified theory. Therefore, the semantic component had the same symbolic and hierarchical set-up as phrase structures and appeared in the same tree diagrams. Semantic interpretation could only fulfil its function if there were no gaps left in the theory—gaps being defined as areas of intuitive understanding. A formal theory such as that envisaged by the generativists functions only if no knowledge is required from outside the apparatus of symbols. The last format to be mentioned refrains from using any graphical schema. It was developed with reference to verbs only. It regards them as predicates that operate on arguments and uses the conventions of predicate logic. A verbal lexeme is broken down into its ‘recoverably deletable predicates’ (McCawley 1968), arranged in a chain. The best-known analysis is that of kill (vb. tr.) as ‘do cause become not-alive’, symbolically do ([cause [[become [[[not alive]]]⫺ ]]⫺]), x,y). The symbolic form and also the non-syntagmatized series of feature predicates22 is meant to indicate that semantic (deep) structures, not (surface) expressions, are indicated. Other examples are break as ‘do cause become not-whole’ or persuade as ‘speak cause believe, do cause become convinced’. The procedure, however, becomes questionable when apologize is ‘atomically’ analysed 22 The term used is ‘atomic predicate’, since the simplest feature predicates combine to form ‘molecules’.

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as ‘request forgive’, because the borderline between writing a verb in its atomic predicates and a conventional paraphrase seems to break down here. It is certainly true that in this way classes rather than fields, or meanings of individual verbs with their overlapping or even universal meaning features, can be made visible. Causatives, for example, are marked by the relevant atomic predicate. The difference between kill and die depends on the presence or absence of ‘cause’. ‘Become’ signals a change of state. What are conventionally termed aspects—‘inchoative’, ‘state’, ‘terminative’—for example, in German erblühen, blühen, verwelken (‘[burst into] blossom, flower, wither’) can be marked accordingly. The last ‘atom’ is always the distinguishing one in the class. It resembles the distinguisher in tree diagrams, just as the predicates resemble the features there. In spite of its obvious possibilities, the method has never been tried out on a corpus of lexemes. 3.5.2

General criticism

It is obvious that semantic grids, semantic tree diagrams, and semantic (atomic) predicates have much in common. Following Hjelmslev’s axioms of autonomy and appropriateness, they reduce word meanings to abstract configurational, i.e. symbolic, entities of a purely linguistic nature which are, nevertheless, applicable to reality because they coincide with, and empirically are certainly taken from, the general conditions under which the lexemes are used. In this way, a gnomic metalanguage appears which is meant to establish the semiotic (or logical) conditions for real language. However, there are also difficulties with all three formats. First, there has been no serious debate on how to select the items whose relations to each other are so important (see below). The chosen metalinguistic features are supposed to be necessary and sufficient for defining lexeme meanings. All authors of the relevant analyses would agree that more features of word meanings can be found. But they do not think it necessary to include them. If gaps of explainability should arise, they would all argue, following Hjelmslev, that the coherence of the deductive system overrides the demand for complete applicability. It is an insight into the overall system that matters, not the description of details. Assuming that all

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three formats are consistent enough in themselves, the only question left between them is which is more and which is less appropriate. This brings to the fore a very far-reaching controversy on the aims and the scientific nature of linguistics. Is it the aim of linguistics to describe practice—to register, classify, analyse and synthesize as many cases of language use as possible, to make experience as coherent as we can, but leave it incoherent if no ordering principle can be found, or tolerate contradictions in the design of descriptions? Or is it the aim of linguistics to explain practice as the outcome of a universal system with its stable relations in strict coherence, whose exceptions, if any, are beyond scientific interest? Obviously the one cannot exist completely without the other. One needs generalizing categories for description, and one needs concrete language material to demonstrate universal rules. But just as obviously, the practice-driven model and the system-driven model of linguistics tend toward different ends. Feature-oriented semantics certainly belongs to the latter kind. But, for example, lexicographers or other people with applied interests generally favour the former. Second, linguists query the status of features as a gnomic metalanguage (e.g. Bolinger 1965), or markerese as it is somewhat derogatorily called. Features are defined as not having objective reality, although they are recognizably taken from there. Can we distinguish at all strictly between experience of language and experience of the world? Features are also defined as not having mental reality, although at least some of them are recognizably taken from mental (logical) processes like, for example, abstractions. How do we select features: without practice, i.e. intuitively, or by practice, i.e. accidentally? Are they universal, or language- (and culture-) specific, or both? Obviously, certain sets of lexemes (colours, family relationships, furniture, etc.) suggest that the method is not accounted for but arrived at by intuition. (Just as semantic fields are as a rule.) If this is so, do we not predetermine by the selection of examples the outcome of substitution and commutation? Third, even such basic terms as ‘opposition’ are questionable. The general ⫹/⫺ binarism of semantic analyses allows only privative oppositions. But as early as 1939, Trubetzkoy, from whom the term originated, pointed out that there are also equipollent and gradual oppositions (Lyons 1977: 279). Male and female are privative opposites in the sense that each signals the absence of the other as

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a normal alternative. But green and blue are equipollent opposites, because the absence of blue could also mean red or black. Finally, hot and cold are gradable opposites, because ‘not hot’ might also be scorching, warm, lukewarm, etc. Both groups are non-binary, in that colours or the names of the days of the week or the months of the year are all opposed to each other, just like every degree of temperature, size, height, density, etc. Linguistically, all these oppositions are called antonyms, a term which thus discloses its own multiple meanings. There is also the ‘converse’ opposition, as exemplified by husband and wife, a reciprocal relation which we find in social roles ( father–mother, king–subject), but also in temporal and spatial relations (earlier–later, above–below). Moreover, there is ‘directional’ opposition as in go and come, and also in north and south, east and west. Go and come are relative to a given point, north and south are antipodal, and east and west are orthogonal. All this is explained admirably by Lyons (1977) and is meant to show what complexities hide behind the simple juxtapositions of plus and minus symbols. Things are perhaps less one-dimensional with hyponyms when they appear in tree diagrams. Usually these diagrams indicate class inclusion. But there remains a problem with the exact relation of cohyponyms to each other. In a tree diagram of bachelor, young men who have never married, who serve under an older knight, and who (whether young or not) have the first academic degree all belong to the class of humans. But they are still so different from each other that they can hardly be regarded as co-hyponyms on one level. The reason is that higher-ranking classes are inclusive in the sense that they have many lower-ranking participants. Each of these participants, however, is inclusive in its own way, because it not only contains the features of ‘human’ but also those of the more special kinds ‘marital status’, ‘knighthood’, and ‘degree’, which are not counted among the features necessary and sufficient for the definition of the class lexeme. It may be true that a sufficient number of necessary features indicates the meaning of a word in a recognizable way, but certainly it does so only at the expense of countless shades of meaning which are triggered by syntagmatic contexts and by situational clues and which are undeniably part of language practice. The idea that word meanings are complex or even, in principle, indefinite in their semantic possibilities leads to the conviction that not sufficiently

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few, but as many features as possible, should be collected in order to indicate their semantic range. Feature selection is either very close to common paraphrases or falls short of them because connotative, inferential, deictic, and other features are, as a rule, ignored. This would, of course, burst the bounds of any of the three formats. In these formats words are delimited by semantic features within the possibilities of an artificial system. This, however, is far from a natural view. Even if we grant that analytical deliberations always deviate from the natural view, it can be queried whether a method so extreme is feasible. Fourth and last, the atomization of meanings, whether by features or by inherent predicates, may conform with normal theoretical reflection on language but it flies in the face of common awareness, which understands meanings holistically. Nobody has ever been able to explain how a certain number of features/predicates are configured. Word meanings are certainly not the ‘sum of the features (like the sum of digits)’ or their ‘product’—but what are they then? On the semantic side, there is a rift here between language awareness, which is holistic and intuitive, and reflection on language, which is analytical. For pertinent arguments in this problem see Bolinger (1965). 3.5.3

General observations

If we deduct the theoretical ambitions, as defined by Hjelmslev, from feature theory we find that, first of all, semantics still falls back on polysemy, homonymy, and synonymy in semanticizing words. Meanings are determined by a comparison of those lexemes which have much in common. This means that feature theory falls back on general linguistic experience by choosing sample cases which predetermine the outcome of analyses. As there is no rational argument about how these sample cases and their features are chosen, intuition is the only standard. Indeed, intuition, the much-derided principle of earlier linguistics, plays here an important, largely unaccounted-for, role. Moreover, language is still needed in order to explain language, even if it is given a gnomic appearance. All too often the ‘formalized’ grids, trees, and logical formulae are nothing more than paraphrases in disguise, even in cases where, for example, synonyms are distinguished by one minimal difference, i.e. one

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feature. The identification of synonyms has been going on for centuries without any aim at formalization in the mathematical sense. The independence of markerese as a symbolic metalanguage in its own right is certainly an illusion. It is abstracted from natural language use. As it is meant to explain the internal mechanism of this use, the theory moves in a circle. This may not be an argument which defeats feature theory in all its variants, but it shows its inappropriateness for practical semantics. A critical appraisal of semantic features as a method of analysis results in very much the same observation as the critical appraisal of field theory. The method has its merits as a way of perfecting the methods of determining word meanings. There is no denying that grids, trees, and atomic predicates have sharpened our senses for linguistic analysis and terminology. But the wider assumptions and ambitions, which (like field theory) rest on a highly idealistic concept of linguistic reasoning, must be queried. Semantics seems to lend itself to such wider questioning; the core of the phenomena to be treated, however, remains the same.

3.6

Semantic models

3.6.1

Prototypes

Microsemantics is the term for scientific concepts and methods which pertain to the meaning(s) of words as (partly) self-contained units of language. Macrosemantics is the term for those scientific concepts and methods which pertain to the meaning(s) of clusters of words, extending from small coherent groups to the lexis of an entire language, which is imaginable only as an abstract idea. The selected aspects of field theory and feature theory discussed above show that the one does not work without the other—and this is true in both directions. The general structure of lexis can be seen only by working one’s way bottom-up through the mass of individual semantic definitions. But individual semantic definitions can be found only top-down through derivations and delimitations from the overall structure. Admittedly, field theory had a stronger interest in macrophenomena, whereas feature theory was interested in the microdomain. Nevertheless, both theories made the mutual dependence

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obvious. In fact, this can be regarded as being the main achievement of early and mid-twentieth-century semantics as compared to that of the preceding Neogrammarian decades. The so-called cognitive models,23 which became popular from around 1980 on, seem to tackle the problems of semantics at both ends. Essentially, they claim that the recognition of word meanings depends on a cognitive, i.e. psychological, procedure of general validity which, consequently, does not allow for particularities in micro- or macrosemantics. It is no wonder that cognitive semantics originated in experimental psychology (Rosch 1977, 1978). In addition to finding out about individual meanings, there is the ambition to discover how cognition works. Language is conceived of as brain-generated representations (see below) and as observable by experience, i.e. in experiments. Neither aspect is altogether alien to twentieth-century linguistics (note Saussure’s concept of the phoneme and of langue in general, or Chomsky’s early definition of linguistics as cognitive psychology), but now they take on a scientific design characteristic of experimental psychology rather than philology (as the originating discipline of linguistics). These innovations are, above all, present in the term prototype, which has since been generally accepted by linguists (Fillmore 1975; Rosch 1977; Labov 1978; Aitchison 1987; Lipka 1990; Ungerer and Schmid 1996; etc.). The argument for the importance of prototypes is psychological and experiential. By giving names to certain entities, we categorize them. But the measure of this categorization is not a ‘checklist’ (Fillmore 1975) of relevant and sufficient conditions (like the scholastic accidents of substance) but degrees of similarity to a prototype. The ability to recognize such similarities is supposed to be an inherent human faculty. Classification is no longer regarded as a yes–no (either–or) decision about membership of a class but a ‘more or less so’ decision. A sparrow corresponds to the general image of the category bird ‘better than’ a penguin does (though the latter is also a bird), and a drinking vessel is most adequately represented by a cup, not, for example, by a mug or a tin. Prototypes are actually nothing real but a mental, hence ‘cognitive’, representation, a figure in the mind. Individual meanings of lexemes 23 Cognitive linguistics is a broad and complex school which need not be discussed here in detail. For an overview, see Ungerer and Schmid (1996). Our treatment is limited to the topic of synonymy. Thus, we are unable to consider, for example, Ronald W. Langacker’s works on cognitive grammar.

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are more or less identical with them. Analyses, underpinned by recognition and nomination experiments (reported in Ungerer and Schmidt 1996), are well-known for the cases of drinking vessels, houses, and birds, but have also been applied to more abstract entities, like rectangular shapes. Aspects of material, function, outstanding properties, frequency of occurrence, and, most important wherever possible, visible shape (gestalt) come together to create a prototype. This concept means, among other things, the acknowledgement of general language use as distinct from a logical norm. The prototype is the lay-speaker’s accepted norm. Scientific language with its precise demarcations and categorial definitions is now regarded as answering to a prototype of its own. But they both have their justification, and logical perfection is no longer preferred to prototypical salience. Unlike earlier concepts, the attributes of prototypes—which have a certain proximity to semantic features—do not all have the same semantic weight or salience. For the meaning of the lexeme bus, for example, the attribute ‘carries many people’ is more salient than the attribute ‘has four wheels’. The former makes a certain vehicle a bus, the latter is a property which it has together with other vehicles. The former is, therefore, the origin of a superordinate category, namely ‘means of personal transport’, with bus as a prominent hyponym, the latter also being the potential origin of a superordinate category, namely ‘four-wheel vehicle’, of which bus, however, is just one hyponym among many others (car, lorry, coach, etc.). Cognitive semantics works particularly well with concrete referential meanings—as all types of semantics do. But it also has its very special merits in areas hitherto neglected or even closed to semantic analysis. The adaptation of the prototype idea to notoriously difficult word classes is certainly a reason for its general success. Prepositions, for example, can now be given convincing prototypical meanings of spatial and sequential schemata (Schulze 1988, 1994). Metaphorical extensions of word meanings, which are part and parcel of common language, can also receive a systematic treatment (e.g. Lakoff and Johnson 1980).24 By relating such

24 Note that Reisig (1839) had already counted metaphorization and metonymy among the principles of semantics.

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indirect, but perfectly popular and frequent, meanings to the experience of the human body,25 the wider ambition of cognitive linguistics becomes visible. It aims at finding the anthropological principles of expression. Otherwise, however, it is interesting to notice that cognitive semantics works with exactly the same phenomena which field theory and feature theory selected for their own ends—homonymy and polysemy of lexemes, synonymy, i.e. semantic overlap and differentiation, in small and larger clusters (fields). The very concept of the prototype and its varying instantiations mirrors the idea of word meanings which overlap and differ in their meanings at the same time. It is the same concept as that which constitutes synonymy. The semantic structure of a whole language now appears as prototype-driven. This includes the fact that the human way of dealing linguistically with the world and one’s own self also appears as prototype-driven. Wide areas of cognitive linguistics do indeed coincide with semantic fields and features and could even be rendered in that technical language. But the wider scope of this later linguistic school—encapsulated in the term ‘cognitive’—would then be lost. The cognitive model provides a solution to some unsolved problems in field theory, for example where to place the archelexeme which gives a semantic field its name. Is it inside or outside the field? Is it part of a higher field? In cognitive linguistics, lexemes cluster around prototypes, i.e. around mental representations which may or may not be lexicalized. 3.6.2

Frames and scripts

The lexematic order analysed so far works within one word class, and its members are paradigmatically related to each other. Their relation is called a ‘family resemblance’, i.e. a network of resemblances and affinities which creates widely diverging attributes without, however, disrupting the general family character.26 But these are not 25 e.g. ‘out of my mind’, ‘in my heart’, ‘in high/low spirits’, or ‘the hands of a clock’, ‘the back of a book’, ‘the foot of a mountain’, etc. 26 As is well known, Ludwig Wittgenstein, who introduced this term, illustrated it by words for games. The term is intentionally vague. It is an answer to the unsolved question of field theory as to the relations between members of a field—in the sense that a precise answer cannot be given. See Ungerer and Schmid (1996: 25).

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the only such attribute-based word groups: there are also those which since Fillmore (1975, 1978, 1985; see Ungerer and Schmid 1996: 205–13 et passim) have been called frames. The words buyer, goods, money, and seller mark the frame BUY, because (i) they most likely (i.e. frequently) occur together with the predicate buy (but also with sell, cost, charge, spend, save), (ii) they mirror a cognitive configuration of lexical representations in the mind, and (iii) they give names to a network of actions in reality which could be described prototypically. The whole lexis of a language-in-use is made up of such frames. They are constituted by predicates. The various syntactic consequences which they offer because of the structural character of verbs are selected because of the shifting attention of speakers.27 This gives syntactic structures a certain psychological underpinning. It is lexicologically interesting that membership in a frame is grounded in such potential syntactic relations as subject, object, prepositional phrase, adverbial, complement. This moves frame theory away from paradigmatic semantic fields and closer to the so-called lexical solidarities as defined by Porzig (1934) and Coseriu (1967) (see above). Frames can, of course, vary in the number of lexemes they contain depending on the generality of the actions they cover. They have an affinity to recurrent situations. They border on other frames with which they may form whole frame systems. Well known are analyses of frames like ‘eating in a restaurant’ (Schank and Abelson 1977) or ‘travelling by plane’ (Ungerer and Schmidt 1996: 213). Many of these frames cluster around prototypical actions28 in prototypical scenes. Many (like the two mentioned) have a preordained sequence of steps which, taken together, make up the whole. If arranged along a temporal axis, frames are usually called scripts— like film scripts for a sequence of scenes. The whole idea of arranging vocabulary according to prototypical actions in prototypical situations is, of course, heavily culture-dependent and subject to change. Nevertheless, it is similar to the old idea of semantic fields which cover reality without any gaps, but without the idealistic assumption of an ideal fit between reality and lexis. Frames and 27 For example: ‘John bought the car for a few pounds. / The car was sold by the shop owner for a few pounds. /The few pounds in his pocket were enough to buy the car.’ 28 Frames of emotions, instead of actions, are usually called scenarios.

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scripts are simply the reaction of human cognition to the necessities of daily life.29 Like the two theories mentioned earlier, cognitive semantics has aims more ambitious than merely explaining the order of lexis. It looks for the reasons for this order in the apparatus that develops reality-based knowledge. Obviously, advances have been made in notoriously difficult areas of semantics, although the linguistic phenomena treated remain very much the same, namely the semantic affinity of lexemes on various levels and in various grades. It is certainly a merit of cognitive semantics to have overcome the atomization of meaning caused by feature theory. It is also meritorious to give experience and close observation its due in theorizing on language. But there are problems. One is the exact nature of what is called ‘representation’ in the mind. This is a very important concept because it is the point at which the non-linguistic reality of objects, actions, emotions, etc. meets the linguistic system in Saussure’s sense.

3.7

Reverse theories of synonymy

Lexicological theories, like the three discussed above, explain the structure of language in its entirety. They take phenomena like synonymy and homonymy or polysemy as their starting points and attribute to them functions essential for the working of the whole linguistic system as a human- and culture-made entity. There are also less widely known and debated theories of synonymy which argue in the reverse direction. They do not use synonymy, etc. as an entry into the general understanding of language; they use the general understanding of language in order to show the position and functions of synonymy, etc. within it. The following is an exposition on two of these theories, stripped to their essential frameworks. 3.7.1

Roy Harris

For Harris (1973), linguistic analysis works on various levels— phonetics, morphology, syntax, expressions in situations—and depends 29 The terms frame and scene are also used in artificial intelligence. Computers which recognize language (for reading or translating) must have stored such frames or scripts, which means programmers must draw them up and key them in.

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on the difference between form and meaning. This is basically the structuralist set-up, as it was current in the 1970s, but with a new and unusual evaluation of semantics. According to Harris, the dichotomy between form and meaning, expression and content, is axiomatic for all linguistic knowledge and indispensable for communication. This is because form does not indicate meaning in a one-to-one manner. Although differences between forms and meanings in two or more words are what could be called the (statistically) normal case, there are differences in forms which do not indicate meanings, i.e. synonymous expressions, and differences in meanings which do not depend on differences in forms, i.e. homonymous or polysemous expressions. Finally, there is partial sameness and difference which has no formal equivalents. The recognition of the statistically normal case, however, hinges on the recognition of the exceptions, as the nature of this (and any other comparable) regularity shows itself only in contrary cases. If the form–meaning dichotomy is truly axiomatic, it must be found on all levels of linguistic analysis. Indeed, the phoneme as a meaning-distinguishing acoustic unity presupposes the recognition of the phonetic contrast as the normal case, but also the recognition of free variations, changes in accordance with prosodic features and neutralizations according to phonetic context. Meaning-distinguishing contrasts in one case may, therefore, no longer be distinguishing in others. These changes are quite frequent and systematic, as is shown by generative phonology. Outside this system, they also constitute historically determined geographical and other dialects. This sets the stage for the conditions for synonymy: Two phonetic types are realizations of synonymous expressions if they show no difference of usage and the phonetic difference between them is also that between other pairs of phonetic types which do show a difference of usage. (Harris 1973: 52)

This means that phoneme recognition requires the concept of meaning as opposed to form, which requires the concept of (non-) synonymy. The same can be said of morpheme recognition. This works by the normal contrasts, but also by unique morphemes (like attend, contend, pretend) and their variation which, for example, leads to grammatical synonymy (like the comparative morpheme in (bad )

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worse and (tall) taller). It may also lead to syntactic ambiguity (because of homonymy, like ‘flying planes’, which, depending on the structure selected, can be either ‘dangerous’ or is ‘easy’). In word-formation, this leads to the difference between analytic and synthetic synonymy (like spinster aunt vs unmarried aunt, two expressions which are synthetically but not analytically synonymous). On the sentence and text level, meanings depend on the interplay between (i) what Harris calls ‘substantive semantic characterizations’, i.e. the meanings of words, (ii) relations between these due to their contextual, i.e. syntactic, functionalization, and (iii) extralinguistic context, i.e. situation. The illocutionary force of an expression is regarded as a part of the context and the situation. As this claim is generally accepted, it is plausible to believe that synonymy is not located in two words as such but in their being embedded in context and situation. Thus it is futile to look for the complete and exhaustive semanticization of a single lexeme, because context and situation shape its meaning(s) in an indefinite number of ways. In consequence, it is also futile to look for two words that are complete synonyms: for many expressions in natural languages the enterprise of constructing a complete substantive semantic characterization lacks feasibility, in the sense that there is no end to the series of conceivable hypotheses which would need testing in order to establish conclusively the semantic rule of the informant’s interpretation. (Harris 1973: 142)

Hence synonymy can neither be verified nor falsified. It can be defined only with respect to certain selected meaning-determining aspects which allow comparison. Roy Harris’s structuralist investigation into synonymy does not consider language use, but is easily extendable to this domain. If understanding (non-)synonymy is essential for linguistic knowledge on all levels of the system, it is also essential for common language use, be it productive in speaking and writing, or receptive in listening and reading. Competent speakers are able to handle regularities which they are not able to explain metalinguistically. The recognition of synonyms, etc. is therefore a natural achievement of performance. Speakers recognize the relevant lexemes either as identical and therefore as a means of substitution in a given context, or as different and therefore as a means of differentiation.

Words, words, words 3.7.2

67

Karen Spark Jones

Karen Spark Jones’s study (1986) aims at reconciling the fact that synonymy is intuitively known to speakers with the postulates of the linguistic school which insists that the meanings of words are constituted by their use. This school is usually traced back to the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein and regarded as a counterposition to the rigid systematicity of structuralism. Jones has an interest in machine translation for which, in her opinion, a bilingual thesaurus must be provided so that it is possible to decide which of the many possible meanings of a word is actuated in a given context. Roget’s Thesaurus is considered as being ‘workable’ in this respect. Semantic classes in a thesaurus are constituted by the interrelations of their member lexemes. Synonymy is the most important case in point; other, less important, ones are similarity, likeness (inclusion), antonymy, and exclusion. For synonymy, the procedure of substitution is essential to all definitions, be they linguistic or philosophical.30 Semantically, any word is a set of word uses represented by one sign. Synonymy is the relation of these word uses in the same position in a sentence which is changed neither in its other words nor in its ploy (Jones 1986: 79). ‘Ploy’ is the significance which the sentence, as a whole, has for the speaker who knows the language. (It is clearly akin to illocution.) The sequence of possible synonyms of a word is called a ‘row’. The row determines and defines the use of a word, and thus its meaning in context, for example in ‘He shouted cried called for help’: A set of elements [i.e. words] which co-occur in a row will be called synonyms […]. A set of elements which co-occur in every row in which any of them occurs will be called total synonyms. (Jones 1986: 92)

These arguments make use of well-known linguistic facts: (i) finding synonymy/ies is the essential method of defining word meanings, (ii) comparison and substitution indicate synonymy, and (iii) it needs ‘a person who knows the language’, i.e. a speaker’s intuition, to decide on comparable words and word pairs or groups. Theoretically, these steps also allow judgements on ‘total synonyms’, 30 The linguistic arguments of her book are presented in constant debate and comparison with the relevant philosophical arguments. I shall ignore this side of the discussion because it is less relevant to my point of view.

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though nothing is said about the practicality of this idea. Words which have no replaceables at all are outside the system and therefore cannot be defined. They have the status of proper names, as indeed do many technical terms. If one compares not only the lexemes in a row but the rows in a set of rows with each other, one can recognize their similarity and, by the repetitions of lexemes, their central areas of meanings. Word definitions via synonyms must move from initial statements to the whole vocabulary of a language, which is a network of such statements (Jones 1986: 121). Areas of similarity will appear which were once called semantic fields. Word definitions by other yardsticks, like antonymy or hyponymy, are possible, too, but they result only in partial explanations. Word definitions by rows of synonyms are the basic material for a semantic dictionary.31 Jones advises using up to eight lexemes for this. In a second stage of the work, these rows have to be grouped according to similarity. A thesaurus is a selection of grouped rows which, in some (unspecified) sense, represents a conceptual order (Jones 1986: 142). In reality, grouping means associating objects with the same set of properties. In a thesaurus, grouping means associating lexemes with the same set of uses. This is equivalent to saying that, linguistically speaking, groups are constituted by recurring lexemes in the defining rows. Concerning Roget, the author maintains that he did not simply collect synonyms but rows of synonyms which are separated by semicolons. In fact, this is how the Thesaurus is organized in print. It is a strictly intralinguistic procedure, even if it leads to the grouping of words with an extralinguistically similar and ordered significance. Such is the case, for example, with words denoting colours or objects in nature. In order to understand the difference between onomasiological dictionaries of the older sort (Hüllen 1999a), it is important that a conceptual grouping is a collection of words which are synonymous; and we justify this by saying that these words express the same concept if they are synonymous. The problems of whether there is some ‘entity’, the concept, which they all express, is irrelevant, because their expressing the same concept is their being synonymous. (Jones 1986: 153)

31 The appendix to her book, an overview of English synonymy dictionaries, shows that this is not merely a theoretical statement but a description of lexicographical practice in her language.

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This procedure is applicable to all languages, even if it does not lead to exactly the same groupings. The author, however, obviously does not assume that these groupings in various languages could have widely divergent results. She says nothing about difficulties of translation which originate from this procedure. Only with the totality of words in synonymous rows and nearsynonymous sets of rows (groups, i.e. semantic fields) does the work of defining word meanings come to an end: we can say that the semantic structure of a language depends primarily on the synonymy relations which hold between the uses of the words in a row, and secondarily on the similarity or connection relations between the uses of words in different rows, and also on the relations between words which depend on the relations between their uses. This semantic structure, however, though it ultimately consists of relations between individual uses, is only made explicit in the groups of uses which are derived from these individual relations; so that the description of the semantic structure of vocabulary is a description of the way in which individual uses come together to form groups. (Jones 1986: 156)

This means that the cohesion of the vocabulary of a language is established in use, and that the description of this cohesion is nothing more than the description of use. ‘Use’ means handling synonyms in this case. Jones concludes her book with an overview of thesauri and synonym dictionaries in English, which is historiographically fairly complete, and shows that she is actually underpinning extant lexicographical works with a twentieth-century semantic theory. A review added to the second edition of the book ‘after twenty years’ contains strong reservations about the claims of the generativists who, according to the author, ignore semantics at the expense of syntax, about the theory of semantic primitives, whose origin and methods of recognition remain unexplored, and about prototypes which, again according to the author, tend to be merely rows of synonyms.

3.8

Saussure on the linguistic sign

The nature of synonymy and its all-important function in the mechanism of language was introduced into linguistics by Ferdinand

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de Saussure (1916) in a theoretical manner which is still recognized today. In the second part of the Cours, in particular in the four paragraphs of its first chapter, he speaks of the linguistic sign ‘regarded as a whole’. For him, the word is the natural unit of language though it is difficult to define it in this capacity. As such, it fulfils two conditions: (i) it is exchangeable with something dissimilar in nature, and (ii) it is comparable to similar units. The first condition pertains to the relation of signifiant and signifié. The expression, as a rule given in sounds, can be replaced by the matter meant. This relation constitutes the meaning of the sign. The second condition pertains to the relation of units to other units with similar meanings, i.e. with lexical or structural synonyms, in fact (see below). This constitutes the value of the sign. Only meaning and value together give the linguistic unit its locus in the system of a language. This double determination applies not only to lexis, but also to grammar. Structures like singular vs plural or present vs past are likewise determined (i) by their expressions in relation to their meanings and (ii) by their mutual differences or values. They are grammatical synonyms. This twofold determination makes the linguistic sign-in-the-system something positive and something negative. The property of being exchanged is something positive. Expression and meaning are unique and stable; they are what they are. The property of being compared with similar signs is however something negative. It determines every sign by what it is not. Meaning is absolute, value is relative. This is why the natural unit of a language, the word, can be observed and described in the positive manner, conceived in isolation, and also in the negative (relative) manner, regarded as part of the system. Note that the elementary acoustic unit of expression, the phoneme, is also determined by its differences to neighbouring phonemes, i.e. by a relation. It is not to be identified with a stable phonetic substance, but with a differential relation to other phonemes. This is why the positive character of the meaning of a sign eventually depends on the stability of a relation between two items (expression and meaning) which are themselves dependent on differences between them and their neighbouring units.

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Through his definition of the sign ‘regarded as a whole’, Ferdinand de Saussure became the founder of theoretical semantics, as it is still recognized today. He saw synonymy not as an irregular case of designation but as the prerequisite of the linguistic system itself. As is often the case, linguistic theory here lent terminology to observations which had long been known to practical language users. The authors of synonym dictionaries, just like the linguists concentrating on semantic fields, semantic features and semantic cognitive models, made use of Saussurean thought, whether or not they were aware of this.

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4 Synonymy: Early Statements and Practices 4.1. An ordering grid 4.2. Some classical treatments of synonymy 4.2.1. Prodikos and Plato 4.2.1.1. Laches 4.2.1.2. Prodikos (according to Plato) 4.2.1.3. Protagoras 4.2.2. Roman authorities 4.2.2.1. Cicero on defining virtues 4.2.2.2. Quintilian on oratory 4.2.2.3. Aulus Gellius’miscellaneous notes 4.3. Isidore of Seville’s differentiae 4.4. Poetic synonyms in Beowulf 4.5. Erasmus’ De copia verborum 4.6. Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost 4.7. Archbishop Trench on synonymy and morality

4.1

An ordering grid

Synonyms are those lexemes of a natural language which have related meanings. ‘Related’ means that they partly overlap and partly differ semantically. We can use them in two ways. Either we take them to be different signs for one and the same meaning; in this case we actuate their semantic overlap. Or we take them to be different signs for different meanings which, however, pertain to closely related domains in the world. In this case we actuate their semantic differentiation. Depending on the context and on the communicative intention of the speech act, one and the same lexeme can be used in one way or the other. If we map this principle onto a language in toto, this means that the lexis of any language

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consists of a wide texture (or network) of related lexemes, because there is no word in it which does not overlap and differ with another one in at least one feature.1 If we collect synonyms to show semantic overlap, we focus on cumulative synonymy. If we collect them to show semantic difference, we focus on differentiating synonymy. These two methods mark two types of synonym dictionaries. Roget’s Thesaurus, however, is undecided between the two. It is left to the reader how to use it. The question of whether there are total, as opposed to partial, synonyms in a language, a question often raised, is wrongly put and therefore cannot find an answer. It ignores the difference between language as a semiotic system and the use of language. Lexemes are not totally or partially synonymous in their own right; they are actuated in one of these two ways. Synonymous relations are essential for defining meanings, which is done by identifying one lexeme with the help of at least one other. If this were not possible, we could not move from the known to the unknown. Apart from this function, synonyms are a linguistic means of achieving textual cohesion. Generally speaking, this depends on anaphoric, cataphoric, and substituting references. They are the means of repeating semantic items without repeating lexemes verbatim. Lastly, synonyms are one of the many vehicles of the pragmatic qualities of utterances, above all of stylistic variation. Synonymy was first made a topic of reflection by classical authors. At the same time, it was employed by them as a natural way of arguing in spoken and written language. Since then, synonymy has continuously played key roles in both language use and reflection on language. Describing these roles is an almost impossible, but nevertheless highly necessary, task for the historiography of linguistic ideas. Two questions have to be answered: (i) how did authors in various centuries use synonymy in their texts, i.e. what is the history of the practice of using synonyms? And (ii) how did authors define and explain that semantic affinity of vocabulary which is called synonymy? In other words, how can we describe synonymy as an autonomous tradition (Hüllen 1999a: 28–40), and how can we describe it as a deliberate tradition initiated by linguists? 1 In a detailed treatment this statement would have to be modified with reference to indexical lexemes, pronouns, and certain adverbs.

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We are far from being able to give a satisfactory answer to either of these two questions. In order to bridge the gap between the classical authors and the eighteenth century, when the discussion of synonyms resumed with hitherto unseen vigour, representative treatments will be chosen in order to show how creatively synonyms have been handled in texts and which explanatory reflections were used. It will become obvious that synonymy lies at the heart of many profound philosophical deliberations and language-bound projects of the human mind and that it is one of the most powerful resources for creative language use in literature and in ordinary discourse. A limited historiographical treatment is always in danger of producing a linear, but incoherent, arrangement of arguments and texts. In order to avoid this, we can define five characteristic versions of synonymy which serve as an atemporal grid, although not every author and not every text can find an unambiguous niche in it.2 The first version is the use of synonyms without reflection on their nature and without an identifying term. This is the usual and common way of conveying new facts to people and abounds in the texts of teachers, politicians, technical experts, etc. The second version is to be found when authors deliberately use synonyms in their texts to achieve effects like persuasion or cognition, as was done, for example, in the dialogues and writings of some Greek sophists and philosophers. The term ‘synonym’ did not exist at the time, but was not needed, because the sophists’ method of argumentation was taught by doing, not by reflection on a linguistic metalevel. The borderline between the first and the second version is not always clear. This borderline between the use of synonyms with and without linguistic reflection is definitely crossed, however, in the case of the encyclopaedist and teacher John of Garland (c.1195–1258 [?1272]), who told preachers and schoolteachers that various matters can be expressed with the same words and that one and the same matter can be expressed in various ways. He then listed synonyma et aequivoca in mnemonic verse and illustrative texts. To cite an example, for augur he gave sortillegus, divinator, mathematicus, mathesis, and ariolus (Garlandia 1500a, 1500b, Garland 1857). 2 The selection of examples given in what follows shows that the ‘grid’ is not imposed deductively but is to be understood as derived from historical sources.

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As a representative of the third version of synonymy, John of Garland followed the sophists, because he had effective preaching in mind, but his explanations were based on linguistic observations. He used the fixed term synonyma and arranged synonyms alphabetically in order to make them available for any communicative purpose (Bierbach 1994; Chevalier 1997). Abbé Gabriel Girard’s book on synonyms (1718), which caused unprecedented excitement in Europe, can be regarded as the fourth version because the phenomenon is now given an exclusively linguistic basis. Its pedagogical aim, i.e. training people for educated conversation in society, is wide enough to allow a formal, not topic-driven, procedure. The term is carefully explained and consistently used. A linguistic theory is developed in order to be used in communication, not the other way round. His work is an eminent precursor of the English (and European) synonym dictionary and, consequently, of Roget’s Thesaurus. The fifth and last version of synonymy can be found in those theories which make synonymy a general semantic law. Further criteria have been added to them, for example that there are no gaps between synonyms and that clusters of synonyms conform to culture-specific features. These five versions of synonymy can be understood as forming the skeleton of the history of synonymy. However, this definition and selection of versions is an outcome of historiographical ordering, not of history itself. Each of the five versions can be found in each historical period. In our arrangement, obviously the principle of ordering is the distance from any of the versions to Roget’s Thesaurus and from our present-day concept of a theory of synonymy. This is a legitimate procedure if we do not forget that the result is a historiographical, i.e. artificial, construct and we do not mistake this construct for a process of objective progress. The history of linguistic ideas did not develop in such a way that Roget’s Thesaurus was, so to speak, bound to come. But we can give it an archaeological underpinning in order to show its ideational groundwork. The samples for this underpinning are to be found in the history of synonymy before and after the Thesaurus.3 3 I refrain from allocating each of the works treated in this monograph to one of the five places in this grid. It is meant to be an ordering schema in the background, stimulating reflections on the order

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4.2

Some classical treatments of synonymy

4.2.1

Prodikos and Plato

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4.2.1.1 Laches

In Laches (Plato 1953), one of his earliest dialogues, Plato (428/7–349/7 BC) discusses the question of whether bravery, as fencers need it, should be a feature of the general education of boys, and, if so, who is the best teacher for this. As so often in these dialogues, the question is clearly put, but the answer is not clearly given. Rather, the interest of the interlocutors and, consequently, of the readers focuses much more on the dialogical treatment of the argument than on its outcome. The discussion takes place between Socrates and two military experts: Laches, who, in reality, was a general of high reputation in the Peloponnesian War, and Nikias, who was the leader of a naval expedition to Sicily in 414/13 BC and the subject of one of Plutarch’s lives. The choice of characters is symptomatic of one of the main themes of classical philosophy, namely finding moral criteria for private and, more importantly, for public behaviour by rational philosophizing (the other one being the search for noematic knowledge of the universe). Laches’ and Nikias’ conflicting arguments mirror their common life experience as active warriors whereas Socrates, the philosopher, twists and turns their arguments in a dialectical way and leads them to certain conclusions by the sheer force of logic. The dialogue, typical in its realistic setting as well as in its question-and-answer pattern, has attracted much attention because of these features, in particular in comparison with Plato’s Cratylus. The three characters agree with the general presupposition that education must lead to virtues and that the virtues must serve the common good. The first suggestion is that bravery is perseverance. But Socrates argues that this human attitude is strongest vis-à-vis irrational matters and can therefore hardly be called a virtue. The second attempt maintains that bravery includes a kind of knowledge which anticipates the future effects of one’s own actions. Wise and that the mordern historiographer with the advantage of hindsight can construct vis-à-vis the rich historical material.

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thoughtful bravery is distinguished from unwise and stupid boldness. Knowledge, so Socrates argues, is independent of time: it pertains to matters past, present, and future. In consequence, being brave means not only anticipating the future but also being able to discriminate between good and bad in general, i.e. at all times. It is a special aspect of general virtuousness. Socrates’ (well-known) way of enquiring leads the participants through the various stages of a logical exercise. The determining principle is the logical compatibility of statements with their presuppositions and their consequences. As thoughts express themselves in speech, the logical exercise assumes the shape of a series of semantic determinations of terms. For the linguist, these terms appear as lexemes with overlapping and differentiating meanings. What, on the level of thinking, is a search for logical in/compatibilities turns out to be a study in word meanings. Because of their semantic affinity, we would nowadays call such words the synonyms or members of a semantic field. The lexemes concerned are (general) virtue, perseverance, bravery, courage, boldness, fearlessness, thoughtfulness, stupidity, justice, piety, etc. 4.2.1.2

Prodikos (according to Plato)

It is obvious that Plato and other classical philosophers were not linguists in the sense in which this term has been used for roughly two hundred years. However, we do find linguistic reflections in Homer and Hesiod and subsequent thinkers and can follow the conceptual convolutions through which a genuinely linguistic way of thinking slowly emerged (Hennigfeld 1994; Schmitter 2000). Prodikos of Keos (b. c.470 BC), a contemporary of Socrates, is usually called the parens artis synonymiae (Steinthal 1890–1; Mayer 1913; Rijlaarsdam 1978; Schmitter 2000). He was a sophist none of whose works survive except in Plato’s critical remarks and in some reflections on his works in later authors (see below). Obviously, Prodikos delivered speeches for payment in order to teach oratorical skills to young citizens, as all sophists did. For him, the differentiation of word meanings was a central postulate of linguistic exactness. Plato, of course, insisted that the differentiation (and, by differentiation, the recognition) of ideas rather than of words was the task of philosophy.

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Reflections on language in Greek begin with the so-called phúsei–thesei question. As in other linguistic traditions (van Bekkum et al. 1993)4 these reflections originated from the reading of canonical texts and concerned the semantic correctness of names (words). Hence they were limited to explaining single words. The popular method of doing this was etymology. Names were thought of as being determined either by the nature of the objects they denote (phúsei), or by an agreement between speakers (thesei or nomos). The most famous discussion of these alternatives is Plato’s Cratylus. But authors from Homer to Plato never decided unqualifiedly for one or the other possibility. They always gave reasons for some middle position in order to account for the objective as well as the subjective conditions of word meanings. One argument made use of the so-called eponyms, i.e. the various names of gods and goddesses which exhibited, in addition to their nature, the speaker’s attitude towards them. Another famous example is Romulus. He invented three names for the town which he founded: the political Rome, meaning ‘strength’, the sacerdotal Flora, meaning ‘flourishing’, and the mystical one which nobody was allowed to know, Amor, the inversion of Roma, which of course means ‘love’ (Sluiter 1993: 156–7). The intellectuals of the sixth and fifth centuries BC focused their attention on the relations between language, truth, knowledge, and reality. They tested the trustworthiness of the names which the poets had used. Democritus (b. c.460 BC) favoured the phúsei explanation by pointing out linguistic phenomena which could not possibly be determined by reality. They were (i) polysemy, which we today prefer to call homonymy, i.e. different things being called by the same name, (ii) isorropy, today’s synonymy, i.e. different names fitting one and the same thing, (iii) the change of names, i.e. one and the same thing being given different names at various times, and (iv) the lack of a name for a thing existing in reality (Sluiter 1993: 172–3). This absence of a one-to-one correspondence between words and reality contributed to the general distrust in the cognitive reliability of language. It was countered by Prodikos of Keos, who 4 Wout van Bekkum, Jan Houben, Ineke Sluiter, and Kees Verstegh (1993) stress that there are noteworthy similarities in the Hebrew, Sanskrit, Greek, and Arabic traditions concerning the emergence of linguistic thinking from the semantic interpretation of canonical texts.

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showed that words commonly regarded as synonymous in fact denoted different things, if only those which had close affinities to each other. As Prodikos’ works do not survive, it is difficult to say which of the two explanations of word meanings he was inclined to follow. Also Plato’s references to him are not quite clear. Prodikos would conform to the phúsei explanation if he tried to find the real meaning of words by etymologizing; he would follow the thesei explanation, however, if he did so by explaining their current use. Prodikos seems to have regularly done the latter and only seldom the former (Rijlaarsdam 1978: 36, also 117–20, 195). According to Aristotle’s Topics (112b22), Prodikos compared synonymous lexemes systematically by explaining their semantic differences but not their identities. For example, he juxtaposed positive and negative meanings (Mayer 1913), by which he actually introduced the concept of antonymy as well. Morever, he separated so-called essential (internal) features of word meanings from accidental (external) ones. He thought of these rules as being purely formal, i.e. they were not dependent on word meanings. This foreshadows much later methods of dealing with synonymous words. For Prodikos, synonymy was not something outside the usual order, but an outcome of the regular semantic structure of languages. Obviously, he was quite successful among the sophists with his ideas about speaking correctly (not about speaking well, which was the task of rhetoric). Plato’s criticism testifies to this as do the repercussions of Prodikos’ work, for example, in Aristotle, Thucydides, Isocrates, and later Galen. 4.2.1.3 Protagoras

It is in the dialogue Protagoras that Plato discusses the problems of synonyms more intensively (Plato 1953). Prodikos of Keos and another sophist famous for his treatment of synonyms, Hippias of Elis (of whom, however, we have no direct knowledge), are among the participants. In the course of a textual analysis (further described below), Prodikos declares that differentiating between word meanings cannot be done at all by a person from Lesbos because he was educated in a barbaric language (341c)—which, conversely, means that it is a genuinely Greek (Attic) ability.

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Socrates does not contradict this opinion, although elsewhere in the dialogue he criticizes Prodikos severely. Protagoras is again one of Plato’s early dialogues, distinguished particularly by a lively framework of narration and dramatic scenery. Its topic is once more the nature of (general) virtue and the problem of its teachability. The answer to this problem hinges on the question of whether sophists like Protagoras are worth the payment they demand, because after all they claim to teach a special aspect of virtue, practical (political) behaviour. Protagoras maintains that virtue can be taught. His arguments are of a more practical nature. He argues that life in society would otherwise be impossible and that, when punishing criminals, we take it for granted that virtues can indeed be taught and learnt. Socrates, however, argues the contrary. His arguments are of a purely logical nature. He tries to prove that wisdom, bravery, thoughtfulness, justice, piety, etc. are all part of the one general virtue (areté) and belong together like the various parts of the human face. Protagoras, however, is caught in self-contradiction when trying to show that they are independent of each other. Socrates argues that wisdom and thoughtfulness on the one hand, and justice and piety on the other, certainly belong to each other and, taken together, differ from bravery. He goes on to state that actions always have the aim of achieving something joyful and agreeable (hedoné) and of avoiding something sorrowful. This presupposes a certain knowledge of what joy and sorrow are. Knowledge, however, is teachable. This means that, under the influence of Socrates’ questions, the two opponents have changed places. Socrates now favours the teachability of virtues and Protagoras opposes it. The intricate argumentation, together with Socrates’ criticism of Prodikos, shows the nature of careful reasoning and the positioning of concepts within a given context as opposed to confusing wordplay. The dialogue focuses much more on this procedure than on a definite answer to the basic question. Apart from its logical aspects, the dialogue also refers to what would today be called context sensitivity. In an interlude, Socrates explains that the word difficult means either not easy or bad depending on the context, which in this case is a poem by Simonides. Like Democritus, who regarded synonymy as well as homonymy (polysemy) as evidence in favour of the thesei hypothesis, Plato at least indicates in this dialogue that the semantic relatedness of various

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lexemes and the differentiation of various meanings represented by one lexeme are mutually related. Because of this, the lengthy analysis of the poem is not a deviation from the main argument as it may at first appear. The dialogue itself gives some examples of what Prodikos’ synonyms probably were. In his speech (336d–337c) he distinguishes between ‘equal in attention’ and ‘equal in estimation’, between ‘controversy between friends’ and ‘quarrel between enemies’, between ‘acknowledgement’ and ‘praise’, and finally between ‘intellectual joy’ and ‘sensual joy’. This very selective and summary look at Prodikos and Plato shows that the awareness of semantic similarities between words goes back to the beginning of European thought. In its various branches, Greek philosophy depended on the precise definition of terms. As terms cannot be expressed other than by words, the linguistic method of determining word meanings with the help of related word meanings becomes the vehicle of concept formulation. Although the details are not available to us, it is obvious that language was already a central topic of philosophical discussions previous to Plato (Hennigfeld 1994: 26). With their special questionand-answer technique, the Platonic dialogues mark the beginnings of intellectual conceptualizing. As the selection of virtues that belong together is guided by Plato’s decision for the middle position between two extremes—bravery being located between cowardice and boldness—the selection of lexemes which are compared with each other and arranged as a semantic field is also decided by this principle. 4.2.2 4.2.2.1

Roman authorities Cicero on defining virtues

Cicero (106–43 BC) and Quintilian (AD c.35–c.99), if no one else, deserve to be considered as great thinkers in the liberal arts tradition. With their writings, and the thought revealed in them, they have dominated classical studies since their lifetimes. In their vast programmes of cultural and linguistic education there was, of course, no special place for the discussion of synonymy as a linguistic phenomenon. But, as is to be expected with acute minds devoted to the arts of writing and oratory, they inevitably dealt with

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synonymy when following through their arguments. The following quotations are discussed only in order to show that synonymy is a natural practice in language-conscious minds. These very texts, however, prove how closely the differentiation and evaluation of synonyms are bound to the classical way of thinking and arguing— and vice versa. They also show how close these early treatments of synonymy actually are to much later discussions. Marcus Tullius Cicero is known as the most eminent Roman orator and popularizer of Greek culture in his country. This is true of Greek literature as well as Greek philosophy. As an orator, he was concerned with the proper language for this art, which, for him, had to follow the postulates of correctness and of stylistic elegance. The latter was marked, above all, by figurative and euphonious speech. He distinguished between loqui, i.e. speaking in general, and dicere, i.e. the orator’s art of speaking, thus establishing what he took to be an important dichotomy by a pair of synonyms. As a popularizer of Greek culture, he was concerned with the translation of Greek texts into Latin—with faithfulness to the spirit of the text as well as to the letter. Thus he elaborated many contrasts between the various expressions of the two languages. He did not subscribe to the widely held belief that Greek was generally superior to Latin, because, among other reasons, this would have restricted the importance of his own work and rendered his own ambitions more or less futile (Fögen 2000). Book II of the Tusculan Disputations (Cicero 1971) deals with the philosophical problem of the endurance of pain. It is a topic in which Cicero shows his adherence to Stoic philosophy and his aversion to Epicurus: Interest aliquid inter laborem et dolorem. Sunt finitima omnino, sed tamen differunt aliquid. Labor est functio quaedam vel animi vel corporis gravioris operis et muneris, dolor autem motus asper in corpore, alienus a sensibus. Haec duo Graeculi illi, quorum copiosior est lingua quam nostra, uno nomine appellant; itaque industrios homines illi studiosus vel potius amantes doloris appellant, nos commodius laboriosos. Aliud est enim laborare, aliud dolere. O verborum inops interdum, quibus abundare te semper putas, Graecia! Aliud, inquam, est dolere, aliud laborare. Cum varices secabantur C. Mario, dolebat; cum aestu magno ducebat agmen, laborabat. Est inter haec quaedam tamen similitudo: consuetudo enim laborum perpessionem dolorum efficit faciliorem.

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There is some difference between toil and pain; they are certainly closely related, but there is a difference: toil is a mental or physical execution of work or duty of more than usual severity; pain on the other hand is a disagreeable movement in the body, repugnant to the feelings. To these two things our Greek friends, whose language is richer than ours, apply a single term, and accordingly they call diligent men devotees of, or rather lovers of, pain; we more aptly call them toilers, for toiling is one thing, feeling pain another. O Greece, you are sometimes deficient in the words of which you think you have such a plentiful supply! Toiling I say is one thing, feeling pain another. When C. Marius had his varicose veins cut out he felt pain; when he led his column under a blazing sun he was toiling. All the same there is a sort of resemblance between the two things, for the habit of toil renders the endurance of pain easier. (ch. xv; Cicero 1971: 182–4, 183–5; there follow examples from Greece, particularly from Sparta)

The sequence of thoughts in this chapter is remarkable—not for the eminent Cicero, of course, but for the later history of this kind of text. We find many elements which will continue to appear. There is the pointed opposition of two words defined by semantic identity and differences. There then follows a separate definition of each member of the pair. In both subparts the style is pithy, almost curt, and easy to remember. At the end of the chapter, we find examples illustrating what has so far been stated in general on the authority of the writer alone. In sequence and style such reflections will reappear in the literature on synonyms, whether because of imitation, or because they have a kind of objective usefulness for synonym discussion. The intermediate reflections on Greek and Latin, however, are rather individual in their playful irony. Yet they also demonstrate something which recurs again and again, namely that synonym studies profit enormously from language contrasts.5 The Tusculan Disputations also present a philosopical discussion which unfolds essentially by synonym differentiation. The gist of the matter in book III, chapter iv (Cicero 1971: 230–4, 231–5) is how to translate the Greek lexeme pathé into Latin (i.e. a contrastive problem again), whether by ‘disease’ (morbus) or by ‘disorder’ (perturbatio). The question is whether a wise man is susceptible to such distress. The final answer is that ‘disorder’ is the right word, because, by definition, a wise man is in possession of a healthy soul 5 For a differentiation between ‘love’ (amare) and ‘like’ (dilexisse, diligere) see Cicero’s Letters to His Friends (Epistola ad familiares), vol. II, bk. IX, xiv, 5 and vol. III, bk. XIII, xlvii (Cicero 1965).

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and therefore cannot be susceptible to any kind of disease. The point of interest in this case is neither whether Cicero’s opinion of the Greek language is correct, nor his reliance on the principle of consuetudo (Fögen 2000: 95), nor what his circular argument is actually worth. It is rather the philosophizing by synonyms. Pathé is made synonymous with ‘distress’ (aegritudo), which is called ‘a class of emotions’ of which ‘pity’, ‘envy’, ‘exultation’, and ‘joy’ are members. They are ‘movements of the soul not obedient to reason’ (which is in turn synonymous with ‘class of emotions’). According to Cicero, the Latin translation morbus for this whole group of words is alien to Latin usage. The ancient Roman authors make synonyms of ‘sickness’, ‘unsoundness’, ‘unhealthiness’ of the mind (also called ‘soul’), all of which, taken together, are called ‘disorders’ (perturbationes). But it is only the minds of unwise persons which can be called ‘diseased’. ‘Health of the soul’ (sanitas) is the same as ‘equable calm in an ordered soul’ (constantia, tranquilitas). It would be a contradictio in adjecto to make a ‘wise’ man susceptible to ‘disease’, so he can only be susceptible to perturbations. The discussion, exemplary of Cicero’s Stoic ethics, is continued in this vein and eventually discusses the ‘brave man’ ([vir] qui fortis est). Two rows of synonyms are developed, the one headed by ‘distress’ (fear, timidity, dejection, depression, subjection, cowardice), the other by ‘wise’ (brave, self-reliant, confident, acting with fortitude, high-souled, unconquered) (bk. III, ch. vii; pp. 240–2, 241–3). The central argument is as before: The wise man is always in an ordered state. Distress is a disorder of the soul. Therefore wise men are free from any kind of distress, for example fear (etc.). Arranging synonyms in a certain order, frequently dichotomous, is obviously the language-determined surface of Cicero’s own way of reasoning. It is a type of reasoning in which the classical men of letters come into their own. Besides this linguistic inevitability of concept-bound arguments, meditations on style lead Cicero to the use of synonyms. In this respect they appear as the language-determined surface of styles and registers. Time and time again, he stresses that his way of writing depends on the particular situation. Note, for example, his letter to Lucius Papirius Paetus of October 46 BC: Nec enim semper eodem modo. Quid enim simile habet epistola aut iudicio aut contioni? Quin ipsa iuditia non solemus omnia tractare uno

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modo. Privatas causas, et eas tenues, agimus subtilius, capitis aut famae scilicet ornatius; epistolas vero quotidianis verbis texere solemus. For I don’t always adopt the same style. What similarity is there between a letter, and a speech in court or at a public meeting? Why, even in law-cases I am not in the habit of dealing with all of them in the same style. Private cases, and those petty ones too, I conduct in a more plainspoken fashion, those involving a man’s civil status or his reputation, of course, in a more ornate style; but my letters I generally compose in the language of every-day life. (Letters to His Friends, vol. II, bk. IX, sect. xxi; Cicero 1965: 260–2, 261–3)

These stylistic distinctions contain the germ of a vast programme for the use of synonyms. 4.2.2.2

Quintilian on oratory

Marcus Fabius Quintilianus is known as an eminent Roman orator, indeed as the most influential teacher of rhetoric. He not only demonstrates rhetoric in performance but also explains how this skill can be acquired by those who have a natural gift for it. In the preface to the Institutio Oratoria (Quintilian 1969) he declares, ‘My aim, then, is the education of the perfect orator’ (9). The perfect orator must be ‘blameless in point of character’ and also ‘a thorough master of the science and the art of speaking, to an extent that perhaps no orator has yet attained’ (15). This mastery pertains directly to our concern with synonymy. Nam verborum proprietas ac differentia omnibus, qui sermonem curae habent, debet esse communis. Sed ea et sciet optime et eloquetur orator; qui si fuisset aliquando perfectus, non a philosophorum scholis virtutis praecepta peterentur. As for the special uses and distinctions of words, they should be a subject of study common to all who give any thought to the meaning of language. But it is surely the orator who will have the greatest mastery of all such departments of knowledge and the greatest power to express it in words. (Quintilian 1969: bk. I, 12–14, 13–15)

These ‘departments of knowledge’ are the doctrine of virtues and natural phenomena. Quintilian plans to teach the art of rhetoric not as ‘dry textbooks’ do, but rather to teach ‘everything which will increase [the learners’] powers of speech and nourish their eloquence’ (17), which is not

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just the contents but also the methods of teaching itself: ‘His omnibus admiscebitur, ut quiusque locus postulabit, docendi ratio [. . .] studiosos instruat [. . .]./ In the course of these discussions I shall deal in its proper place with the method of teaching [. . .] (16, 17). This high level of consciousness regarding the education of orators made Quintilian the European teacher of oratory, i.e. of grammar and rhetoric. There are, of course, a great number of passages in Quintilian where word meanings are explained with the help of synonyms in very much the same way as in Cicero. Book VI, chapter iii of the Institutiones, for example, deals with laughter, wit, and humour. ‘There are various names by which we describe wit’, the author says, and they are urbanitas (a touch of the city and a tincture of learning), venustus (with grace and charm), salsus (a simple seasoning), facetus (a certain grace and polished elegance), iocus (the opposite of seriousness; forms of jesting), and didacitas (banter, a humorous form of attack) (447–9). A slightly higher level of linguistic theory is attained when the functions of synonyms in rhetorical ornament are discussed. According to Quintilian, propriety, which ‘is capable of more than one interpretation’ (197), and ornament can only go together: ‘Sed cum idem frequentissime plura significent (quod synonymía [Greek] vocatur), iam sunt aliis alia honestiora, sublimiora, nitidiora, iucundiora, vocaliora. / But as several words may often have the same meaning (they are called synonyms), some will be more distinguished, sublime, brilliant, attractive or euphonious than others’ (218, 219). This opens a wide variety of usages for synonyms in various text genres, although it is only the aspect of euphony which is treated here in more detail. In book IX, the figures of thought and speech are discussed, as well as the beginnings and endings of sentences. Examples are provided, e.g. for the ending of sentences: Vos enim statuistis, vos sententiam dixistis, vos iudicavistis. Hoc alii synonymian [Greek], alii disiunctionem vocant, utrumque, etiamsi est diversum, recte; nam est nominum idem significantium separatio. ‘For you have decided; you have passed sentence, you have given judgment.’ Some call this synonymy, others disjunction: both terms, despite their difference, are correct. For the words are differentiated, but their meaning is identical. (470, 471).

Quintilian’s opinion of synonymy is perhaps best expressed in those passages which describe the pedagogic value of paraphrasing (book X,

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chapter v, particularly pp. 116–18, 117–19). He praises the flexibility of language, even vis-à-vis texts of ancient authors which can never be surpassed. If they used the best expression, he says, a student may nevertheless find the second best for himself. It is an eloquent paean to many rhetorical devices, among them synonymous expressions: Illud virtutis indicium est fundere quae natura contracta sunt, augere parva, varietatem similibus, voluptatem expositis dare et bene dicere multa de paucis. True merit is revealed by the power to expand what is naturally compressed, to amplify what is small, to lend variety to sameness, charm to the commonplace, and to say a quantity of good things about a very limited number of subjects. (bk. X, ch. v; pp. 118, 119) 4.2.2.3

Aulus Gellius’ miscellaneous notes

Cum librum veteris scriptoris legebamus, conabamur postea memoriae vegetandae gratia indipisci animo ac recensere quae in eo libro scripta essent in utrasque existimationes laudis aut culpae adnotamentis digna, eratque hoc sane quam utile exercitium ad conciliandas nobis, ubi venisset usus, verborum sententiarumque elegantium recordationes. Whenever I read the book of an early writer, I tried afterwards, for the purpose of quickening my memory, to recall and review any passages in the book which were worthy of note, in the way either of praise or of censure; and I found it an exceedingly helpful exercise for ensuring my recollection of elegant words and phrases, whenever need of them should arise. (Gellius 1970: bk. XVII, ii; pp. 200, 201).

These notes, written in Attica by Aulus Gellius (AD c.123–soon after 169), came down to us as a collection of mostly brief reflections, arranged into twenty ‘books’ with varying numbers of sections, on historical, mythological, philosophical, civil, and other phenomena. Almost all of them mention some older or recent writer, either to acknowledge him as an authority or to refute him, albeit usually no one earlier than Varro (116–28 BC) is cited. Many reflections are trifling, others are serious. There is no chain of arguments or topics linking them. We know little of the author other than that he was most probably born in Rome and went to Athens, for at least one year, after AD 143, where he started work on his book. He pursued a legal career and practised as a iudex in Rome. Obviously, he died soon after the appearance of his ‘work in progress’ in AD 169,

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because the continuation which he promised in the Praefatio (bk. I, xxxvi/xxxvii) never appeared. Gellius’ reflections are a great repository of historical knowledge— of Roman debates, gossip, tastes, customs, etc. Many of them are linguistic in nature. They deal with the Latin language as used or as criticized by his authors—with word meanings, grammar, pronunciation, word origins, Greek etymologies, stylistic qualities, etc. It would be difficult to draw a clear line in his works between literary and linguistic criticism. Although mostly concerned with questions of ars grammatica, he devotes much space to lexicology and etymology (Manetti 1996). He used the method of the differentiae verborum, which brings him close to the problems of synonymy.6 Word meanings are defined, for example those concerning superesse (bk. I, xxii), indutiae (I, xxv), and duovicesimus (V, iv).7 Such definitions are occasionally organized along the lines of word formation, for example, those concerning rescire (II, xix), religiosus (IV, iv), ludibundus and errabundus (XI, xv), and aufugio (XV, iii). The method of the differentiation of synonyms is approximated when such definitions are applied to word pairs like levitas/nequitia (VI, xi), praepetes/inferae (VII, vi), and transgressus/transferatio (X, xxvi).8 With reference to older authors, and frequently by quoting them, Gellius occasionally delimits word meanings in such a precise way that his texts prefigure the elaborations of synonyms which became popular in the eighteenth century. Note, for example, this passage: Verba sunt ipsa haec P. Nigidii, hominis in studiis bonarum artium praecellentis, quem M. Cicero ingenii doctrinarumque nomine summe reveritus est: ‘Inter mendacium dicere et mentiri distat. Qui mentitur ipse non fallitur, alterum fallere conatur; qui mendacium dicit, ipse fallitur.’ Item hoc addidit: ‘Qui mentitur,’ inquit, ‘fallit, quantum in se est.’ Item hoc quoque super eadem re dicit: ‘Vir bonus,’ inquit, ‘praestare debet ne mentiatur, prudens, ne mendacium dicat; alterum incidit in hominem, alterum non.’ Varie me hercule et lepide Nigidius tot sententias in eandem rem, quasi aliud atque aliud diceret, disparavit. 6

Gellius’ term is utrubique et cognominata [verba], translated as synonymous terms; see XIII, xxv, 494, 495. 7 See also II, iv; II, xiv; VI, xvii; X, xx; XI, ii; XII, iii; XII, xiv; XIII, xvii; XV, v; XV, xxvii; XVI, v; XVI, x; XVIII, iv; XIX, vii; and XX, xi. 8 See also XI, xi; XIII, iii; XVI, xiii; XVI, xiv; and XVIII, vi.

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These are the very words of Publius Nigidius, a man of great eminence in the pursuit of the liberal arts, whom M. Cicero highly respected because of his talent and learning: ‘There is a difference between telling a falsehood and lying. One who lies is not himself deceived, but tries to deceive another; he who tells a falsehood is himself deceived.’ He also adds this: ‘One who lies deceives, so far as he is able; but one who tells a falsehood does not himself deceive, any more than he can help.’ He also had this on the same subject: ‘A good man’, says he, ‘ought to take pains not to lie, a wise man, not to tell what is false; the former affects the man himself, the latter does not.’ With variety, by Heaven! and neatness has Nigidius distinguished so many opinions relating to the same thing, as if he were constantly saying something new. (XI, xi; 324, 325)

This reflection conforms to the frequently ethical dimension of the linguistic ideas we find in the works of the sophists and of Plato.9 Other comparisons reach deep into legal prescriptions and their consequences, i.e. into the societal conditions of their use. This is the case, for example, with morbus (disease) and vitium (defect) (IV, ii). The former (e.g. a fever) comes and goes, whereas the latter (e.g. shortsightedness) is permanent. A defect may be the result of a disease, but not the other way round. Such details are important, for example, when buying a slave and, according to the customs of the time, also when marrying a woman, because they influence the price. The difference between adoptatio and adrogatio is of a similar legal kind (V, xix). Both denote a person’s being taken into another’s family, but with differing procedures which demand different conditions: ‘If done by a praetor, the process is called adoptatio; if through the people, arrogatio’ (437). The full format of a comparison of synonyms, as it later developed and became popular in various European countries, is reached when Gellius discusses some verbs used by Virgil and defends this venerable author against criticism (II, vi). It concerns the verbs vexasse and vexare: Sed de verbo ‘vexasse’ ita responderi posse credo: ‘Vexasse’ grave verbum est factumque ab eo videtur, quod est ‘vehere’, in quo inest vis iam quaedam alieni arbitrii; non enim sui potens est, qui vehitur. ‘Vexare’ autem, quod ex eo inclinatum est, vi atque motu procul dubio vastiorest [!]. 9 The last sentence echoes the irony which Plato often expresses when speaking, for example, of Prodikos of Keos.

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Nam qui fertur et rapsatur atque huc atque illuc distrahitur, is ‘vexari’ proprie dicitur, sicuti ‘taxare’ pressius crebiusque est quam ‘tangere’, unde id procul dubio inclinatum est, et ‘iactare’ multo fusius largiusque est quam ‘iacere’, unde id verbum traductum est, et ‘quassare’ quam ‘quatere’ gravius violentiusque est. Non igitur, quia vulgo dici solet ‘vexatum esse’ quem fumo aut vento aut pulvere, propterea debet vis vera atque natura verbi deperire, quae a veteribus, qui proprie atque signate locuti sunt, ita ut decuit, conservata est. Now as to the word vexasse, I believe the following answer may be made: vexasse is an intensive verb, and is obviously derived from vehere, in which there is already some notion of compulsion by another; for a man who is carried is not his own master. But vexare, which is derived from vehere, unquestionably implies greater force and impulse. For vexare is properly used of one who is seized and carried away, and dragged about hither and yon; just as taxare denotes more forcible and repeated action than tangere, from which it is undoubtedly derived; and iactare a much fuller and more vigorous action than iacere, from which it comes; and quassare something severer and more violent than quatere. Therefore, merely because vexare is commonly used of the annoyance of smoke or wind or dust is no reason why the original force and meaning of the word should be lost; and that meaning was preserved by the earlier writers who, as became them, spoke correctly and clearly. (134–6, 135–7)

Synonyms, as members of a semantic field, are also collected by Aulus Gellius, for example, in II, xx where the names for enclosures for animals on a farm, as they appear in old writings, are put together (leporaria, vivaria [both ⫽ warrens], ornithones [⫽ bird houses], roboraria [⫽ warrens made from oak planks], piscina [⫽fish-pond], and apiaria [⫽beehive]). II, xxvi contains a discussion of colour terms, more precisely of the colour red, by differentiating between russus, ruber, fulvus, flavus, rubidus, poeniceus, rutilus, luteus, and spadix.10 The most important section on synonymy is certainly XIII, xxv, titled ‘Quaesitum tractatumque, quid sint manubiae; atque inibi dicta quaedam de ratione utendi verbis pluribus idem significantibus/ The question of the meaning of manubiae will now be discussed; with some observations as to the propriety of using several words of the same meaning.’ It is longer than most of the other sections and is presented as a controversial dialogue, reminiscent of Plato’s works. 10

See also X, ix and xxv.

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The initial question is whether the words manubiae and praeda (booty) mean the same, i.e. are total synonyms. The final answer is that praeda means ‘booty’, manubiae, however, ‘the money gained by selling booty’. The argument that leads from the opening to the concluding statement uses quotations from respected authors and evaluates their language. Cicero, Cato, and Homer are referred to. It is asssumed that their use of pairs (or even longer series) of synonyms is not mere repetition but calculated linguistic expression. Among the quotations given are: Quod auri, quod argenti, quod ornamentorum in meis urbibus, sedibus, delubris fuit. Siciliam, inquit, provinciam C. Verres per triennium depopulatus esse, Siculorum civitates vastasse, domos exinanisse, fana spoliasse dicitur. Whatever gold, whatever silver, whatever jewels I had in my cities, abodes and shrines. [. . .] For three years [he says] Gaius Verres is said to have plundered the province of Sicily, devastated the cities of the Sicilians, emptied their homes, pillaged their shrines. (Marcus Tullius, De constituendo accusatore/On the Appointment of an Accuser, 490–2, 491–3) Tuum nefarium facinus peiore facinore operire postulas, succidias humanas facis, tantam trucidationem facis, decem funera facis, decem capita libera interficis, decem hominibus vitam eripis, indicta causa, iniudicatis, incondemnatis. You seek to cover up your abominable crime with a still worse crime, you slaughter men like swine, you commit frightful bloodshed, you cause ten deaths, slay ten freemen, take life from ten men, untried, unjudged, uncondemned. (Marcus Cato, De decem hominibus/On the Ten, 492, 493)

From Homer, verses are given in which the words engagements, dust and blood, battle, carnage, tumult, deaths of men are used synonymously. The criteria for the positive evaluation of such accumulations of words are that they add ornament, exactness, and melody to an otherwise poor turn of phrase, that they are elegant, charming, emphatic, and impressive. The many words, giving as many aspects of a matter, ‘[add] to the dignity of the speech and to the impressive copiousness of its diction, although they are nearly the same and spring from a single idea, yet they appear to contain more because they strike the ears and mind more frequently’ (493). The general

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term for all these qualities is force. We will encounter this argument in later centuries. Aulus Gellius did not have a theoretical mind like Varro or Priscian. Yet his close readings of respected writers exhibit certain convictions, among others that literature, in order to be evaluated as ‘proper Latin’, must meet the demands of intelligibility and acceptance (Hüllen 2001a). Synonyms play an important part in both these demands because they combine semantic accuracy with stylistic differentiation. They give more meaning and a pleasanter form to a text. Therefore, they are a topic of linguistics as well as of literary criticism. The case of manubiae and praeda seems to indicate that Gellius did not at all believe in the existence of total synonyms in language in writers who use language ‘properly and accurately’ (501). Such synonyms may, however, appear in authors writing with ‘carelessness or indifference’ (501). It is an exciting idea, obviously long forgotten after Gellius, that the question of synonymy belongs not to the linguistic system but to its use.11

4.3

Isidore of Seville’s differentiae

At the dawn of Northern European culture, Isidore of Seville (c.560–636) wrote Etymologiae, sive Origines, a listing of items worth knowing, arranged in a non-alphabetical sequence of headwords (except for book X on man). They treat the liberal arts (bks. I–III), medicine (IV), law (V), theology (VI–VIII), languages and social groups (IX), the natural sciences (X–XIV), and what would today be called civilization (XV–XX). They combine linguistic (semantic, grammatical, etymological) with factual information. They were highly influential during the Middle Ages, being the most important link between classical and post-classical learning. The Etymologiae were in many cases taken verbatim into new texts, for example glosses and encyclopaedias (Hüllen 1999a: 10, 45, et passim). It is no wonder, then, that Isidore was also aware of synonymy, regarding it mainly as a source of possible confusion. He must have 11 Occasionally, Gellius also mentions the case of the verbum ambiguum, the opposite phenomenon to synonymy, because it combines two or several meanings in one word. See, e.g., XI, xii and XII, xi.

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observed scholars who knew Latin only as a foreign language. He called their typical difficulties differentiae. Linguistically orientated teacher that he was, he collected differentiae of several kinds and explained them (Isidore of Seville, 1862). He did this by strictly following one format: Inter X et Y (hoc est interest quod . . .). Definitions and their differentiations therefore, were, as a rule, given in pairs. In the preface to the collection of differentiae, Isidore says that the words of early authors have often been understood only vaguely because people overlook the forms and regard the metre instead. Thus explanations of word meanings are necessary. The book contains 610 numbered paragraphs in which easily confused words are explained. Not all of them are synonyms according to our definition. Many are easily confused merely because of phonetic similarities which stem from morphological and grammatical reasons or which are simply accidental. Examples are arrogans and abrogans, ars and artificium, animus and anima. Other cases are hodie and hoc die, hos and os, herbidum and herbosum, inferum and infernum, indoctum and indocilem, juventam and juventutem, memorare and commemorare. All these distinctions presuppose a clear knowledge of morphological and grammatical markers which influence the phonetic shape of words. Moreover, they presuppose a clear distinction between the writing and pronunciation of a word (Codoñer 1985, 1986). There are also, however, genuine synonyms according to the classical and even the modern definition. Note, for example: 1. Inter Aptum et utile. Aptum ad tempus, utile ad perpetuum. 2. Inter amicum et socium. Amicus constat affectu, socius re, quia consortio constat. 4. Inter Avarum et cupidum. Avarus est qui suo non utitur, cupidus quia aliena desiderat. 14. Inter Altum et excelsum, sublime et arduum. Altum ex superiori parte et inferiori est, excelsum ex superiori tantum; sublime excelsum est cum aliqua dignitate; arduum, excelsum est cum aliqua difficultate. [. . .] 17. Inter Amare et Diligere putat differe Cicero, saepiusque sic utitur, ut distinguat, atque amare ponat pro ardenter amare, et diligere pro levius amare, sicut in epistolis ad Brutum [. . .]. 35. Inter Album et candidum. Album natura, candidum studio sive cura; Albus ergo capillos, ceram candidam dicimus. [. . .].

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48. Inter Anguem, serpentem et draconem. In mari angues, in terra serpentes, in templo dracones. [. . .]. 74. Inter Bibere et potare. Bibere naturae est, potare luxuriae. 244. Inter Flumen et fluvium, flumen, torrentum, etc. Fluvius, perennis aquarum decursus generaliter, a fluendo dictus. Et proprie flumen ipsa aqua; fluvius, cujus aqua; torrens autem inde dictus, quia pluvia crescit, siccitate torrescit, id est arescit. [. . .]. 274. Inter Genitorem et patrem. Genitor naturae vocabulum est, sivi originis; nam pater dignitatis et honoris nomen est. Unde et sanctos et seniores patres dicimus. Genitores vero nostri a quibus nati sumus. 1. Between apt and useful. Apt for time, useful for ever. 2. Between friend and associate. [A] friend harmonizes in affection, an associate in matter, because he harmonizes in cooperation. 4. Between parsimonious and avid. He is parsimonious who does not use what is his, avid because he wishes [to have] what is others. 14. Between high and elevated, sublime and upright. High is the superior part against the inferior, elevated is even more superior, sublime is elevated with a certain dignity, upright is elevated with a certain difficulty [. . .]. 17. Between love and esteem. Cicero thought to distinguish, and he often used them in such a way as to make the difference, and made love [mean] love ardently, and esteem love lightly, as in the letters to Brutus [. . .]. 35. Between white and clean. White is from nature, clean from eagerness and care. This is why we call hair white, [but] a table of wax clean [. . .]. 48. Between snake, serpent, and dragon. Snakes are in the sea, serpents on land, dragons in temples. 74. Between drinking and boozing. Drinking is nature, boozing is luxury. 244. Between current and river, current, torrent, etc. River is said of the flowing [water], in general the permanent flow of water. And properly speaking current itself is water; river its water; torrent however is said where rain increases, after being dry by drought, that is, irrigated [. . .]. 274. Between parent and father. Parent is the word of nature or origin; but father is the name of dignity and honour. This is why we call the saints and the elderly fathers. Our parents are indeed those from whom we are born.

As can easily be seen, Isidore’s explanations continue the older technique of comparing lexemes by minimal contrasts and leaving the overlapping parts of meanings unmentioned. They also prefigure the later method of short and antithetical definitions which make use of distinguishing markers foregrounded by opposition. This is the same as saying that word definitions operate on meanings insofar as they can be partly stated by themselves and partly only with

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reference to another (valeur particulière et indépendante, Codoñer 1986: 191). As the intention of the whole work is to list differentiae, synonym definition lays stress on where they do not coincide and why they must not be substituted for each other. For Isidore, synonyms are not a source of expressive richness but of irritation and mistakes. Other authors, for example John of Garland, take a different perspective. Whereas the first book of Isidore’s work lists differences in words, the second lists differences in things (de differentiis verborum/ rerum). It consists of forty longer articles with Roman numbering, each of which has several paragraphs with Arabic numbering, totalling 170. Up to ten articles belong to one keyword. The articles give theological and scientific definitions which could be confused, very much in the manner of the later summae. The members of the human body, the periods of human life, the virtues and vices as systematized by theology, the artes liberales, and similar systematic concepts are explained in a sequence of definitions. These explanations show the ease of the transition from synonymic definition to encyclopedia. Whereas in the first book words are explained with the help of meanings, in the second book things and concepts are explained with the help of words.

4.4

Poetic synonyms in Beowulf

The world of Beowulf 12 is marked by the scenery of the ocean, the seashore, and the fen district. It is gloomy, wintry, and desolate. Beowulf’s society, however, is courtly, heroic, and poetic. Consequently, its characters are marked by aristocratic demeanour, idealistic attitudes, and a love of splendour. The action takes place in the hostile setting of the fens and the sea on the one hand, and in a protective and exalted royal hall on the other. Thus the lamentable hardships of workaday life with its inevitable end, war and death, are combined with the idealistic artefacts of a heroic culture, the society of feasts and the literature of songs. A general impression of seriousness, solemnity, and sadness prevails, as it does in other 12 For a general introduction see Ogilvy and Baker (1983) and Mitchell (1995). The introduction, comments, appendices, and glossaries in Klaeber’s edition (1950) are of great value.

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Teutonic sagas and legends, although humour and irony are not wholly absent. The author(s) succeed(s) in portraying the spirit and moods of the characters. The central figure, Beowulf, is the idealistic warrior—strong and resolute, kind and great-hearted. He is a Teutonic hero with strong Christian overtones. He is the natural opponent of Grendel and his mother, the brutish and vicious monsters, which are called, and are presented as, the descendants of Cain. The language of the epic is highly artistic, an elevated and poetic style adapted to express its two worlds, brute nature and heroic men. Several times the presentation of epic poems is inserted into the narrative, thus showing how the whole poem was to be recited. These lines are an epic on the oral performance of epics. Many words occur here and nowhere else in Anglo-Saxon texts and are either archaisms or of the author’s own coinage. The alliterative principle is creative and repetitive at the same time, allowing ever new formulaic expressions and repeating them over and over again. This, among other things, accounts for the celebratory formulaic style which the epic shares with other poems of the same time and culture. Alliteration may also have provided mnemonic support for the orator as well as for his listeners. But it was also a powerful principle of poetic structure at the time this long poem was being written down. None of this is new in the philology of Beowulf. But it can serve as a backdrop for showing the outstanding way in which use of synonyms is made subservient to the expression of the moods and vicissitudes of this world, the shapes of its natural and artificial objects, and the thoughts and emotions which accompany men’s actions and sufferings. ‘A host of synonyms enliven the narrative, notably in the vocabulary pertaining to kings and retainers, war and weapons, sea and seafaring’ (Klaeber 1950: p. lxiii). Best known are perhaps the kenningar, i.e. names of recognition for one object or character. They are expressions which highlight things or persons by their most eminent and relevant features. They are invariably compounds which use metonymy or metaphor for denotation. Note, as randomly chosen samples: helm-berend helmet-bearer, i.e. warrior fh-lida wave-traverser, i.e. ship hgh-stapa heathstalker, i.e. stag

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homera laf left-over by hammer, i.e. sword hron-rad whale-road, i.e. ocean. These compounds can easily be deconstructed. The warrior is imagined as somebody who wears a helmet. A ship is named after its function as a vehicle on the sea. A stag gets its name from its natural habitat, which at the same time creates a lively image in the mind. The name for the sword is conceived as the product (left-over) of a special process with an instrument (hammering). Calling the ocean a ‘whaleroad’ is a metaphorical extension. Besides metonymy (taking a detail for the whole) and metaphorical extension, the effects of visualization are obvious (e.g. in helm-berend/‘helmet-bearer’ and hgh-stapa/ ‘heathstalker’). General knowledge of the world (e.g. in ‘fh-lida/ wave-transverser’) comes to the fore, as does functional thinking (e.g. in homera-laf/‘left-over by hammer’). These are essential principles of any word formation, up to and including the present. Closer to the natural phenomenon of synonymy is the great store of semantically related lexemes (i.e. root words) which we find in Beowulf for the naming of one and the same entity, be it object, person, mental concept, or emotion. These lexemes testify even more than compounds do to the wealth of descriptive and evaluative words which the language provides. According to an older but still serviceable reckoning (Schemann 1882), there are 41 synonyms in the epic relating to Grendel and 24 with the more general, but overlapping, meaning of ‘dragon, monster’. It comes as no surprise that Beowulf, the central hero, is given about one hundred descriptive and evaluative names which highlight his origin and his position among the Geates, his physique, and above all his character. Klaeber (1950: 270–3) has collected a great variety of names with related meanings. He finds 27 pertaining to ‘kingship’, 24 to ‘retainers’ and to ‘festive hall’. (These numbers include compounds and also references to neighbouring domains like scop [‘singer, rhapsodist’] or hearpe [‘harp’], both in the context of ‘hall’.) They testify to the multiperspectival and subtle methods of naming which prevail in the central topics of the narrative. The quantity of synonyms serves to enhance the quality of the poetic diction. In order to illustrate this, we shall look more closely at the synonyms for ‘God’ and ‘sea’.13 13 In Beowulf studies, synonyms are regarded as a means of distinguishing between the various scribes of the epic. The following explanations do not participate in this or any other discussion which

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The most frequently occurring terms for ‘God’ are god, dryhten, metod, and waldend. Less frequent are fæder, al-walda, kyninga wuldor, and heofena helm. The general distinction is that god (32 times14) means the supernatural being as an abstraction or the Christian God, dryhten (14) the ‘lord of the celestial hosts’, i.e. the rather older and pagan idea of God as a warlord, metod (11) the almost philosophical concept of a measuring and ordering lord who ordains fate, and waldend (11) the omnipotent ruler. The connotation of fæder, al-walda is, of course, very similar to waldend, whereas kyninga wuldor (‘the glory of kings’) and heofena helm (‘protector of heavens’) are kenningar and have an older, heroic ring. The text may not always corroborate these neat distinctions, yet we can generally expect that the various names express these subtle shades of meaning, even if the author would not have been aware of them. Almost all these variants appear side by side in a passage which contrasts the older pagan and the newer Christian mentality of the characters: [. . .] Swylc wæs jbaw hyra, hgjenra hyht; helle gemundon on mddsefan, Metod hce ne cejon, dgda Dbmend, ne wiston hce Drihten God, nb hce heru heofena Helm herian ne cejon, wuldres Waldend. Wa bih jgm he sceal jurh slchne nch sawle bescefan in ffres fæjm, frdfre ne wbnan, wihte gewendan! Wbl bih jgm je mdt æfter dba hdæge Drihten sbcean ond td Fæder fæjmum freoho wilnian! (178–8815) [. . .] This was their way, their heathenish hope; deep in their hearts they remembered hell. The Almighty Judge of good deeds and bad, the Lord God, pertains to the origin and history of the text and its author/s. They are only meant to demonstrate Beowulf’s historically unique and outstanding use of synonyms. 14 Figures are taken from the index in Klaeber (1950). They include spelling variants and inflected forms. The figures in Schemann (1882) agree with Klaeber, except for a few cases. The semanticization of Anglo-Saxon lexemes follows the same source. For synonymy as a general property of AngloSaxon, as it becomes apparent in Roberts, Kay, and Grundy (1995), see below. 15 Line numbers are according to Klaeber (1950). The translation is that of Seamus Heaney (1999), whose line numbers follow Klaeber except for a mistake on p. 8 (132–65 instead of 166–98), which I have corrected. This translation has been unanimously praised for its literary quality. My own occasional critical remarks are not meant to cast doubt on this.

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Head of the Heavens and High King of the World, was unknown to them. Oh, cursed is he who in time of trouble has to thrust his soul in the fire’s embrace, forfeiting help; he has nowhere to turn. But blessed is he who after death can approach the Lord and find friendship in the Father’s embrace.

There are other expressions where a parallelism between two synonyms seems to indicate a subtle difference between the allknowing God and the one who decides a struggle justly. Note the passage where Beowulf resolves to fight Grendel without weapons: [. . .] ond sijhan wctig God on swa hwæjere hond halig Dryhten mgrho dbme swa him gemet jince. (685–7) [. . .] And may the Divine Lord in His wisdom grant the glory of victory to whichever side He sees fit.

The pronoun in the final line of the translation fails to express any meaningful distinction. There are also cases where the bare juxtaposition of two synonyms for God seems not to indicate any difference of meaning but merely serves as a marker of intensification, for example, in ‘Ahlbop ha se gomela, Gode jancode, | mihtigan Drihtne, jæs se man gespræc’ (1396–7), translated as ‘With that the old lord sprang to his feet | and praised God for Beowulf’s pledge’ and ‘[. . .] [Th]æs sig Metode janc | bcean Dryhtne, jæs he ic on aldre gebad’ (1778–9), translated as ‘[. . .] So I praise God | In His heavenly glory that I lived to behold’. Both translations show how difficult it is to convey the exact expressive and stylistic functions of synonyms. The synonyms around ‘God’ show subtle shades of conceptual meaning, the synonyms around ‘sea’ show the precision of visual observations of natural phenomena. The most frequently occurring lexemes are wæter (18 times16), f© (16), fldd (15), holm (12), sg (11), and sund (7). Less frequent are mere and brim (5 each), geofon (4), and strbam (3 mentions). There are, moreover, several compounds, among them the famous hron-rad, swan-rad, and segl-rad (i.e. ‘whale-road’, ‘swan-road’, and ‘sail-road’). The most general meaning is, of course, attached to wæter, and ‘water, sea’ is also part 16

See n. 14.

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of the complex meanings of the other lexemes. But they have additional semantic nuances: f© is connected with ‘wave’, fldd with ‘flood’, i.e. strongly moving water, and holm with the sea that covers what is beneath it. Sg is again ‘sea’, but also ‘lake’ and ‘pond’, whereas sund means ‘swimming’ as well as ‘sea’, i.e. the sea as the element for swimming. Mere, brim, geofon, and strbam coincide in the meanings ‘ocean, sea, lake, pool’, i.e. water of any size. Again, a special meaning is attached to strbam, namely ‘current’. Again, these synonyms stand out against each other most clearly when they are used in close proximity. The pond (mere) where Grendel retreats after the fight he has lost in the hall is called ‘[. . .] on bldde brim weallende, | atol fha geswing eal gemenged’ (847–8), translated as ‘The bloodshot water wallowed and surged, | there were loathsome upthrows and overturnings of waves’. The special meanings of brim and f© are in this case stressed by the whole phrase. Another instructive scene is when Hrothgar and his retainers watch the water while Beowulf is fighting with Grendel’s mother down in the den. They gaze ‘on holm’, i.e. the sea that covers what happens – t wæs fhgeblond eal gemenged, | brim bldde in the depths and ‘jœ fah.[. . .]’ (1593–4).The translation reads: ‘Immediately the counsellors keeping a lookout | with Hrothgar, watching the lake water, | saw a heave up and surge of waves | and blood in the backwash. [. . .]’. The most impressive cluster of synonyms around ‘water’ is given in the account of a swimming contest between Beowulf and Breca: Eart je sb Bbowulf, sb je wih Brecan wunne, on scdne sg ymb sund flite, hgr git for wlence wada cunnedon ond for dolgilpe on dbop wæter aldrum nbjdon? Nb inc gnig mon, nb lbof nb lah, belban mihte sorhfullne sch, ja git on sund rbon; jgr git bagorstrbam earmum jehton, mgton merestrgta, mundum brugdon, glidon ofer garsecg; geofon fjum wbol wintrys wylm[mum]. Git on wæteres ght seofon niht swuncon; hb jb æt sunde oferflat, hæfde mare mægen. [. . .] (506–18) Are you the Beowulf who took on Breca in a swimming match on the open sea,

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risking the water just to prove that you could win? It was sheer vanity made you venture out on the main deep. And no matter who tried, friend or foe, to deflect the pair of you, neither would back down: the sea-test obsessed you. You waded in, embracing water, taking its measure, mastering currents, riding on the swell. The ocean swayed, winter went wild in the waves, but you vied for seven nights; and then he outswam you, came ashore the stronger contender.

The following synonyms pertaining to ‘sea’ appear in this passage, testifying to the subtlety of expression: sg for ‘open sea’, sund for ‘sea in which to swim’, wada and wæter for ‘(dangerous) element of water’, bagor-strbam for ‘stream, current’, the compound merestrgta for ‘sea-road’, gar-secg for ‘water, ocean surrounded by sedge to make spears of (?)’, geofon for ‘sea, ocean’, and f© for ‘wave’. There are other domains of reality, as represented in Beowulf, which are covered by clusters of synonyms in the way assumed for lexical fields. Arms, for example, are all represented in various ways. Naturally, they are of great importance for the action. The sword is denoted by fourteen different names (e.g. sweord, ecg, wgpen, bil, cren), the spear by eight (e.g. gar, gsc, and the compound here-sceaft). For defence, the shield was most important, having seven different names (e.g. rand, scyld, lind) and also the helmets which has five (e.g. helm, here-grcma, eofor, or swcn). In all cases, details stand for the whole, like the outward appearance (edge for a sword, boar- or pig-head for a helmet) or the material of which the arms were made (iron for a sword, linden-wood for a shield). Synonyms in Beowulf are best found in nouns (and adjectives), but the poem also swarms with verbal variants which stand in the relation of synonymy to each other. As a rule, verb phrases determine the meanings of verbs more intricately than noun phrases do with nouns. This is why the juxtaposition of verbal synonyms is more difficult. But they can be found and have long been the object of study (Banning 1886). The account of the swimming contest discussed above shows the variety of verbs used for one meaning, namely swimming, differentiating exactly between its various modes. Three verbs appear (512–14): rdwan ‘row, use arms’ (in ‘on

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sund rêon’), jeccean ‘enfold, embrace’ (in ‘jgr git bagorstrbam earmum jehton’), and metan ‘measure’ (in ‘mgton merestrgta’). A little later (515–17) we find glcdan ‘glide’ (in ‘glidon ofer garsecg’) and swincan ‘labour, toil’ (in ‘Git on wæteres ght seofon niht swuncon’). Later, in the description of the same contest, there is the expression ‘flbotan meahte, | hrajor on holme’ (542–3) using the verb flbotan ‘float’. Other synonyms we encounter in the poem are swymman ‘swim’ (1624), also in the verbal compound oferswimman (2367), and drbogan with the same general meaning. There is also one for ‘dive’, namely jurhdufan (1619). The weight which synonyms carry for the precise and expressive style of Beowulf is characteristic of the whole of Old English poetry and, moreover, is a general property of Anglo-Saxon. This fact is evident from the two-volume Thesaurus of Old English (TOE) (Roberts, Kay, and Grundy 1995), which is recognizably shaped on the model of Wilkins and Roget. It is a very subtle hierarchical arrangement of Anglo-Saxon lexemes based on the principles of polysemy and synonymy. As in Roget, entries are also ordered according to word-classes. The lexemes mentioned above as synonyms for ‘God’ have the following entries: god

God, the Lord A God of any faith dryhten A royal leader metod Creator w[e]aldend The Almighty, king, majesty fæder God the Father cyning King, majesty wuldor Glorious Lord Glory Glory, majesty of heaven helm A protector, defender

16.01.01 (648) 16.01.06 (660) 12.01.01.04.01 (540) 16.01.01.02.0.1 (650) 16.01.01.01.01 (649)

11 lexemes17 2 29 9 28

16.01.01.04.01 (652) 16.01.01.01.01 (649) 16.01.01.01.01 (649) 16.01.01.01.01.02 (640) 16.01.02.02 (653)

4 28 4 4 9

11.10.01 (528)

17

Almost all the synonyms with the common meaning of ‘sea’ appear in entry 01.01.03.01.02 with the denomination sea / ocean (12–13), which has as many as 51 lexemes. To them belongs flôd 17 Key: Anglo-Saxon lexeme, semanticization and number code according to Roberts, Kay, and Grundy (1995) (page number), and number of lexemes mentioned as synonymous.

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which has no specialized meaning. The other lexemes have one specific meaning in addition to the common one. wæter f© holm sg sund mere brim geofon strbam

Body of water Wave Water, liquid Large lake, inland sea Ability of swimming Lake Pool Coast, sea-shore Flood River

01.01.03.01 (10) 01.01.03.01.02.05 (13) 01.01.03 (10) 01.01.03.01.03 (14) 05.12.01.08.01 (326) 01.01.03.01.03 (14) 01.01.03.01.03.01 (14) 01.01.02.01.01.03 (4) 01.01.03.06 (16) 01.01.03.01.01.01 (11)

8 5 11 5 1 5 15 16 11 7

The three authors explain their thesaurus as follows: In the TOE, any small group of items listed together as sharing a component of meaning resembles the string of words that make up the entries of an alphabetically organised thesaurus, but they are embedded within an inclusive conceptual scheme. The provision of brief indications of meaning at all levels of this scheme looks back beyond Roget, to the way in which Wilkins supplied notions and words, where word senses follow on from the ideas explained. Thus, this thesaurus incorporates information about word meaning and could be described as an inside-out dictionary, with meanings first and then words. (Roberts, Kay, and Grundy 1995: p. xv)

4.5

Erasmus’ De copia verborum

There is good reason to mention Erasmus (1469?–1536) among the authors of early statements and practices concerning synonymy. He was the greatest representative of Humanism in northern Europe, exercised a great influence on language teaching in England, and sketched the outlines of a particularly interesting concept of synonymy. During his various stays in England he met, besides Thomas More (1478–1535), John Colet (1467?–1519), a great Humanist himself, Dean of St Paul’s, who re-founded St Paul’s School in London. In 1512, Erasmus published De duplici copia verborum ac rerum commentarii duo,18 writing in his 18 The title echoes Quintilian (De copia verborum, Institutio oratoria) and Cicero (copia rerum ac verborum, De oratore). Note that res should be translated as ‘idea’or ‘topic’.

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dedicatory letter to Colet: Ego sane non ignarus, quantum Angliae debeam publice, & quantopere tibi privatim sim obnoxius, officii mei sum arbitratus literarium aliquod munusculum in ornamentum scholae tuae conferre. Itaque duos hos novos de Copia Commentarios, novae scholae nuncupare visum est, opus videlicet cum aptum pueritiae, tum non infrugiferum, ni fallor, futurum. Sed quantum habeat eruditionis, quantumve sit utilitatis allaturus hoc labor mens, aliarum esto judicium. (Erasmus 1961: 2) For my part, since I am well aware how much I am indebted both to the English nation at large and also to you personally, I thought that it would be appropriate for me to make a small literary contribution to the equipment of your school. So I have chosen to dedicate to the new school these two new commentaries De copia, inasmuch as the work in question is suitable for boys to read and also, unless I am mistaken, not unlikely to prove helpful to them, though I leave it to others to judge how wellinformed this work of mine is, or how serviceable it will be. (Erasmus 1978: 285)

Along with his Adagia (1500) and the Colloquia (1518), De copia (1512) became a most influential book for explaining and spreading the high style of oratory in imitation of Quintilian and Cicero. ‘Renaissance humanism was an age of Ciceronianism in which the study and imitation of Cicero was a widespread concern’ (Kristeller 1979: 29). De copia went through many editions and was incorporated into textbooks (Rix 1946). Eighty-five editions appeared in Erasmus’ lifetime and 150 editions during the sixteenth century. It disseminated its author’s programme—a return to the sources, philologically and theologically—through the whole of Europe. For Colet and Erasmus, and even for Luther, the study of theology was combined with an elegant Latin style (Kristeller 1979: 72), and paedogogical style was therefore much more than a purely linguistic training. For the Elizabethans, Petrus Mosellanus’ tabulatory treatment of the classical schemes and tropes (Tabvlae, De schematibus Petri Moselanni [. . .], 1532) and Johannes Susenbrotus’ improvement of this (Epitome troporum ac schematum [. . .], 1565) were the two main sources of their knowledge of classical rhetoric. Both depended on the authorities as given in the Rhetorica ad Herennium, first printed 1470 and then attributed to Cicero. Among the (nearly) contemporary authorities of Mosellanus and

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Susenbrotus were Melanchthon and Erasmus. This is how Copia found its way into the general knowledge of learned Elizabethans as it is represented, for example, in Shakespeare (Baldwin 1944: ii. 138–96). It was the standard text up to Shakespeare. It was made compulsory reading at Eton (1528), Canterbury (1541), Worcester (1544), Bangor (1569), Harrow (1590), and some ten other schools, and ‘Shakspere [!] is not likely to have missed its benefits’ (Baldwin 1944: ii. 179–80, 181). As Erasmus does not explain the tropes and figures in detail, his book must have been used in schools mainly for practice, presupposing the knowledge of rhetoric itself. De copia is not a book on synonyms proper. It is a book which teaches stylistic education by illustrating the traditional ten tropes of Quintilian. The variation of expressions by the use of synonyms is the first of these tropes (the others being antonomasia, periphrasis, metaphor, allegory, catachresis, onomatopoeia, metalepsis, metonymy, and synecdoche). Synonymy on the level of lexis is commented on in the rather massive chapter 11 of the first book. ‘The first and simplest form of variation depends on using different words which indicate the same thing, so that as far as meaning goes it does not matter which you prefer to employ’ (Erasmus 1978: 307).19 Authors must have ‘an abundant store of such words’ in their minds. ‘But here we must take special care not to do what some do and use the first thing that presents itself out of the heap in any context without exercising any choice at all.’ There may be no choice in meaning, but there are other distinctions to be observed: ‘some words are more respectable than others, or more exalted, or more polished or delightful or powerful or sonorous, or more conducive to harmonious arrangement’ (308). These qualities, nowadays called the pragmatic properties of words, do not by themselves recommend or forbid their use; only occurrence in ‘an author who is respectable’ is the ultimate criterion. Erasmus discusses synonyms in nine paragraphs of chapter 11 (309–19; all quotations in this paragraph from there). ‘Vulgar words’ are derived from low trades and occupations, from doctors or soldiers. Their use is determined by the topic. ‘Unusual words’

19 Erasmus distinguished between synonyms and homonyms, but as adjectives he preferred the terms ‘isodynamic’ and ‘polysemantic’ (307).

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are such as do not occur with any frequency in those authors read by scholars, but may be used exceptionally. ‘Poetic words’ should be used only sparingly. To this category belong words used by the poets and also by historical writers. ‘Archaic words’ add charm only when used in small quantities. ‘Obsolete words’, not necessarily taken from old texts, are used for joking and irony. ‘Harsh words’ are used in an uncomfortable metaphorical sense. ‘Foreign words also have a charm of their own when introduced in the appropriate place.’ ‘Indecent words’ denote acts that are shameful to perform but need not be shameful in themselves. ‘New words’ are either completely new creations, or existing words with new meanings, or new compounds from old elements. For Erasmus they are particularly pertinent when Greek words are mingled with Latin, which has ‘[n]ot a little charm’. Admittedly, the rule given by Erasmus for the choice of such words is always the same. Whether or not they are acceptable depends on the context, the persons involved, and the circumstances. To this extent, his discussion is more about style and tends to neglect the special aspect of synonymy, the replacing of one word by another. There are many examples, but hardly any of synonymy pairs. On the other hand, Erasmus obviously points out where the speaker or writer of a text has a choice, and his arrangement shows the linguistic sense in this. The exclusively practical aspect is treated from chapter 33 onwards. Chapter 33 contains the only case in the book where a sentence is transformed into as many variants as possible in order to show the almost infinite possibilities of stylistic variation. The sentence Tuae litterae me magnopere delectarunt (Your letter pleased me mightily) is given 150 metamorphoses, the sentence Semper dum vivam tui meminero (Always, as long as I live, I shall remember you) as many as two hundred (348–65). These variations follow the rhetorical tropes and figures and are therefore syntactically rather than lexically determined.20 However, by analogy to the first method of variation, i.e. (lexical) synonymy, a number of synonyms are listed. Here is the list for the

20 This prompts the question of how to account for syntactically achieved synonymy. An answer, however, is beyond the scope of this monograph.

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first test sentence: Literae Epistola, literae, tabellae, Synonyma est. Literulae, epistolium, tabellulae, Heterosis. Schedae, scripta, Synekdochae. Quod ad me scripsisti, Periphrasis est. Magnopere Valde, vehementer, nimium, mire, mirifice, magnifice, &c. Synonyma est. Magnopere, summopere, supra modum, praeter modum, cenice, anxesis [Greek characters] est. Haud mediocriter, non parum, non vulgariter, per contraria & negationem. Dici non potest quantopere, incredibile dictu, verbis consequi nequeam; atque id genus alia Hyperbolen [!] sapiunt. Delectarvnt Oblectarunt, recrearunt, exhilarunt. Synonymia est. Nisi quod in exhilararunt metaphora videtur esse. Voluptatem attulerunt, voluptati fuerunt, jucundae fuerunt, & similia Periphrasim habent. Voluptate perfuderunt, melitissimae fuerunt, & consimilia Translatitia sunt. Non injucundae fuerunt, non insuaves, a contrariorum permutatione. (Erasmus 1961: 23) letter: epistle, letter, note; epistolet, letterette, notelet; pages, lines; what you wrote to me.21 pleased: delighted, refreshed, exhilarated; brought pleasure, were a pleasure, were delightful; bathed in delight, were honey-sweet; were not unwelcome, not unpleasing.22 mightily: greatly, intensely, extremely, wonderfully, marvellously, extraordinarily; mightily, hugely, superlatively, exceedingly, singularly; in no scant measure, on no small scale, in no common manner; it is impossible to say how much, it is beyond belief, I could not find words to express.23 (Erasmus 1978: 348–9)

The common denominator of Latin training in the schools of the fifteenth century was the formation of an ornate style with its variation of words and sentences. Seen in this light, rhetoric is an instrument in itself to achieve the use of synonymy as a means of variation. The examples given by Erasmus show how difficult it is to draw a clear line between synonymy (in the narrow, i.e. lexical, sense) and rhetorical figures. Indeed, the integration of both is 21 Groups of lexemes and phrases (separated by a semicolon) are examples of synonyms, heterosis (diminutive), synecdoche, periphrasis. 22 Groups of lexemes and phrases (separated by a semicolon) are examples of synonyms, periphrasis, transferred or metaphorical expressions, interchange of opposites. 23 Groups of lexemes and phrases (separated by a semicolon) are examples of synonyms, heightening, opposites and negatives, hyperbole.

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Erasmus’ personal contribution to the statements on synonymy in his time. After all, the Humanists were ‘professional rhetoricians with a new, classical idea of culture’ (Kristeller 1979: 92, see also 115). The paradigm of this is, of course, Shakespeare. His works not only exploit synonymy as a natural method of speaking, some of his characters are well known, almost notorious, for the way in which they indulge in synonymous expressions. The play most frequently quoted in this respect is Love’s Labour’s Lost. But characters whose comic and often whimsical nature is signified by their piling up synonymous expressions also occur in other plays, for example in Henry V (IV, vii), where a pun arising out of Fluellen’s Welsh pronunciation of big, i.e. ‘pig’, leads to a barrage of synonyms.

4.6

Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost

It is well known that Shakespeare exploits, in almost all of his plays, certain formal features of language in order to achieve a very special dramatic effect. Most famous in this respect are the humorous quibbles that have their origin in the natural polysemy of lexemes (i.e. homonymy) or in homophony, i.e. the phonetic identity of semantically different words.24 The result of such word play could in many cases be called ‘meaningful misunderstandings’. The ambiguities are used not only for fun but to provoke thought because they are intimately concerned with the plot of the play. Very similar in these respects is Shakespeare’s use of synonyms, which, however, has attracted less attention from critics (see however, Baldwin 1944). Love’s Labour’s Lost is a good case in point. The play (written between 1592 and 1594 when the theatres in London were closed because of the plague, performed for the first time at Christmas 1597 before Queen Elizabeth, and printed in 1598) is a highly literary and artistic comedy. It deals with the King of Navarre who, together with three of his courtiers, vows to live in an academe for three years without seeing a woman and to suffer various other privations. When the Princess of France arrives with 24 The famous scene in Hamlet between the prince and the grave-digger, (V. i), for example, depends for its repartee (i) on the homophony of lie ‘not to tell the truth’ and lie ‘to be prostrate’, quick ‘alive’ and quick ‘fast’, ground ‘cause’ and ground ‘soil’, and (ii) on the polysemy of man /woman ‘masculine/feminine living body’ vs ‘corpse’, rotten ‘physically deteriorated’ vs ‘morally deteriorated’.

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three attending ladies, the inevitable happens. The king and his courtiers immediately fall in love with the princess and her ladies. Secret letters are written and, of course, delivered erroneously, people spy on each other and catch each other out, a masque brings more confusion instead of confession, till the ladies and the gentlemen finally recognize each other. However, at the end all is lost, at least for one year of probation, because of the untimely death of the princess’s father.25 Naturally, the play has been extensively analysed (see e.g. Harris and Scott 1985: 296–381). It has been read as a presentation of the relations between rational and emotional forces in human beings, as a parody on the rules of dexterity in courtly behaviour, as mocking the style of Sidney and Lyly, and so on. Its language has been highly praised (Wilson 1970: 63–72), the almost dance-like symmetry of its plot commended. The language which the various parties use is indeed so directly indicative of their roles in the game that Love’s Labour’s Lost could almost be called a comedy on the various styles of speaking. When Berowne finally renounces and condemns the stilted, stylish manner of his love-making to Rosaline, he renounces not the behaviour but the language in which this was done. His speech also includes a verdict against written language, like that used in love poems, in favour of natural spoken English: O! Never will I trust to speeches penn’d, Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue, Nor never come in visor to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper’s song, Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-pil’d hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical; these summer-flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation: I do forswear them; [. . .]26 (Shakespeare 1956: V. ii. 402–10)

In the play, the ideal norm of linguistic decorum is the language of the princess and her ladies. Their speeches are the standard against which the speeches of the gentlemen have to be judged. But it is the lower characters of the comedy whose extraordinary ways 25 Critics usually express surprise at this somewhat drastic ending to an otherwise lighthearted piece, unparalleled in Shakespeare’s comedies. 26 Blind harper ⫽ proverbial; originally Irish fiddlers who were blinded by smallpox; ostentation ⫽ vanity.

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of speaking give the amorous and linguistic controversy at court its linguistic setting, and in them synonyms figure predominantly. Don Adriano de Armado, ‘a fantastical Spaniard’, perhaps an imitation of the stock capitano figure from the commedia dell’arte,27 is introduced as a man That has a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; [. . .] (I. i. 164–6).

A specimen of his language is given in the letter in which he denounces Costard the Clown because he saw him together with a woman. This letter is full of conceited, ridiculous phrases and learned allusions to rhetorical principles (for example, the classical circumstances of speaking: who, what, where, how, and when), and full of synonyms: I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. [. . .] there I did see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of my mirth, [. . .] that unlettered small-knowing soul, [. . .] that shallow vessel [. . .] sorted and consorted contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon [. . .] with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.28 (I. i. 235–54)

Dull, a constable, ill furnished with language and intellect (as his name suggests), who takes this letter to the King, is called by Armado ‘a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation’ (I. i. 237). It is no use trying to find subtle differences of meaning between these epithets, or between view, behold, survey, see, or between child [!] of our Grandmother Eve, female, woman or between all the other synonymous lexemes. They simply show the verbosity of a vain man running wild. It is perhaps a nice subtlety of Shakespeare’s style to put the common word (see, small-knowing, woman) in each case at the end of the row of rather choice synonyms, signalling by this that ‘for [our] more sweet understanding’ this one would have sufficed and all the others were unnecessary decorum.

27 28

He has also been understood as a mock Sir Walter Raleigh. Continent canon ⫽ canon enforcing restraint.

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While Armado uses volleys of synonyms in order to show off his linguistic vanity, Costard, a clown with common sense and motherwit, uses them cleverly in order to avoid condemnation. He denies having been together with a woman by calling her, consecutively, ‘wench’, ‘damsel’, ‘virgin’, and ‘maid’, till the king finally loses his patience. Then Costard speaks of Jaquenetta and sincerely calls her ‘a true girl’ (I. i. 269–95). In their further dialogues, Armado, his page Moth, and the clown Costard continue in this fashion, engaged in a kind of ‘civil war of wits’ (II. i. 226) and producing the ‘Sweet smoke of rhetoric’ (III. i. 61). Armado enjoys piling up synonyms without any communicative necessity. Costard shows more consideration. When receiving a ridiculously low tip for delivering a letter, he comments on Armado’s term remuneration in a way which could serve as the beginning of a theory on the use of synonyms as a stylistic device: Remuneration! O that’s the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. ‘What’s the price of this inkle?’29 ‘One penny.’ ‘No, I’ll give you a remuneration.’: why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. (III. i. 134–40)

This means: using (Latinate) synonyms is a way of cloaking the speaker’s meanness. At the climax of the play, when the problem is obvious and the dénouement not yet visible, Berowne, the spokesman for the courtiers, breaks out into a wild parade of synonyms in which he rants against his own entanglement by imitating (or mocking) Armado’s affected manner of speech. He pours scorn into a heap of expressions which are ad hoc synonyms. As a member of the academe he used to be ‘love’s whip’, ‘beadle’, ‘critic’, ‘night-watch constable’, and ‘domineering pedant’ turned against Dan30 Cupid, ‘This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, | [. . .] | Regent of loverhymes, lord of folded arms, | The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans’, etc. (III. i. 170–185). But now he is ‘a corporal of his field’, admitting ‘What! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!’, and a little later ‘And I to sigh for her! To watch for her! | To pray for her!’, and finally: [. . .] Go to; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect 29

Inkle ⫽ a kind of linen tape or the yarn it was made from.

30

Dan ⫽ Don, dominus.

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Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan: [. . .] (III. i. 184–202)

The first batch of synonyms satirizes the King’s plan for a state without love but full of ridiculous offices, which turn against an ‘anointed sovereign’ with ‘dreadful little might’. Note the extremely clever use of the rhetorical figure of paradox, in which something perceptual (the dreadful might of love) and something visual (the little putto) are used to explain something serious and its contrary, fancy. The second batch gives the various aspects of one overarching meaning for which each of the words used could actually stand by itself. As synonyms should, ‘love’, ‘write’, ‘sigh’, ‘pray’, ‘sue’, ‘groan’, etc. have something semantic in common (viz. expressing the state of being in love) and something special in each case (viz. expressing various types of behaviour in this state). After the third act, the comedy leads via two masques to the end, in which the unnatural separation from love, but also unnatural language in the proposing of love, are renounced. It is Berowne who expresses himself most clearly (see above). The counter-figure with his extreme language is now the schoolmaster Holofernes, whom some critics have seen as a portrait of John Florio, the dictionary author, others the adaptation of the role of pedante from the commedia dell’arte. He could very well be both. He is accompanied by the curate Sir Nathaniel, a man of a similar frame of mind and similar language. In Holofernes and Nathaniel, the caricature of ridiculous behaviour now shifts from the world of courtiers to that of academics. After all, the secluded place where the courtiers promise to retreat and live the sober life is an academe, i.e. a place where academic work is being done. Holofernes and Nathaniel are caricatures of learned men, as Shakespeare liked to portray them (e.g. Polonius). Just as Don Adriano and his company are a distorted image of the court, Holofernes and his company are a distorted image of the relevant academic institution. Holofernes is possessed by his schoolmasterly knowledge. He permanently mixes Latin words with English, giving translations by synonyms, as dictionaries do: The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of coelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. (IV. ii. 3–7)

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Holofernes talks as if he has learned a dictionary by heart. He goes on talking like this during the final scenes of the play. In a tirade where synonyms and terminology31 become indistinguishable, he speaks of his own way of conversing: This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit; full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions32 [. . .] (IV. ii. 66–8).

In commenting on these lines, the editor of the Arden edition of Love’s Labour’s Lost, Richard David, rightly draws our attention to George Puttenham and many other authors of the period who cherished the kind of style which is used by Holofernes on the object level and described by him on the metalevel of the dialogue. Of course, Holofernes’ lines also testify to the perceptiveness and ingenuity of Shakespeare’s presentation of the contemporary linguistic scene. For example: When so ever we multiply our speech by many words or clauses of one sence, the Greekes call it Sinonimia. [. . .] You see that all these words, face, looks, favour, features, visage, countenance, are in the sence all but one. Which store, nevertheless, doeth much beautifie and inlarge the matter. (IV. ii. 67)

The curate Sir Nathanael joins Holofernes: I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. (V. i. 2–6)

This speech exploits the time-honoured idea that nothing should be done in the extreme but that the ideal lies in the middle way. Synonyms are therefore turned against each other, by presupposing the overlapping meanings (wit is partly the same as affection, etc.) and by arranging the differences as opposing pairs (affection is wit in the extreme and therefore different). Shakespeare’s use of synonyms in Love’s Labour’s Lost testifies to the stable tradition of this phenomenon of all natural languages and to the unique effects which authors of genius can make of them.

31

See Ch. 3.6.2.

32

Revolution ⫽ any turning of the thoughts.

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Many other plays of Shakespeare could be investigated in this respect (see Baldwin 1944: ii, 138–96 et passim).

4.7

Archbishop Trench on synonymy and morality

Richard Chevenix Trench (1807–1886) was a theologian and man of the Church. He was ordained priest in 1835, appointed professor of divinity at King’s College, London, in 1846, and made Dean of Westminster in 1856. Between 1864 and 1884, he was Archbishop of Dublin. For him, history was marked by a development from human purity to debasement, from moral excellence to deterioration. His theologically motivated interest in the past made him turn to language. To him, the semantic history of words reflected significant mental and moral changes. He used the philological studies of his time as instruments for dogmatic and pastoral purposes (Aarsleff 1967). This had the side-effect of making the study of language history quite popular in England (Rastall 2001). Nevertheless, Trench’s linguistic works are few. He published, among others, On the Study of Words (1851), On the Lessons in Proverbs (1853), English Past and Present (1855), and A Select Glossary of English Words Used Formerly in Senses Different from Their Present (1859)—all of them rather slim books. Yet, today, they are rated as ‘the major British work on language in the 1850s’ (Crowley 1989: 52). He also promoted the compilation and production of the New English Dictionary, later the OED. We shall focus on the first of these books. Trench’s ideas about language were in tune with contemporary philological work in Germany, as represented, for example, by Johann Gottfried Herder and Wilhelm von Humboldt, according to which language is a repository of the achievements of the relevant speech community’s cultural past (Crowley 1996). As this culture of the past also reveals the dominant psychological features of speakers, Trench regarded language as a repository of national character. As a consequence of this, Trench’s ideas about language were also in tune with Harris’s concept in Hermes of ‘the genius’ of a language (Harris 1976: 407). Moreover, these ideas brought him close to other mid-Victorian historians, who saw the genius of their own people expressed in the unity of their nation and the Empire. The

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dispersion of English over almost the whole world during the Victorian era gave it great political weight as the medium of the then dominant culture and civilization. Although the role of English as a possible world language had long been advocated by grammarians and language teachers (Hüllen 1996a, 1999d, forthcoming), it now gained a strong political dimension (see e.g. Higginson 1864). One of the consequences of this political situation was the foundation of ‘English language and literature’ as a new academic subject at universities, in competition with the hitherto more highly regarded classical studies. This was advocated by many, among them Richard Chevenix Trench, as a means of making people aware of the cultural value of their own nation. Trench’s linguistic topic is the history of national culture in the semantic flux of words. To him, their coming together from various languages, and the changes—the gains and losses—in their meanings resulted in the existence of the many synonyms which are so characteristic of English. Hence this extraordinary clergyman can rightly claim mention in connection with the emergence of the English synonym dictionary. His first book appeared only one year before Roget’s Thesaurus; his other books were published during the years when the Thesaurus was proving a tremendous success. Obviously, synonymy was not regarded merely as a question of practical lexicography. Rather, practical lexicography was considered to be built on a strong philosophical and theological, i.e. generally ideational, foundation. It is On the Study of Words which proves most important in this context. Its repercussions can be found up to the middle of the twentieth century, e.g. in Potter (1950). His five lectures were read to the Diocesan Training School in Winchester. Due to their audience, and the situation in which they were delivered, they have a special expository and stylistic quality. Language is called ‘fossil’ poetry and religion. The metaphor may have been directly inspired by Herder. Language contains a record of good and evil. As a theologian and clergyman, Trench is interested in the language of fallen man and condemns the ‘vocabulary of sin’. Lecture IV (1851: 87–117) is devoted to synonyms. They are characterized in their special relation of semantic identity and difference and traced back to the contact between several languages in the course of history. The synonyms trick, device, finesse, artifice,

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and strategem show this, for example, because they stem from Old Saxon, Italian, French, Latin, and Greek roots, respectively. A ‘process of desynonymizing’ occurred during cultural progress, i.e. a process of differentiation of originally identical meanings.33 English is particularly rich in double and triple forms, of which many examples are given. They come into being through usage, among other reasons through pronunciation. So far, Trench’s thoughts are conventional for a theory of synonymy in English. What is no longer conventional is the pastoral conclusions he drew from them. For the archbishop, distinguishing between synonyms has general mental effects: it improves the sagacity of speakers, increases their mental wealth, leads to a good style by giving precision to thought, and trains the intellectual faculties. These, however, are ‘nearly allied to morality’. Differentiating between synonyms is, therefore, a cultural and religious virtue which Christians are better enabled to do than followers of other religions, and, among the former, speakers of English better than those of other languages. The study of synonyms comes close to religious worship: And although I cannot promise you that the study of synonyms, or the acquaintance with derivations, or any other knowledge but the very highest knowledge of all, will deliver you from the temptation to misuse this or any other gift of God—a temptation which always lies so near to us—yet I am sure that these studies rightly pursued will do much in leading us to stand in awe of this divine gift of words, and to tremble at the thought of turning it to any other than those worthy ends for which God has endowed us with it. (1851: 117)

Note, again, that this lecture was given to the members of a diocesan training school.

33

The same idea is already to be found in Taylor (1813). See Ch. 6.3.3.

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5 The Beginnings of Practical Synonymy 5.1. Hard-word dictionaries 5.1.1. General 5.1.2. Early Modern English lexis 5.1.3. The ynkhorne controversy 5.1.4. English–Latin dictionaries 5.1.4.1 Promptorium parvulorum (1440) 5.1.4.2 Catholicon Anglicum (1483) 5.1.4.3 Huloet (1552) 5.1.4.4 Pelegromius (1572) 5.1.5. English–English dictionaries 5.1.5.1 From Bullokar (1586) to Coote (1596) 5.1.5.2 Cawdrey (1604) 5.1.5.3 From Bullokar (1616) to Coles (1676) 5.2. Synonymy in philosophy and lexicographical practice 5.2.1. John Locke, semanticist 5.2.1.1 General 5.2.1.2 John Locke’s deliberations ‘On Words’ 5.2.1.3 Towards mental lexicography 5.2.2. Samuel Johnson and synonymy 5.2.2.1 General 5.2.2.2 The Plan and the preface 5.2.2.3 Definitions and explanations 5.2.2.4 Quotations 5.2.2.5 Lexicographical practice

5.1

Hard-word dictionaries

The term ‘practical synonymy’ is reserved for those techniques in dictionaries which employ the principle of synonymy for semanticizing

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lexemes. The so-called hard-word dictionaries of the seventeenth century occupy a special historical position in this respect and initiated the development of later monolingual interpretative dictionaries of English. Their special way of explaining synonyms was prefigured in the English tradition of Latin lexicography. According to Stein (1985: 296–7), the ‘sixteenth-century English dictionaries in which the headword language was English were more original in approach than those in which the word list was made up by Latin’.1 The dictionaries selected here for investigation show how the concept of synonymy appeared in bilingual and later in monolingual lexicographical works. 5.1.1

General

One aspect of the European lexicography was the early dominance of Latin over the various vernaculars—first in various types of glosses and glossaries, then in word-lists and dictionaries proper (Béjoint 1994, Hüllen 1999a). The ‘language of the street’ was different to the ‘language of culture’. The former was acquired as a matter of course, but the latter had to be learnt. This is why early post-classical European lexicography was predominantly interpretative. Lexemes were collected and arranged, either according to semantic affinity or according to formal principles like the alphabet, in order for their meanings to be explained. The need for this explanation arose because the most interesting texts of the time were written in a foreign language, Latin. Already in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, ‘the Book-language’, although unnamed, was counted among the idioms current in the British Isles (along with English [Anglo-Saxon], British [Cornish], Welsh, and Scottish [Irish] (Swanton 2000: 3). Most typically therefore, the earliest lexicographical works, in particular when arranged in alphabetical order, interpreted Latin lexemes with the help of vernacular ones. In works arranged in a semantic (topical or onomasiological) order an additional encyclopaedic interest was at work. As the making of digests of Latin 1 Other aspects of originality are the topical approach in John Withals (A shorte Dictionarie for younge begynners [. . .], 1553; see Hüllen 1999a), the use of rhymes in Peter Levins (Manipulus vocabulorum [. . .], 1570), and the consistent treatment of etymologies in John Baret (An Alvearie or triple Dictionarie [. . .], 1573). For general characterizations, see Starnes (1954), Hayashi (1978), and Stein (1985). Our analyses are strictly limited to the aspects of synonymy.

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texts already in existence and the producing of new Latin texts was for many years the most common intellectual pursuit (from roughly 800–1500), interpretative Latin–vernacular dictionaries were of supreme importance. Teaching and learning how to understand and how to produce, i.e. speak and write, Latin texts depended on these dictionaries just as they depended on grammars. Being bound to extant texts and to certain domains of intellectual (philosophical and scientific) interest imposed limits on practical lexicography. Its works did not aim at inventorizing the whole language, whether Latin or the vernaculars.2 However, the usefulness of these early glossaries and dictionaries increased with the number of entries in alphabetical order. An inbuilt tendency towards exhaustiveness arose which, boosted by a general interest in the older languages during the period of Humanism, eventually led to comprehensive Latin dictionaries. The best known in Europe was perhaps Ambrogio Calepino’s Dictionarium latinarum e greco pariter derivatium [. . .] of 1502. It started as a monolingual work with occasional Greek references and was later developed into a multilingual work with up to eleven languages complementing, in parallel, the corpus of Latin lexemes.3 Consequently, it was used all over Europe. But in all nations large dictionaries which surpassed the immediate needs of learning Latin were produced. Whether the order of entries was Latin–vernacular or vernacular–Latin depended on the role that was attributed to the mother tongue of learners in foreign language instruction. This was certainly an important decision at the time. But in both cases the sole purpose was the learning of Latin. The prototype version of dictionaries, then, was bilingual and interpretative. From the initial text-bound selection of lexemes it

2 The idea of a complete language inventory originated with the great projects of the Italian and French academies (1612 and 1634) to establish a linguistic norm by compiling a nation-wide dictionary. In Britain it was widely discussed and finally adopted by Dr Johnson in his dictionary of 1755 (Flasdiek 1928). Common to all the relevant European nations was the politically motivated plan in the nineteenth century to compile a comprehensive dictionary in order to display a language as the common accomplishment and property of a nation. In accordance with this plan were published the Larousse Grand Dictionnaire Universelle [. . .] (1864–90) in France, Grimm’s Deutsches Wörterbuch (1854–1971) in Germany, and the OED (A New English Dictionary on Historical Principles, 1884–1928) in Britain. See van Hoof (1994) and Osselton (1995: 148–56). 3 The first edition to contain English equivalents was that of 1509. For editions in England see Alston (1974: ii, nos. 81–99).

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became ever more comprehensive. It was a tool for foreign language teaching and learning by translation. At its root was the assumption of translatability. From the classical age (Fögen 2000), authors have time and again reflected on the possibilities and limits of translation, but the compilers of lexicographical works seem to have taken it for granted, not only for language pairs or triplets (e.g. Greek, Latin, and vernacular, or Latin and two vernaculars), but also for languages in general, as is shown by the many versions of Calepino and the multilingual textbooks for language learning (Hüllen 1999a, 2000). However, linguistically speaking, the act of translating is nothing more than the act of finding interlingual synonyms. This is true in a crude and also in a more refined sense. The adequacy of two expressions, the original and a translation, is understood, like synonyms, to be either total or partial. The concept of translation, that is of interlingual synonymy, is clearly the pillar of interpretative lexicography. It was in keeping with the spirit of the time that Latin played the role of the source language which determined the choice of interlingual synonyms. There are also many cases of intralingual synonymy to be found, for example in word lists collected for some special purpose. They proliferated during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It was their purpose to introduce people to certain sciences (like rhetoric, arithmetic, or medicine) and to crafts (like husbandry or seafaring) (Schäfer 1989) by explaining terms, i.e. word meanings. But intralingual synonymy is also to be found, if rather sporadically, as a natural technique of explanation in the bilingual dictionaries mentioned, whether the headword of an entry was followed by a synonym, or the translation of one headword was given as two or more lexemes. Indeed, the nature of intralingual synonyms oscillates in early sources between a natural and unobtrusive property of language use (e.g. in dictionaries) and a sophisticated expressive device (e.g. in sermons or plays4). Later, special dictionaries of synonyms appeared in many European countries. The first one in German and Latin was Hieronymus Cingularius’ Tersissima latini eloquii Synonymorum collectanea of 1513 with as many as eighteen further editions to 1524 (Claes 1977: 60). Its French version 4

See Ch. 4.6.

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(Tersissima Latini eloquii synonymorum collectanea, una cum Gallico et Teutonico vernaculo accomodata) of 1529 is the first French and Latin dictionary of synonyms, with three more editions by 1544 (Lindemann 1994: 559). A monolingual German collection, arranged in semantic groups, appeared anonymously in 1522 as Synonima die man nent gezierte geblumpte, und colores der schonen hoffkunstrethoricken formieren, whereas the first German monolingual work is Jacob Schöpper’s Synonyma d.i. mancherley Gattungen Deutscher Wörter, so im Grund einerley bedeutung haben (1550) (Claes 1977: 79 and 113). The first such work in English and Latin is Simon Pelegromius’ Synonymorum silva (1572), an adaptation of an earlier dictionary in Latin and Flemish (1537) (see below). But to a greater or lesser degree, intralingual synonymy is part of almost every interpretative dictionary. Up to the beginning of the seventeenth century, then, the incentives to use a dictionary were quite different from those today: (i) to learn Latin and (ii) to have explanations of special native terms for arts and crafts. The latter was met by word lists and fact-explaining treatises rather than by dictionaries proper (Hüllen 1999a).5 While the bilingual interpretative dictionary was the prototype of lexicographical work up to the end of the sixteenth century, it is monolingual interpretative dictionaries which occupy this position today. In these the interpretative part has changed from translation to explanation. Finding and constructing intralingual synonyms is the universal technique for performing this task. Of course, the bilingual dictionary still exists for the purpose of learning any foreign language, and it is flourishing. But the growth and success of the monolingual dictionary is the newer phenomenon. It presupposes that speakers are in need of dictionaries not just for learning a foreign language but for becoming skilled in their own. In the British Isles, this change happened in the course of the seventeenth century and is connected with the so-called hard-word dictionaries. Having a good command of one’s own language was now seen as being a task for native speakers even after their schooldays. 5 As the topic of my historiographical reconstruction is Roget and the earlier emergence of the English synonym dictionary, treatises which belong to a different genre of text will have to be ignored, despite their importance in the lexical development of the English language. The first author to point out this importance was Schäfer (1989). His ground-breaking research has by now been generally acknowledged. See e.g. Nevalainen (1999).

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Therefore they were in need of dictionaries (and also grammars). This conceptual turning point in dictionary use is characteristic of English development and marks a language-specific deviation from the development of lexicography in Europe (Osselton 1995: 1–15). 5.1.2

Early Modern English lexis

The period of Early Modern English falls roughly between the years 1500 and 1650. Its most important external conditions were the introduction of the printing press to England by William Caxton (?1422–1491) in 1476 and the beginnings of those overseas activities which eventually led to the foundation of America, i.e. the first important English-speaking colony. As is well known, the printing trade initiated a rapid expansion of book-dependent culture and education, while the overseas activities provided countless chances for contact with other languages, both European and non-European. The linguistic effects of these circumstances pointed in opposite directions. They consisted of a (conservative) stabilization of spelling and grammar, and a (progressive) change in lexis (Görlach 1993, Baugh and Cable 2002). The most important constituent of general culture in this period, as expressed in the terms ‘Renaissance’ and ‘Humanism’, was the attention paid to languages as the historically established media of communication. For the older languages, this meant a turn to ancient Hebrew, Greek, and Latin—the last, in particular, being seen as opposed to medieval Latin, which had become estranged from its sources. For the other languages, this meant their acknowledgement as the means of cultural activities in their own right. National lexicography and grammaticography arose everywhere in Europe. English authors conformed to this general European tendency in that their national idiom was no longer derided as boorish and underdeveloped but as capable of expressing all concepts and emotions, and all facets of communication, in an adequate style.6 It was a language ‘with rules’ just like Latin. Together with authors in all the major European languages, it was claimed that English

6 For this and the following, see Jones (1953), a monograph which is outdated in certain respects but invaluable for the richness of the material it presents.

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possessed the classical virtues of speech—correctness, clarity, appropriateness, and elegance—even if they had had to be developed in the same way that Latin had developed them after becoming emancipated from Greek (Hüllen 2001a). One element of this new outlook was the translation of classical texts into English, another the enrichment of vocabulary. This enrichment took its material mainly from Latin and French, but also from Greek, from Italian and Spanish, and from those non-European languages which were becoming known at the time. Although the national idioms were now seen as being on an equal footing with the traditional classical languages, Latin for a long time enjoyed the privilege of being the language in which the classical culture of the Humanists was originally expressed and later communicated.7 The struggle for emancipation, in particular from Latin grammar-writing, was proclaimed, but it was to continue for two centuries. The development of lexis in the period of Early Modern English decided the general character of the English language as it presents itself today, and therefore also decided, together with social and political conditions, the unrivalled acceptance of English as a world language. It happened, first, through a massive influx of lexemes from other languages, resulting in the unique admixture of Germanic and Romance (Latinate) elements we have today, and second, through exploiting all the structural means of word formation (affixation, compounding, back-derivation, conversion, and blending), resulting in the final rejection of stem formation, with which Anglo-Saxon had begun, and the development of the structural resources of word formation we have now (for a thorough treatment of this development see Baugh and Cable 2002: ch. 8). According to the Chronological English Dictionary (Finkenstaedt, Leisi, and Wolf 1970); (see also Finkenstaedt and Wolf 1973), the peak of lexical change occurred between 1570 and 1630, and thereafter proceeded more moderately. This development did not go unnoticed by contemporary authors. John Florio (1553?–1625), for example, author of the authoritative 7

For the purpose of this survey I ignore the other constituent of general culture in this period, the Reformation. Its linguistic impact was, of course, tremendous, mediated by the central project of Bible translation.

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Italian–English dictionary of the time (1598), was jubilant over the ‘yearely increase’ of English vocabulary (Jones 1953: 207). It was not, however, an all-pervasive and linear movement. Many neologisms appeared only once or remained in the dictionaries merely as ‘obsolete’ words.8 They affected specialized domains of communication much more than the ‘common core’ (Nevalainen 1999: 342–3) of daily language use. Up to the present day, the latter has been fairly resistant to neologisms, of which some 50 per cent of lexemes are from Germanic stock, which, however, amount to only 26 per cent of the entire vocabulary of the language (Scheler 1977). Thus, the innovations of the seventeenth century contributed largely to the emergence of the so-called two vocabularies of English, which are related to each other by some special form of synonymy (see below). They are the common-core vocabulary, consisting mainly, on the one hand, of lexemes which already appear in AngloSaxon prose and have remained in the language since, and, on the other, the extended elaborate vocabulary, consisting largely of relatively later Latinate loans.9 Latin was the dominant source for loans, closely followed by French (Baugh and Cable 2002: 226–7). These words tend to be rather bookish. Many of them provide new terms for the new concepts which were appearing in many arts and sciences. They were mediated by the close cultural relations between the English and the French, in particular after the Restoration of 1660, a fact which mirrors the general appreciation of French culture in Europe. Greek lexemes were often mediated through Latin, just as Latin ones were mediated through French. Italian, Spanish, and Dutch (Low German) words indicate general cultural and commercial interests (for examples, see Görlach 1993 and Nevalainen 1999: 364–76). Apart from communicative needs, the degree of phonological and morphological anglicization of loans ensured the general success of borrowing. Phonological anglicization meant the application of 8

For reasons of space I refrain from giving examples. Extensive word lists documenting all aspects of Early Modern English lexis may be found in all the major monographs (e.g. Strang 1976; Lass 1999; Baugh and Cable 2002: 214–32). 9 Latin loans of the first and second period, i.e. the Roman occupation between 55 BC and AD 400 and Christianization after 600, are regularly part of the core vocabulary. For Latin and French influence on English between 1066 and the beginning of the Early Modern period, see Burnley (1992).

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English rules of pronunciation, in particular the Great Vowel Shift, to Latin, French, and other spelling. Only a limited number of late French loans retained their own phonological system (e.g. brochure, rouge). Morphological anglicization (Baugh and Cable 2002: 224–5) means the adaptation of full Latin forms (e.g. medium, genus), even with foreign plurals (e.g. media, genera), or adaptation with truncated endings (e.g. construction from constructionem (acc.), expunge from expungere). Verbs were derived either from present stems (e.g. describe from describere) or from past participles (e.g. imitate from imitatus). Latin adjectives in -atus appear as adjectives in -ate, those in -alis as ones in -al (e.g. ornatus to ornate, officialis to official). Another technique of integration is the replacement of Latin endings by anglicized French endings, which, of course, originally stem from Latin as well (e.g. immatur-ity from immatur-itas, relev-ancy from relev-antia, the many adjectives in -able from -abilis, in -ous from -us).10 The exploitation of the various means of word formation resulted in a sharp increase in prefixations and suffixations which used the many Latin morphemes available11 together with the native forms ( for, out, under, etc.) which had always existed. This meant an enormous quantitative expansion in the coining of new words with the help of non-native elements but according to native structural rules. Most of these affixes came from Latin (and Greek). Again this contributed to the emergence of the two vocabularies, or two lexical strata, in English.12 Both processes of lexical expansion worked in tandem when a lexeme (like animal) was adopted and slowly integrated into the language by derivations (like animalic, animalist, animalness, animalise, animalisation, animalised) and compounds (like animal kingdom, animal pieces, animal food, animal electricity) (Nevalainen 1999: 363). This process, of course, was gradual and is still continuing today. 10

For these and other techniques of anglicization, see Nevalainen (1999: 364–76). Nevalainen (1999: 378–92) discusses no fewer than 49 Latin and Greek prefixes and more than 70 suffixes, ordered according to word classes, in English lexemes. 12 Other processes of word formation, such as compounding, conversion between word classes, and back-derivation, are also to be found in the seventeenth century. However, they do not seem very important for the development of the two vocabularies in synonymous relation to each other. 11

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The anglicization of borrowed lexemes was not just a hit-or-miss process. In the controversy that accompanied the changes in the English language (see below), the need for the naturalization of foreign elements was stressed. To cite just one author: Richard Mulcaster (c.1530–1611), an authority on native language spelling, pronunciation, and teaching, with distinct national overtones, stressed in The First Part of the Elementarie (1582; Alston 1974: vi, no. 462) that borrowed words must not remain an alien element but must be fully assimilated into English. Although he was a strong supporter of English in its own (Germanic) right, he defended the use of neologisms provided they are shaped and made fit to be ‘generallie English’ (Jones 1953: 206; Görlach 1993; Polifke 1999; Baugh and Cable 2002).

5.1.3

The ynkhorne controversy

The changes in English lexis did not go unnoticed at the time, and it is almost natural that a fierce controversy should arise. It was part of the wider debate on whether English was a language inadequate for scientific and literary purposes, as compared to Latin, and if so, how this inadequacy could be improved. Many authors took part in it (see Jones 1953; Bailey 1991; Baugh and Cable 2002). They are usually divided into those who opposed borrowing (e.g. Sir John Cheke [1514–1547], Roger Ascham [1514–1568], Sir Thomas Chaloner [1521–1565]), those who defended borrowing (e.g. George Pettie [1548–1589], John Bullokar [fl. 1586]), and those who found a compromise between the two opposing positions (e.g. George Puttenham [d. 1590]). But there are also authors who cannot be allocated clearly to one of these groups (such as Sir Thomas Elyot [1490?–1546] or Thomas Wilson [1525?–1581]).13 In The Arte of Rhetorique (1560; Alston 1974: vi, nos. 10–17), Thomas Wilson asks: ‘whose doings are best esteemed?’ The answer is: ‘Euen such a one assuredly that can plainly, distinctly, plentifully and aptly, vtter both words and matter’. Under the 13 It is neither possible nor necessary to reconstruct this controversy in detail. Instead, only the main ideas will be presented, via commentary on one quotation from each group. My purpose is to show the ideational background of the so-called hard-word dictionaries.

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heading plainnesse we read the following frequently quoted remarks (Jones 1953: 101; Baugh and Cable 2002: 218–20):14 Among all other lessons, this should first be learned, that we neuer affect any straunge ynkehorne termes, but to speake as is commonly receiued: neither sekyng to be ouer fine, nor yet liuyng ouer carelesse, vsing our speache as most men do, and ordering our wittes, as the fewest haue done. Some seke so farre for outlandishe Englishe, that thei forget altogether their mothers language. And I dare swere this, if some of their mothers were aliue, thei were not able to tell what thei say: and yet these fine Englishe clerkes, wil saie, thei speake in their mother tongue, if a man should charge them for counterfeityng the kynges English. Some farre iorneid gentlemen at their returne home, like as thei loue to goe in forraine apparell, so thei will pouder their talke with ouersea language. He that cometh lately out of Fraunce, will talk Frenche English, and neuer blushe at the matter. Another choppes in with Angleso Italiano [. . .] (Wilson 1553: fol. 86, yij)

There is an obvious dichotomy here between strange, outlandish (i.e. French and Italian) speech and the commonly received mother tongue. The old metaphor which likens speech to garments and fashion (in this case the French powdered wig) is applied. Linguistic innovations are seen as a problem of behaviour rather than of intelligibility, which is only hinted at with reference to ‘the mothers’. The opposition of ‘overfine’ and ‘overcareless’ avoids this simple schema, because of his recommendation to follow neither the one nor the other, but no details are given. Thomas Wilson also wrote a fictional letter, supposedly by a Lincolnshire man addressed to a gentleman, which swarms with strange words and is meant to ridicule what he obviously regarded as being a silly fashion: ‘Some will thinke and swere to, that there was neuer any suche thyng written, well I will not force any manto beleue it, but I will saue thus muche, and abide by it to, the like haue been made heretofore, and praised aboue the Moone’ (Wilson 1553: fol. 86, yij[v]). George Pettie translated the first three books of the celebrated and widely read La Civil Conversazione (1563) of Stefano Guazzo 14 Text according to the edition of 1553, BL 75.a.20. The usual date of first publication is given as 1560.

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(1530–1593) into English (The Ciuil Conuersation of M. Steeuen Guazzo, 1581). This collection of dialogues showed the value of conversation as an antidote against melancholy. The types of conversations vary according to sociolinguistic parameters (to put it in modern terms). In the preface we read: And though for my part I vse those words [from the Latin] as litle as any, yet I know no reason why I should not vse them, and I find it a fault in my selfe that I do not vse them: for it is in deed the ready way to inrich them selues: For take the Latine woords from the Spanish tongue, and it shall be as barren as most part of their Countrey; take them from the Italian, and you take away in a manner the whole tongue [. . .]. Wherefore I marueile how our english tongue hath cracke it[s] credite, that it may not borrow of the Latine as well as from other tongues. [. . .] for what woorde can be more plaine then this word plaine and yet what can come more neere to the Latin? what more manifest than manifest? And yet in a manner Latine: [. . .]. But you wyll say, long vse has made these woords curraunt: and why may not vse doo as much for these woords which we shall now deriue? Why should not wee do as much for the posteritie, as we haue receiued from the antiquitie? (Jones 1953: 205; Baugh and Cable 2002: 221)

Pettie argues from a historical point of view. All languages accept words from other languages; besides Spanish and Italian he mentions French and Latin itself. English has done so in the past, and many Latin words have become indistinguishable parts of it. ‘Being strange’ and ‘being accustomed’ are not valid criteria. This is obviously the voice of a translator who stands, as it were, between two languages, and hence above them. In The Arte of English Poesie George Puttenham (1589; Alston 1974: vi, no. 34), defined ‘our Southerne English’, i.e. the English of London, the court, the dictionaries ‘and other bookes written by learned men’, as the standard form. He was the first post-classical English-speaking author to lay a theoretical foundation for literary criticism. His work, which is full of references to classical rhetoric, was acknowledged as an authority on the subject. Note in this context the following passage: Albeit peraduenture some small admonition be not impertinent, for we finde in our English writers many wordes and speaches amendable, & ye shall see in some many inkhorne termes so ill affected brought in by men of learning as preachers and schoolemasters: and many straunge termes of

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other languages by Secretaries and Marchaunts and trauailours, and many darke words and not vsuall nor well sounding, though they be dayly spoken in Court. Wherefore great heed must be taken by our maker in this point that his choise be good. And peraduenture the writer hereof be in that behalfe no lesse faultie then any other, vsing many straunge and vnaccustomed wordes and borrowed from other languages [. . .]. (bk. III, ch. IIII [!]; 1968 repr.: 121, Riij [r])

This ‘small admonition’, which includes the author’s own writings, is different from the others already mentioned in that it takes borrowing for granted, in need neither of condemnation nor of support, and merely asks for ‘great heed’. It is also different from the others in that it names the social groups of speakers who introduce these words to English (intellectuals, men of administration, and men of commerce). Furthermore, it specifies the effects: the new words are ‘strange’, i.e. ill-sounding to English ears, and ‘dark’, i.e. unintelligible. There then follows a discussion of many relevant words, for example, scientificke, mechanicall, Maior-domo, politien, Idiome, Methode, methodicall, placation, function, assubtiling, refining, compendious, prolixe, figuratiue, and inueigle. Among these are commonly used lexemes of present-day English, as is easily seen, but also some that have not survived. Note this comment on one of them: Politien, this word also is receiued from the Frenchmen, but at this day usuall in Court and with all good Secretaries: and cannot finde an English worde to match him, for to have said a man politique, had not bene so wel: bicause in trueth that had bene no more than to haue said a ciuil person. (1968: 121, Riij [r])

The criterion which Puttenham here places above all others is whether the term fills a semantic gap in the English language. There are words ‘which I cannot see how we may spare them, whatsoeuer fault wee finde with Inkhorne termes: for our speach wanteth wordes to such sence so well to be vsed’. There follow more examples: indignitie, penetrate, sauage, obscure, etc. But Puttenham gives ‘another small admonition’ which includes a warning: But peraduenture (and I could bring a reason for it) many other like words borrowed out of the Latin and French, were not so well to be allowed by vs, as these words, audacious, for bold: facunditie, for eloquence: egregious,

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for great or notable: implete, for replenished: atemptat, for attempt: compatible, for agreeable in nature, and many more. (1968: 123, Riiij [r]).

Here, too, living and extinct lexemes are to be found. Puttenham’s compromise (Baugh and Cable 2002: 222) prevailed in the end. Although many neologisms soon became obsolete, there remained a surprising number of permanent additions to the language. By 1600, the opposition had largely spent its force. Just as in later centuries, communicative needs conquered stylistic and national reluctance. These details of vocabulary development in Early Modern English and of the ynkhorne controversy are not new to philologists. In a discussion of synonymy in English, however, they must be remembered in their language-specific function as the beginning of a development which gave (and gives) English lexis a unique structure. In particular, in general matters of communication15 two almost self-contained and self-sufficient vocabularies are juxtaposed to each other, one of which relies heavily on indigenous Germanic lexemes (and Latin ones which came into the language before 1066) and the other on later loans, predominantly of Latin and French origin. Linguistic development and critical discussion have continued ever since. Whereas 3 per cent of lexis in AngloSaxon was loan words and between 40 and 50 per cent in Early Modern English, in present-day English it is estimated at 70 per cent (Scheler 1977; Baugh and Cable 2002: 178). In particular, the native languages of the non-European parts of the Empire contributed to this shift in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.16 In the sixteenth century, the controversy about lexical development was already embedded in the wider dispute on the rhetorical improvement of English. In the late seventeenth century this dispute became part of the discussion, initiated by the Royal Society, on an adequate scientific style, although this had many other, mainly philosophical, facets (Hüllen 1989). The old rhetorical demands for 15 In specialized communication Latinate vocabulary prevails, although even here the two vocabularies make themselves felt (in medicine, telecommunication, etc.). 16 To a certain extent, the lexical strata of English discussed here are also to be found in the other major European languages, in particular German, but they do not seem to have had the same effect there. The reasons for language-specific developments need further investigation via comparative studies. With respect to the many loans from languages other than Latin (directly or via French) it is worth mentioning that they are in most cases common to all Europeans. Here again comparative investigations are needed.

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perspicuity of denotation and adequacy of style became permanent topics of linguistic education. In 1948, Sir Ernest Gowers published his best-seller Plain Words, and influential authors like Arthur Quiller-Couch (1916) and H. W. Fowler (1926) propagated similar stylistic programmes (Hüllen 1999b). The general present-day success of scientific English makes the problem greater for native speakers, though not for the users of world English. For these native speakers, the Latinate vocabulary of English demands a certain understanding of the structural principles of word formation and, ideally, some knowledge of Latin.17 As neither is at everybody’s command, the two vocabularies actually behave as a language bar (Grove 1950) which divides the speech community into two heterogeneous groups. According to scientific standards, there is of course no question of ‘bad’ or ‘better’ English, but the ensuing social and educational problems are obvious.18 However, as experience shows, this does not make the language less fit for coping with the world-wide communicative tasks which the political development of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries has provided for it (increasingly with reference to American English). The lexemes of the two vocabularies are synonymous with each other. This constitutes a quite typical meaning of the term ‘synonymy’ which every British speaker encounters in his or her linguistic upbringing. A spontaneous answer to the request for an example of a synonymous word pair will be answer–respond, begin–commence, or something similar. The so-called hard-word dictionaries of the seventeenth centuries were the first to devote themselves to these problems. 5.1.4

English–Latin dictionaries

As noted above, early bilingual lexicography in Britain was dominated by Latin–English and English–Latin dictionaries. According to Starnes (1954: 3–38) and Stein (1985: 74–7), the Latin–English works were Medulla grammatice (anonymous ms. before 1400 and c.1460) and (H)Ortus vocabulorum (anonymous ms. c.1430, first 17

To my knowledge, there has been no reliable empirical investigation of this matter. In the area of language pedagogy this historically determined state of the language still stimulates political debates, as in the fierce battles that John Honey has fought for many years with most representatives of British sociolinguistics (see Honey 1997). 18

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printed 1500). The English–Latin works were Promptorium parvulorum (ms. 1440, first printed 1499) and Catholicon anglicum (ms. 1483, printed only in 1881). The term medulla seems to have served as a generic term for dictionary, because it is also given to the editions of the Promptorium (Starnes 1954: 5–6). The order of these books is alphabetical; the Promptorium has additionally divisions according to nouns (plus adjectives) and verbs (plus adverbs). In order to discuss the occurrence of synonyms in English lexicography, only the English–Latin type of dictionaries will be analysed. 5.1.4.1 Promptorium parvulorum (1440)

[Anonymous] Promptorium Parvulorum sive Clericorum Dictionarius Anglo-Latinus Princeps, Auctore Fratre Galfrido Grammatico dicto, ex Ordine Fratrum Predicatorum, Northfolciensi, circa A.D. MCCCCXL. Olim ex Officina Pynsoniana editum, nunc ab integro, commentariolis subjectis, ad fidem Codicum recensuit Albertus Way, A.M. Londini: Sumptibus Societatis Camdenensis, MDCCCLXV. Title of the 1908 reprint: The Promptorium Parvulorum. The First English-Latin Dictionary. Edited from the manuscript in the Chapter Library at Winchester, with introduction, notes, and glossaries, by A. L. Mayhew, M.A. London: Published for the Early English Text Society by Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co [. . .] and by Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press [. . .], MDCCCCVIII.

The Promptorium, which went through further editions in 1510, 1512, 1516, 1518, 1519, 1522, and 1528,19 originated in a Dominican monastery at Lynn Episcopi, Norfolk. Whether its compiler’s name was indeed Galfridus Grammaticus (fl. 1440), who lived as a reclusus there and who is also mentioned in connection with John of Garland’s Synonyma et equivoca, is uncertain. As a rule, these early works are anonymous; they may have several authors/compilers. Twelve sources are mentioned, among them the authoritative books of their time: Alexander Nequam’s De nominibus utensilium (1175–85), Hugutio of Pisa’s Magnae derivationes (c.1200), John of Garland’s ‘Dictionarius’ (1220) and Synonyma et equivoca (1500b), and Johannes Balbus’ Catholicon (c.1286). The corpus of English lexemes is heavily indebted to 19 For sources, manuscripts, editions, etc. see the introduction to the 1908 edition by Mayhew, Starnes (1954: 3–18), and Stein (1985: 91–106).

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earlier glossaries and nominales, the corpus of Latin works to the sources mentioned and some minor works, like the anonymous Latin dictionary Gemma gemmarum (1501). The corpus of vocabulary in all four dictionaries mentioned is rather similar. We can look at it as an authentic record of fifteenth-century English and also of the often debased Latin of that time. The edition of 1510, published by Wynkyn de Worde, has a note Ad lectorem which refers readers to the Ortus vocabulorum if they cannot find the Latin word they are looking for in the Promptorium (Starnes 1954: 5). This interesting reference shows the compilers to be aware of the fact that, for learning Latin, English learners needed dictionaries in both directions. To English-speaking learners, they had to serve the tasks of encoding (English–Latin) and decoding (Latin–English). This is clearly the reason why, for example, a copy of the 1516 edition of the Promptorium was bound together with a copy of the 1520 edition of the Hortus. Only together did they form a perfect tool for the teaching and learning of Latin as a foreign language in both directions. The Promptorium has about 12,000 entries. The first five illustrate the microstructure: [1] Abakke, or bakwarde: Retro, retrorsum; aduerbia. [2] A-bashyd, or aferd: Territus, -a, -um, vel perterritus, -a, -um; participia sunt. [3] A-bashment: Terror, ris; pauor, -ris; omnia masculi generis et tercie declinacionis: fformido, -is; femini generis et 3 de[clinationis]. [4] A-batement, or withdrawyng of mete or mesure, or o[th]er thyng: Subtraccio, -is; defalcacio, -is; omnia feminini generis, tercie declinacionis. [5] Abbey: Abbathia, -e; Abbatia, secundum ‘catholicon’; omnia feminini generis, prime declinacionis (1908 repr.: 3–4).

The headword is given in English and is followed by the Latin translation. Grammatical information is added. Occasionally the source is mentioned. Most important, the headword is either given as one lexeme (as in 3 and 5), or is accompanied by a second synonymous lexeme, either from the same stem (as in 1) or from another stem (as in 2) or as an explanatory phrase (as in 4).20 Likewise, the Latin translation is given as one lexeme (as in 1 and 5), or accompanied by a second synonymous lexeme, either from the same stem (as in 2) or from another stem (as in 3 and 4). Spelling variants in the 20

These three types of headwords are found in all the dictionaries to be discussed.

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headword (as in 5) are quite frequent, but only in the English part of the entry. What we do not find in the first five entries but occurs frequently in the dictionary are short encyclopaedic comments (like ‘A-corn, frwte of [th]e oke’ or ‘Adam, propyr name’) as a special case of a second lexeme. Moreover, more than one synonymous lexeme may be added to the headword (like ‘A-rester, or a-teacher, or a cacherel, or a cachpolle’). Sometimes antonyms are supplied (like ‘Absent, not present, or away, not here’). All these peculiarities are also to be found in the translations (for example, several lexemes’ like ‘Timidus, -a, -um; Pauidus, -a, -um: fformidolosus, -a, -um’). Naturally, there are no encyclopaedic comments in Latin, because they would be the same as in the English part of the entry.21 The occurrence of synonyms makes it difficult to estimate the number of words which appear in the dictionary on both sides of the entries. Starnes (1954: 10) maintains that in the Promptorium more emphasis is placed upon the Latin: ‘there are, on the average, two Latin equivalents for every English entry. The result is a dictionary of some thirty thousand terms.’ However, spot checks do not corroborate this estimate. If we deduct spelling variants and synonyms taken from the same word stem as in the headword, the number of English and Latin words seems to be roughly the same. In this respect, both languages are treated equally. ‘More emphasis upon Latin’ may be found in those entries whose English headwords are either phrases or a group of synonyms, because they seem to have been constructed ad hoc in order to explain one or more Latin lexemes (see below). Note, for example: Old for werynge, as Clothys: vetustus, -ta, -um: Detritus, -ta, -tum. Old sceppe, beeste: Adasia, -ie; fem., prime, vgucio: in agnus: Arua valet vite, set adasia crassa laniste. On-doware, or expownare: Expositor, -ris; Masc., 3: Interpres, -tis; omnis gen., 3. Ondoare, or dystriare: Distructor, -ris: Dissipator, -ris: Confusor, -ris: omnia Masc., 3. Ondoare, or expowndare of thyngis schette, or closyd: Aperitor, -ris; Masc., 3. On-doyng, or destrynge: Discipacio, -is: Distruccio, -is: Confucio, -is; omnia fem., 3. 21

For a rare exception, see the entry Almesse, or elemose.

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On-doynge, or expowndynge: Interpretacio, -nis: Declaracio, -nis; omnia ffem., 3. On-doyng, or onpynnynge schettis or sperellis: Apparicio, -nis; fem., 3.

In all these (and many more) cases, it is difficult to imagine that the English headword was the anchor point of the entry; it looks rather as if these were inverted entries whose anchor points are one or more Latin words. Indeed, we can assume that these early English–Latin dictionaries came into being simply by reversing the arrangement of a Latin–English dictionary. But even if this is so, the entries show that a remarkable amount of attention was paid to synonymy. For the entries mentioned above, a reversal of their English and Latin parts would give the Latin headwords: vetustus, -ta, -um: Detritus, -ta, -tum. Adasia, -ie. Expositor, -ris; Interpres, -tis. Distructor, -ris: Dissipator, -ris: Confusor, -ris. Aperitor, -ris. Discipacio, -is: Distruccio, -is: Confucio, -is. Interpretacio, -nis: Declaracio, -nis. Apparicio, -nis. That is, seven consecutive entries would have five multi-lexematic headwords. The conclusion drawn from these observations is that synonymy was quite a prominent phenomenon in early English–Latin lexicography for teaching and learning the foreign language. 5.1.4.2 Catholicon Anglicum (1483)

[Anonymous] Catholicon Anglicum, an English-Latin Wordbook, dated 1483. Edited, from the ms. no. 168 in the library of Lord Monson, collated with the additional ms. 15,562, British Museum. With Introduction and Notes, by Sidney J. H. Herrtage [. . .] with a Preface by Henry B. Wheatley, Esq., F.S.A. London: Published for the Early English Text Society, by N. Trübner [. . .]. MDCCCLXXXI.

The Catholicon anglicum22 provides us with a rather unexpected confirmation of our conclusion concerning the Promptorium. The 22 For sources, manuscripts, editions, etc. see the introduction to the 1881 edition by Herrtage, Starnes (1954: 19–23), and Stein (1985: 107–20).

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manuscript, whose compiler is unknown, originated in 1483, but remained unprinted until 1881. Like the Promptorium, it lists its sources, among them Balbus, John of Garland, and Hugutio of Pisa. There are about 8,000 entries. English headwords are followed by their Latin translations, to which grammatical information (declensions, gender) is added.23 Articles are preposed to the nouns. The particular feature of the microstructure of entries is the arrangement—not of the headwords but of the translations, with as many synonyms as seems possible. This principle perhaps works best with verbs, but is also successful with other word classes. Note, for example: A-bowte; Circum, circa, circiter, Amphi, grece, peri, grece. Agayns; Aduersus, aduersum, erga, contra, e contra, e conuerso, Anti grece, obuie, obuiam, exopposito, obuius, vnde versus: P Aduersus menti sed contra subde loquenti Sic exopposito iungito rite loco. Alway; Continuus, sempiternus, continue, semper, omnino, incessanter, indies, imperpetuum, eternaliter, eterne, & cetera; vbi aylastynge. An Arrow; pilum, hasta, hastula, hastile, cathapulta, sagitta, saggitela, missile, telum, armido, spiculum, gesa, sarissa, iaculum, & dicitur omne quod iacutur vt vulneret. To Ask; postulare, exposcere suppliciter & submisse, petere, aliquid pro merito, expetere humiliter cum precibus vel creditum, appetere, rogare pecibus, con-, exflagitare, jmprecari mala, precari bona, deflagitare, exigere, contari, per-, jnterogare, querere, jnvestigare, exquirere, queritari, stipulari, con-, flagitare cum clamore & pertinacia, petere, scitari, scicitari, jnterpellare, & cetera; vbi to pray.

These examples (prepositions, adverbs, nouns, and verbs) show the principle of accumulating synonyms. This is not just translation. Rather, the headwords (mainly nouns and verbs) serve as archelexemes for semantic domains. Thus the Catholicon can scarcely be imagined as having originally been a Latin–English work. In particular, the occasional &cetera indicates that more words could have been supplied, which means that what was important was not the aspect of translation but that of word compilation. The rather frequent cross-references, with the help of the Latin ubi, point to

23

The editor has changed the grammatical information in the manuscript.

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adjacent domains which could complement the ones under discussion. Many entries contain explanations which indicate the subtle differences between the synonyms. Frequently, mnemonic verses are given. Stein (1985: 113) calls the principles of word collection and explanation explicit and implicit synonymy. They were taken and used as lexicographical techniques from John of Garland, from whose books many entries were copied verbatim (Starnes 1954: 21). He is certainly the most important source of this dictionary, which could also be called an early book of synonyms in alphabetical order. 5.1.4.3

Huloet (1552)

Abecedarivm Anglicolatinuvm, Pro Tyrunculis Richardo Huloeto Exscriptore. Londini. Ex officina Riddel. Anno. MDLII. Cum priuilegio ad imprimendum solum. Title on reprint: Richard Huloet: Abecedarium Anglico-Latinum 1552 (Menston: Scolar Press, 1970).

Nothing is known about the author,24 except that he was born in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire, and flourished in 1552. He must have been an erudite Humanist: his dictionary contains an estimated 26,000 words (Starnes 1954: 149) and his reference to authors lists 214 names, among them all the luminaries of European Humanism such as Calepinus, Erasmus, and Robert Stephanus (Estienne). Among British authors we find Sir Thomas Elyot (?1490–1546) and Thomas Cooper (?1517–1594). This is an imposing list, even if the reference to predecessors was conventional at the time and served a publicity purpose. Huloet’s dependence on Stephanus, Elyot, and Cooper shows that he knew their works very well. The term ‘Abecedarium’ is another proof of the fact that there was no generic term for dictionary in existence, although the term had been introduced by Sir Thomas Elyot in 1538. It may also have marked its difference from nonalphabetical dictionaries. Probably because of its monumental size, Huloet’s book was less successful than certain others. A second edition appeared only in 1572, corrected and much enlarged by John Higgins. 24

For sources, manuscripts, editions, etc. see Starnes (1954: 147–66) and Stein (1985: 181–93).

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The microstructure of entries is determined by the sequence of English headwords and Latin translations. The headword is either a lexeme or a phrase, the latter indicating that it was taken from a translation in a dictionary in the original sequence of Latin–English. Very frequently, the headword is complemented by or plus one more synonym as in ‘Fowle or byrde’, ‘Hangmans act or office’; occasionally these complementations are extended by more lexemes or phrases. Sometimes we find short (and occasionally quite long) encyclopaedic explanations. The variety of translations is much more surprising than the headwords because of the number of synonyms. Grammatical information is added (declension, gender). The entries with two or more Latin equivalents far outnumber those with one. In a painstaking comparison, Starnes (1954: 149–56) showed that the microstructure of entries was taken from Robert Stephanus’ Dictionaire Francoislatin (second edition 1549) and that the astonishing number of synonyms was mainly taken from the Bibliotheca Eliotae (probably from the edition of 1548) by Elyot and Cooper. Other sources are Isidore of Seville, Calepinus, Erasmus and possibly the English forerunners Promptorium and Catholicon. The question arises of how Huloet could manage to compile some (estimated) 26,000 words in this way, i.e. by alphabetizing them according to English, by reversing the original microstructure, and by extracting the synonyms from various sources. Here is Starnes’s conjecture: [Huloet] first made his English word list, in ABC order, leaving considerable spaces between entries. He then read through the Latin-English Bibliotheca to assemble his materials, placing the collected matter in two groups under each English entry: (1) synonymous Latin words, the definition of each of which in the Bibliotheca contained the English term to be defined, or, in some instances, a close approximation; and (2) English phrases, containing or suggesting the key English word (always put first), with their Latin equivalents. He reverses thus the Latin-English of the Bibliotheca, and makes further rearrangement, if necessary, to get the key word first. (1954: 152)25

This may be a correct conjecture as to the compiler’s method, yet it tends to ignore the amount of work required. The real surprise of Huloet’s dictionary, not mentioned in any secondary treatment so 25 I will not discuss the questions of plagiarism which may be raised by this procedure. It is hard to imagine a dictionary which does not rely to a great extent on the entries of its predecessors.

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far, is the fact that, wherever possible, quite a number of entries pertaining to the same lexeme follow each other and form distinct groups. There are, for example, 56 entries in sequence pertaining to ffoure (four), of which only the first one stands by itself, all the others having various extensions as noun phrases and verb phrases. A randomly chosen page (Tiv) contains in its two columns 24 entries for look, six entries for lomp, and 36 entries for long. These groups of entries are structured according to grammatical categories, i.e. according to word classes and certain extensions. The lexeme mock,26 which will serve as a test case, appears in 13 entries, as (i) noun, (ii) verb, (iii) verb phrase (verb ⫹ adverb), (iv–vi) verb in idiomatized meanings, (vii) adjective/participle derived from the verb, (viii) nomen agentis derived from the verb, (ix–x) noun derived from the verb, (xi–xii) nominal compound, and (xiii) adverb. This is a well-thought-out sequence. The lexemes are: (i) mocke, (ii) mocke, (iii) mocke couertly, or hange an olde offence on a mans nose, (iv–vi) mocke or deceaue; mocke or tryfle; mocke wyth the mouthe by mowynge, (vii) mocked, (viii) mocker, (ix–x) mockynge, mockynge or mouinge wyth lyppes or mouth, (xi–xii) mockynge stecke, mockynge stocke, and (xiii) mockyngely. The 13 entries contain a total of 37 synonymous Latin equivalents, namely: (i) cauilla, vel cauillum; derisus; ludibrium; obrisio; ridiculum; sannia; suggilatio, (ii) agario; cauillo; deludo; derideo; aedere ludibrium; facere ludos; illudo; ludo; obrideo; rideo; subsannio; suggillo, (iii) naso suspendere, (iv–vi) os subliuire; agere ungas; os distorquere, uel ducere, (vii) derisus; illusus; subsannatus; suggillatus, (viii) calophanta; derisor; ironicus; nasutus; plauus; subsannator; suggillator, (ix–x) ironia; subsannatio; valgulatio, (xi–xii) ludibrium; ridiculum; ridiculus, ridiculosus, (xiii) ironice, nasute, ridicule, ridiculose. If we count all prefixed and suffixed lexemes as variant tokens of one type (e.g. ridiculum, ridere, derisus, derisor as one) there are still 24 Latin lexemes remaining which have a translating function. If we look up the entries of these Latin lexemes in a contemporary reference work,27 we find the following English equivalents, 26 Spelled mock or mocke. I shall reproduce exactly the spelling variants of this and other lexemes, though without the original capitalization. 27 For example The Dictionary of syr Thomas Elyot knight. Londini in aedibus Thomas Bertheleti typis impress. Cum priuilegio ad imprimendum solum. Colophon: [. . .] Anno. M.D.XXXVIII.

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besides mocke: (i) ieste, laugh, scorne, (ii) bourde, play, deceive, hurt in iapyng, detracte, infame, reprone, condempne, (iii) (mocke) couertly, craftily, (iv–vi) trifle, fable, mowe, (vii)—, (viii) juggler, (ix–x) bendynge the browes, snyffynge vp the nose, rebuke, (xi–xii)—, (xiii) scoffyngly, wyttyly, tauntyngely, folyshly. There are 24 lexemes, with every token (including prefixed and suffixed forms) counted only once. This means that 13 entries concerning mocke in various word classes and a few phrasal expansions are equated with 37 (reduced to 24) Latin synonyms which are themselves equated with 24 English synonyms in some fifty occurrences.28 This means that choosing one lexeme, the first step in making the English word list (see above), meant dealing with and moving around some 61 (reduced to 48) Latin and English lexemes. The number would mushroom if entries for the English synonyms were counterchecked. These figures are, of course, the result of investigations into just two dictionaries, Huloet’s and Elyot’s. None the less, these investigations make visible the thought processes of the compiler— so far as this is possible. Huloet juxtaposed all the Latin synonyms to each other, and the English equivalents of Elyot’s dictionary tell us why he thought he could do this. He did not explain the synonymous relations; he thought them self-evident or a task for the learners who would use his work (Stein 1985: 184). For him, translation in his bilingual dictionary—for example, translation of the one lexeme mock—meant opening up whole vistas of synonyms, a true Pandora’s box. 5.1.4.4

Pelegromius (1572)

Synonymorum Sylva olim a Simone Pelegromio collecta, & alphabetico flandrico ab eodem Authore illustrata: nunc autem e Belgarum sermone in Anglicanum transfusa, & in Alphabeticum ordinem redacta per H.F. [. . .]. 1572. Reprint: Thomas Elyot: Dictionary 1538 (Menston: Scolar Press, 1970). The following comparison is an attempt to reconstruct mental processes during the compilation of the dictionary, as far as this is possible. So it is unimportant whether Huloet actually used Elyot’s dictionary or some other. 28

The number cannot be given more precisely, because there are some rather extended definitions among the English synonyms, e.g. those pertaining to suggilatio, nasutus, and in particular ironia. There is no reasonable way of counting them.

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In its original Dutch–Latin version,29 this work appeared in 1537. Its success in the Flemish-speaking region must have led to the English–Latin version, which, again, became very popular. By 1663, fifteen editions had appeared. Its compiler Simon Pelegrom(ius) (1507?–?) was a Humanist, of whom nothing more is known except that he was provincial of some unknown order. The translator of the Dutch part into English remains unidentified. Given its popularity, it is not quite clear why Starnes (1954: 355) calls the book ‘an adjunct to the dictionaries proper’. Nor do its general features warrant this judgement. The dictionary is organized in very much the same way as others which are devoted to listing synonyms. It deviates from them in that the Latin equivalents clearly preponderate over the English headwords. As in other dictionaries, the English headwords consist of single lexemes, lexemes plus an explanation, and lexemes plus one or more English synonyms. Reminiscent of Huloet’s Abecedarium is the fact that some entries are grouped according to morphological and idiomatic aspects. The entry ‘a Babler, a Pratler, a Chatterer, A Iangler’, for example, is followed by the entries ‘to Bable, vide to speake foolishly’ and ‘Babling [. . .]’;30 the entry ‘to Bancket, or to make great feastes’ by ‘Bancketing dishes’ and ‘a tippling Banckett an Ale feast. A sumptuous Bancket, a Plentous table’. However, this technique is far less obtrusive than in Huloet’s book. Indicative of the preponderance of Latin (and Greek) synonyms is the fact that babbler is juxtaposed with as many as 38 Latin lexemes, phrases, and sentences, and an additional reference to the entry tell tale. The Latin expressions are not, of course, equivalents in the true sense of the word: they are translations and extensions of these translations into further shades of meaning, idiomatic phrases, proverbs, etc. Again, the entry tippling banquet has 38 translations and extensions (Stein 1985: 306–11). The books of Huloet and Pelegromius have in common that they are true dictionaries for encoding—they enrich the learner’s knowledge of lexis in a general way. They collect Latin words belonging to one domain of meaning (see below). In spite of these similarities 29 30

For sources and editions see Starnes (1954: 355–6) and Stein (1985: 296–311). See below. This entry is treated as an example in the introduction Ad lectorem.

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to other dictionaries of the time, Simon Pelegromius’ book has its own special feature, namely a ten-page introduction Ad lectorem, written by Iohannis Serranus (1540–98), in which a general theory of synonymy is put forward. It is the first attempt at defining the term in a practical, lexicographical context. The fact that this introduction is largely taken from Erasmus’ dialogue De copia31 is no disadvantage. Together with the translated dictionary itself, it shows the influence in Britain of the most eminent of Humanists. The practice of synonymizing is now underpinned with theoretical deliberations on its linguistic nature. The following is an overview of these reflections by way of a rough (not necessarily idiomatic) translation of selected paragraphs of this introduction:32 This, however, is the concept of synonyms or of variation by synonymy, [which] can, first of all, be derived from the tradition of dialectics. For dialectics has, above and before everything else, the effect of teaching us [how] to speak about things properly, with certitude, cleverly, truly, and infallibly (certò, appositè, verè, ac infallibiliter). This is why it gives us rules so we can state the essence or existence or subsistence, genus, species, properties, conditions, accidents, quantities, qualities, relations, actions, passions, times, places, surroundings, habits, dispositions, forms and figures, cognates, affinities, parts, similitudes, contrasts, causes, functions, and effects of everything, as the doctors of dialectics teach [them]. From the variety of these conditions, properties, accidents, and causes a multitude and diversity of things to be named and described is born. First, children receive names after the family (à genere) as after the father and grandfather, like Agamemnon after his father, Atride, Hector, Priamide, Achilles, Aecide. And the Romans are called Dardani after Dardanus, Aeneadiae after Aeneas, Romani after Romulus. Then a general name comes into existence from the species: often we call humans animal, and speak of justice as a virtue, and call him pious who is full of Christian virtue and belief. Second, and different [from this] we choose [other] names: that is called [vegetative] soul (anima) which lives [organically] (vegetat), spirit (spiritus) which contemplates (contemplatur), sense (sensus) which has sensations (sentit), soul (animus) which has knowledge (sapit), mind (mens) which understands (intelligit), ratio (ratio) which discerns

31 32

See Ch. 4.5. For the original see Stein (1985: 303–6).

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(discernit), memory (memoria) which remembers (recordatur), will (voluntas) which wills (vult). They have the same substance. They differ [only] in the conditions of their qualities. There are also differences in the ways of weeping: to weep ( flere) is to mourn with tears (lachrymis plangere) and is proper to man. To sob (lachrymare sive lachrymari) is to shed tears and happens without a sound [advites]. To mourn (lugere) is to mourn with an outpouring of tears (valde flere) and happens in bereavement and connected customs because of the death of a loved and important person. To wail (gemere) is if somebody presses sounds out of an anxious breast. To lament (plangere) is to hurt oneself by beating and knocking the breast, the head, the face, and other parts of the body. To moan ( plorare) is to perform one’s affliction with a whining and pitched voice. And the [following] are species—species of the soul (anima) are: spirit, sense, soul (animus), mind, ratio, memory, will; species of weeping are: weeping, mourning, wailing, lamenting, moaning. Species of good odours are: savor (sapor), fragrance (acor), perfume (nidor). Of bad ones: stink ( faetor), stench ( paedor), rot ( putor), rancid smell (rancor), squalor (squalor), smell of sputum (sordes), rotten smell (situs). And we use all these words of species without [any] differentiation ( primiscue). Furthermore, there [are] also name[s] from the properties of things, so man [is] often [called] according to his way of speaking: the speaker (loquacem), also the talkative one (locutuleium), and also the witty (didacem), and also the prattler (blateronem), twaddler (blateratorem) and also the silly talker (nugonem) [and] scatterbrain (nugatorem). And according [to his way of] eating: the glutton (edacem), connoisseur (hedonem); of drinking: carouser (bibacem), the thirsty one (bibulum), the one addicted to drink (bibonem), the inebriate (bibosum), the bibulous (bibaculum). In a similar way, differing and various names are often chosen, as John is called Baptist, Luke, Evangelist and also medical doctor. Paulus [is called] Apostle. And Julius has been called tribunus, quaestor, aedilis, pontifex maximus, praetor, consulis, caesar, and imperator, according of course to the offices which he held consecutively. There are as many, [i.e.] countless, names as positions and offices.

Obviously, Ioannis Serranus carried over Erasmus’33 reflections into English lexicography: his deliberations reappear in the entries. They

33 Erasmus himself is mentioned in a later paragraph. In his influential In duplici copia verborum commentarii duo (1512), Erasmus discussed the tradition, the linguistic means, and the value of the so-called ‘abundant style’. The technical terms Erasmus uses come more from the rhetorical than from the philosophical tradition, unlike Serranus’ text. But among the linguistic means of this style are synonyms. See Ch. 4.5.

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are, in fact, more a general theory of semantic conceptualization than a theory of synonyms. A rather sophisticated list of (Aristotelian) categories is used as a logical format according to which word meanings are constructed. This conveys a vague idea of a general system according to which the vocabulary of a language could be ordered. Most convincing in this respect are perhaps word meanings which follow the genus–species schema. In many other cases, the present-day term of metonymy (origin for thing, place for thing, property for thing, etc.) would suffice as an explanation. But then the author is obviously impressed by what would today be called semantic fields—i.e. sets of words which belong to one semantic domain and are differentiated by minimal contrasts (weeping, odours, etc.). They are indeed synonyms proper, although an attempt is made to systematize them by analogy to the genus–species schema. Summing up these two aspects, we could call the text a treatise on semantics which includes synonymy. The real point of interest, however, is not denotation, i.e. the relation between name and thing itself, but the ambiguity of denotation, the fact that there are always various names for one and the same thing. As a text which was added to a dictionary of English–Latin synonyms, it expresses a rather sophisticated opinion on the problem of encoding into a foreign language: the difficulty is not finding the one word available for denoting the one thing; the difficulty is selecting among the many words which are available for denoting the one thing. In subsequent paragraphs, Ioannis Serranus reflects further on the different ideas followed by the grammaticus, dialecticus, and rhetor respectively. This raises to an even more complex level the postulates drawn for the learner and dictionary user from the ideas on semantics and synonymy: Ita, candide lector, vides vnde fiat, & quib. ex fontib. proueniat, quod saepe vni rei plures appellationes adscribantur, & quod de vna eademque re plurifariam ac diuersis modis loqui soleamus, ita tamen, vt semper eandem & nullam aliam rem intelligamus [. . .]. So you see, dear reader, how it works and from which sources it originates that identical things are often ascribed many names, and that, although we are used to speaking about one and the same thing in many and differing modes, we nevertheless always understand the same and no other meaning (after Stein 1985: 305).

The Beginnings of Practical Synonymy 5.1.5

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English–English dictionaries

The appearance of the monolingual interpretative English dictionary in the seventeenth century marks a breakthrough in this kind of lexicography, which expanded enormously in the following centuries and is regarded by many as the prototype of today’s dictionaries. The fact that it began as a hard-word dictionary34 is specific to the historical development of English lexicography. It presupposed (i) the development of the English language, mentioned above, which made that language become strange and unintelligible to many native speakers, in particular those who did not know any Latin; (ii) the development of a lexicographical technique in English–Latin (and other) dictionaries, also mentioned above, which used synonymizing as one of the most salient methods of explanation—thus, hard-word dictionaries were, in a covert way, bilingual; and (iii) a general demand by native speakers to be taught in those parts of their indigenous language which had become somewhat foreign to them. This general demand grew with the rise of Elizabethan culture and its by then respected class of sailors, merchants, and artisans, and the wives of the established gentry (Green 1997: 147). They all aspired to a higher class but chose not to work their way up through the universities and the Church. The linguistic background of their aspirations was the emancipation of European vernaculars from Latin, the ‘Triumph of the English Language’ (Jones 1953), which made possible the writing of English grammars, beginning with William Bullokar’s Bref Grammar for English (1586). 5.1.5.1

From Bullokar (1586) to Coote (1596)

The peculiarities of the age meant that hard-word dictionaries were a didactic rather than a linguistic project. That project was ushered in by three schoolmasters. William Bullokar (fl. 1586) promised to compile one, but never got round to it. His merits lie in his phonetic and orthographical work on teaching the native tongue. Richard Mulcaster (1530?–1611) appended ‘The Generall Table’, i.e. a list of 8,000 hard words, to The First Part of the Elemetarie (1582; 34 The term ‘hard word’ was used in this special sense for the first time in John Baret’s An Alveary or Triple Dictionary, In Englysshe, Latin And French (1573), which marked the beginning of English language multilingual dictionaries.

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Alston 1974: vi, no. 462), but did not provide any meanings. His intention was to give readers an additional, quasi-independent, proof of the rules he had formulated in his book, which were aimed at stabilizing the pronunciation and spelling of words according to ‘general rule’ (i.e. pronunciation of letters), ‘proportion’ (i.e. pronunciation of syllables), ‘enfranchisement’ (i.e. anglicization), ‘composition’, ‘derivation’, ‘distinction’ (i.e. quantity of syllables), and ‘custom’ or ‘prerogative’. The list itself contained indigenous as well as hard words and, on close inspection, turns out to be a compilation from dictionaries by Levins (1570), Huloet (1572), and Baret (1573) (Polifke 1999: 303–18, 319–32, esp. 326). ‘These words were doubtless useful, but Mulcaster’s long-term influence was in his stressing of the intrinsic worth of English as English and his demands that it should be used more widely’ (Green 1997: 120). Finally, Edmund Coote (fl. 1596) included a first attempt at an English hard-word dictionary in his highly successful The English Schoolemaister, Teaching all his Scholars, of what age soeuer, the most easie, short, and perfect order of distinct reading, and true writing our English tongue [. . .] (1596; Alston 1974: iv, nos. 13–46). No more is known of the author than that he was a teacher and headmaster at Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, in 1596 and 1597. The book contains an English grammar, a catechism, a chronology of Biblical events, prayers—and a list of 1,500 hard words, most of which are semanticized by one synonym. According to the title, this list is ‘a direct course, how any vnskilfull person may easily both vnderstand and [use35] any hard english words’. This sentence would reappear in proper hard-word dictionaries time and time again. Edmund Coote prefaced his book, which was very successful,36 with an essay, ‘The Schoole-maister his profession’, consisting of fourteen statements of which nine (1–7, 9, 12) deal with speaking, reading, and writing. The intended audience of his didactic activities were boys preparing for grammar school, teachers who had to be taught how to teach there, many that ‘neuer otherwise would haue learned’ how to read, the poor, who could not buy any other books, 35 The word is missing but can be assumed because of the remainder of the title, which speaks of being able ‘to vse the same aptly’. 36 Alston (1974: iv, nos. 13–46) lists as many as 33 editions between 1596 and 1737. The last one is characterized as ‘Four and fiftieth time imprinted’.

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and foreigners who found the English language difficult to learn. This is a comprehensive programme which shows how urgent Coote considered the problem to be. ‘The Preface for direction to the Reader’ throws an interesting light on the development and the problems of schools in Coote’s time: I am now therefore to direct my speech vnto the vnskilfull, which desire to make vse of it for their own priuate benefit: And vnto such men and women of trades (as Taylors, Weauers, Shop keepers, Seamsters, and such other) as haue vndertaken the charge of teaching others. (A3r)

The linguistic chapters of the book are mainly concerned with the skills of reading and writing, i.e. the identification of letters, syllables, etc. The microstructure of the list is very simple. Most hard English words are complemented with a plain one explaining it. Where this is missing, the hard word is mentioned only in order to stabilize its spelling. Sometimes the explaining word is expanded into a phrase. Typical of the list are the following five consecutive entries: application appose apposition approbation approue 5.1.5.2

applying to ask question apposing allowance allow

Cawdrey (1604)

The first hard-word dictionary proper is: [Robert Cawdrey] A Table Alphabeticall, conteyning and teaching the true writing, and vnderstanding of hard vsuall English wordes, borrowed from the Hebrew, Greeke, Latin, or French. &c. With the interpretation thereof by plaine English words, gathered for the benefit & helpe of Ladies, Gentlewomen, or any other vnskilfull persons. Whereby they may the more easilie and better vnderstand many hard English wordes, vvhich they shall heare or read in Scriptures, Sermons, or elswhere, and also be made able tu vse the same aptly themselues. At London, Printed by I.R. for Edmund Weauer, & are to be sold at his shop at the great North doore of Paules Church. 1604. The name of the author appears under the epistle dedicatory.

As with Coote, we know of the compiler only that he was a schoolteacher. His book went through three more editions (1609, 1613, and 1617; Alston 1974: v, nos. 1–4). In the title as well as in the dedication and the address ‘To the Reader’ there is not a single

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thought which could not be found in Coote and earlier authors. A paragraph of John Wilson’s Arte of Rhetorique (1560, see above) is incorporated into the address to readers, although this was not yet available in a printed edition at the time. There are, moreover, prescriptions on how to use the word list taken verbatim from Coote’s book. Cawdrey compiled some 2,500 entries. Starnes and Noyes showed convincingly that Cawdrey absorbs 87 per cent of Coote’s word list and that this amount from Coote constitutes 40 per cent of the total in Cawdrey’s Table. Of this 40 per cent, half the number of definitions are also from Coote; the other half are from Coote, generously supplemented by words and phrases from Thomas [i.e. Dictionarium Linguae Latinae et Anglicanae, orig. 1587]. The analysis shows further that 43 per cent of Cawdrey’s word list together with the definitions derives from Thomas. [. . .] It should be added that Cawdrey takes 17 to 18 per cent of his word list and definitions from sources other than Coote and Thomas (1991: 18).

And yet this unoriginal achievement is a milestone in English lexicography (Green 1997: 149–50). The question arises as to whether Robert Cawdrey planned to do anything other than publish a modest schoolmaster’s tool for what had been in the air for a long time, namely the teaching of hard words, with the help of a generally acknowledged method, namely synonyms. The rather modest title, ‘A Table Alphabeticall’, may also be indicative of this limited intention. Cawdrey’s historical innovation would, then, be of a didactic rather than a lexicographical nature. Stimulated by Edmund Coote’s list, he must have found that it was helpful for everybody, and in particular for teachers, to have bound in a separate book what was otherwise to be found integrated into such contexts as Coote’s manual. The following five consecutive entries give an impression of Cawdrey’s entries, in particular of their expanded explanations as compared to Coote: affable readie, and curteous in speech, gracious in words affaires busines affect to deserve earnestly, or to mind affected disposed, inclined affinitie kinne by marriage

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In spite of his possibly quite modest aims, Robert Cawdrey became the founder-compiler of a type of dictionary which continued to appear on the market in the following seven decades. Further examples were Bullokar (1616), Cockeram (1623), Blount (1656), Phillips (⫽ E. P. 1658), and Coles (1676). Judged from the standpoint of present-day lexicography, these monolingual and interpretative dictionaries had some serious limitations: (i) they addressed a limited group of native speakers (those who aspired to linguistic education outside the Latin tradition of the grammar schools and universities); (ii) they contained a limited corpus of words (those that had been accepted and anglicized from foreign sources during the preceding century); and (iii) they used a restricted method of explanation (the glossing of a new word by a familiar one, with only tentative expansions into several synonyms and phrases). The above-mentioned group of lexicographers had in common that they mentioned these limitations in titles or commentary and observed them in practice, but also that they went beyond these boundaries at the same time, if only in small steps, in the direction of dictionaries which (i) addressed more native speakers and those foreigners who wanted to learn the language, (ii) subjected more and more items of English lexis to their analyses, and (iii) expanded the methods of explanation. Thus, at the end of these seventy years, the threshold of the general, unilingual, and interpretative English dictionary was reached, and the long controversy about the acceptability of hard words had by then been overtaken by practice. 5.1.5.3

From Bullokar (1616) to Coles (1676)

Hard-word dictionaries are not simply published one after the other. They form a network of imitations of and dependencies on each other and on other branches of lexicography (such as Latin–English dictionaries), of innovation, plagiarism, and public influence which it is sometimes difficult to disentangle. The merits of their compilers in terms of lexicographical theory and practice vary enormously. Starnes and Noyes’s norm-establishing analyses (orig 1946) and more modern treatments (e.g. Hayashi 1978; Green 1997; also Baugh and Cable 2002: 232) have dealt with these aspects in great detail. Our concern is only to understand the hard-word dictionary as the culture-specific entry to and nucleus of

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the modern monolingual interpretative dictionary, and in this respect also as a precursor of Roget’s Thesaurus. John Bullokar, who called his book An English Expositor: Teaching The Interpretation of the hardest words vsed in our Language (1616; Alston 1974: v, nos. 5–29) already extends in the address ‘To the Courteous Reader’37 the target vocabulary to such words as come from ‘forraine vulgar Languages round about vs’ to ‘sundry olde wordes now growne out of vse’, and, most important, to ‘diuers termes of arte proper to the learned in Logicke, Philosophy, Law, Physicke38, Astronomie &ct.’ The extension to various academic and scientific domains was a natural step to take, because their terms already consisted mainly of Latinate words anyway. It became standard in later works, and entailed that the intended audience included specialists as well as laymen. In the same address, John Bullokar apologized for ‘open[ing] the signification of such words, to the capacitie of the ignorant’. Obviously, he expected the academicians and scientists who were not in need of translations to read his dictionary, just as uneducated people were supposed to do. He was very successful in this, as the 25 editions of his dictionary between 1616 and 1775 demonstrate. In the title, Bullokar also announced ‘Svndrie Explications, Descriptions, and Discourses’. Indeed, his entries now contain extended encyclopaedic explanations in addition to the usual synonymous complements. Note these five consecutive entries: Addict To apply, or giue ones selfe much to any thing Additamunt Any thing added Addition An adding or putting to. In our commo[n] law it signifieth any title giuen to a man beside his name which title sheweth his estate, trade, course of life, and also dwelling place Adhere To cleaue to Adherence A cleauing to, or belonging to any thing

Henry Cockeram used the quite general, and rather ambitious, title The English Dictionarie and then added: Interpreter of Hard English Words (1623). His book was almost as successful as Bullokar’s, with twenty-three editions between 1623 and 1670. (Alston 1974: v, nos. 30–44). It is for the benefit not only of the 37 38

All quotations from the reprint (1967). On the title page, the author identifies himself as ‘doctor of physicke’, i.e. medicine.

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usual uneducated persons, but also of ‘Schollers’ and ‘Clarkes’, i.e. of educated people, and, moreover, for ‘Strangers of any Nation’. As explained in ‘A Premonition from the Author to the Reader’,39 the ‘choicest words’ are given their ‘common sense’ (bk. I), but there are also ‘vulgar words’ for those ‘desirous of a more curious explanation by a more refined and elegant speech’ (bk. II). This is a new feature, which reversed the standard microstructure of entries. More important, the hard words mentioned in the title are no longer regarded as exceptional or something to be regretted and avoided. Instead, the two lexical strata of English are regarded as natural to the language and the reason why it is so ‘copious’. In order to enhance the ‘generall Vse of this worke’ a nomenclator with the names of gods and goddesses, birds and beasts, rivers, etc. is added (bk. III). As a rule, these names defy explanation by synonyms, as all proper names do, and need descriptive or logical explanations. Entries in books I and II are mostly confined to one or two synonyms (more strictly than, for example, in Bullokar), whereas entries in book III are descriptive and quite elaborate. Note these five consecutive entries from each of books I and II: Abrogate To take away, to abolish, to disannul, to repeale Abrupt Broken off Abruptly By piecemeal, out of order, without obseruing of due circumstance Absolue To pardon, acquite, or discharge Absolution Pardon, forgiuenesse, discharge to Allow Approbate Allowance Approbation Allowed by all Authentick, Authenticall Almighty Omnipotent one giuing Almes Eleemosinary

In the title of Glossographia: Or A Dictionary Interpreting all such Hard Words [. . .] (1656), Thomas Blount names nine languages from which the hard words are taken and also nine academic disciplines plus ‘several other Arts and Sciences’40 as significant domains. A rather lengthy introduction ‘To The Reader’ also mentions new words from the ‘mouth of Common people’, from 39 40

All quotations from the reprint (1970). All quotations are taken from the reprint (1969).

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cooks, vintners, tailors, shoemakers, and haberdashers. Terms of art come not only from the traditional disciplines (logic, music, arithmetic, etc.) but also from the law and heraldry, and moreover from ‘exercises’ like printing, painting, jewelling, riding, hunting, and hawking. ‘Hard words’ are obviously now the same as ‘new words’, and people who need a semantic explanation are therefore not the typical ‘unskilfull persons’ mentioned in earlier works, but everyone in those areas of life where he or she happens not to be an expert. This prefigures the much later (and present-day) concept of linguistic registers. Thomas Blount speaks of ‘this new world of words’ (a phrase which anticipates the title of the next dictionary to come) to which his dictionary is dedicated. This world embraces most of the changes in the English language during the recent past. He quotes relevant authors (Lord Bacon, Sir Henry Wotton, authors in the new sciences, the lexicographer Howell, and others) who used the new words, though it is not certain whether he really perused their works and culled his headwords from them. He also quotes other contemporary dictionaries (Rider 1589; Florio 1598; Minsheu 1599, 1617; Cotgrave 1611; and others) and claims to have ‘extracted the[ir] quintessence’. All of this means that the compiler of this work has, in fact, moved away from the original hard-word concept and its limitations. For Blount, unintelligibility of words is no longer the result of some extraordinary development, but of normal linguistic change and the equally normal diversification of any language into registers. Interestingly, Blount turns the address to readers on its head and speaks of ‘the more-knowing Women, and less-knowing Men’. One innovation, already mentioned in the title, is the addition of etymologies. Although this is a genuine innovation, Blount delivers less than he promises. He quotes only the original (Latin, French, etc.) word from which the new English lexeme derived. Otherwise, his explanations regularly consist of several synonyms with occasional descriptive explanations, as can be seen from the following five consecutive entries: Infaustous Infausting (from infaustus) unlucky, unfortunate, dismal (Bacon) Inferial (inferialis) belonging to Funeral Obsequies Infirmery or Infirmary (Fr. Enfirmerie) an Hospital, or Spittal for sick or maimed people, also a Cloister or Friary (Bacon) Infernal (infernalis) belonging to Hell, low, neather-most

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Blount’s Glossographia went through five editions between 1656 and 1681 (Alston 1974: v, nos. 45–52). Only two years after Blount, Edmund Phillips’s The New World of Words (E. P. 1658) appeared. It went through as many as ten editions between 1658 and 1720 (Alston 1974: v, nos. 53–62). The sixth (1706) was revised and much enlarged by John Kersey (see below). The very elaborate title page announces the whole programme of the dictionary without mentioning the term hard word at all. The book is characterized as ‘[A] General English Dictionary. Containing the proper Significations, and Etymologies of all words derived from other languages’ of which eleven are named as ‘useful for the Adornment of our English Tongue’.41 Terms of the arts, sciences, and crafts are taken from no fewer than 38 named domains. An appendix of proper nouns is advertised, pertaining to mythology, history, geography but ‘not omitting all other Subjects that are useful’. Some 11,000 (in later editions 13,000) entries are needed to realize this comprehensive enterprise. (The revision of Phillips’s dictionary by John Kersey (1706) ran to 38,000 entries.) In distinction to all the preceding works of the hard-word tradition, Edward Phillips prefaced his dictionary with a detailed nine-page survey in small print on the history of the English language in relation to the others which contributed to its lexis. His historical deductions start from Babel, the Roman Empire, and the Saxon settlement of Britain. The nature of indigenous and newly received words is discussed: ‘almost all the chief material words, and those which are oftenest used in the most familiar, and vulgar, discourse, are all, either meer Dutch, or palpably derived from Dutch.’42 Tactically speaking, the author does not take sides in the inkhorne controversy: ‘Whether this innovation of words, deprave, or enrich our English Tongue, is a consideration that admits of various censures, according to the different fancies of men.’ But then his own ‘fancies’ become quite clear, albeit judicious: ‘in fine, let a man compare the best English now written, with that which was written three or four Ages ago, and if he be not a doter upon Antiquity, he will judge ours much more smooth, and greateful to the ear.’ Long lists of words from other languages are given, including their anglicized endings. 41 42

Note the attitude towards the ynkhorne controversy expressed in this title. Note that Dutch here means ‘deutsch’, i.e. German(ic).

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Here the term hard word is used time and time again. The whole essay presents itself as a scientific underpinning of the dictionary, something which no lexicographer had done so far: Thus I have, in as brief a Method as I could devise, run through the whole Oeconomy of our forrain words, and have ranged them all into their several orders and distinctions; so that there is scarce any word but may be reduced to one or other of them, for I thought it in vain to Publish to the world a Dictionary of hard Terms, if I did not withal lead men the way to the right use of it, that they might inform themselves distinctly, and not sit down contented with a confused notion of things. (‘The Preface’, b, unpaginated)

The entries are organized according to the now-established pattern. Hard-word headwords are followed either by one or more synonyms or by descriptive explanations which move in the direction of definitions. As the number of technical terms from all kinds of special domains is considerably increased, the number of elaborate explanations also increases, as is shown in the following five consecutive entries: Bale (French) a pack of Merchants wares; also old word [for] sorrow, also to Bale, in Navigation, is to lade water out of the Ships hold with Cans, Buckets or the like. Baleares two Islands upon the Coast of Spain, and belonging to that Crown, the bigger whereof is called Majorca, the lesser Minorca. Baleful sorrowful, woful Balk (from the Italian Valicare to pass over) a ridge between two furrows; by which the Plowmen pass over, hence to Balk, to pass by anyone without taking notice of him Balkes great pieces of Timber coming from beyond the Seas, by Floats

Phillips’s is the only dictionary which also gives a list of ‘affected words from the Latin or Greek, as are either to be used warily, and upon occasion only’. Note these five consecutive entries under D: Dedentition (Lat.) a shedding of Teeth Digamie (Greek) a having been twice married Dirutor (Lat.) a thrower down, a destroyer Divagation (Lat.) a wandring to and fro Dival (Lat.) divine

These are truly examples of literary or even extravagant language. But there are also lexemes like bibliography, cacophony, evangelize, hagiography, and inimical in this list, which are still used today, if only in specialized contexts.

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With 25,000 words, the last of the hard-word dictionaries is the most comprehensive. Its compiler, Elisha Coles (1640?–1680), had a career in teaching. For the foreigners to whom he taught English he published The Compleat English schoolmaster (1674) and for his Latin students, besides Latin textbooks, A Dictionary, English-Latin and Latin-English (1677). Obviously, he supported his own practice with the production of teaching tools, one of which may also have been An English Dictionary (1676). Twelve editions appeared between 1676 and 1732 (Alston 1974: v, nos. 63–74). As in the case of Cockeram, the rather ambitious general designation of his work had a subtitle with the statement that ‘difficult Terms’ and ‘Many Thousands of Hard Words’43 were being explained. His preface ‘To The Reader’ briefly endorses the so-called climate theory, according to which the ‘moderate Clime of England’ mediates between the boisterousness of German and the lightness of French, forging an ideal language out of these two. There is heavy criticism of the preceding compilers of hard-word dictionaries whose mistakes he has corrected. The new element of this dictionary is the listing and marking of dialect words and of cant expressions. They constitute a new kind of word which has to be explained for the common speaker, in addition to terms of arts and crafts and hard words proper, and therefore point the way toward a general interpretative dictionary. Hard words are now one group among several. Although Cole’s dictionary outnumbers all the others in its entries, it appears restricted in other aspects. Compared to Phillips’s work, for example, the number of foreign languages and of scientific and other special domains is drastically reduced. This applies even more to the structure of the entries. The trend toward increasing quantity of descriptive and encyclopaedic material is reversed in favour of the older technique of semanticizing one lexeme by a small number of other lexemes. The entry articles are shorter and concentrate more on linguistic than on content aspects. Typical are the following five consecutive entries: Bagates toy, trifle Baggath disdaineth Bagginly, -ingly swelling, proudly

43

All quotations from the reprint (1971).

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Bajazet a Turkish Emperor Bail surety for one’s appearance

The years between 1596 (Coote) and 1676 (Coles) are marked by a steady increase in the various elements which constitute the hardword dictionary. The number of entries grew from 2,500 to 25,000 due to more and more areas of lexis being incorporated. At first it was Latinate (and Greek) English words, then words from many other languages were added. Very early, interest expanded from the domains of general and common communication to that of the special topics in sciences and crafts. Old and ‘obsolete’ words were numbered among the hard words; then proper names from mythology, geography, etc. were added; and finally, dialect words and cant were included. The methods of explanation started with synonymizing and then included descriptive and encyclopaedic information. Etymologies were added, though without giving them a clear function. Obviously, they were thought to contribute to the understanding of hard words. This was not a linear progression. There was meaningful development insofar as every compiler tried to surpass his predecessors in one way or another. Rather, it was a process of trial and error. Explaining common words by hard ones, for example, was introduced in only one case (Cockeram). The massive introduction of explanatory material (Phillips) was drastically reduced. The whole process looks like a tentative enrichment programme which, however, was kept strictly within certain bounds. These were (i) the limitation of the various corpora of words to those which were thought to be unintelligible to the common man and woman, and (ii) the limitation of the audience to precisely this group. Even where scholars were included as potential readers, the focus was solely on the younger ones, i.e. the group between the common speaker and the expert. We can regard the seventeenth century as a time in which the various tools and possibilities of monolingual lexicography were tried out. This is even true of etymology, though that really gained ground only in the following centuries. After all, conceiving of lexemes as developing through the eras and going from language to language, from where they enter into one’s own idiom, is the very basis of etymological thinking and as such the precondition for later historical philology. In order to secure further development, another

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breakthrough was needed, one similar to that of Cotes and Cawdrey where a new idea (explaining unknown words of one’s own language to uneducated people) made use of a well-known method (equating the unknown words with known synonymous ones). This breakthrough occurred with A new English dictionary (1702) by J. K. (⫽ John Kersey, the younger). Nine editions appeared between 1702 and 1772 (Alston 1974: v, nos. 77–85). The title itself amounts to a programme, and so does the subtitle: [. . .] a Compleat Collection Of the Most Proper and Significant Words, Commonly used in the Language. Admittedly, the ‘Difficult Words and Terms of Art’ are then referred to, and so are young scholars, tradesmen, artisans, and the female sex. But greater emphasis is undoubtedly laid on words in common use. This is made clear in ‘The Preface’, where J. K. criticizes his immediate predecessor Elisha Coles:44 However, it must be acknowledged, That the Design of this Ingenious Author (from whose Merit it is not our intention in the least to derogate) is very different from ours; That apparently being to oblige the Publick, with as large a Collection as possibly could be made, of all sorts of hard and obsolete Words, both domestick and foreign, as well Proper Names, as the terms of all Arts and Sciences, Poetical Fictions, &c. Whereas, ours is intended only to explain such English words as are genuine, and used by Persons of clear Judgment and good Style; leaving out all those foreign Terms, that in Mr. Coles’s time were viciously introduc’d into our Language [. . .] (A[3]v).

Starnes and Noyes nicely summarize the point of J. K.’s dictionary: ‘What J.K. proposes is, in fact, the Englishing of the English dictionary in a double sense—by adhering to English vocabulary and usage, and by fitting his work to the needs of more Englishmen’ (1991: 71). Instead of hard words, it is the ones in common use that are now the focus, though they must be proper and significant according to stylistic rules. This restriction is the first indication of the normative function which slowly developed in English lexicography through the coming century (Osselton 1995: 25–33). J. K. has never been definitely identified, although he is generally assumed to be John Kersey,45 of whose life nothing is known but 44

All quotations from the reprint (1969).

45

But see Starnes and Noyes (1991: 249 fn.).

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that he flourished about 1720. He revised and enlarged Edward Phillips’s dictionary in 1706 and edited the Dictionarium AngloBritannicum in 1708. The former was expanded to 38,000 entries, and the latter was an abridgement of the former in order to produce a portable book. Besides the quantitative extension of entries, John Kersey reduced Phillips’s rather verbose explanations by making brevity and perspicuity his main concern (Starnes and Noyes 1991: 87). Indeed, in A New English Dictionary, he goes back to the synonymizing technique by equating one lexeme with at most several others, as in the following five consecutive entries: To ennoble or make noble An Enodation or unknotting (in Husbandry) Enormity irregularity, hainousness, or high misdemeanour Enormous out of rule, or square; exceeding great, or hainous Enough as enough and to spare46

The question remains of what influence the hard-word dictionaries had on the linguistic behaviour of the English. It is well known that compilers of dictionaries occasionally made up hard words by simply anglicizing Latin ones. In these cases they explained words which nobody had ever used. John Kersey was already blaming Elisha Coles for doing this by inserting ‘several words purely Latin, without any alteration [. . .] only vary’d with an English Termination, which are scarce ever us’d by any ancient or modern Writer’ (‘Preface’, A2v). Such lexicographers’ sources will have been appropriate books, and reading them was their simple method of culling their entries. But it remains unclear how they judged the effect of these books on the common speaker. It remains equally unclear how the common speaker reacted to the hard-word dictionaries. Authors will have consulted them. But what about other people? We can certainly assume a long-term osmotic process which stabilized the use of many new words and,

46 Starnes and Noyes (1991: 72) find ‘regrettable’ the influence which spelling books had on Kersey’s technique of explaining. This is a moot point. Explaining common words for common people has its own difficulties compared to explaining hard words, and spelling books used in schools may not be bad models for the former. E. Young’s spelling list in The compleat English Scholar (1675) has the following definitions (as quoted in Starnes 1991: 73): neigh—like a horse, nose—on the face, oar—of a boat, pens—to write with. J. K.’s entries are: neigh—cry, as a horse does, nose—extreme part of the face, oar—of a ship or boat, pen—to write with. What is wrong with this sort of influence?

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even more important, made the English become aware of the complex structure of the lexis of their language. This awareness developed into a permanent constituent of linguistic education in Britain, and hence also of English lexicography.

5.2

Synonymy in philosophy and lexicographical practice

5.2.1

John Locke, semanticist

5.2.1.1

General

Unlike the history of grammar, a system of concepts and terms which could constitute a tradition was developed in semantics only in the late nineteenth century. Instead, many relevant passages which, according to the present-day meaning of the term, belong to semantics must be sought out in various places in the centuries-long discourse on language which has been, and still is, an essential part of general intellectual culture in Europe: for example, in philosophical writings devoted to thinking and knowledge, to the nature of philosophical categories, or to the nature of signs in general, and, in particular, of the linguistic sign. These writings also pertain to grammar, with their definitions of word classes and parts of speech. When the problem of the adaptation of language to scientific discourse arose in the seventeenth century, semantic problems, in particular word meaning, were in the foreground. All these sources of the history of semantics are of a theoretical nature, because the relations between linguistic form and meaning are stated there in abstract terms. The equally centuries-old lexicographical tradition provides us with sources of a practical nature. In particular, topical (onomasiological) glossaries, word lists, and dictionaries, monolingual as well as multilingual (Hüllen 1999a), show the general awareness of semantic cross-connections within the lexis of one language and translatability between words, i.e. semantic connections, within the lexis of several languages. It is a very broad, but nevertheless permissible, generalization to say that the many scattered statements on semantics and the many dictionaries arranged in topical order were predominantly concerned with what is today called the referential function. The central question

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was the way in which words mirror reality. This question also pertained to the abstract vocabulary, which was regarded as referring to the general structures of the outside world or to those inside the human mind. In both cases, (objective and subjective) reality and language are separated from and, at the same time, coordinated with each other. Reality is given precedence (as God’s work, as nature, or as human faculty) and language is seen as following it with the identifying function of a name (Waswo 1987). A direct consequence of this was so-called surrogationalism (Harris 1980), i.e. the replacement of an object of reality by a word. Even in onomasiological dictionaries or word lists which show a strong influence from philosophical categories, it is obvious that the word entry was seen as the result of an act of naming (Hüllen 1999a: 439–42). There was no general scepticism about the epistemological ability of humans to represent reality in words. The referential function remained the basis of semantics, even when, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, philosophers (e.g. Francis Bacon [1561–1626] and the founding members of the Royal Society) started to re-define the role of language in the accumulation of knowledge (Hüllen 1989). Their criticism was not directed against the concept of word meanings as the names of things or mental concepts, but against the general preoccupation with scholastic terms in this context. On the contrary, the new postulate that knowledge must start with sense experience even strengthened the idea that, in principle, words give names to referents which we become aware of. Successive philosophers in England (Thomas Hobbes [1588–1679], John Locke [1632–1704], George Berkeley [1685–1753], David Hume [1711–1776]) worked on this position in various ways (Isermann 1999). Although generally subsumed under the label of ‘empiricists’, they are far from a homogeneous group of thinkers. John Locke is perhaps the one whose philosophical (epistemological) ideas most stressed the indispensability of language for the acquisition and accumulation of knowledge and who, in the long run, exercised the greatest influence on lexicographical reflections. Some of these concerned synonyms as treated in theoretical and practical lexicography. Outstanding among the lexicographers was Samuel Johnson (1709–1784). In addition, Locke’s philosophy is generally acknowledged to have had a pervasive influence on the European epistemological, encyclopaedic, and lexicographical tradition (Brandt 1988; Hupka 1989).

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In the following discussion, John Locke will be dealt with as if he were a semanticist. Seen from the linguistic (rather than the philosophical) standpoint and in the light of our present interest it seems justifiable (and even unavoidable) to use on occasion a descriptive language which harmonizes with present-day semantics and is thus anachronistic with reference to John Locke (Hüllen 1998). This procedure may be questionable if measured by the standards of Lockean exegesis in general (e.g. Woolhouse 1983) and also of semantics today. But synonymy is an excellent topic for showing that the philosopher of the seventeenth century and the linguists of the twentieth century deal with similar problems, and attempt to find related solutions. It goes without saying that in their deliberations Locke and present-day linguists each follow the scientific standards and style of their own time and meet their contemporary readers’ expectations. Our precise intention is to compare John Locke’s ideas on word meanings, as explained in the third book of An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689), with some ideas that are common knowledge in present-day semantics and that prove to be helpful for analysing synonymy as a time-independent phenomenon. The structure of the Essay does allow a separate linguistic analysis of this sort. Book I refutes the Cartesian concept of innate ideas, book II explains the elementary forms of ideas gained by experience, and book IV discusses their combinations in judgements. Sandwiched between books II and IV is book III with its special treatment of words, which, epistemologically speaking, only replicates book II (Brandt 1988: 627). Locke himself confirmed the relative independence of linguistic topics: I must confess, then, that, when I first began this discourse of the understanding, and a good while after, I had not the least thought that any consideration of words was at all necessary to it. But when, having passed over the origin and composition of our ideas, I began to examine the extent and certainty of our knowledge, I found it had so near a connexion with words that, unless their force and manner of signification were first well observed, there could be very little said clearly and pertinently concerning knowledge [. . .]. (III. ix. 21: p. 87)47 47 Quotations and references are taken from bk. III of the Essay (vol. 2 of the 1961 Everyman edition); lower-case Roman numerals refer to chapters, Arabic numerals to paragraphs. Where pertinent, page numbers are added after a colon.

164 5.2.1.2

The Beginnings of Practical Synonymy John Locke’s deliberations ‘On Words’

Signification

‘Signification’ (meaning) is given to words by voluntary and arbitrary imposition (III. ii. 1). There is no direct connection between the linguistic sign and the nature of reality. Right at the beginning of his argument, John Locke draws a clear decision on the issue, which had (and has) kept thinkers busy since Plato’s Cratylus. In accordance with semantic discussion in the generative and post-generative eras of linguistics, the meanings of words are attributed the status of mental representations (Mehler, Walker, and Garret 1982; Jackendoff 1983), which Locke, in accordance with the debate on Cartesian innateness, calls ‘ideas’. Meaningful words have a twofold function: they serve as ‘marks’ which assist the memories of speakers, providing a kind of internal stability for human consciousness, and they serve as ‘signs’ which, ideally, call up the same ideas when acoustically presented, by speakers, to the understanding of listeners (ii. 2). As the function of marks remains within the boundaries of a private language, it is the function of signs which deserves a closer philosophical analysis. Together with other philosophers since Bacon, Locke maintained that communication was achieved when the language-bound ideas in the minds of the speaker and of the listener are identical. Yet this presumed identity contains a paradox. For Locke, ideas can only be private (ii. 1), and there is no tertium comparationis to prove that ideas in two minds are indeed identical (Taylor 1992). To the contrary, Locke admits that word meanings are rarely exactly the same when used by various people. Nevertheless, they fulfil their communicative function, provided they serve the observations, the experience, the care, industry, fancy, etc. of speakers, i.e. whenever they keep normal societal life going (vi. 29). Practice and common sense replace all philosophical doubts about intelligibility. In fact, common people assume that intelligibility is linguistically guaranteed (ii. 4). They even take the word to be a full surrogate for the thing and thus exchange the sign(ing) for the signed. Locke knows that this is wrong but does not trouble himself about it as long as only ordinary language use is under consideration. Human workmanship

All ideas begin in experience, which is constituted of sensations when directed outside (to the world) and of reflections when

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directed inside (to the human mind). This assumption earned John Locke the label of ‘empiricist’, although he stressed again and again that immediately after sensations or reflections have played their part the human mind starts working of its own accord and moves away from empirical reality. The ‘workmanship’ of the language user (e.g. iii. 12) shapes and reshapes the ideas in the words, in order to make them conform to the needs and conveniences of communication rather than to the constraints of objective reality. Locke’s schema of a mental agency which, except in direct sensations and reflections, makes the real world appear in an idea-driven way has its contemporary counterpart in the difference between the real world and the projected world of cognitive semantics (e.g. Jackendoff 1983). Just as Locke maintains that real essences as opposed to nominal essences, remain unknown, the so-called major ontological categories are not objective but are determined by mental concepts, as is apparent in the various heads of the major phrasal constituents of sentences. According to present-day semantics, word meanings are to be defined according to their extension, i.e. the class of objects they refer to, and according to their intension, i.e. the series of semantic features which, taken together, constitute their meanings. For Locke, both procedures are correct but, because of the creative character of human ‘workmanship’, the intensional definition is much more important than the extensional one (iii. 10). Even the referential function of the linguistic sign depends on the ideas in the mind. Ideas are more often mixed than simple. Simple ideas, like ‘colour’, ‘figure’, ‘malleability’, ‘sweetness’, etc., can be gained only by experience. They cannot be described or defined at all; they can only be seen, heard, tasted, etc. Simple ideas must be abstracted by the human mind from place, time, and the other accidental circumstances of their occurrence (iii. 6). Only after this abstraction can they play their part in the accumulation of knowledge. Complex ideas consist of a configuration, of which some parts are again mixed and others are simple. The corresponding words are the ‘knots’ that tie the various ideas together (v. 19). They are definable by analysis, i.e. by an enumeration of their simple parts (iv. 4–15). As the number of properties of things which we know from experience in sensations is virtually endless (vi. 43–7), the process of analysis is quite different in different people’s minds and, consequently, results in different word meanings. In fact, this is also

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the reason why complex ideas are always incomplete in their meanings (vi. 33). Generally speaking, human beings possess a stock of simple ideas and corresponding words, which are constantly being combined into complex semantic representations and their words. The former would today be called semantic universals or primitives of semantic, i.e. conceptual, structure. Generally, people agree about their substance (iv. 15), although they do not agree about their number (vi. 30). We detect, if dimly, the principles of compositional semantics (markers, networks, etc.) behind these statements of Lockean philosophy. Ideas and experience

Words never denote individual things, because language cannot accumulate names for every item of reality, and an accumulation of (almost) identical meanings would not enrich our knowledge. Words always denote classes (species, sorts) of things—types, not tokens according to present-day terminology. These classes are created in the human mind; they are not a feature of reality (v. 4–7). Locke’s nominalist stand on this centuries-old question is well known. The creativity of ‘workmanship’ is shown in the names of substances (e.g. objects in nature), but even more so in the names of relations (e.g. in mathematics) and in the names of so-called mixed modes (e.g. moral notions like ‘incest’ or ‘justice’). All of them (substances, relations, mixed modes) are formed in order to serve communicative needs and convenience, not according to nature. In order to enhance general intelligibilty, however, Locke demands that they must be in some agreement with general sense experience, where such is available (like the shape of a tree), and, where not available, with so-called ‘archetypes’ of situation or behaviour (like ‘murder’ [of a man] against ‘killing’ [of an animal]) (vi. 28 and 43). The notion and even the term are reminiscent of present-day cognitive linguistics, which stresses the importance of stereotypical preference rules according to salience and centrality conditions in words. This means the human mind has some but not total liberty in what it does (vi. 27): there must be ‘a natural likeness’ between ideas and experience (vi. 37; also iv. 17, v. 3). Language learning and language change

Logically speaking, the experience of reality was for Locke the substratum of all linguistic activities. Mental representations (ideas)

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are to be abstracted and configured from it. Finally, these are labelled with words. But processes in the mind do not follow these three steps in every case. With respect to language learning, Locke sees the natural sequence as being intact only as far as the names of things are concerned. People become aware of substances (objects) and of the phenomena of simple ideas before they form the underlying mental representations (ideas), and after that they learn the names. In the case of the names of mixed modes and relations, however, learners usually encounter the name before they frame the complex ideas which they tie together in a ‘knot’ (v. 15). They become aware of the name when speaking. So the name comes first, followed by the idea and then by experience. At the very beginning of language use, i.e. presumably with Adam or some nomothetos, this was different, because the idea must have formed in the mind before a name was given to it. With these observations, John Locke in fact introduced into his work the two basic approaches to language learning and to semantics which we differentiate today, the semasiological and the onomasiological, i.e. the approach from word to meaning and the approach from meaning to word, with the mental representations mediating between the two. We could use the three angles of the semiotic triangle in two directions to illustrate these processes. Although John Locke allows for the linguistic difference between Adam and everyone else, he does not accept that there was a perfect lingua Adamica, from which present-day language use has fallen. Everybody is Adam. Everybody can find and construct new ideas and label them with names. For Locke, this was obviously the case even with the universally valid simple ideas. Not even they are known and used once and for all. This throws light on linguistic change, a problem that was largely ignored prior to Locke. In a way reminiscent of Saussure’s famous explanation of language change as an influence of parole on langue, Locke maintained that anybody could introduce new ideas and their names (words) to language. They would, at first, be in opposition to general usage. They would be thought ridiculous or at least bold (vi. 51). But the innovators could succeed in making such new significations known to their fellow-speakers and thus bring about a change in language. The only condition was that they proceed in some conformity with nature and with archetypes. But for Locke, even Adam was subject to this condition. Language is in constant flux, and every speaker

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may work on it. No single person has the right to determine the signification of a word (ix. 17). Culture-specificity

Locke explains the fact that there are various languages in the world neither in theological terms (e.g. the curse of Babel), nor in semiotic terms (e.g. arbitrariness). It is the ideas that are responsible: not the simple ideas, but the complex. Complex ideas are culturespecific and vary from language to language. This is why one language may have a great store of words such as the names of species and other phenomena whereas another language may have very few. ‘This could not have happened if these species were the steady workmanship of nature, and not collections made and abstracted by the mind, in order to give names, and for the convenience of communication’ (v. 8: p. 37). This idea was later used as a proof of linguistic relativism in the Whorfian sense. Obviously, John Locke’s prefiguring role in this was never acknowledged. In fact, this relativism concerned languages in toto, as Locke’s remarks on translatability show: if we will look a little more nearly into this matter and exactly compare different languages, we shall find that, though they have words which in translations and dictionaries are supposed to answer one another, yet there is scarce one of ten amongst the names of complex ideas, especially of mixed modes, that stands for the same precise idea which the word does in dictionaries it is rendered by. (v. 8: p. 37) 5.2.1.3 Towards mental lexicography

John Locke’s deliberations on words also have a didactic dimension. For him, the great problem was how to avoid uncertainty in communication. If uncertainty is present, it is in the ideas rather than the words (ix. 4). The names of mixed modes are particularly liable to uncertainty because they have no standards in nature. The names of simple ideas and of mixed modes with only a few simple ideas are less prone to this fault because they depend on direct perceptions. Of course, the best remedy against these faults of language use— not of language in itself—is a clear analysis of ideas. This is the task of so-called ‘definitions’.48 John Locke criticizes the intellectual 48

See Ch. 5.2.2.3.

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discourse of his time in this respect, very much in the same way in which, starting with Francis Bacon’s ‘idols of communication’, the authors in and around the Royal Society had done. There is too much vanity in speaking, subtlety and acuteness, too much avoidance of clear statements in the speech of the learned (x. 5–10). Their usage should be plain and direct (x. 13)—these are exactly the terms used for the new style of the new sciences (Aarsleff 1982; Hüllen 1999b). Contrary to the men of the Royal Society, however, John Locke had a precise and well-thought-out framework of standardization in his doctrine of ideas, against which he could measure the ‘learned gibberish’ (x. 9: p. 93). John Locke’s didactic ideas centre on the necessity of analysing words precisely and of using them accordingly and, most important, consistently. Some of his postulates prefigure Grice’s maxims of discourse. They could be generalized to that present-day philosopher’s demand to be relevant and short, and to avoid ambiguity. Of great interest is Locke’s proposal of writing a dictionary of the words for ‘those simple ideas wherein [men, versed in physical inquiries and acquainted with the several sorts of natural bodies] observe the individuals of each sort constantly to agree’. He goes on: ‘This would remedy a great deal of that confusion which comes from several persons applying the same name to the collection of a smaller or greater number of sensible qualities.’ A project like this would correct the erroneous assumption ‘that the significations of common words are certainly established and the precise ideas they stand for perfectly known’. It would also do away with the feeling ‘that it is a shame to be ignorant of them’. The imperfection of languages in the domain of relations and modes is as much a part of their nature as is the perfect conformity between the simple ideas and their signs. This is why Locke abandoned his plan for a dictionary of ideas as requiring ‘too many hands as well as too much time, cost, pains, and sagacity’. Instead, he proposed that this dictionary should use ‘little draughts and prints’, illustrating the meaning of such words as stand for things ‘which are known and distinguished by their outward shapes’, because, as has already been pointed out, these shapes determine the signification of common words in common conversation. ‘A vocabulary made after this fashion would perhaps, with more ease and in less time, teach the true signification of many terms’ (xi. 25: pp. 117–18).

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Locke also dismissed these plans, with the concluding sentence: ‘But this only by the by.’ For the historiographer of linguistic, rather than philosophical, ideas, however, they indicate an important turning point where referential (speculative) lexicography changes into mental lexicography (Hüllen 1999a: ch. 11), i.e. where the assumption that vocabulary follows reality in the way in which a name follows a thing turns into the assumption that vocabulary identifies and gives order to reality because it provides the inalienable signs for the expression of ideas. John Locke was, of course, not a linguist in the modern sense. He is more interested in the mechanisms of the accumulation of human knowledge, for example in the difference between real essence and nominal essence, which does not concern linguists much. But he floated ideas in which the later concepts of structural and cognitive semantics, of language analysis and language use, of the powers of langue and parole, become visible, if dimly. The exact history of the acceptance of Lockean ideas not so much in philosophy but in encyclopaedism and lexicography has yet to be written (Aarsleff 1995). There was, however, one man who was not afraid of ‘time, cost, pains, and sagacity’ as well as the many hands he would need in order to compile a dictionary following these philosophical ideas: Dr Samuel Johnson. 5.2.2 5.2.2.1

Samuel Johnson and synonymy General

Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language was published in London on 15 April 1755. It is one of the two high points of English lexicography, the other being the OED. It is exceptional in almost every imaginable aspect (Starnes and Noyes 1991; Sledd and Kolb 1955; Reddick 1990; Green 1997). Johnson was a luminary of his own age, and not only because of the dictionary; after all, a whole era bears his name (Hilles 1964). The dictionary, a book of 2,300 pages bound into two folio volumes and containing about 40,000 entries, was compiled by this one man with the help of six amanuenses. Its aim was to achieve what in other countries, for example Italy and France, was the task of entire academies, namely to fix the vocabulary of English as a national language. This task pertained to spelling and pronunciation, but

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most of all to word meanings. The dictionary served this function at least till 1887, when the first volume of A New English Dictionary on Historical Principles, later the Oxford English Dictionary, appeared.49 Johnson’s dictionary became a national monument in Britain and has inspired a rich secondary literature (Schreyer 1996, 2000). While it was a failure of princely patronage, as the famous letter to Lord Chesterfield of February 1755 testifies (McAdam and Milne 1964: 442–3), it proved a specimen of far-sighted politics by its publishers. On 18 June 1746, five London bookselling firms (see the title below) contracted with Samuel Johnson to pay £1,575 after three years, when the work was supposed to be finished (Bate 1978: 240–60). In fact, it took him nine years to complete it, and his monetary gain, reckoned against his expenses, was quite small. Of course, Dr Johnson’s life and works and the methods of his work on the dictionary have been extensively researched (e.g. Bate 1978). The elaborate title outlines the lexicographer’s programme:50 A Dictionary of the English Language: in which the Words are deduced from their Originals, and Illustrated in their Different Significations by Examples from the best Writers. To which are prefixed, A History of the Language, and An English Grammar. By Samuel Johnson, A.M. In Two Volumes. [. . .] London, Printed by W. Strahan, For J. and P. Knapton; T. and T. Longman, C. Hitch and L. Hawed; A Millar; and R. and J. Dodsley. MDCCLV.51

The entries are diachronically deduced (‘from their Originals’, i.e. by etymology) and listed in their present-day ‘different significations’. These are taken from ‘the best Writers’, i.e. from practice as conducted and accepted by the educated. This method places Dr Johnson’s dictionary in the Humanist tradition, prevalent on the Continent and in the British Isles since the fifteenth century, according to which dictionaries are the treasuries (thesauri) of poetic and 49 In the American tradition it was the great dictionaries of Charles Richardson and Noah Webster which finally limited Johnson’s authority. 50 The graphological layout of the title page, in particular line arrangement and capitalization, illustrates the general programme of the dictionary in its own way quite well. 51 All quotations of the title, the preface, and the entries are taken from the facsimile edition of 1979. The pagination is [A1r et v] for the title page, [A2r et v], b[1r et v, b2r et v], and C[1r et v, C2r et v] for the preface. Given the clear structuring of Johnson’s text into paragraphs, I add paragraph numbers for easy identification. Alphabetical entries are not identified in any further way.

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literate language and can be compiled only after extensive reading of the relevant authors (Bierbach 1994, 1996). The intention of showing ‘different significations’ makes A Dictionary of the English Language an outstanding monument in the history of the English dictionary of synonyms. Apart from homonyms, i.e. different words with identical phonetical and/or graphical shape but, naturally, with different meanings, ‘different significations’ of one lexeme are bound to be synonyms in the usual understanding of that term. Showing these ‘different significations’ means indicating and comparing their opposing semantic features. The ways of doing this, as employed by Samuel Johnson, are (i) explaining a lemma by other lemmata (synonyms or by negation of antonyms), (ii) explaining a lemma by descriptive and defining phrases, and (iii) presenting a lemma in quotations. These three means may be used together in one entry or each may be applied singly. All imply the problems and intricacies in lexicographical practice of showing synonymy. Interestingly enough, in the title of his work Johnson does not mention at all the borderline case of a lexeme with one and only one meaning. Such lemmata do, of course, appear in the dictionary. It testifies, however, to the highly developed linguistic consciousness of Samuel Johnson that he assumed that ‘different significations’ of one word are the normal case and a work with exactly one signification is the highly exceptional case in the vocabulary of any natural language. As an introduction to the dictionary, there are essays on ‘The History of the English Language’ and ‘A Grammar of the English Tongue’. They serve as backgrounds to the etymologies and the lexicographical body of the work respectively. The past and the present, lexis and grammar (in Johnson’s language, ‘experience’ and ‘analogy’) are obviously the two pairs of coordinates within whose compass the work as a whole was located and is to be read today. As he stated himself, the compiler’s work was done with ‘no assistance but from general grammar’. Under the influence of the French grammaire général (1660) and also in the wake of John Wilkins’s sketch of a universal grammar (1668), many authors of the later seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries equated the grammar of English with universal (general) grammar. Samuel Johnson obviously shared this idea, which can be found in quite a number of grammaticographical works (Göbels 1999; Hüllen, forthcoming).

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For him, the national grammar as the reflection of the general grammar obviously posed no problems, whereas the state of the lexis of English was in dire need of improvement. His work was to improve the lexical present according to the measures of the past, and it was to do this within the given grammatical framework: ‘I have endeavoured to proceed with a scholar’s reverence for antiquity, and a grammarian’s regard to the genius of our tongue.’ The details of this programme are given in the preface—a text which is exceptionally rich in personal remarks, theoretical statements (if often only allusive), and deliberations on intent. In this preface, the English language is characterized as a mixture of positive and negative properties, the former conforming to the categories of evaluation that had been standard since the Elizabethans (Jones 1953; Hüllen 1995) and the debate on Latinization under the rubric of ‘hard words’. Johnson acknowledges that the English language has copiousness, energy, variety, purity, etc., but deplores its lack of order, rules, and criteria of selection. For him, what is responsible for this state of affairs are ignorance, vulgarity, caprice, and vanity. Perplexity52 (by language users), an evaluative term which occurs several times in this context, combines both the intricate richness of the language, mainly in the past, and its present state of disorder. These observations are part of a general historical theory which sees language as developing from primitive beginnings to a richness of structural means of expression, and then as deteriorating, partly because the richness itself has an ‘exuberant’53 effect. For Johnson, the Elizabethans marked the peak of the development of his national idiom, and his own time the decline. With the Restoration there began what he called the ‘Gallic structure and phraseology’ of English which he wanted ‘to recall’. This is why he limited his choice of quotations to a time span between Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586) and the Restoration (1660). He collected about 240,000 of them, eventually including only 114,000 in the dictionary. Dr Johnson was not the only one to develop such ideas and contemplate lexicographical plans. Since 1604, when Robert Cawdrey’s Table Alphabeticall appeared, a rich variety of English 52 Defined in his dictionary as ‘Puzzled condition, embarrasment, bewilderment, distraction’; see 53 lemma in the OED. ‘Abundantly productive’; see lemma in the OED.

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monoglot dictionaries had been published (Starnes and Noyes 1991; Landau 1984; Reddick 1990; Green 1996). Men like Alexander Pope (1688–1744), whom Johnson regarded as highly congenial to his linguistic ideas and whom he made the leading arbiter for his selection of words (Johnson 1747: 31, ¶67), Joseph Addison (1672–1719), and Ambrose Philips (1674–1749) had thought of compiling dictionaries, but abandoned their plans. Many more (like the Earl of Roscommon [1633?–1685], John Dryden [1631–1700], members of the Royal Society like John Evelyn [1620–1706] and Thomas Sprat [1635–1713], Daniel Defoe [1659?–1731], and Jonathan Swift [1667–1745]) had already stressed the necessity of a linguistic academy (Flasdiek 1928). But it was Samuel Johnson who finally overtook them all and attempted to realize what many had only imagined. 5.2.2.2

The Plan and the preface

On 30 April 1746, Johnson wrote ‘A Short Scheme for compiling a new Dictionary of the English Language’ in order to satisfy the publishers interested in the project. One year later, he addressed a revised version of this scheme to Philip Dormer, the Earl of Chesterfield (1694–1773), under the title The Plan of a Dictionary of the English Language; [. . .].54 Many of the ideas of this Plan reappeared later in the preface of the dictionary itself. Today, these two texts count as the most dependable sources for its ideational groundwork. Their differences stem mostly from the fact that the one was written before and the other after the experience of compiling a dictionary. Thus, the former is full of hope that the Earl will subsidize the project. Johnson even makes him an authority for the selection of words. The latter text, however, complains that the dictionary ‘was written with little assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great’ (1755: C2v, ¶91). The former is quite confident about the aims which can be achieved by compiling the dictionary, viz. fixing the language in its ‘purity’ and its ‘propriety’ (e.g. 1747: 4, ¶7, and 32, ¶69). The latter is much more reluctant to judge the effects a single lexicographer can achieve in this respect 54 Reprinted 1970, from which reprint all quotations are taken. Its preface gives the story of the two versions, which differ in that one contains and the other lacks a dedication to the nobleman.

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and is, in all modesty, content that ‘we retard what we cannot repel, that we palliate what we cannot cure’ (1747: C2v, ¶91). Apart from personal remarks, such as the famous deprecatory descriptions of the drudgery of lexicographical work, the two texts have most of their topics in common. Both contain (i) reflections on the selection of words (1747: 4–9, ¶¶7–15; 1755: b1r–b2r, ¶¶28–42), (ii) reflections on pronunciation and orthography (1747: 9–13, ¶¶16–24; 1755: A1r–v, ¶¶6–18), (iii) reflections on etymology and derivation (1747: 13–16, ¶¶25–9; 1755: A1v–b1r, ¶¶19–27), (iv) reflections on analogy and grammar (1747: 16–20, ¶¶30–8; 1755: passim, e.g. A1v–b1r, ¶20, b2r, ¶42), and (v) reflections on interpretation and explanation, i.e. semanticization (1747: 20–30, ¶¶39–63; 1755: b2r–C2r, ¶¶43–83). Many statements coincide, although the preface is richer in detail and more elaborate than the Plan. Moreover, its arguments are on a more general level and conceived with the language as a whole in view. Expressions like ‘reverence for antiquity’, ‘genius of the tongue’, ‘fabrick (or frame) of our language’, etc. (1755: A2v, A2v, b1r, b1v, ¶¶16, 16, 20, 38) occur here, but not in the earlier draft. For the topic of synonymy, the paragraphs that deal with semanticization (in Johnson’s language: interpreting and explanation) are the ones most worthy of attention. After discussing the difficulties of selection, the Plan asserts: ‘The great labour is yet to come, the labour of interpreting these words and phrases with brevity, fullness and perspicuity’ (1747: 20, ¶39). With this phrase, Johnson introduces the main task of the dictionary and specifies the demands to which he will subject himself. They coincide with the ancient rhetorical criteria of brevitas, congruitas, and perspicuitas. Then he identifies the gist of the matter: it is ‘the necessity of explaining the words in the same language’ (1747: 20, ¶39).55 There are two ways of doing this: either by ‘explanations verbal’ or by ‘explanations real’, i.e. either by definitions in the sense of John Locke56 or by encyclopaedic information. Neither way is ruled out on theoretical grounds, either in general or in individual cases. It is the common reader and the 55 Johnson’s term for what is today called semanticization is ‘explanation’, sometimes in free variance with ‘interpretation’. Although he follows what Locke called ‘definition’, he avoids this term, 56 with only occasional exceptions (McLaverty 1986). See Ch. 5.2.1.2–3.

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common user of the dictionary who must decide which is better. Both methods serve equally to ‘sort the several senses of each word’ (1747: 22, ¶41, see also 22–5, ¶¶42–52). In mentioning them, Johnson shows that he is highly aware of the general semantic complexity of word meanings. In the Plan, he differentiates between natural (or primitive) significations, consequential meanings, and metaphorical (figurative) senses.57 Natural meanings are (presumably) first when unravelled etymologically (e.g. ‘to reach the shore’ for arrive [ad ripam]), consequential meanings are later developments, deviations and adumbrations (e.g. ‘to reach any place’ for arrive). Moreover, he speaks of poetical, familiar (i.e. commonly understood, e.g. by metonymy), burlesque, and peculiar senses, the last being the one given to a word idiosyncratically by any great author. Finally, he mentions a ‘strict and critical’ as opposed to a ‘loose and popular meaning’ of words. This dichotomy logically leads to the notions of an imperfect language of the common speaker and a perfect language of philosophers. The latter could, at least theoretically, serve as a basis for the notion of ‘the perfection of a dictionary’ (1747: 25, ¶52), which is of course Johnson’s ideal. None of this pertains to synonymy in the strict sense, but it does show Johnson’s complex understanding of word-centred semantics, which is a prerequisite for his (and any) understanding of synonymy. There is only one half-sentence of direct significance to this topic in the Plan: ‘The difference of signification in words generally accounted synonimous [!], ought to be carefully observed’ (1747: 42, ¶52). The preface is much more detailed with respect to these problems than the Plan. After the work had been done, Johnson feared ‘malignity [of critics] to fasten’ on this part of his book. So he explained his concepts and his work in greater detail. The relevant paragraphs (b2r–C1r, ¶¶43–68) are crammed with notions concerning the explanation of semantic matters. They are mostly intelligible in themselves, and yet they also deserve a more general elucidation. Our discussion will be limited to paragraphs 43, 48, and 50. Paragraph 43

The leading idea is the statement ‘To interpret a language by itself is very difficult’ (Hüllen 2002b). Why is this so? The subsequent 57 These are Johnson’s terms. But his use of signification, meaning, and sense is not really systematic.

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reasoning moves within the boundaries of Lockean philosophy. Language is the instrument of knowledge, knowledge resides in ideas, and words are but their signs (Nagashima 1988: 207). Ideas are the presentation in the mind of human experience initiated by the senses. But the ideas do not merely mirror the objects of our experience. It is the human mind which organizes them spontaneously. The words do not merely give extrinsic names to the ideas. It is again the human (this time the linguistic) mind, operating within a language and common experience, which binds lexis and ideas together according to communicative needs. This relation between the object, the idea, and the word, between the designated (as object and as idea of object) and the sign, causes all the difficulties.58 Johnson elaborates: To interpret a language by itself is very difficult; many words cannot be explained by synonimes, because the idea signified by them has not more than one appellation; nor by paraphrase, because simple ideas cannot be described. When the nature of things is unknown, or the notion unsettled and indefinite, and various in various minds, the words by which such notions are conveyed, or such things denoted, will be ambiguous and perplexed. And such is the fate of hapless lexicography, that not only darkness, but light impedes and distresses it; things may be not only too little, but too much known, to be happily illustrated. To explain, requires the use of terms less abstruse than that which is to be explained, and such terms cannot always be found; for nothing can be proved but by supposing something intuitively known, and evident without proof, so nothing can be defined but by the use of words too plain to admit a definition. (b2r, ¶43)

There are many linguistic ideas in this passage, presupposed and explicit, which can be understood in their own right, i.e. independently of Lockean philosophy: 1. Explaining word meanings, an essential task of explaining (interpretative) lexicography, can be done only by making use of synonymy. It is also an essential task for ordinary language use. 2. Synonymy is the substitute for the fact that there is no metalevel to language itself. All the properties of the language explained are already inherent in the language explaining. Therefore, linguistic explanations with the help of synonyms or synonymous 58

See Ch. 5.2.1 on Lockean philosophy.

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expressions inevitably lead to a regressus ad infinitum. Every definition of a word by a synonym or a synonymous expression must itself be subjected to a definition of the same kind, and so on. From historiographical hindsight, we can add that all attempts at avoiding the regress, for example by introducing formal symbols, are in vain, because these formal symbols demand their own natural semanticization.59 3. Understanding of word meanings depends not only on explanations, of which there are various sorts, but also on intuition. It is the most elementary words (in Locke’s language: the simple ideas) which defy explanation, for example, colour terms (or, as present-day linguists would add, indexical expressions). They can be experienced only by the senses and after that recalled by intuition. 4. The existence of synonyms depends on the state of human knowledge. Meanings (ideas) may be too simple or too complicated or they may be too vague to allow straightforward explanations. Meanings can also vary individually. One and the same meaning can be expressed by different words just as various meanings can be expressed by the same word. This leads directly to the statements of the subsequent paragraphs. Paragraphs 48 and 50

The rigour of explaining lexicography requires that the explanation, and the word explained, should be always reciprocal;60 this I have always endeavoured, but could not always attain. Words are seldom exactly synonimous; a new term was not introduced, but the former was thought inadequate: names, therefore, have many ideas, but few ideas have many names. It was then necessary to use the proximate word, for the deficiency of single terms can very seldom be supplied by circumlocution; nor is the inconvenience great of such mutilated interpretations, because the sense may easily be collected from the examples. (b2r, ¶48) The shades of meaning sometimes pass imperceptibly onto each other so that though on one side they apparently differ, yet it is impossible to mark the point of contact. Ideas of the same race,61 though not exactly alike, are sometimes so little different, that no words can express the dissimilitude, 59 This does not, however, preclude the fact that formalization has its own merits, in particular for 60 abbreviating complex arguments. Italics in original. 61 Meaning ‘kind’, like species belonging to one genus.

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though the mind easily perceives it, when they are exhibited together; and sometimes there is such a confusion of acceptations, that discernment is wearied, and distinction puzzled, and perserverance herself hurries to an end, by crouding together what she cannot separate. (b2r–v, ¶50)

Again there are many thoughts here which, though directly pertinent to Johnson’s work, have an independent and more general validity. 1. What is called ‘reciprocal’ by Johnson (see below) was later (and is still today) called exchangeable. ‘Always’ means in all possible contexts and with all possible illocutions. Perfect synonyms, if they existed, could take each other’s place in any conceivable sentence (or text) and situation. How to ascertain that this is the case with two (or more) given words is the modern semanticist’s most serious problem. The possibility has been discussed again and again, in almost all cases with a negative answer. Samuel Johnson’s resort to intuition shows that he had no rational solution to the problem either. On the contrary, when speaking about synonyms he is rather sceptical. He sees more difficulties than opportunities, including the unavoidable circularity of definitions and the impossibility in many cases of finding an easy word for a difficult one. Time and time again, he admits that all definitions of meanings are open-ended and that therefore he is afraid of the verdict of his critics. 2. The reflections on shades of meanings mirror all the difficulties of a lexicographer after years of toil. At the same time, it is this experience that has kept the discussion of synonyms going for centuries. Johnson attributes the ‘maze of variation’ to the historical changes in the English (and any other) language. 3. The solution can come only from examples. This opinion was already to be found at the end of paragraph 48, and another authoritative expression is in paragraph 56 (b2v): ‘The solution of all difficulties, and the supply of all defects, must be sought in the examples, subjoined to the various senses of each word [. . .].’ This seemingly trivial, almost faute de mieux, statement bears in fact the nucleus of a new approach to the definition of word meanings in general. As long as we think of explaining synonyms by synonyms (or by explanations), i.e. lexemes by lexemes, we move on the paradigmatic level. The procedure of reciprocity (exchangeability) testifies to this. But with examples

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we change to the syntagmatic level. Are meanings affixed to (exchangeable) lexemes, even if in an intricate and perplexing way; or are they constructed by the syntactic and textual patterns in which they appear? Johnson’s dictionary is rightly praised for its quotations—for their number, their intellectual range, and their precision (see below). These qualities testify to the linguistic erudition and keen mind of the author. But not only did he attempt to convey an intellectual and pedagogical cosmos in these fruits of his wide reading; he also used them as a second method of explanation in order to close off what appeared to be an open end in his paradigmatic definitions: ‘It is not sufficient that a word is found, unless it be so combined as that its meaning is apparently determined by the tract and tenour of the sentence [. . .]’ (C1r, ¶79). 5.2.2.3

Definitions and explanations

The aims of interpretative lexicography bring Samuel Johnson almost automatically into contact with Locke’s doctrine of definitions (Schreyer 1992). The philosopher realized the need to give each word a precise definition in order to specify its signification (meaning) clearly and determinately. This meaning is constituted by the ideas which the human mind derives from observations of the world and of itself. As these ideas are essentially seen as individual, i.e. private, mental representations, definitions are indispensable for communication. They are the only way of proving that the ideas in one individual mind match the ideas in another. This means that the spread of knowledge is essentially a linguistic process and achievement. However, for Locke, the necessity of defining was counterbalanced by the impossibility of doing so properly. Complex ideas have to be broken down into their constituent simple ones, but simple ideas cannot be defined at all. Hence definitions always arrive at the undefinable. Moreover, complex ideas (modes, substances, relations) are frequently so vague and unsettled that they do not allow for a unanimously accepted definition. As it is the human mind which puts them together, they are, furthermore, susceptible to change, according to varying communicative and social needs. Definitions are therefore always tentative and prone to alterations. The passage on explaining words by words, quoted above (¶43),

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refers directly to these details of Locke’s theoretical framework. Words without synonyms are those exceptional cases where we find a direct one-to-one relation between the idea and the sign. Words without explanations signal simple ideas. Words whose ideas are unknown name substances. Words whose ideas are unsettled denote mixed modes. The traditional definition by genus and difference (genus, species, and differentia specifica) is downgraded by the philosopher to a definition only by names because we have no knowledge of real essences. But for him they are still the only possible definitions. Hence John Locke departed from the traditional doctrine of definition, which regarded the hierarchical ordering of objects in ever more abstract classifications as the most perfect form of defining, and made it a never-ending process of communication itself. Philosophically this was a departure from classical logic; linguistically it prepared the way for a new arrangement of vocabulary. The most comprehensively ordered collection of English words in the seventeenth century, John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ as part of an ideal and universal language, still used the traditional logical pattern.62 A perfect language which was supposed to mirror the order of reality had to have a logically structured lexis like this. It was the basis of its perfection and the reason for its universal intelligibility, so it was the method Wilkins employed (Hüllen 1989, 1999a). In binding words to ideas and ideas to the experience and the communicative needs of human beings, Locke abandoned this concept and made the ‘perfecting’ of language by clear and determinate definitions an ever-renewed task of language use. For John Locke, definitions were the result of an essential epistemological procedure. He was a philosopher and not a lexicographer. That procedure made the spread of knowledge possible. By his insistence that only nominal definitions were possible, and essential definitions unattainable, he made the definition of words, the explanation of language by language, one of the most essential faculties of the human mind (the others being the abstraction and combination of ideas). For Samuel Johnson, this philosophical principle was essential because of its linguistic quality. He accepted the explication of words by words as one of the central tasks in compiling his dictionary. 62

See Ch. 7.1.4.

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Although Samuel Johnson regarded John Locke as the most influential representative of a language theory, he took his direct clues from Isaac Watts (1674–1748), perhaps the most influential logician of his day. Most students and serious general readers at the time learnt their logic from Watts’s book on the subject (1726; see Howell 1971: 342). Johnson made use in his dictionary of no less than 955 quotations from Watts (McLaverty 1986). Watts is usually taken to have continued epistemological thinking along Lockean lines.63 Indeed, logic was for him ‘the Art of using Reason well in our Enquiries after Truth, and the Communication of it to others’ (1984:1), i.e. he combined the investigations into knowledge and into communication just as Locke had done. The movement from objects to ideas to words, from perception to conception or apprehension to communicating, is also truly Lockean. His intention to combine abstract theory with direct practice is evident in the elaborate title of his book: Logick: Or The Right Use of Reason In The Enquiry after Truth, With A Variety of Rules to guard against Error, in the Affairs of Religion and Human Life, as well as in the Sciences.

Similarly to book III of Locke’s Essay, in chapter IV of his Logick Watts applied the philosophical framework (of experience turned into ideas and ideas turned into communication) directly to language. He discusses the various types of ideas as the semantic content of linguistic forms and in particular the dangers which stem from the fact that the simplicity or complexity of ideas is not repeated in the structure of lexemes. Words are the semiotic means of our knowledge, but they are also the sources of our errors. Johnson will have read these reflections with attention because they did not contradict Locke and bore directly on his linguistic project. Among them were such remarks as: Here let it be noted, that when two or more Words signify the same Thing, as Wave and Billow, Mead and Meadow, they are usually call’d synonymous Words [. . .]. As Words signifying the same Thing are call’d synonymous; so equivocal Words, or those which signify several Things, are call’d homonymous, or ambiguous; and when Persons use such 63 The 1984 reprint of Watts (1726) appeared in a series titled ‘The Philosophy of John Locke. Twenty-four of the most important publications of Locke’s philosophy reprinted in sixteen volumes.’

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ambiguous Words, with a Design to deceive, it is call’d Equivocation. (1984 : 59)

But in spite of all this, Watts was not a Lockean philosopher in every respect. He wavered between Locke’s new logic and the traditional theory, which did not start from experience but moved deductively from the abstraction of general categories to the concrete (from genus to species) and even shaped the new world of ideas according to its hierarchical pattern (Howell 1971: 333–45). His pre-Lockean source was the Port Royal Logic of 1662. Isaac Watts deviates from John Locke, for example, in assuming that we can have true knowledge of the essences of things, which entails that, for him, the definition of a name is less perfect than the definition of a thing. Determinations according to genus, species, and differentia specifica are supposed to be the most perfect form of definition, whereas nominal definitions, the mere naming of properties, are imperfect. In spite of this traditional view, which made the process of defining a mere reckoning with terms, Watts was aware of the intricacies in the relations between words and ideas. It is not only chapter IV which testifies to this. Note, for example, his ‘Directions concerning the Definitions of Names, both in Teaching and Learning’: Direct. I. Have a Care of making use of meer Words, instead of Ideas [. . .]. Direct. II. Do not suppose that the Natures of Essences of Things always differ from another, as much as their Names do. There are various Purposes in human Life, for which we put very different Names on the same thing, or on Things whose Natures are near akin; [. . .]. Direct. III. Take Heed of believing the Nature and Essence of two or more Things to be certainly the same, because they may have the same Name given them. Direct. IV. In Conversation or Reading be diligent to find out the true Sense, or distinct Idea, which the Speaker or Writer affixes to his Words; and especially to those Words which are the chief Subject of his Discourse. Direct. V. When we communicate our Notions to others, meerly with a Design to inform and improve their Knowledge, let us in the beginning of our Discourse take Care to adjust the Definition of Names wheresoever there is Need of it; that is, to determine plainly what we mean by the chief Words which are the Subject of our Discourse; and be sure always to keep the same Ideas, whensoever we use the same Words, unless we give due Notice of the Change.

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Direct. VI. [. . .] avoid ambiguous and equivocal Terms as much as possible. Do not use such Words as have two or three definitions of the Name belonging to them, i.e. such Words as have two or three Senses [. . .]. Direct. VII. In Communicating your Notions, use every Word as near as possible in the same Sense in which Mankind commonly uses it; or which Writers that have gone before you have usually affixt to it, upon Condition that it is free from Ambiguity. (1984 : 83–96)

Many of these directions are directly reminiscent of Johnson’s preface, as quoted above. They show that the logician was directly interested in words—something which is not to be taken for granted—just as the lexicographer necessarily had to be. Direction II pertains directly to synonymy, as does direction III to homonymy. Direction II also mentions the irritating case which had kept the discussion about synonymy going for centuries, viz. that there are synonyms for things (ideas) ‘whose Natures are near akin’.64 Watts regards the variety of words as important (1984 : 98–9), an opinion which is actually inimical to a logician’s concept of the (ideally) direct relation between word and idea. He congratulates the English because their tongue has been ‘abundantly riched with the Translation of Words from all our Neighbour Nations’. Watts’s rules for definitions were obvious guidelines for Samuel Johnson and, in parts, reappear verbatim in the preface: Rule I. A Definition must be universal [. . .]. Rule II. It must be proper and peculiar to the Thing defined, and agree to that alone [. . .]. These two Rules being observ’d, will always render a Definition reciprocal with the Thing defined 65; which is a scholastick Way of speaking, to signify that the Definition may be us’d in any Sentence in the Place of the Thing defined, or they may be mutually affirmed concerning each other, or substituted in the room of each other. The Juice of the Grape is Wine, or Wine is the Juice of the Grape. And wheresoever the Word Wine is us’d, you may put the Juice of the Grape instead of it, except when you consider Wine rather as a Word than a Thing, or when it is mention’d in such logical Rules. Rule III. A Definition ought to be clear and plain; for the Design of it is to lead us into the Knowledge of the Thing defined. 64 Of course, directions IV to VI are also reminiscent of a very modern item of linguistic discussion, namely Grice’s maxims, which therefore prove not to be so innovative after all. 65 This phrase is italicized in both Watts and Johnson (see above).

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Hence it will also follow, that there are many Things cannot well be defin’d either as to the Name or the Thing, unless it be by synonymous Words, or by a Negation of the contrary Idea, etc. for learned Men know not how to make them more evident or more intelligible than the Ideas which every Man has gained by the vulgar Methods of teaching. Rule IV. [. . .] that it should be short, so that it must have no Tautology in it, nor any Words superfluous. Rule V. If we add a fifth Rule, it must be that neither the Thing defined, nor a meer synonymous Name should make any part of the Definition, for this would be no Explication of the Nature of the Thing; and a synonymous Word at best could only be a definition of the Name. (1984 : 108)

Rules I to IV at least, besides being common at the time for books on logic (McLaverty 1986: 380), were perfectly acceptable to Johnson who therefore made them axiomatic for his work. The preface testifies to this. So were some other rules, for example, that definitions of things need not be confined to one single attribute nor need they always be positive. There can be two or more definitions which are correct. But rule V poses a problem because it excludes the usual circularity of linguistic semanticization and also the use of synonyms. In particular, the latter proviso shows the conflict of attitudes between the logician and the lexicographer: for the former, synonyms are worthless because they do not contribute anything to human knowledge or are even sources of error (1984 : 195–6); for the latter they are important because they show the profuseness of the language. Consequently, Watts’s rule V does not appear in Johnson’s deliberations at all.66 Most probably, it was the practical needs of lexicographical work which guided Samuel Johnson through these stimulating, but partly conflicting, statements. The fact that he avoided the term ‘definition’ and preferred ‘explanation’ or ‘interpretation’ (McLaverty 1986: 377) is probably a sign of his difficulties. The original intention ‘to limit every idea by a definition strictly logical’ (Johnson 1755: C1v, ¶72) gave way to the many difficulties and anxieties which the preface speaks of. In fact, Watts’s nominal, i.e. imperfect, definitions supplied Johnson with valuable illustrative material and this is why he used them in his dictionary (McLaverty 1986: 389; see below). 66 Watts was obviously dubious himself about rule V. It is missing in the first edition of his book, and the wording given to it in the second edition is rather self-conscious.

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He also accepted the notion that, if no perfect definition was possible, an imperfect one would do—one which collected only properties of an object instead of giving its essence (Watts 1984 : 112). Moreover, another excuse for imperfect definitions which it is difficult to reconcile with the Lockean world must have appealed to the practitioner: The several Species of Beings are seldom precisely limited in the Nature of Things by any certain and unalterable Bounds: The Essences of many Things do not consist in indivisible, or in one evident indivisible Point, as some have imagined; but by various Degrees they approach nearer to, or differ more from others that are of a Kindred Nature. (1984 repr.: 110)

The modern reader will find this passage striking because of its parallelism to twentieth-century prototype theory.67 Nevertheless, Johnson also applied the old logical pattern (probably because it came to his mind easily or he found it in some text), often in addition to other ones. It can hardly be determined whether he really saw the difference between a nominal definition and a definition of essences, either in the Lockean or the Wattsean sense, even though, as noted above, he distinguished between an ‘explanation verbal’ and an ‘explanation real’. He used synonyms or the negation of the contrary idea (antonyms) freely. As properties he referred to locations, shapes, constitutent parts, and more encyclopaedic information. Moreover, the historical and the contextual dimensions of the explaining apparatus helped him to solve the problem. Etymologies introduced semantic shades and gave word meanings, as found in texts, a dependable underpinning (see Johnson 1755: b2r, ¶49), and textual meanings introduced semantic shades which escaped formulaic definitions. What we find in the dictionary is the work of a man who was torn between philosophy and real life and who wished to give both their due: Despondency has never so far prevailed as to depress me to negligence; some faults will at last appear to be the effects of anxious diligence and persevering activity. The nice and subtle ramifications of meaning were not easily avoided by a mind intent upon accuracy, and convinced of the necessity of disentangling combinations, and separating similitudes. Many of the distinctions which to common readers appear useless and 67

See Ch. 3.6.1.

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idle, will be found real and important by men versed in the school philosophy, without which no dictionary ever shall be accurately compiled, or skilfully examined. Some senses however there are, which, though not the same, are yet so nearly allied, that they are often confounded. Most men think indistinctly, and therefore cannot speak with exactness; and consequently some examples might be indifferently put to either signification: this uncertainty is not to be imputed to me, who do not form, but register the language; who do not teach men how they should think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed their thoughts. (1755: C1v, ¶¶74–5) 5.2.2.4

Quotations

Johnson’s dictionary is outstanding not only because of the number of lexemes but also because of the number of quotations used to explain (and illustrate) these lexemes. The author collected 240,000 of them by underlining passages in books, so that his amanuenses could copy them onto slips which were then pasted into the workbooks, of which Johnson eventually used eighty. But, in the end, he could only include 114,000 quotations in his work. As mentioned above, quotations provide the ‘different significations’ of words. Moreover, they are stopgaps for the inadequacy of synonymous words and expressions. So they have a linguistic function which is, for Johnson, essential in explaining (interpretative) lexicography. But they are also intended to serve a pedagogic function because they inform readers about Johnson’s ideas on language, art, history, the world, and God. After all, it is Johnson the art critic, the philosopher, and the moralist, as well as the lexicographer, who selected the quotations. Indeed, in the preface he mentions his initial meaning-bound aims which, however, turned out to be ‘the dreams of a poet doomed at last to wake a lexicographer’: When first I engaged in this work, I resolved to leave neither words nor things unexamined, and pleased myself with a prospect of the hours which I should revel away in feasts of literature, the obscure recesses of northern learning, which I should enter and ransack, the treasures with which I expected every search into those neglected mines to reward my labour, and the triumph with which I should display my acquisitions to mankind (1755: C1v, ¶72).

Although the lexicographer found himself unable ‘to chase the sun’ in every single word, because the ‘words’ finally claimed much

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more attention than the ‘things’, it is generally accepted that Samuel Johnson wanted to lay before his readers not only a plethora of words as the constituents of the English language but also a plethora of statements pertaining to religious convictions, philosophical ideas, and moral conduct. As, for him, language was the only possible way of expressing knowledge, a dictionary of words was also a dictionary of knowledge. This character gives Johnson’s book a certain inverted affinity to Chambers’ Cyclopedia (1727), which can be regarded as a dictionary of knowledge that is also a dictionary of language (DeMaria 1986: 153–74). There have been attempts to categorize Johnson’s quotations, for example under the headings ‘knowledge’, ‘ignorance’, ‘truth’, ‘mind’, ‘education’, ‘language’, ‘writing, reading, and speaking’, ‘arts and sciences’, ‘fundamentals’, and finally ‘happiness’ (DeMaria 1986). This is perhaps overstating the case, in particular if the assumption is made that Johnson had such domains of meanings in his mind and collected proofs for them in the way in which this is done for commonplace books. That is certainly to mistake the lexicographical character of the Dictionary of the English Language. After all, Johnson stated clearly that his main aim was to register and stabilize the language. Categorical classifications, like the ones mentioned, tend to read an order into the store of quotations which has been gained by historiographical hindsight. This store shows the richness of Johnson’s ideational world, but does not explain the character of his dictionary. A close reading of the quotations (Schreyer 2000), as far as this is possible, discloses them to be what they are according to their function in the dictionary: a collection of passages, approved by Johnson because of their contents and their linguistic (semantic and stylistic) quality, mainly stemming from acknowledged authors between (roughly) 1550 and 1700, and chosen because of their value in displaying the meanings of lexemes. They are taken from many areas of scientific and practical life and, above all, from literature. Shakespeare is by far the most frequently quoted author, followed by Dryden, Milton, Bacon, the Bible, Addison, Pope, Locke, Swift, and Hooker. This list mirrors the general appreciation of authors by educated people of Johnson’s time. It is common sense, even for a man with Johnson’s ideals, to use these authors for his lexicographical purpose. There is no support for the claim that

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he planned a kind of camouflaged encyclopaedia in his alphabetical display of words. His tastes and his convictions are embodied in the quotations and this fact goes together with the linguistic tasks they serve. Even in this restricted function, the quotations are telling. For both these aspects, note, for example: Under EXPRESS, 3. To represent in words; to exhibit by language; to utter; to declare. [i] Less than half we find exprest, / Envy bid conceal the rest. Milton. [ii] Though they have learned those sounds, yet there are no determined ideas laid up in their minds, which are to be expressed to others by them. Locke. [iii] In moral ideas we have no sensible marks that resemble them, whereby we can set them down; we have nothing but words to express them by. Locke. [iv] True wit is nature to advantage drest, / What oft was thought, but ne’er so well exprest. Pope. [v] Others for language all their care express, / And value books, as women men, for dress. Pope. [vi] To shed tears, among the ancients, when they should express their gratitude to the gods with joy, was esteemed a prophanation. Notes to Pope’s Odyssy. Under To COMPLICATE, 1. To entangle one with another; to join. [i] Though the particular actions of war are complicate in fact, yet they are separate and distinct in right. Bacon. [ii] In case our offence against God hath been complicated with injury to men, we should make restitution. Tillotson’s Sermons. [iii] When the disease is complicated with other diseases, one must consider that which is most dangerous. Arbuthnot on Diet. [iv] There are a multitude of human actions, which have so many complicated circumstances, aspects, and situations, with regard to time and place, persons and things, that it is impossible for anyone to pass a right judgment concerning them, without entering into most of these circumstances. Watts. Under To SCRIBBLE, 2. To write without use or elegance. [i] If a man should affirm, that an ape casually meeting with pen, ink, and paper, and falling to scribble, did happen to write exactly the Leviathan of Hobbes, would an atheist believe such a story? And yet he can easily digest things as incredible as that. Bently. [ii] If Maevius scribble in Apollo spite, / There are, who judge still worse than he can write. Pope.

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[iii] Leave flattery to fulsome dedicators, / Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more than when they promise to give the scribbling o’er. Pope.

These three extracts from more than one hundred thousand exhibit some of the properties that made Samuel Johnson’s technique of quoting so famous. First of all, there is the literary and intellectual level of the quotations. No trivial or irresponsible, nor even disrespectful, statements are to be found. The few sarcastic ones which are mentioned over and over again in the secondary literature do not refute this principle. Second, in many cases quotations are much longer than they need be for their lexicographical purposes (e.g. COMPLICATE [iv] and SCRIBBLE [i]). The compiler is obviously eager to get an entire statement across, and this is certainly a statement of personal preference. Third, the quotations are taken from various topical domains in order to demonstrate the synonyms given as sub-headings. The quotations under EXPRESS pertain to language in general [i], to philosophy [ii, iii], and to art theory [iv, v], and even include a contemporary opinion of men on women [v]. The quotations under COMPLICATE pertain to human activities [i, iv], theology [ii], and medicine [iii]. The quotations under SCRIBBLE pertain to theology [i], aesthetics [ii], and general morality [iii]—all three of them domains which people would hardly expect under the headword. Of course, one might be tempted to find various synonymous expressions for each of them. But Johnson is certainly right to assume that understanding in context is easier and more convincing. Whether he always succeeded in finding quotations which are easier to understand than the lexemes to be explained may remain open to doubt. A compiler with such high-flown ambitions may sometimes lose his ability to perceive what is easy and what is difficult to understand. 5.2.2.5

Lexicographical practice

It is not easy to judge how many of Dr Johnson’s theoretical reflections do or do not appear in the dictionary itself. On the contrary, there is a wide gap between what has to be done in a lexicographical practice which answers language users’ needs, and the help that logicians offer for this task. After all, definition is a logical figure by

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which to arrive at a certain (prefigured) meaning, but such logical figures have various realizations wherever they are needed, and certainly in an explaining dictionary whose users are looking for information directly usable in daily speech. Dr Johnson experienced the tension between the logical demands and lexicographical feasibility. The constraints (and drudgery) of culling the entries of a dictionary from a plethora of given texts and the obligation to make them intelligible soon proved dominant. He told us himself that I soon found that it is too late to look for instruments, when the work calls for execution, and that whatever abilities I had brought to my task, with those I must finally perform it. (1755: C1v, ¶72).

The task remains of finding the lexicographical structures in which definitions were realized in the dictionary. An analysis of its microstructure can be helpful. Formally speaking, the microstructure consists of these elements: (i) LEMMA, capitalized, with stress markers; (ii) information concerning word class, italicized, in abbreviated form; (iii) [information] concerning etymology or word formation, in square brackets with lexemes italicized; (iv) synonym(s) and/or explanations; (v) quotation(s) with the names of authors, and occasionally the source, at the end, italicized. (iv) and (v) together are so-called ‘statements of synonymy’,68 i.e. definitions. Most entries have several synonyms and/or explanations with supporting quotations, i.e. there is a recursive use of (iv) and (v) which always appears in a sequence with Arabic numbers. In many cases, a nesting principle is graphically introduced into the strict alphabetization.69 For this purpose, several subentries are introduced below the head entry. All are capitalized, but the head entry has larger fonts and the subentries have smaller ones. Subentries are not numbered, i.e. they are not equal to the synonyms under one headword. The headwords of subentries consist of 68

The term is mine. Nesting dictionaries are those in alphabetical order which group morphologically related lexemes together, although this violates the alphabetical principle. 69

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morphological derivations or the lexeme of the head entry in a different word class. Different subcategorizations of verbs (transitive, intransitive) are treated in the same way as different word classes. Sometimes they form a group of their own with its own numbering. This is a very clever way of introducing structure into the alphabet by typographical means. Note these two examples: [large type:] To CONSU⬘ME. v.a. [etymology, synonyms, quotations] [smaller type:] To CONSU⬘ME. v.n. [etymology, synonyms, quotation] CONSU⬘MER. n.s. [etymology/morphology, paraphrase with synonyms integrated, quotation] [large type:] CHA⬘NCEL. n.s. [etymology, explanations, quotations] [smaller type:] CHA⬘NCELLOR. n.s. [etymology, elaborate explanation, quotation] 1. Cancellarius 2. CHANCELLOR in the Ecclesiastical Court. [explanation by quotation] 3. CHANCELLOR of a Cathedral. [explanation] 4. CHANCELLOR of the Exchequer. [elaborate explanation by quotation] 5. CHANCELLOR of an University. [explanation] 6. CHANCELLOR of the Order of the Garter. [explanation by quotation] CHA⬘NCELLORSHIP. n.s. [explanation, quotation] CHA⬘NCERY. n.s. [etymology, explanation by quotation, another quotation]70

The elementary units of the microstructure—lemma, the various items of information, quotation—are easily identified. An explanation differs from other statements of synonymy (see below) in that it does not simply give exchangeable (‘reciprocal’) lexemes but moves on a logically higher metalevel. These explanations are either Dr Johnson’s work (he is famous for them), or can be given by way

70 A close reading of Johnson’s dictionary, as far as this is possible, also reveals surprises. The cluster ‘comical, comically, comicalness, comick’ is given in alphabetical order although comick as the head entry it set in large type and should come first. Obviously Johnson bowed to the alphabet here. In any case, he seems to have collected this column on a bad day. After the perfectly ordered group ‘To COMFORT’ comes ‘Comfrey [. . .] A plant’, as if it belonged to COMFORT. There then follows the erroneously ordered COMIC, then various forms of COMING with ‘To COME’ as head entry missing, but COMITIAL, COMITY, and COMMA included. The following ‘To COMMAND’ restores the order.

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of quotations. But quotations do sometimes also simply show the use of the lexeme in context. Note, for example: [Explanation:] 5. CHANCELLOR of an University. The principal magistrate, who, at Oxford, holds his office during life, but, at Cambridge, he may be elected every three years. [Explanation by quotation:] 6. CHANCELLOR of the Order of the Garter, and other military orders, is an officer who seals the commissions and mandates of the chapter and assembly of the knights, keeps the register of their deliberations, and delivers their acts under the seal of the order. Chambers. [Quotation in context:] CHA⬘NCELLORSHIP. The next Sunday after he gave up his chancellorship of England, he came himself to his wife’s pew, and used the usual words of his gentleman-usher, Madam, my lord is gone. Camd.

Other statements of synonymy are one or more exchangeable lexemes or phrases. We distinguish them by the terms lexematic synonymy and phrasal synonymy (after Bierbach 1994: 70). It can be convenient to distinguish between four types of microstructure, defined according to the types of statements of synonymy in parallel to the theoretical assumptions from Lockean epistemology mentioned above. They can be read as a general schema of entries, although they do not cover all the various types of entries. These four types are: (i) lemmata without lexematic or phrasal synonyms, but with explanations (⫽ unique ideas) (ii) lemmata with lexematic or phrasal synonyms, but without explanations (⫽ well-known ideas) (iii) lemmata with neither synonyms nor explanations (⫽ simple ideas) (iv) lemmata with various synonyms and/or explanations (⫽ complex ideas) Each of these types of entry is, as a rule, complemented by one or more quotations. Examples of (i) are:71 A⬘FTERPAINS. n.s. [from after and pain] The pains after birth, by which women are delivered of the secundine. 71

I have pruned the entries and simplified the line arrangement and indentation.

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COMFREY. A plant. CREDIBLY. In a manner that claims belief.

For explanations by quotations note, for example: COMMA. 1. The point which notes the distinction of clauses [. . .]. 1. [a quotation from Pope] 2. [a quotation from Harris] The ninth part of a tone [. . .].

Examples of (ii) are: SEA. The ocean; the water opposed to the land. To EAT. To devour with the mouth.

As can be seen from these examples, explaining lexemes are often supplemented by some phrase containing an antonym in order to support the explanatory power of the synonym. It is, therefore, sometimes difficult and a matter of subjective judgement to decide where a phrasal synonym ends and an explanation begins. In this case, ‘to devour with the mouth’ could be a phrasal synonym for EAT, but also an explanation (definition). An example of (iii) is: BLUE. One of the seven original colours.

In the obvious absence of a synonym or an explanation, a kind of schematization is given here which makes the lexeme the member of a word field without actually elaborating on its meaning. The same is done, for example, when the lexeme I is explained as ‘pronoun personal’ and nothing else. Obviously, Dr Johnson is reluctant to do what Lockean philosophy bids him to, viz. simply to mention a word by itself. Thus, we could argue that simple ideas are not really represented as such in Johnson’s dictionary, because their location in an abstract schema is certainly a kind of explanation. The overwhelming majority of entries are of type (iv). Note, for example: INVENTION. 1. Fiction 2. Discovery 3. Excogitation; act of producing something new 4. Forgery 5. The thing invented

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Here, the diverse meanings of invention appear in an easily surveyable list of synonyms, each of which is corroborated by quotations. Besides the quotations, it is these lists of synonyms, often very long, which give Johnson’s dictionary a very special appeal. In it the vocabulary of English assembles, as it were, into clusters of semantically related lexemes on two levels, that of the headword (in alphabetical order) and that of the synonyms to a headword with their often minimal differences. As a rule, the differences are not explained again paradigmatically by synonyms but syntagmatically by quotations. Note the various synonyms used in the head entry [1] To COMFORT (verb), and the subentries [2] COMFORT (noun); [3] COMFORTABLE, [4] COMFORTABLY, [5] COMFORTER, and [6] COMFORTLESS. [1.1] To strengthen; to enliven; to invigorate. [1.2] To console; to strengthen the mind under pressure of calamity. [2.1] Support; assistance; countenance. [2.2] Consolation; support under calamity or danger. [2.3] That which gives consolation or support. [3.1] Receiving comfort; susceptible to comfort. [3.2] Dispensing comfort; having the power of giving comfort. [4] In a comfortable manner; with comfort; without despair. [5.1] One that administers consolation in misfortunes; one that strengthens and supports the mind in misery and danger. [5.2] The title of the Third Person of the Holy Trinity; the Paraclete. [6] Without comfort; without anything to allay misfortune; used of persons as well as things.

This list of explaining lexemes and phrases gives an impression of the way in which one lexeme of the English language branches out into clusters of others.72 In this case, it happens on three levels: (i) comfort and its morphologically related lexemes, (ii) all the synonymous lexemes and phrases exchangeable with the members of (i), and (iii) clusters of these lexemes and phrases. It is the vision of a comprehensive semantic structuring of the lexis of a whole language which shines through these alphabetical entries. The sequence of lexemes on the first level is dictated by the existing word classes: verbs, nouns, adjectives, adverbs, phrases. The

72

Compare the notion of ‘radical synonym’, Ch. 6.4.4.

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sequence of the lexemes on the second level seems not to have any ordering principle, nor has the sequence of the lexemes on the third level. Also the sequence of the quotations is obviously ad libitum. In keeping with the semantic nature of the lexemes, the dictionary entries vary enormously in length. Some have only one synonym or explanation, others extend over several pages. To COME, for example, is broken down into no fewer than 56 different meanings, as is to be expected. Inevitably, explanations are often reciprocal and circular. Johnson worried about this in the preface, imputing the problem ‘rather to the nature of the undertaking, than the negligence of the performer’ (1755: b2v, ¶55). The difficulties of his daily labour showed him that the vocabulary of a language is not a well-ordered system of meaningful expressions but, rather, a mass (the modern term would be ‘network’) of mutually overlapping and supporting lexemes which are determined, and changed, by use. Another question deserves attention, namely how far Dr Johnson did in fact use definitions in his entries per genus et differentiam, since he was torn between Locke, who warned against them, and Watts, who advocated them as perfect. Consider these examples from his dictionary: Herbs are those plants whose stalks are soft, and have nothing woody in them. (Locke) Instant is such a part of duration wherein we perceive no succession. (Locke) Snow, The small particles of water frozen before they unite into drops. (Locke) World is the great collective idea of all bodies whatever (Locke). Geography in the strict sense, signifies the knowledge of the circles of the earthly globe, and the situation of the various parts of the earth. (Watts) Silver is a white and hard metal, next in weight to gold. (Watts) (list from McLaverty 1986: 382)

Except for herbs and silver (and perhaps also snow), which have elements of the genus–differentia type of definition,73 the definitions seem to be intuition- (world ) or experience-driven (snow, geography) and rather prove the difficulty of stating clearly what

73 It is not accidental that they are objects of natural history, where the genus–differentia definition is, as it were, at home.

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a genus–differentia definition is. With Locke, it is well known that his definitions do not always conform to his theory. It seems much more promising to attempt to categorize Johnson’s statements of synonymy by certain semantic features like markers, field coherence, prototypes, and others.

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6 The Emergence of the English Synonym Dictionary 6.1. Instigation from abroad: Abbé Gabriel Girard 6.1.1. The author and the book 6.1.2. The preface 6.1.3. Synonyms 6.1.4. The wider context 6.2. Girard’s followers on the Continent 6.3. Girard’s followers in Britain 6.3.1. Trusler (1766) 6.3.2. Piozzi (1794) 6.3.3. Taylor (1813) 6.3.4. Blair (1783) 6.4. The English synonym dictionary appears 6.4.1. Barclay (1774) 6.4.2. Devis (1782) 6.4.3. Dawson (1797) 6.4.4. Dawson (1806) 6.4.5. Perry (1805) 6.4.6. Crabb (1816) 6.4.7. Platts (1825) 6.4.8. Carpenter (1842) 6.4.9. Graham (1846) 6.4.10. Whateley (1851) 6.4.11. Fenby (1853) 6.4.12. Mackenzie (1854) 6.4.13. Smith (1871) 6.5. Roget and the English synonym dictionary

6.1

Instigation from abroad: Abbé Gabriel Girard

Abbé Gabriel Girard: La justesse de la language françoise, ou les différentes significations des mots qui passent pour synonymes. Paris chez d’Houry 1718. Second edition 1735.

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Abbé Gabriel Girard: Synonymes françois, leurs significations et le choix qu’il en faut faire pour parler avec justesse. Paris 1736. Further editions 1740, 1741, 1769. Further editions, among others, Amsterdam 1737, 1742, 1765, 1770, Genf 1749, 1753, Frankfurt 1762, Leiden 1762, 1787, Jena 1765. Abbé Gabriel Girard: Synonymes françois, leurs différentes significations, et le choix qu’il en faut faire pour parler avec justesse; Par M. l’Abbé Girard, de l’Academie Françoise, Secrétaire-Interprète du Roi. Nouvelle edition, Considérablement augmentée, mise dans un nouvel ordre, & enrichie de notes: Par M. Beauzée [. . .]. A Paris, Chez Testu, Imprimeur-Libraire, successeur de la veuve d’Houry, rue Hautefeuille, n⬚. 14. An VI [1769]. Two vols. Further editions, among others, Liège 1775, Rouen 1783, 1794, Hamburg and Braunschweig 1796, 1799, Paris 1798, Lyon 1799, 1801. Abbot Girard: A New Guide To Eloquence; Being A Treatise of the proper distinctions to be observed between words reckoned synonymous; or, their different significations, and the choice which should be made of them, in order to express ourselves justly. The synonymous Words classed alphabetically; upon the plan of a French work of the same nature, By the Abbot Girard. London, Printed for James Pritchard (successor to the late Mr. Daniel Browne), at the black Star without Temple-Bay. 1762. Alston (1974: iii, 512). Reprint: Abbé Gabriel Girard. A New Guide To Eloquence 1762 (Menston: Scolar Press, 1970). For the first full English edition by John Trusler (1766) see below. 6.1.1

The author and the book

Gabriel Girard (?1677–1748) spent most of his life in modest circumstances in Paris. Because of his expert knowledge of Slavonic languages he was appointed secrétaire interprète du roi, a position which brought him into contact with the Bibliothèque Nationale and with high diplomatic circles in Paris. This and an appointment with the duchesse de Berry gave him the means to spend his life in scholarly work. Of his publications, the book on synonyms enjoyed a Europe-wide success and stimulated many other French scholars (Voltaire [1694–1778], Diderot [1713–1784; see Haßler 1985], Condillac [1714–1780], d’Alembert [1717–1783], Roubaud [1730–1799; see Gauger 1973], Rivarol [1753–1801]) to investigate the same topic, whereas an earlier book on French orthography and a later one on the grammar of French were rather unsuccessful. However, the grammar attracted quite a lot of scholarly attention in the twentieth century (see de Clercq and Swiggers 1996).

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The first edition of 1736 contained 295 articles. In 1740, 45 articles were added. Beauzée’s edition of 1769 contained 421 articles in the first volume, namely those of the former editions and such as were left to the printer after Girard’s death. But some 500 more words were listed which he had planned to investigate. In the second volume, Beauzée collected his own articles and some by other authors (Gauger 1973; Haßler 1985). 6.1.2

The preface

In the preface, language is called ‘the pencil of the mind’, ‘the image of its operations’, and ‘the interpreter of the heart’ (le pinceau de l’esprit, l’image de ses opérations, l’interprète du cœur).1 In other words, language is the central agency of human communication which expresses ideas and sentiments in society. The medium by which this is done is conversation—and conversation, both a linguistic activity and a display of manners, always takes place in society. It must be sweet (doux) and pleasant ( joyeux). In order to ensure this, education teaches correct grammar, genuine dialect (i.e. pronunciation), and the semantic differences of words. Obviously, the Abbé looked upon his own project as a linguistic and, at the same time, an educative enterprise: ‘a really good education will always bestow its care as much upon language as manners’ (p. iii, La bonne éducation étend ses soins sur le langage comme sur les moeurs). He criticized whatever endangered his postulates of linguistic behaviour. He wrote that the purity (pureté), the richness (richesse), the (semantic) quality ( justesse), and the variety of linguistic expressions ( pluralité des mots) were under pressure from wanton and whimsical innovations ( pur caprice), an abundance of words, and a superfluity of expressions (abondance). The four postulates are obviously modern versions of older rhetorical concepts such as purus sermo (Latinitas), copia verborum, verbum aptum, and variatio. The style of the preface is in harmony with its contents in that it is not a strict academic treatise with precise terminology and a carefully developed argument. (The exposition is somewhat more systematic than the original.) Rather, it is a conversation piece, if on a high level, with terms which are frequently given as adjectives 1

French quotations are from the 1718 edition, English quotations from the 1762 translation.

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oscillating between aesthetic and moral evaluation (e.g. ‘proper’, ‘just’, ‘delicate’, ‘sound’, ‘substantial’, ‘elegant’). Individual terms may not be clear in isolation, but, taken together as a semantic field, they express the Abbé’s thoughts. They denote generally agreeable behaviour, because they pertain to gentlemen rather than to the vulgar and illiterate (l’homme délicat vs l’homme vulgaire). They also denote a certain quality of behavioural and linguistic style ( judicieuse dans l’emploi des mots). Furthermore, they denote the idea of correctness in the relation between res et verba. Abuse of terms, confused images (abus des termes, images vagues), abortive concepts are despised. There are also telling metaphors, such as ‘enlightenment’, the ‘brightness of truth’, the ‘solidity of wit’, the ‘beam of correctness’, the ‘right road to the sciences’. In this field of complex evaluative statements, which often have an aesthetic appeal rather than logical substance, the Abbé Girard obviously wished to fix (fixer et arrêter) language and determine its proper use for ever. All these adjectives characterize an ideal of linguistic performance in which cultural pleasantness, as practised by the courts and the intellectual circles (e.g. the academies) of France, coincides with precision and exactitude. This is one reason why French books on synonyms became so popular in the circles of elevated society and were even used as pastimes. The criteria for choosing words were whether they are elegant (le bon goût) and whether they are correct (le terme propre). If the choice is successful, they have the one property because they have the other (and vice versa). Behind this is the ideal of factual correctness and intellectual intelligibility which, typically called proprieté and clarté or netteté, is the French version of the classical verbum proprium and perspicuitas. It is part of the French linguistic ambition to show the French language to be equal or even superior to classical Latin. As early as 1550, Louis Meigret explained in his Tretté de la grammere françoeze that the court, the chancelleries, the parliament, and the expert, not the classical authors, decided linguistic norms (Hüllen 2001a). Note the following paragraph from Girard’s preface in the light of this statement. It was the only one not translated by the English editor: Tous les Peuples illustres ont cultivé leur Langue. La Françoise est peut-être celle qui a le plus de disposition à la perfection; son caractère consistant dans la clarté, la pureté, la finesse, & la force. Propre à tous les genres

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d’écrire, elle a été choisie préférablement aux autres Langues de l’Europe pour être celle de la politique générale de cette partie de monde; & par conséquent elle est la seule qui ait triomphé de la Latine. (pp. v–vi)

In this context, the Abbé was solely interested in synonyms (not in grammar, at least not in this book), which is the reservoir of lexemes for the speaker to choose from. They are the points of disjunction where speech turns either to perspicuitas or to obscuritas. They supply the means not only of the recte dicere but also of bene dicere (Lausberg 1998: §§ 528–37, §1095).2 On the question of copiousness (copia verborum) Abbé Girard gave his own unmistakable answer. It is not synonyms in the sense of semantically identical lexemes which make the lexis of a language rich but synonyms in the sense of semantically similar lexemes, as they may be found in contemporary speech, because they enable speakers to give even the minutest object its proper name and to verbalize any intended statement according to the will of the speaker (Gauger 1973: 6–9). Synonyms open up various approaches for the messages of speech. Girard selected his examples accordingly: faire and agir; air and manières; amoureux and amant; sentiment, sensation, and perception; esprit, raison, bon sens, jugement, entendement, conception, intelligence, and génie; vrai and véritable; etc. 6.1.3

Synonyms

It was the Abbé’s unquestioned assumption that there are synonyms in the sense of semantically similar lexemes, and that there are no absolutely identical synonyms in the French language. However, he did not deny that on some occasions, for example in order to avoid repetition in a text, lexemes are indeed used as if they were semantically identical. But his interest focused on the differences, not on the overlap. In rhetoric, too, the differentiae verborum had been investigated and Isidore of Seville, for example, had collected lists of words under the rubric differentiae.3 They included all kinds of confusables, some because of the similarity of form, and some because 2 ‘There are two French terms for perspicuitas: clarté with its adjective clair and netteté with its adjective net. French linguistic history has the tendency to demand clarté (netteté) from pureté and so to attribute to the French language an inherent rhetorical virtus which exceeds mere grammar (thus bene dicere instead of merely recte dicere)’ (Lausberg 1998: 241 [§529]; various references [Littré, 3 Lamy, Rivarol] omitted). See Ch. 4.3.

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of the similarity of meaning, i.e. synonyms. Girard differentiated between the (first) general (primary) idea of a word and its relative (diversifying, particular, subsequent) ideas (l’idée générale and l’idée particulière), which established the pattern for many later explanations of word meanings in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Interest in these words is stimulated as much by their similarities as by their differences. There are no systematic criteria to be found for Girard’s selection of the synonyms to be investigated: the choice itself and their sequence are obviously accidental. In the third edition, Nicolas Beauzée tried to give them some logical order. The comparative definitions were given in short articles which abound in striking and precise formulations. In varying order, they give descriptive statements and exemplary utterances. They mark the differences between two (or more) words, using the identical part of their meanings as the tertium comparationis. Sometimes, two meanings are defined as genus proximum and differentia specifica of each other. Laquais, for example, is a species of valet; peines and afflictions are two subordinated species of croix. Quite a number of sample words were chosen in such a way that, arranged in a certain order, they can be read as a gradation of their basic meaning, e.g. sincérité, franchise, naïveté, and ingénuité: La sincérité empêche de parler autrement qu’on ne pense; c’est une vertu. La franchise fait parler comme on pense; c’est un effet du naturel. La naïveté fait dire librement ce qu’on pense; cela vient quelquefois d’un défaut de réfléxion. L’ingénuité fait avouer ce qu’on sait & ce qu’on sent; c’est souvent une bêtise. (243)

Of course, the definitions and the sample sentences exude the spirit of their author and his time. Note, for example, the article Excuse. Pardon: On fait excuse d’une faute apparente. On demande pardon d’une faute réelle. L’un est pour se justifier, & part d’un fond de politesse. L’autre est pour arrêter la vengeance ou pour empêcher la punition, & désigne un mouvement de repentir. Le bon esprit [!] fait excuser facilement. Le bon cœur fait pardonner promptement. (142–3)

There are two features which make these rather impressionistic sketches valuable. First, Abbé Girard’s style is precise and convincing. He juxtaposes word meanings so as to show clearly their minimal synonymous differences. This style proves the more efficient the

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more concisely it is rendered. Note the article Fin. Subtil. Délié: Un homme fin marche avec précaution par des chemins couverts. Un homme subtil avance adroitement par des voies courtes. Un homme délié va d’un air libre & aisé par des routes sûres. La défiance rend fin. L’envie de réussir, jointe à la présence d’esprit, rend subtil. L’usage du monde & des affairs rend délié. Les Normands ont la réputation d’être fins. Les Gascons passent pour subtils. La cour fournit les gens les plus déliés. (159; see also Gauger 1973: 119–20)

This style was imitated by all those who followed the Abbé in his treatment of synonyms, not least the English authors (see below). We can even find it in books today. But it seems itself to be an imitation of a quite venerable model. Note the same sort of clever and witty juxtapositions in these definitions by Isidore: ‘Auspicia sunt quae inchoantur et ultro veniunt, auguria quae consoluntur et consequuntur’, ‘Arbiter ex voluntate fit, iudex ex lege’, and ‘Album natura, candidum studio siue cura’ (from Codoñer 1986: 192, 193). Second, Girard’s method of identifying synonyms prefigures the method of defining word meanings which became authoritative with Ferdinand de Saussure’s concept of valeur and which has not lost its influence since.4 The meanings of words are constituted relative to the meanings of other, semantically related, words. Each word has its place in a system and is defined by this place. Admittedly, the systems are rather small—three, four, sometimes eight lexemes. There is no thought of large semantic domains, let alone of the total vocabulary of a language. But the principle of defining by minimal semantic contrasts is present. These systems make use of abstract ideas, e.g. ‘human’ or ‘non-human’, ‘instrument’ or ‘result’. Consequently, such ideas play their roles time and time again in many definitions. Once more it must be admitted that there is scarcely any system in this and there is no thought of a reservoir of universals which are expressed in word meanings (see however Haßler 1985: 317–18). Girard’s rational(istic) mind sometimes created systematic dichotomies. Note, for example (Haßler 1985: 318): esprit raison

bêtise folie

entendement conception 4

See Ch. 3.8.

imbécillité stupidité

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bon sens jugement

sottise étourderie

intelligence génie

incapacité ineptie

It is not at all certain whether language use would corroborate this arrangement. But again we can say that the principle is there: concrete word meanings are viewed as nodes of abstract categories. Abbé Girard’s book almost created a new text genre.5 It falls between a dictionary and a treatise on semantics proper. Both genres, dictionaries of synonyms and systematic presentations of semantic fields, appeared later in their own right. In its equivocal position between l’esprit de finesse and l’esprit de géométrie (Gauger 1973), Girard was imitated by many authors. Even a famous and once influential book like H. W. Fowler’s A Dictionary of Modern English Usage (1926) owes a lot to it.6 Today there is a vast number of similar books on the market in the guise of linguistic guides. 6.1.4

The wider context

Abbé Gabriel Girard can be seen as presenting an early theoretical conception of synonymy. What he overlooked was the mutability of word meanings and the influence of situational and contextual constraints in language use. Avant la lettre, he wanted to establish linguistic phenomena on the level of langue which can only (if at all) be established on the level of parole.7 Abbé Girard’s approach to synonymy is strictly synchronic. Later, other French authors also introduced etymology as a means of finding the ‘proper’ meanings of words. In particular, Pierre Joseph André Roubaud (1730–1792) is famous for having done this in his Nouveaux Synonymes François of 1785. He was motivated partly by the historiographical attitude of regarding everything old as preferable to 5 Linearity in history is difficult to ascertain. There were earlier models (e.g. Gellius; see Ch. 4.2.2.3), but the influence of Girard certainly was the dominant one in the minds of authors who followed him. 6 For similarities in the style of argument and definition note, for example, from Fowler (1952 edn.): ‘Lampoon, libel, pasquinade, skit, squib: There is often occasion to select the most appropriate of these words, & the essential point of each may be shortly given. A lampoon is a bitter published attack; a libel is a defamatory statement made publicly or privately [. . .]; a pasquinade is a published attack of unknown or unacknowledged authorship; a skit is a making game of a person or his doings especially by parody; a squib is a casual published attack of no elaboration.’ 7 However, this observation can also be used as an argument to prove that the dichotomy between langue and parole is invalid.

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everything new, and partly by philosophical ideas about the first language of mankind. Under the auspices of historical linguistics, etymologizing became very popular, as is well known. It had one of its roots in the historical method of treating synonyms. Even today, you will not infrequently find the statement that some word ‘actually’ means what it supposedly meant when it first appeared. It is an essential feature of Girard’s explanations of synonyms that they oscillate between linguistic usage in the strict sense and normative predilections in manners and behaviour. If the acute analyses of virtues and vices—for which, for example, François de la Rochefoucauld’s Réflexions ou sentences et maximes morales (1665) are famous—mark the beginnings of modern psychology in Europe (Wandruszka 1967: 43), they also mark the beginnings of modern semantic reasoning. They certainly contributed to the habit of making sophisticated distinctions for which French hommes de lettres became famous. They also contributed to the habit of combining encyclopaedic (or philosophical) thinking with linguistic arguments. Note, for example, these first few lines from articles in Voltaire’s Dictionnaire philosophique (1879 edn): Force (172–3) Ce mot a été transporté du simple au figuré. Force se dit de toutes les parties du corps qui sont en mouvement, en action; la force du cœur, que quelques-uns ont faite de quatre cents livres et d’autres de trois onces; la force des viscères, des poumons, de la voix; à force de bras. On dit par analogie faire force de voiles, de rames; rassembler ses forces; connaître, mesurer ses forces; aller, entreprendre au delà de ses forces; [. . .]. Grand (308–10) Grand est un des mots le plus fréquemment employés dans le sens moral et avec le moins de circonspection. Grand homme, grand génie, grand esprit, grand capitaine, grand philosophe, grand orateur, grand poète [. . .]. On se trompe moins dans les significations de ce terme au physique. [. . .] Quelquefois le terme gros est mis au physique pour grand, mais jamais au moral. Grave, gravité (310–12) [. . .] Le grave est aux sérieux ce que le plaisant est à l’enjoué; il a un degré de plus, et ce degré est considérable: on peut être sérieux par humeur, et même faute d’idées; on est grave, ou par bienséance, ou par l’importance des idées qui donne de la gravité. Il y a de la différence entre être grave et être un homme grave.

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Authors like Bouhours (1628–1702), Voltaire, and—almost notoriously—Rivarol attributed the celebrated clarté of the French language to its grammar, notably to word order, which was assumed to correspond to the natural order of thinking. It seems, however, that the passion for semantic niceties is an equally signficant source of this opinion. It is uncertain whether the habit of intellectual reasoning about word meanings is really in accordance with the common use of language. Wandruszka (1967: 52–3), for example, queries whether Girard’s ideas about the lexemes cœur, courage, valeur, bravoure, and intrépidité are really pertinent.

6.2

Girard’s followers on the Continent

Girard’s book stimulated an unpredictable development in Europe. In many countries the idea of defining synonyms took root. Books on synonymy were written and synonym dictionaries were compiled. Although the phenomenon itself had been known for centuries, the French work had the effect of a new beginning. It is difficult to find reasons for this. Possibly, the fact that the French language served as a model in the eighteenth century caused an interest in synonyms in other countries, as the high opinion of German, at least in Britain and the states of northern Europe, did a century later. William Taylor (1813), for example, who was an enthusiast for German literature, deplored the fact that his English countrymen had done so little in this respect as compared to the Germans. Independent of these national influences, the frequent mention of the history of synonymy in these books also shows a new general attention being paid to the content side of language after centuries of grammar-oriented treatments. The many books adapted to or solely written for use in schools, at least in Germany (see below), point, moreover, to the growing importance of foreign language teaching. Practice showed that foreign language use could not be mastered by grammatical correctness alone. Common to the treatment of synonymy throughout Europe is the progression from discussion of selected examples in Girard’s fashion to increasingly comprehensive dictionaries which, towards the end of the nineteenth century, had the ambition of covering entire vernaculars. This parallels a development from stylistics to semantics.

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Synonyms were no longer understood as intricate cases of stylish correctness, but as an indispensable phenomenon of language performance. Moreover, a comparison of national synonyms was envisaged which, if it had really got under way, would have been the first step towards some sort of general (cognitive) semantics. A thorough investigation of the development of synonymy studies seems necessary in order to bring their European quality into focus. This development was doubtlessly accompanied by specific national motivations and intentions. The various historical introductions to books on synonymy (e.g. Taylor 1813; Schmitz 1883) show that there was a kind of in-group feeling among authors, a conviction that there were many people devoted to the same problems in many countries and languages, and that one belonged to this group. Time and time again the same authors and very similar arguments were mentioned. The many introductions appearing before 1852 could not, of course, mention Roget. But astonishingly, even after 1852 Roget was ignored. For whatever reason, he was not part of the group, although he was a more successful author than anyone who belonged to it. Among the European authors who belonged to this group were:8 In France: Timotheé de Livoy (1767), Dictionnaire de synonimes françois. Paris. Nouvelle édition, revue et augmentée par M. Beauzée, 1788. François Pierre Guizot (1809), Nouveau dictionnaire universel des synonymes de la langue Française, contenant les synonymes de Girard, Beauzée, Roubaud, d’Alembert, augmenté d’un grand nombre de nouveaux synonymes, et précédé d’une introduction. Paris. Further edn in 2 vols. Paris 1822. Pierre Benjamin de Lafaye (1858), Dictionnaire des synonymes de la langue française avec une introduction sur la théorie des synonymes. Paris. Further edn Paris 1903. In Italy: Carlo Cost. Rabbi (1777), Sinonimi ed aggiunti italiani [. . .]. Venice 11th edn 1821. 8 Unless stated otherwise, the references in this section have been taken from databases in the Preußische Staatsbibliothek in Berlin. With one exception (Lafaye) these titles are not included in the bibliography.

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Giuseppe Grassi (1821), Saggio intorno ai sinonimi della lingua italiana. Turin. Further edn 1843, 1855. Giovanni Romani (1825), Teorica de’ sinonimi italiani. Milan. Giovanni Romani (1825–6), Dizionario generale de’ sinonimi italiani. Milan. Nicola Tommaseo (1830), Nuovo dizionario de’ sinonimi della lingua italiana. Florence. Further edns 1838, 1884, 1906, 1939. Stefano Pietro Zecchini (1860), Dizionario dei sinonimi della lingua italiana. Turin. 2 vols. In Spain: Manuel Dendo y Avila (1756), Ensayo de los synónymos. Madrid. D. Jos. Lopez de la Huerta (1789), Examen de la posibilidad de fiscar la significacion de los Sinónymos de la lengua Castellana. Vienna. D. S. Jonama (1806), Ensayo sobre la distincion de los Sinónimos de la lengua Castellana. Madrid. D. J. March (1834), Sinónimos de la lengua Castellana. Barcelona. Pedro Maria de Olive (1843), Diccionario de Sinónimos de la lengua castellana. Madrid. 2 vols. Further edn Paris 1868. Roqie Barcia (1863), Filosofía de la lengua española. Sinónimos castellanos. Madrid. 2 vols. Further edn 1865. In Portugal: Fr Francisco de L. Luiz (1821), Ensaio sobre alguns synonymos da lingua Portugueza. Lisbon. Further edns 1824, 1828. Jacob Bensabat (1887), Novo livro de synonymos portuguezes, par [. . .]. Oporto. Of course, it is not at all surprising that the treatment of synonyms became popular in Girard’s own country and in the other countries of the Romance languages. But there were also many works pertaining to other languages, for example: In the Netherlands: Q. de Flines (1810), Proeve van Hollandsche of Niederduitsche Synonyma. Amsterdam. G. Bruining (1820), Nederduitsche Synonymen [. . .] taalkundig, en ten dule ook etymologisch behandelt. Rotterdam.

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P. Weiland and G. N. Landré (1821–5), Woordenboek der Nederduitsche Synonimen. Parts 1 and 2: The Hague part 3: Delft. J. V. Hendriks (1898), Handwoordenboek van Nederlandsche synoniemen. Mijs. In Denmark: B. G. Sporon, M. L. Heiberg, I. Smidth, and P. E. Müller (1829), Dans Synonymik eller Forklaring af censtydige danske Ord ved [. . .]. 2 parts. Copenhagen. In Germany (see Hahn 2002): Johann Christoph Gottsched (1758), Beobachtungen über den Gebrauch und Misbrauch vieler deutscher Wörter und Redensarten. Strasbourg and Leipzig. Samuel Johann Ernst Stosch (1770–3), Versuch in richtiger Bestimmung einiger gleichbedeutenden Wörter der deutschen Sprache. 3 parts. Frankfurt an der Oder. Samuel Johann Ernst Stosch (1775), Kritische Anmerkungen über die gleichbedeutenden Wörter der Deutschen Sprache [. . .]. Frankfurt an der Oder. Johann Friedrich Heynatz (1795), Versuch eines möglichst vollständigen synonymischen Wörterbuchs der Deutschen Sprache [. . .]. Berlin. Johann August Eberhard (1795–1802), Versuch einer allgemeinen deutschen Synonymik in einem kritisch-philosophischen Wörterbuche der sinnverwandten Wörter der hochdeutschen Mundart. Halle and Leipzig. Later edns by Johann Gebhard Ehrenreich Maass and Johann Gottfried Gruber, Halle and Leipzig 1826–30. Johann August Eberhard (1802), Synonymisches Handwörterbuch der deutschen Sprache. Halle. This most successful of all synonymy dictionaries had appeared in 17 editions, by 1910, some of them ‘wohlfeile Schulausgaben’ (cheap textbooks for schools). From the 12th edition (1863) on, there were additional editors (Friedrich Rückert, Otto Lyon, and F. Wilbrandt). This was also the first edition to list languages other than German in its entries. [. . .] (1863). Mit Bezeichnung der Wörter in englischer, französischer, italienischer und russischer Sprache von Dr. David Asher und Prof. Dr. Aug. Boltz.12th edn. Berlin and Leipzig.

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[. . .] (1882). Mit [. . .] und einer vergleichenden Darstellung der deutschen Vor und Nachsilben unter erläuternder Beziehung auf die englische, französische, italienische und russische Sprache [. . .]. Leipzig. Friedrich Ludwig Karl Weigand (1840–3), Wörterbuch der Deutschen Synonymen. 3 vols. Mainz. 2nd edn 1852. Christian Friedrich Meyer (1849), Handwörterbücher deutscher sinnverwandter Ausdrücke. Leipzig. Daniel Hendel Sanders (1871–2), Wörterbücher deutscher Synonymen. Hamburg. Daniel Hendel Sanders (1881), Neue Beiträge zur deutschen Synonymik. Berlin. Daniel [Hendel] Sanders (1896), Deutsche Synonymen. GesammtAusgabe der Neuen Beiträge zur deutschen Synonymik und der Bausteine zu einem Wörterbuch der sinnverwandten Ausdrücke im Deutschen. 2 vols. Weimar. Of special interest in Germany are synonym dictionaries of the English language which were modelled on the popular and influential dictionary of Crabb (1816).9 One of them is: H.M. Melford (1841), Synonymisches Handwörterbuch der englischen Sprache für die Deutschen. Nach den besten Originalquellen bearbeitet und durch zahlreiche Beispiele aus älteren und neuern Musterwerken erläutert von [. . .]. Mit einem Vorworte von Dr. K.F.Ch. Wagner. Braunschweig. Noteworthy in many ways is Schmitz (1883). It not only provides a comparative treatment of French and English synonyms with particular attention to Latin, it also contains an unusually detailed report on the history of synonymy and a theory of synonyms in general. Although the author is well versed in the relevant literature, he does not mention Roget at all. But he does sketch out a conceptual schema for ordering synonyms, although his own arrangement sticks to the alphabet. This schema reads: 1. actions in general, including their expression by nouns, 2. properties and states in general, including their abstract expressions, 9 See below. Crabb himself was well versed in German books on synonymy. In 1880, he translated Johann Christoph Adelung’s dictionary of the German language into English.

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3. particular subjective actions—sensitive, observational, cognitive, volitive, speaking, 4. particular properties etc. of a moral quality, 5. terms of time, mass, manner, 6. geographical names, including plants, animals, natural phenomena, 7. pertaining to the state, 8. objects, institutions, tools, products.10 Compared to Roget, this systematization was, of course, a failure. One reason for this may have been its obvious dependence on word classes, i.e. on grammar. It remains, however, noteworthy that schemata like this, i.e. of an onomasiological nature, were felt necessary. Whether Schmitz was aware of Roget’s classification is not known.

6.3

Girard’s followers in Britain

Abbé Gabriel Girard’s original publication and its subsequent editions, as well as its offspring, stimulated an intensive treatment of synonymy in Britain as it did on the Continent. The English treatment began in 1762 with an anonymous translation of Girard’s preface and a selection of 21 of his articles, followed by a postscriptum: ‘To be continued, if found acceptable to the publick.’11 A review of this book in The Monthly Review (Anonymous 1762) was quite hostile, doubting whether translation could be done effectively in such cases. The anonymous translator of Girard had already had the same problem himself: ‘The idioms of the French and English languages, differing so greatly, would not by any means (in many places of a work of this kind) allow a close translation; but only a sort of parody at most’ (‘Postscriptum’). However, such doubts were not to play a major role in the further treatment of synonyms. In its method and in the selection of lexemes, the French model always exercised a strong and direct influence on English authors. 10 Translation mine. The German original is as follows: 1. Allgemeine Fähigkeiten nebst deren abstrakten Formen, 2. allgemeine Eigenschaften und Zustände nebst deren abstrakten Nennungen, 3. besondere subjektive Tätigkeiten—empfindend, wahrnehmend, denkend, wollend, sprechend, 4. besondere Eigenschaften etc. moralischer Art, 5. Begriffe der Zeit, der Menge, der Weise, 6. geographische Begriffe nebst Pflanzen, Tieren, Naturerscheinungen, 7. den Staat betreffend, 8. Sachen, 11 Anstalten, Werkzeuge, Erzeugnisse. For the bibliographical reference see Ch. 6.1.

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The English treatment of synonymy continued with three books which are to be understood as direct imitations of the French model, even if they do not admit this: John Trusler (1766), Hester Lynch Piozzi (1794), and William Taylor Jr. of Norwich (1813). 6.3.1

Trusler (1766)

[John Trusler:] The Difference, Between Words, esteemed Synonymous, In The English Language; And, the Proper Choice of them determined: Together With, So much of Abbé Girard’s Treatise, on this Subject, as would agree with our Mode of Expression. Useful, to all, who would, either, write or speak, with Propriety, and, Elegance. In Two Volumes. London: Printed, for J. Dodsley, in Pall-mall. MDCCLXVI. Pp. 23 (preface) ⫹ 216 (vol. I) ⫹ 243 (vol. II and index), 12⬚. The name of the author is not mentioned on the title page of the book. Further edns: 1776, 1783, 1794–5, 1803, 1804 Leipzig, 1835 Calcutta. Alston 1974: iii, 515–18. Reprint: John Trusler: The Difference Between Words Esteemed Synonymous 1766. In Two Volumes. (Menston: Scolar Press, 1970). The author and the book

The DNB calls John Trusler (1735–1820) ‘an eccentric divine’. Educated at Cambridge, he held various curacies and a chaplaincy after being ordained, but also worked as a translator of Italian burlettas and was the owner of a school of oratory. Besides theology, he studied medicine, but finally settled down in the bookselling and printing business. He published widely on various topics; among other books were an (abandoned) autobiography and an edition of William Hogarth’s works (1768). He is a good example of the fact that, in the eighteenth century, reflecting on language was a general intellectual activity and not the preserve of professional experts. The many editions show that his book was a success. Trusler acknowledged his indebtedness to the Abbé Girard by opening his book with a new translation of the famous treatise and, in ‘The Author’s Preface’, by making Girard’s fame and success the vehicle of his own undertaking. What worked in France should also work in England, he wrote, where the same neglect of precise and agreeable language use prevailed which had provoked the Abbé to write his treatise. Trusler’s aim was also ‘the improvement of our tongue’ (1970: 22). It is interesting that he refers to an indigenous

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authority for synonyms should English readers distrust his explanations, namely the dictionary of Dr Johnson. Many articles are indeed nothing more than translations from French into English (see e.g. 115, Sentiment, opinion, thought; 143, Capacity, ability; 281, Love, gallantry). A later review comments, rather harshly, ‘That a book of English synonyms concocted on such a receipt should be of little value, is not very surprising; and, accordingly, Dr Trusler’s volume went speedily into oblivion’ (Anonymous 1851: 261). But there are many other entries which Trusler enlarged, abridged, or otherwise changed. In the preface he admitted the difficulties, indeed the occasional ‘impossibility’ (1970: 21), of translating the French original. But there is no discussion of the problem of translatability as such, or in the light of language-specific synonymy. There is also no discussion of idiomaticity. The 368 numbered articles of Trusler’s book are divided into two volumes, but bound into one, each article devoted to between two and nine words (mostly monolexematic expressions). The majority deal with just two. Lexemes held to be synonymous are printed in italics as headings, followed by descriptive and discriminative texts of between half a page and one and a half pages in length. The five and a half pages of article 281 on love, gallantry are exceptional. Some 1,200 lexemes are defined and compared with each other in this way. There is no discernible regularity in the sequence of words; even the obvious intention of starting with the letter A is quickly abandoned. As is to be expected, nouns, verbs, and adjectives far outnumber adverbs and structure words (prepositions). However, it is useless to distinguish strictly between these three word classes, since the largest group, the nouns (about 60 per cent), consists, to a great extent, of derivations from adjectives and verbs. Therefore, their definitions and comparisons pertain to meanings which could just as well have been given as verbs or adjectives. Moreover, verbs are frequently replaced by synonymous nominal expressions, e.g. abandon and leave as ‘involuntary acts’. As a representative sample of Trusler’s vocabulary, I have selected (i) the first twenty articles of the book, and (ii) the articles listed in the index under H, according to their headwords.12 12

Trusler usually capitalizes words; I have followed modern practice on this matter.

216

(i) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

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to abandon, forsake, leave, relinquish, desert, quit to abdicate, renounce, resign to abate, diminish, decrease, lessen to abhor, hate, loath, detest abject, low, mean, beggarly to abolish, abrogate, disannul, repeal, revoke to finish, complete, end, conclude on, upon action, act, deed to enlarge, increase address, air, mien, behaviour, manners, deportment, carriage to accost, approach ingenuity, cleverness, abilities, parts to add, augment to study, learn buttress, support, prop enough, sufficient to declare, affirm, protest, aver, assert, maintain, swear, avouch, attest arms, weapons attractions, allurements, charms

(ii) to handle, feel handsome, beautiful, pretty to hanker after, have a mind for, wish for, long for, lust after happiness, felicity, bliss hard, fast harm, hurt, injury, detriment, mischief hasty, passionate to hate, abhor, loath, detest to have, possess haughtiness, disdain haughtiness, pride, vanity, presumption, arrogance hazard, danger, venture, risk head, chief headstrong, obstinate, opinionated, prepossessed, infatuated heap, pile to hear, hearken heaviness, weight heavy, weighty to help, succour, relieve, assist

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herb, plant high, lofty honour, glory to hope, expect house, tenement hovel, shed however, nevertheless, yet, in the mean while [!] huge, vast, immense, enormous humanity, tenderness, benevolence, benignity, kindness humpbacked, crooked, deformed Areas of vocabulary

The foregoing two lists indicate the presence of (i) word pairs, (ii) groups of words belonging together because of some obviously common and other, obviously different features, and (iii) graded series of words. They also indicate the preponderance of lexemes denoting complex cognitive and emotional actions and states, moral and other behavioural phenomena, and the relative absence of lexemes which denote tangible objects. Herb and plant, hovel and shed are rather exceptional, whereas humanity (as an ethical quality), tenderness, benevolence, etc. are not. Almost the whole domain of the natural sciences, otherwise so prominent in word-centred semantics, is missing, as are basic movements, actions, and states. The reason is, of course, that synonymy, as it is understood in this book, is a sign of mental and emotional phenomena in conversation rather than of physical phenomena. Generally speaking, this means that synonymy now focuses on an area of vocabulary which tended to be neglected in earlier topical lexicography. This shift of interest to the more intensional (psychic, mental) areas of vocabulary may very well be one of the long-term merits of the linguistic (and, later, lexicographical) treatment of synonymy. The general interest in ideas and emotions accounts for the high number of nouns derived from adjectives and verbs, with their complex and, frequently, rather abstract character. Obviously, the interest of the author lies much more in the expressions of adequate ordinary communication than in the giving of names to natural things. In addition to the Abbé’s original treatise, common linguistic usage must have been a source of John Trusler’s work. Commonality, however, does not extend to all speakers, but only to educated ones who care about the quality of their speech. This gives a prescriptive tone

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to the book, which appears in many remarks on the propriety of expressions. It is difficult to say whether this is meant to be semantic precision or adequate style, or both. The approach is strictly synchronic; no etymological explanations are given. Stylistically, John Trusler’s descriptive and discriminative texts are marked by simple and straightforward statements either on the objective level, i.e. in examples, or on the metalevel, i.e. in explanations, definitions, etc. Note this example: 273. Oval, oblong By oval, we mean that, which is regularly so; by oblong that, which resembles the longitudinal section of an egg, whether regular or not. Tables are, frequently, made oblong, tho’ not, exactly, oval. We may say, with propriety, that an oval, is oblong; though custom will not admit us, to invert the expression.

In particular, the regular alternation between metalevel and objectlevel passages, between descriptive and token-for-type statements, is worthy of note. As for the articles which were taken almost wordfor-word from the French original, it seems likely that their straightforwardness, compositional consistency, and careful changes between levels were marks of Girard’s style rather than of Trusler’s. Between common sense and linguistic theory

Trusler repeatedly reduces the difference between synonyms to a few distinct features, frequently to only one. This presupposes that the juxtaposed lexemes are not mentioned as polysemous with the whole range of their meanings but with only that one meaning which contrasts clearly with only one meaning of another lexeme. The selected lexemes are discussed as synonyms and not per se. The distinct features used to highlight minimal synonymous contrasts can be understood as prefiguring the later semantic features (markers) theory, except that they lack any system. Admittedly, some (like ‘person’ and ‘thing’, ‘act’ and ‘state’, ‘voluntary’ and ‘involuntary’) occur repeatedly, yet even these are far from being a regularly adopted means of word definition. If they play any role at all, it is as ‘distinguishers’,13 i.e. features which determine one and only one lexeme. These features are taken from general domains of usage such as, for example, ‘gain’ for defining profitable, ‘honour’ for 13

See Ch. 3.5.

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defining advantageous, and ‘health’ for defining beneficial (80). ‘Things in use’ for useful vs ‘things of service’ for serviceable (83) is merely a repetition of the lexemes to be explained, whereas ‘curiosity’ for inquire vs ‘authority’ for interrogate and ‘civility’ for ask (96) are impressionistically persuasive. Perhaps more convincing are those features which mark degrees on a scale, for example, ‘stay’ for impediment, ‘resist’ for obstacle, and ‘stop’ for obstruction (94). Some features do not mark semantic but simply stylistic differences in referring to the same thing, for example, the explanations for departure, death, and decease (90). Still others are only on the verge of synonymity, because they give different, though related, things their proper names, as with valley, bottom, vale, and dale (92). Generally speaking, the various ways of differentiating synonyms from each other are halfway between common sense and a linguistic theory—and this probably made them convincing for those readers of the book who were of a reflective but unacademic bent. Note, for example, article 99 on succour, help, assist, and relieve: We make use of the word, succour, in danger; help, in labour, assist, in want; relieve, in distress. The first springs from a motive of generosity; the second, from good nature; the third, from humanity; the fourth, from compassion. We give succour, in battle; we help, when we carry part of another’s burden; we assist, the poor; and relieve, the afflicted. [There follow more exemplary expressions.]

It would not be too difficult to present these four lexemes as a tree diagram with some modern theoretical underpinning, except that the author would scarcely have found any sense in this. Discriminating between synonyms

Article 1 is a good example for showing some of John Trusler’s methods of discriminating between synonyms.14 It concerns the verbs abandon, forsake, leave, relinquish, desert, and quit. The first paragraph contrasts abandon and leave as involuntary acts with forsake, relinquish, and desert as voluntary ones. The second differentiates abandon as more applicable to things from leave as more applicable to persons. As all five lexemes are qualified as 14

This article was also chosen because it occurs in other publications, which allows for comparison.

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‘acts’, the verb act can be taken as the highest common synonym of them all. Paragraph 3 makes forsake and desert subcases of leave by calling them ‘leaving [under special circumstances]’,15 and relinquish a subcase of quit, which has so far not been defined. This is done in paragraph 5, where quit is called ‘breaking off’, either voluntarily or involuntarily. This means that act and break off now occupy the most comprehensive (general) position, abandon, leave, and quit the next lower one. One level further down, the special circumstances are, for forsake, ‘leaving in resentment’, for desert, ‘leaving meanly or treacherously’, and for relinquish, ‘quitting any claim to [somebody]’. Paragraph 4 gives an example for each of these three. The definition of quit is also followed by an example in paragraph 6. The last paragraph summarizes in one sentence the deliberations on all six verbs in virtually the sequence in which the heading names them (only forsake and leave are exchanged). This little network can be diagrammed thus: break off

act abandon

leave forsake desert

quit relinquish

The criterion for differentiating between act and break off is left open. The criterion for differentiating between abandon, leave, and quit vs forsake, desert, and relinquish is ‘voluntariness’ (negative, positive, and neutral). In the case of leave, Trusler obviously thinks only of ‘forced to leave’ and not of ‘planning to leave’ (see below). The criterion for differentiating between abandon and leave is the applicability to ‘things’ and ‘persons’. Quit is left open in this respect. The examples show applicability to things. The criterion for differentiating between forsake, desert, and relinquish are the 15 Square brackets indicate that the word or expression has been added by me, and does not occur in the text.

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special circumstances mentioned. The diagram could be completed thus: [X] act (comprehensive) abandon (act, invol., thing)

break off (comprehensive) leave (act, invol., person)

quit (break off, invol., [thing])

forsake desert (leave, vol., resentment) (leave, vol., meanly)

relinguish (quit, vol., claim)

There is an unresolved self-contradiction in this arrangement, as leave is credited with the feature ‘involuntary’, whereas its lower synonyms forsake and desert are credited with the feature ‘voluntary’. The various criteria can also be expressed structurally, although Trusler does not do so. The characterization as ‘acting’ and ‘breaking off’ restricts the choice of subjects, which must be personal. So does the feature of in/voluntariness. The difference in applicability restricts the choice of objects, which are either plus (⫹) or minus (⫺) person. The special conditions would, if spelled out, most certainly appear in adverbials. This first article of John Trusler’s book is certainly well thought out, as our analysis shows. Precise statements and clear reasoning are its outstanding features. Precursors of future linguistic methods (outlines of a field, hierarchical arrangement of lexemes, feature analysis, substitution) appear, if rather dimly. There are other articles with a much simpler line of argument. Article 3, for example, pertains to the verbs abate, diminish, decrease, and lessen. In the first paragraph, it distinguishes between their so-called active, i.e. transitive, and their so-called neuter, i.e. intransitive, use, maintaining that in the latter they are ‘nearly synonymous’, meaning ‘to grow less’. As transitives, however, they are ‘very different’, although we may assume that their common meaning is ‘make less’. In the following paragraph, four meanings of the intransitives are mentioned despite the common meaning ‘grow less’. They are ‘decrease in action’ for abate, ‘waste in substance’ for diminish, ‘decay in moral virtue’ for decrease, and ‘contraction of parts’ for lessen. Note that decrease functions on two levels: it serves

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to explain abate and also has its own meaning. Paragraphs 3 and 4 give examples. In paragraph 5, three meanings of the transitives are given, namely ‘lower in the price’ for abate, ‘make less by abscision or destruction’ for diminish, and ‘a voluntary act of degradation’ for lessen. Decrease is omitted. Again, examples follow (paragraphs 6–8). This article is constructed just as straightforwardly and logically as the first (and most of the others), but this time there is no attempt at creating a little network of lexemes which shows the synonyms to constitute a system of their own. Every minimal contrast is simply indicated by a different verb and a possible domain of application: intransitive: ‘grow less’: abate: decrease, action diminish: waste, substance decrease: decay, virtue lessen: contract of parts [⫽ quantity] transitive: [‘make less’]: abate: lower price diminish: make less lessen: act, degradation

The examples do not always harmonize well with the descriptive statements. ‘Action’, for example, is exemplified by ‘ardour’ and ‘fever’. But this is simply a series of possible uses of the three verbs without any interconnections. Of course, in terms of idiomaticity,16 it need not be less perceptive and well chosen than the explanations of the first article. Trusler and Dr Johnson

Besides Trusler’s first source, the French original, and the second, the author’s observation of linguistic reality together with his ideas on style and norm, there is a third that deserves mention, namely Dr Johnson’s dictionary. Leaving aside etymological derivations, we find, for example, that the entry abandon is explained in the dictionary by the verbs give up, resign, quit, and forsake. Abandon, forsake, and quit appear in both works, give up and resign only in Johnson, leave and relinquish only in Trusler. However, except for forsake, meaning 16 Incidentally, there is no discussion of idiomaticity in this and the other works on synonymy. That first appeared in the entries of the more comprehensive synonym dictionaries. Roget mentioned idiomatic phrases regularly in his entry articles. See Ch. 8.4.5.

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‘with a tendency for an ill sense’, there are no explanations in Johnson’s entry; only quotations from literature are given as tokenfor-types. In the dictionary, just as in Trusler’s book, the entry abate is, first of all, divided into transitive and intransitive uses. The synonyms for the transitive use are lessen and diminish, which are also in Trusler, and deject and depress the mind, which are not. The very specific to let down the price in selling is mentioned in both works. Decrease, which Trusler mentions, is missing in Johnson. For the intransitive use of abate, Johnson gives grow less. All this amounts to saying that the skeletons of the entries in Trusler and Johnson conform to each other. One can infer (somewhat boldly) from these two cases that Trusler’s entries are his own (or Abbé Girard’s), but that they are compatible with Johnson’s entries, which he may have used as a kind of counter-check, as is suggested in ‘The Author’s Preface’ (see above). Some examples point in the same direction. 6.3.2

Piozzi (1794)

British Synonymy; Or, An Attempt At Regulating The Choice Of Words In Familiar Conversation. Inscribed, With Sentiments of Gratitude and Respect, to such of her Foreign Friends as have made English Literature their peculiar Study, By Hester Lynch Piozzi. In Two Volumes. London: Printed For G.G. And J. Robinson, Paternoster-Row. MDCCXCIV. Pp. viii (preface) ⫹ 423 (vol. I) ⫹ 416 (vol. II), 8⬚. (Orig. British Museum.) There was another edition in Dublin in the same year, but no further ones. Alston 1974: iii, 524–5. Reprint: Hester Lynch Piozzi: British Synonymy 1794. In two volumes (Menston: Scolar Press, 1968). The author and the book

Hester Lynch Piozzi (1741–1821) is known for her friendship with Dr Johnson, about whom she wrote the lively Anecdotes of the Late Samuel Johnson (1786). After the death of her first husband Henry Thrale, she married the musician Gabriel Piozzi, with whom she lived in Italy. Here she certainly met the ‘foreign friends’ mentioned in the title of her book on synonymy. She returned to England in 1787 and, during the remainder of her days, published books on travel and her correspondence with Dr Johnson.

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In the preface, Piozzi conforms to the limited role that the eighteenth century allowed a woman, even one of her panache. It is a woman’s work, she writes, to direct the choice of phrases in familiar talk, whereas it is a man’s work to prescribe grammar and logic. Synonymy, her topic, has more to do with the former than the latter, with the elegance of parlour conversation rather than with truth. With her background it is no wonder that she thought mainly of clearing up ‘difficult[ies] to foreigners’ in this context (1794: p. vi). Her mention of the Abbé Girard is rather deprecatory, and indeed her book is different from his, and consequently from John Trusler’s, although her main concern, identifying synonyms, coincided with theirs. The 310 unnumbered articles of Piozzi’s book are arranged in two separately bound volumes. Although there are slightly fewer articles than in Trusler, more lexemes are treated. About 75 per cent of the articles pertain to between three and five words each, the remaining 25 per cent to two or to between six and eleven each. There are some 1,400 entries in all. The length of the articles differs: more than half are between one and three pages long, the remainder between four and as many as twelve. They are arranged alphabetically, which makes the book a handy manual. As a representative sample of her vocabulary, I have selected (i) the first twenty articles of the book, which, in this case, all start with the letter A, and (ii) the articles listed under H according to their headwords. (i) */⬚to abandon, forsake, relinquish, give up, desert, quit, leave17 ⬚abasement, depression, dereliction, being brought low, &c. to abet, encourage, push forward, support, maintain */⬚to abhor, loath, detest, hate */⬚abject, mean, despicable, worthless, vile, destitute */⬚ability, capacity, power acquirements, acquisitions, attainments active, assiduous, sedulous, diligent, industrious ⬚acuteness, sharpness, quickness, keenness *advice, counsel, deliberation affability, condescension, courtsey, graciousness 17 Starred entries coincide with Trusler in at least two lexemes. Degreed (⬚) entries coincide with Taylor in at least two lexemes (see below).

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affection, passion, tenderness, fondness, love ⬚affliction, lamentation, sadness, sorrow; misery, grief, concern, compunction, contrition, distress ⬚amiable, lovely, charming, fascinating ⬚amicable, amical, friendly ⬚antipathy, aversion, disgust authority and power awful, reverential, solemn ⬚ay and yes ⬚azure, sapphire, blue (ii) ⬚habit, custom happy, lucky, fortunate, successful, prosperous ⬚heresy, dissension, schism healthy, wholesome heroism, magnanimity, gallantry, firmness hill, mountain, rock hire and let honesty, justice, integrity, fair dealing, uprightness, and equity ⬚honour, delicacy of conduct, refinement upon virtue, scrupulosity of behaviour, niceness, reputation hound, greyhound, harrier, terrier hunting, coursing, shooting, setting ⬚hurry and haste Areas of vocabulary

The two lists show the same problems with reference to word classes as were found in Trusler’s book. Nouns, verbs, and adjectives outnumber the others, but the many nominal derivations from adjectives and verbs again render meaningless an exact count in this respect. The two lists also show that, in the present book, there are more multi-lexeme entries than in the former. This is corroborated by such entries as to degenerate, fall from the virtue of our ancestors, lapse from a better to a worse state, grow wild or base, pejorate, disgrace our native stock (i, 141) or loyalty, fidelity, firm adherence to one’s prince (i, 390). There are only a few overlaps, which perhaps shows that Hester Lynch Piozzi knew Trusler’s book, but did not follow it to any significant extent. She includes many idiomatic phrases and her style is certainly more elevated. Moreover, she includes more items which are, strictly speaking, not

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synonyms but names of things or facts easily confused. Trusler gives occasional examples (e.g. vale, valley, bottom, dale, n⬚. 92), but Piozzi has many more, among them the ones mentioned from Trusler (ii, 326), but also others which signify a special interest of hers: for example, melody, harmony, music (ii, 21), name, noun proper, nominal distinction, appelative (ii, 41), poet, writer, author (ii, 121), and riddles, rebuses, aenigmas, charades (ii, 22). Many of them are redolent of the leisure discussions and activities of educated circles and parlours. Some border on technical language. Otherwise there is the same preponderance of lexemes denoting complex cognitive and emotional actions and states, and moral and other behavioural phenomena, as we found in Trusler. The approach is once again strictly synchronic. Familiar talk and meaning

The real difference between Hester Lynch Piozzi and John Trusler lies in the design of the articles. A recurrent trait is her repeated recourse to the experience of foreigners in conversation. She quotes potential utterances, speaks of their likely effects in society, characterizes their style. There are no attempts at defining word meanings by one marked feature, as Trusler did continually in his adaptation of Girard. This means that there are no clear alternations between the object level of language usage and the metalevel of explanation. Rather, the author obviously assumes that usage itself clarifies the meaning. This usage is occasionally embedded in lavishly displayed information, for example when fast, use of abstinence, and abstain from food are presented in a page-long treatise on Biblical and clerical habits (i, 225–30). Where Trusler argued curtly and resolutely, Piozzi tends to be elaborate and discursive. Her first article (i, 1–4) is a good example for comparison. It deals, as does Trusler’s first article, with abandon, forsake, relinquish, etc., and begins by saying that ‘conversing does certainly better shew the peculiar appropriation,18 than books’: familiar talk tells us in half an hour—That a man forsakes19 his mistress, abandons all hope of regaining her lost esteem, relinquishes his pretensions in favour of another; gives up a place of trust he held under the government, 18

In the wider context, the term synonymous is used in the meaning of full synonymy. The articles then proceed to show that certain lexemes are not synonymous in this sense. The quotation is taken 19 from this part. Capitalized in the original.

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deserts his party, leaves his parents in affliction, and quits the kingdom for ever.

There follows another round of examples. Of other lexemes it is said that they ‘prove to a foreigner that [something is] a wellreceived colloquial phrase’, that they can be said ‘with propriety’, that some phrase is ‘popular and common’ or that it ‘approaches to solemnity’. Most clearly, language is here regarded as a social reality rather than a denotational relation. Quotations from Pope and Swift and from unknown Italian verse show what kind of society decides on the use of synonyms. In this respect, even remarks on the past usage of words are allowed. If the author ventures on something which might be called a definition in the strict sense, she speaks with a subjective air. Note, for example, the article on ductile, flexible, soft, yielding, pliable, malleable: The first of these is I know not why chiefly appropriated by books, and even used more when writing about things than persons; though Addison, whose style in the Freeholder approaches to colloquial, mentions a ductile and easy people, not difficult to be worked upon. I think the word very happy when applied to temper; [. . .] Pliable seems somehow referable more to body than to mind [. . .]. (i, 174–5)

This is far from Trusler’s pithy definitions, though quite similar criteria are used. However, these differences are more of style than of substance. There is more logic in Trusler and more rhetoric in Piozzi. The authors obviously each have a different frame of mind and, naturally, appeal to readers differently. But the substance of their explanations is identical to a remarkable extent. Compare the first article of both books: Piozzi: forsake mistress Trusler: leave, voluntary, resentment abandon hope act, involuntary, thing relinquish quit, voluntary, claim pretensions give up place [not mentioned] of trust desert party leave, voluntary, meanly leave parents act, involuntary, person quit kingdom break off, in/voluntary, thing The only real disagreement is about leave, where in any case a selfcontradiction was found in Trusler. Piozzi, however, surpasses her

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predecessor when saying that ‘to relinquish a town’ sounds odd (because you have no claims to a town), that ‘to forsake London’ sounds ‘foppish’ (because London is not a person), and ‘to abandon London’ sounds ridiculous (because the town can do perfectly well without you). She points to the fact that deviant uses of synonyms can create special stylistic effects. Piozzi and Dr Johnson

Of course, Piozzi’s conformity to Trusler also extends to Dr Johnson’s dictionary. Her way of dealing with synonyms, however, highlights the new approach to the problem which started with Trusler, following the French model of Abbé Girard. Johnson complements his lexemes with other lexemes, the additional descriptive sentence, and elaborate quotations from literature. Piozzi, even more than Trusler, complements her lexemes with rather elaborate demonstrations of language which was in vogue at the time. This gives her book a kind of impressionistic atmosphere. However, it was not always received so sympathetically. The anonymous author mentioned earlier who reviewed the extant publications on synonymy in England in 1851 spoke of ‘preposterous volumes’: ‘[The work] is utterly destitute of any governing principle. Mrs. Piozzi runs in amongst words like a child at romps, and tosses them about apparently more in sport than earnest’ (Anonymous 1851: 261). 6.3.3

Taylor (1813)

English Synonyms Discriminated by W[illiam] Taylor, Jun. Of Norwich. London: Printed For W. Pople, 67, Chancery Lane. 1813. Pp. 20 (introduction) ⫹ 294 ⫹ 18 (index), 12⬚. PC. The author and the book

William Taylor (1765–1836) travelled extensively on the Continent. He became an enthusiast for German literature on the one hand and for the French Revolution on the other. He translated some of the authors of Weimar classicism, and in Paris attended the debates of the National Assembly. His main work is Historic Survey of German Poetry (1828–1830). In England, he contributed numerous articles on various subjects to learned journals and periodicals. Many of his discussions of synonyms first appeared in the Athenaeum.

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The ‘Introduction’shows more erudition and philological knowledge than do the corresponding parts of the other books on synonymy. A later anonymous critic wrote that ‘[his] book is entitled to be regarded as the first original contribution to the study of English synonyms’ (1851: 262). Taylor shows himself to be well informed on the topic of synonymy, having learnt from Quintilian, whom he quotes extensively, and other classical authors, such as John of Garland, to the Abbé Girard and his contemporaries Stosch and Eberhard in Germany, and Trusler and Piozzi in England. He speaks of ‘self-derived’ languages, like German and Greek, which do not have fully synonymous words, and of languages like English which ‘have been formed by the confluence of several tongues’ (p. vi), which do have them, but lose them in the course of history.20 This somewhat heavy-going introduction, however, does not much influence Taylor’s method of handling synonyms. The book has 563 unnumbered articles, of which 340 are devoted to two synonyms, 190 to three and four, and the few remaining to between five and eight, one even to twelve. The synonyms are printed in italics as headings, and also in the texts. The majority of the articles pertaining to word pairs are a few lines long, giving, as it were, concise information for the reader in a hurry, for example the one on put, place: To put is to place in any situation; to place is to put in a specific sitation. Columns, though put to support an edifice, should be placed with symmetry. (102)

A rather small number of articles cover between one and three pages. There is no discernible regularity in the sequence of words. To give the reader a fair idea of the vocabulary, I have chosen (i) the first twenty articles of the book, and (ii) the articles whose first headword starts with H, which are distributed throughout the book: (i) synonymous, homonymous to whiten, blanch *to wish for, have a mind for, long for, hanker after21 20 The argument about the ‘pure’ and ‘mixed’ character of languages appears quite often in the German philological literature of the time apart from discussions of synonymy. 21 Starred entries coincide with Trusler in at least two lexemes.

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tray, waiter, voider *doubt, uncertainty, suspense *story, tale, romance, novel *endeavour, effort to dissert, discuss disagreement, dissention, division, discord sumptuous, sumptuary to confute, refute *fight, combat, engagement, battle dumb, silent, mute *benediction, beatitude, blessing, bliss *choaked, throttled, strangled, stifled, smothered, suffocated *flesh, meat, victuals *austerity, severity, rigour *gentle, tame *haughtiness, disdain weariness, fatigue, lassitude (ii) *haughtiness, disdain *heavy, weighty to honour, revere, worship, adore *hasty, passionate hurry, haste, speed, dispatch high, tall, lofty to hint, suggest, intimate, insinuate human, humane *happiness, felicity, bliss *to have, possess historiographer, historian heterodoxy, heresy *head, chief *however, yet, notwithstanding, nevertheless house, tenement hopelessness, despair, despondency humble, submissive, vile, abject Areas of vocabulary

Again there is a preponderance of nouns, verbs, and adjectives over the other word classes, and again they denote cognitive and emotional actions and states or moral and other behavioural phenomena rather than objects in reality. The overlappings between

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Taylor and Trusler and between Trusler and Piozzi show that the selection of synonyms had, by now, almost become a stable convention with not much room for originality. Nevertheless Taylor does not have the almost obligatory first article abandon, forsake, leave, relinquish, desert, and quit; instead he has forsake, neglect, desert, and abandon. New and established methods

William Taylor liked to refer to ‘etymons’ or cognate words in foreign languages, but he did not exploit them for explaining meanings. They are simply the basis for historical and comparative remarks which give his book a philological flair, as does his habit of quoting authorities, from Cicero to his colleagues Trusler and Piozzi. An odd case is the article on abdicate, desert which consists solely of a four-page quotation of Lord Somners on the occasion of King James vacating the throne (56–60). Some of the quotations are in Latin, some in French. In spite of the erudite references, Taylor’s descriptive and discriminative texts are very much like those written by Trusler and (in part) Piozzi. Obviously the method of marking minimal synonymous contrasts, of choosing rather short sentences as examples, the exchange of verbs, and close comparisons of several lexemes often in one utterance had by now been firmly established. Taylor’s personal modifications are the interspersing of quotations, which he may have done in imitation of Dr Johnson, and the habit of adding discursive remarks on various topics from his linguistic experience, frequently from Germany or France (see e.g. wit, humor [!], 61–4, and felicitate, congratulate, 226). Moreover, he liked rather academic headwords (e.g. essay, dissertation, tractate, tract, treatise, memorial, investigation, 43–4; tongue, language, speech, dialect, 91–2, and vocabulary dictionary, lexicon, glossary, 150) and those which border on technical language (e.g. print, cut, copper-plate, gay, etching, mezzotinto, engraving, 38–9, and sailor, seaman, mariner, waterman, 125). 6.3.4

Blair (1783)

Trusler, Piozzi, and Taylor are not scientific in the way in which we now understand the term in linguistics. They addressed the educated

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speaker and the learner, not the expert. By and large, they used common, if educated, language. Sometimes their explanations look like party games. Nevertheless, these books on synonymy prepared the way for what would later become scientific semantics. This is a most interesting case of what must have happened very often in the history of linguistics, namely that precise concepts and terms, usually connected with the major works of a few renowned authors, have in fact depended on traditional opinions and beliefs which have been developed by what we would nowadays call laymen. French work on synonyms is usually counted as a historical contribution to the assumption that one’s own language is superior to all other European languages and even to Latin, because of the clarté or netteté of its grammar.22 The same national tone was to be found in Girard. It is no wonder that English authors were not interested in propagating this ‘foreign’ idea. But they did not transfer it to their own language either. Instead, they made it a part of the British desire for a plain and perspicuous style as it has prevailed since Francis Bacon and the Royal Society (Hüllen 1989). In his authoritative way, it was Hugh Blair (1718–1800), the representative of the so-called Scottish Enlightenment, who led work on synonyms into this stream of the English stylistic tradition. Blair was a minister of the Church of Scotland and Professor of Rhetoric and the Fine Arts at Edinburgh University. His Lectures on Rhetorics and Belles Lettres (3 vols., 1783; Alston 1974: vi, 237–60) were very popular. Many complete and abridged editions were published in Britain and the United States. The work was translated into French, Italian, Spanish, German, and Dutch. Influenced by, among others, James Harris (1709–1780) and Lord Monboddo (1714–1799) in Britain and by Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1714–1780) and Nicolas Beauzée in France, he developed his own, quite idealistic theory of the origin of language (speech) (Frank 1996). For him, rhetoric and logic are part of the aesthetic education of human beings. In lecture 10 he dealt with synonyms: All the qualities of a good Style may be ranged under two Heads, Perspicuity and Ornament. For all that can be possibly required of Language, is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others and, at the

22

See Ch. 6.1.4.

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same time, on such a dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effectually strengthen the impression which we seek to make. (1783: i, 219)

For Blair, perspicuity is nothing other than the combination of purity, propriety, and precision. These postulates, in particular purity, are to prevent the use of foreign, obsolete, and newly coined words ‘without proper authority’. Authority is wielded by the best authors, though Blair allows exceptions. Latinate words are not to be used ‘unless where necessity requires them’. It is a sign of a bad author to use a ‘loose style’—a statement which leads him to the question of synonymy: The great source of a loose Style, in opposition to Precision, is the injudicious use of those words termed Synonymous. They are called Synonymous, because they agree in expressing one principal idea; but, for the most part, if not always, they express it with some diversity in the circumstances. They are varied by some accessory idea which every word introduces, and which forms the distinctions between them. (i, 231)

Synonyms enrich any language, but are also the source of erroneous language use. On no fewer than six pages (i, 233–9), Blair compares and differentiates many of them. He condemns otherwise highly regarded authors like Bishop Tillotson, Lord Shaftesbury, and Joseph Addison, but praises Jonathan Swift, who succeeds in uniting precision with copiousness and ornament: To unite together Copiousness and Precision, to be flowing and graceful, and, at the same time, correct and exact in the choice of every word, is, no doubt, one of the highest and most difficult attainments in writing. (i, 240–1)

This is guaranteed above all, of course, by a command of synonyms. In a footnote (i, 239), Blair refers to Abbé Girard and recommends his book to English speakers. His own articles are short and precise, indicating general domains for the use of synonyms, working with antonymous meanings (not necessarily antonyms), and concrete applications. His style is very close to that of the admired Frenchman, who, however, tends to be more elaborate and evaluative. Note, for example, the articles on Austerity, Severity, Rigour (Blair) and Severity, Rigour (Girard/Trusler): Austerity, Severity, Rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner of living; Severity, of thinking; Rigour, of punishing. To Austerity, is opposed

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Effeminacy; to Severity, Relaxation; to Rigour, Clemency. A Hermit, is austere in his life; a Casuist, severe in his application or religion or law; a Judge, rigorous in his sentences. (Blair 1783: i, 233). Severity, Rigour. Severity, shews itself, chiefly, in the manner of thinking and judging; it condemns readily and admits of no excuse. Rigour, is seen, particularly, in the manner of punishing; it pardons nothing, nor lightens the stroke. False-devotees are severe, only, to others, whom, they are ever eager to condemn; and are always, applauding their own actions. Rigour, can never be justifiable, but, at those times, when example is of the utmost consequence; yet, even then, some sort of allowance should be made for human frailty. (Girard/Trusler 1766/1970: I, 112–13)23

Blair’s strict, almost pithy, style is shown by the following entries, which contain general definitions, domains of use, and examples in strict sequence and parallelism: Custom, Habit. Custom, respects the action; Habit, the actor; By Custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act; by Habit, the effect which that repetition produces on the mind or body. By the Custom of walking often in the streets, one acquires a Habit of idleness. (i, 233; see Girard/Trusler 1766/1970: i, 194–5)

A direct comparison is possible in the case of only, alone: Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same kind; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only child, is one who has neither brother nor sister; a child alone, is one who is left by itself. There is a difference, therefore, in precise Language, betwixt these two phrases, ‘Virtue only makes us happy’ and ‘Virtue alone makes us happy.’ Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that nothing else can do it. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, or unaccompanied with other advantages, is sufficient to do it. (Blair 1783: i, 235–6) Only, Alone. When, speaking of a thing, we make use of the word, only, we mean, there is no other of the same kind; when that of, alone, that, it is not accompanied with any other. A child, that has neither brother or sister, is, an only child. A person when by himself, is said, to be alone. That things must be very rare, of which we can find only one. Nothing is more tiresome, than to be, always, alone. (Girard/Trusler 1766/1970: ii, 80–1 [280])

23 There is an additional entry for austere, severe in Girard, which shows the differing degrees of detail in the two authors (i, 180–1).

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These examples show that a similarity in argument and style had developed which transcended national boundaries and, indeed, had spread all over Europe. The lexemes selected as well as the methods of definition and juxtaposition had become international. In spite of this, Blair’s linguistic programme, as explained above, is much more in the British than in the French spirit. It is the controversies about Latinate vocabulary and the postulates of the plain style which we find in his pedagogical ideas, though they are presented in the garb of his French predecessor. We find a quite similar stance in William Taylor’s English Synonyms Discriminated, whose heavy dependence on Girard is beyond any doubt (see above). The introduction is much more philological than the others, full of references to classical, French, and other European authors. But there are also more general passages on the historical development of languages. Languages which were created by fusing several older ones, he writes, have so-called perfect synonyms: ‘Freedom, happiness are saxon [!], liberty, felicity, are latin [!] terms, which are not merely similar, but identical in meaning’ (Taylor 1813: p. vi). Later they diverged: Such double terms are always commutable at first, and may continue so for generations: but when new objects are discovered, or new shades of idea which such words are fitted to depict, it at length happens that a separation of meanings is made between them. (1813: p. vii)

For Taylor, this process had not yet come to an end in the case of English. This is why there are so many synonymous doublets. Finding their early meanings by way of etymologizing is the right way to proceed. This is how beauty and precision, which are modes not of language but of thought, can be achieved. Again, English is different in this respect from other languages: A Frenchman or an Italian has only to learn latin [!] in order to know thoroughly his whole narrow range of words. But an english [!] writer, in order completely to understand his vocabulary, must study so many languages, that he less frequently accomplishes the task. (pp. xiii–xiv)

Thus, discriminating synonyms, although instigated by a French author and supported by similar thinking in various European countries, was made a part of the English linguistic heritage.

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6.4

The English synonym dictionary appears

With the synonym books in the tradition of the Abbé Girard on the one hand and the comprehensive English dictionary, exemplified at its best in Johnson’s unique work, on the other, we encounter two lexicographical techniques which eventually led to Roget’s cumulative synonymy. They combined with each other in various ways, of course, not moving in a linear progression towards some pre-established end but rather following a meandering course whose varying directions reflected the individual aims of their authors. The following is a sequence of analyses of a selection of dictionaries published between 1774 and 1852, the year Roget’s Thesaurus appeared. Three later synonym dictionaries will also be discussed. Given that their preparation was roughly contemporaneous with that of the Thesaurus, these three books can show what was ‘in the air’. Various derivative and new, traditional and original features will become apparent. Altogether they are part of the general problem of how to treat synonymy in dictionaries. Because of the individual characters of these dictionaries and their varying contribution to the general development of synonym dictionaries, the analyses are of varying degrees of detail. They demonstrate the growing linguistic awareness of lexis as a preparation for later semantics. 6.4.1

Barclay (1774)

James Barclay: A Complete And Universal English Dictionary On A New Plan: Including Not Only I. A Full Explanation of Difficult Words And Technical Terms [. . .], But II. A Pronouncing Dictionary [. . .], III. The Origin Of Each Word [. . .], IV. The Difference between Words esteemed Synonymous pointed out, [V.–VII . . .]. By the Rev. [. . .] And Others. London: Richardson and Urquart [. . .] 1774. BL 1560/1926, 8⬚, c.1,400 pp. [unpaginated]. There were other editions in 1782, 1792 (new edn), and 1799, and 13 reprints up to 1851. Alston 1974: v, nos. 284–7. The author has no entry in the DNB.

The book is printed in two columns with an average of thirty entries per page, amounting to as many as 42,000 entries. The title, with its precise indications of what this monumental book is going to provide for its readers, covers an entire densely printed page.

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Besides the dictionary part, there are accompanying essays which show that Barclay wished to bring together as much information as possible on the language as such. There is a summary of the history of England, a historical and geographical description of various empires, an account of sects and divisions of the Christian Church and of counties in England, Scotland, and Wales, and a sketch of the constitution. Nearer to the topic of the dictionary itself are an enquiry into the origin of letters and of the English language, a grammar, and an outline of ancient and modern history. The author states proudly that the book as a whole ‘compris[es] several thousand Articles not to be found in any other Dictionary’. The programme, as indicated in the title, shows the level of lexicography reached after the hard-word movement in the seventeenth century and after the subsequent extension of lexicographical work, exemplified at its best by Dr Johnson. The author expresses the older aim of explaining difficult words, and the newer ones of stabilizing pronunciation (which also means stabilizing spelling) and etymology. To this is added ‘The Difference between Words esteemed Synonymous [. . .]’, which means that synonymy is now an integral part of dictionaries. The preface adds, The Synonimous [!] part of our Dicionary we modestly assert to be entirely new; the use of which, both in speaking and writing, must at first view appear to every intelligent Reader; and we have endeavoured to execute it without running into whimsical notions, or fantastic, affected niceties.

The entries of the dictionary are indeed heavily dominated by synonyms, with explanations or definitions interspersed sparingly. Although Barclay’s work is certainly a comprehensive alphabetical dictionary in every dimension of lexicographical work, its explanatory part consists almost entirely of synonyms. In spite of the strict alphabetical order, which deviates from the order of older synonym books, the lexemes used for explanation and the short differentiations show that the author himself consulted precisely these books of synonyms. Compare these passages with their counterparts in Trusler and Piozzi, for example: To ABANDON, V. Act. (Ital.) to forsake utterly; to cast off; to give up one self wholly to any prevailing passion or vice. To abandon, is more applicable to things; leave to persons. He was under a necessity of abandoning

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his possessions, and compelled to leave his friends. To forsake, implies in resentment or dislike; to relinquish, quitting any claim; to desert, leaving meanly or treacherously. To quit, implies the breaking off from, and may be either voluntary or involuntary. To ABATE, V. Act. (Fr.) to make or grow less; to diminish or decrease.— These words are nearly synonimous. To abate implies a decrease in action; diminish, a waste in substance; decrease, a decay in moral virtue; lessen, a contraction in parts. To DECREASE, [phonetic symbols] V.N. (Lat.) to become less either in length, weight, force, or bulk; to diminish. Actively, to make less. To DIMINISH, V.A. (Lat.) to make a thing less by cutting off or destroying some of its parts. Figuratively, to impair; lessen; to degrade, or render less honorable. Neuterly, to grow less, or be impaired. To LESSEN, V.A. (from less) to diminish the bulk, quantity or quality of any thing. Neuterly, to grow less, shrink, or contrast. SYNON. To abate implies a decrease in action; diminish, a waste in substance; decrease a decay in moral virtue; lessen, a contraction of parts. NOISE, [phonetic symbols] S. (Fr.) any kind of sound, generally applied to that made by brutes or inanimate bodies, and implying excessive loudness; an outcry, clamor, or boasting and impertinent talk. SHARP; Adj. (Sax.) having a keen edge, or an acute point. Witty, ingenious, or inventive, applied to the mind. Quick, applied to hearing, seeing, or understanding. Sour, applied to taste. Shrill, applied to sound. Severe, or cruel, applied to season or disposition. Painful. Fierce, applied to contest. Attentive, or vigilant, followed by look out. Subtle. Hard. Lean. Keen, applied to appetite. SYNON. Sharp, sour, and acid, express different degrees of sourness. The first implies sourness without astringency. Sour includes in its idea little or no acrimony. By acid is understood a corrosive sour.

Obviously, entries on and with nouns tend more to definitions plus synonyms, entries on and with verbs to synonymous verbs plus adverbs or complements, and entries with adjectives to bare rows of synonyms. 6.4.2

Devis (1782)

Ellin Devis: Miscellaneous Lessons, Designed For the Use of Young Ladies. On A New Plan. London: For the Author [. . .]. M.DCC.LXXXII. 12⬚, iv ⫹ 212 pp. Alston 1974: iii, nos. 355–6. BL 8310.a.16. The author has no entry in the DNB.

Books and dictionaries on synonymy have always had a strong didactic bias. Their authors have seen a need to teach people the

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precise and correct use of language. Ellin Devis’s book, however, is the first to appear on the market as a textbook and to address that group of people who needed an elementary education more than anyone else, namely girls. The author must have been a professional teacher. In 1775, she published a very successful book on the rudiments of English grammar (Alston 1974: i, nos. 320–8) of which an 18th edition appeared in 1827. In an ‘Advertisement’ she claims that ‘synonymizing’ is not an improper exercise for very young minds to enable them to understand what they read. The book contains 65 ‘Miscellaneous Lessons’ (pp. 1–107), i.e. short texts—fables, philosophical arguments, educative exhortations, stories, etc. from well-known and also lesser-known authors, for example ‘Fable of the Magpie and other Birds’ (Fielding), ‘The Shepherd’s Boy’ (L’Estrange), ‘Personal Deformities are not Objects of Ridicule’ (Voltaire), ‘The Importance of Order’ (Dr Blair [!]), etc. They are followed by ‘A Table Of Synonymous Expressions’ (108–88) arranged in two columns: ‘The words that are to be changed’ on the left-hand side, and ‘The Explanation, and synonymous words’ on the right-hand side. Sometimes single words are supposed to be exchanged, sometimes entire phrases ‘still adhering strictly to the sense of the original’. The list follows the stories in the first part of the book. The story by L’Estrange, for example, tells of a boy who used to tease people by crying ‘Wolf’ when herding sheep. The result was that nobody came to help him when a wolf did come and kill some of the animals in his care. The following list is attached to this text: parcel—number a common—a large kind of field belonging equally to more than one person in sport—in joke, or in play whereupon—upon which whole neighbourhood—all the people who lived near greatly alarmed—very much frightened to drive—to hunt roguery—tricks became his prey—were devoured, or eaten up by the wolf

There is no reflection on synonymy here, merely a teacher’s practical experience. With about twenty exchanges per page, the book lists

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some 1,600 tasks for the classroom. There follow ‘Notes’ (189–212) consisting of definitions, encyclopaedic explanations, etc. 6.4.3

Dawson (1797)

Benjamin Dawson: Prolepsis Philologiae Anglicanae; Or, Plan Of A Philological And Synonymical Dictionary Of The English Language. [. . .]. Ipswich: George Jermyn [. . .] M DCC XCVII. 4⬚, 1–5, 43 pp. BL 1502/417. Alston 1974: v, no. 370.

Benjamin Dawson (1729–1814) was first a Presbyterian minister and then rector of Burgh in Suffolk. In later life he turned to philology. Besides his publications on synonyms, he wrote on necessitarianism. Hence he joins the ranks of the many people who worked on synonyms without being professionals. Unlike the other authors, he first published an elaborate essay on a dictionary of synonyms and then, years later, the dictionary itself. However, Dawson abandoned the latter after publishing only the entries from a, an to adornment (see below). ‘Its execution is not without merit, but the design was on too great a scale for Dawson to hope to complete it, and the public did not encourage the attempt’ (DNB). This is why Dawson is more a man of theory than of lexicographical practice. The Prolepsis gives a theoretical basis for the dictionary to come, which was obviously already planned. He explains that words either give names to objects or express ideas. It sometimes happens that new ideas find several words. In principle, however, this is not the case unless those words are chosen for variation in sound or style and for their adequacy to particular genres of text. This leads to the well-known assumption that there is no perfect synonymy, although that assumption is formulated with much more sophistication than it is by other authors: We may conclude then, that no two words in any language can be perfectly synonymous, but that every word, whether originally peculiar to the language, or introduced into it from some other, is intended to express an idea different from what is affixed to any other word, or (which amounts to the same thing) to express it somehow differently in degree, extent, limitation, or other circumstance. (Dawson 1797: 8)

Synonyms, i.e. words ‘akin in signification’ (9), contribute to the wealth of a language because more ideas can be expressed with

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precision. They mark an increase and refinement in communication. So-called primeval languages, just like the language of children, have few, simple, and precise words for objects. Then a refinement in the naming of objects and of ideas leads, first, to a certain ambiguity of words as long as the language does not follow this development, and then to adequate expressions. More synonyms mean more elegance and precision, but also a greater risk of abuse. Dawson gives examples from the Scriptures and ancient languages, because their translation best reveals where synonyms have been used improperly. Unlike other writers, Dawson infers from the nature of synonyms that, on certain occasions, they may be used indiscriminately, i.e. with the meaning they have in common. He explains this with the lexemes design (planning something in its proper form), intend (being bent on doing something), and purpose (putting oneself forward to do something). They have in common the meaning ‘having something in one’s mind to effect’ and may be used indiscriminately in this (and only in this) sense. From the nature of synonyms, Dawson infers that in a dictionary words cannot be explained by words in a one-to-one fashion but this must be done periphrastically: The explanation of a word should be so comprehensive as to include the idea which it conveys in common with any other word of the same part of speech, and that by which it is distinguished from all other words, and so definite as to exclude any other ideas than what are essential to it: in other words, we must give it its general and its special import. (Dawson 1797: 34)

Instead, Dawson remarks, dictionaries give either vague explanations or quote various senses which words have in common with other words. But even periphrastically described word meanings cannot be given with ‘mathematical exactness’ (34). Word-for-word explanation is possible only interlinguistically. Disciplines like botany, which Dawson calls the ‘diagnostic arts’, can serve as a model for lexicography. In his opinion, their definitions by genera and species are nothing but definition by common and singular meanings. In this respect, the principles of botany, geometry, etc. are the same as the principles of philology, if it is done scientifically: ‘For, be the objects of one science ever so different from those of another, science itself is one and the same, and in its nature

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abstract’ (38). This guiding function of the natural sciences for lexicography, which Dawson explains in more detail, was also made use of by Wilkins and asserted by Roget.24 Dawson’s ideas on synonymy may not be very original, but the way in which they were executed shows that, for him, compiling a dictionary of synonyms was a serious piece of work to be carried out at a high intellectual level. The title of his dictionary itself testifies to this. 6.4.4

Dawson (1806)

Benjamin Dawson: Philologia Anglicana: Or, A Philological And Synonymical Dictionary Of The English Language; in which the words are deduced from their originals—their sense defined—and the same illustrated and supported by proper examples and note, critical and explanatory. [. . .]. Ipswich: John Raw [. . .] 1806. 4⬚, 500 pp. Alston 1974: v, no. 370. Reprint in facsimile Leeds 1967. BL 626 L 5. From a, an to adornment, no further entries published.

Lemmata are printed in capitals, with accents on stressed vowels. Indications of word class (italics) and language of origin are given. There follow the definition and numbered examples, mostly quotations with their sources. Of course, the dictionary ought to be regarded in light of Dawson’s earlier theoretical deliberations, though as it was abandoned so early, this is scarcely possible. Most extraordinary are the extensive notes: they cover the lower half, or even more, of almost every page. Note the entry abandon (6–10; starred words are annotated): ABANDON, v.a. (abandonner, FR. abandonare, It. bandum* deserere to forsake his colours. Or, a ban donner*, to give up to a proscription.) To leave* at large*; restricted, in its application, to such objects as we no longer care to be connected with, or such as we apprehend danger from; with some allusion* to an act of desertion*, or to the danger* of harbouring a deserter, or proscribed person; as 1. ‘To abandon one’s profession, principles, situation, project, enterprize, and the like.[’] 2. ‘This mutilation of the Sacrament, being both confessedly late, and extremely injurious to God and his people, and contrary to Scripture 24

See Chs. 7.1.4 and 7.3.

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and Reason, is justly abandoned by us*; and we for abandoning it unjustly censored.’ Bp. Hall. ABANDON*, To leave without protection, or rather, by leaving to expose to danger; with some allusion to an act of proscription. 1. ‘The cruel man abandoned her* at that time to the utmost misery, and took to his arms a mean, worthless wretch who was his servant.’ Free Thinker, No. 13 2. ‘The passive Gods behold the Greeks defile / Their temples, and abandon* to the spoil / Their own abodes.’ Dryden 3. ‘Then being alone, / Left and abandon’d* of his velvet friends, / “Tis right”, quoth he.’ Shakespear [!] 4. ‘If she be so abandoned to her sorrow*, / As it is spoke, she never will admit me.’ Shakespear. ABANDONED, part. adj. [from abandoned, part. as coming from a ban donner, or from Banne [Gothic characters], or abannen [Gothic characters], Belg. to curse or anathemize.] Attributive of* being abandoned*. 1. ‘They did not doubt but they (the Jews) would always remain an abandoned and dispersed people*, an hissing and an astonishment among the nations, as they are to this day.’ Addison. 2. ‘Therefore he retired to the temple of Diana; and thought it more honorable to play with the children, than to sit at the helm of government with their abandoned fathers.’* Free Thinker. [Notes:] *1 The Roman standard [plus a Greek reference]. *2 [the French original a ban donner explained plus a Latin reference]. *3 To leave This term is chosen as the most proper, because the most general of all those which convey ideas in common with the word abandon, as, quit, desert, forsake, and the like. Vid. Prolep. page 34–37. *4 At large [long explanation of meaning as implied in abandon, long references to etymology in various languages]. *5 Some allusion. For it is not always necessary, for propriety of expression, that a word be used with a pointed allusion to its derivation [. . .]. Vid. Prolep. p. 28. *6 To an act of desertion. As in the application of the verb to such objects as are mentioned in the first example. *7 Or to the danger. As in the second and similar examples. *8 Justly abandoned by us [expression explained]. *9 [explanations of two meanings of abandon deriving either from the French or from the Belgian [!], plus Latin reference]. *10 Abandoned her to etc. [discussion of an entry in ‘Scott’s Dict.’]. *11 Abandon to the spoil of their own abodes [semantic explanation].

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*12 Left and abandoned [semantic explanation]. *13 So abandoned to her sorrow [long and critical discussion of an entry by Dr Johnson]. *14 [explanation of the term attributive, as either participle or adjective]. *15 Being abandoned [explanation as participle of abandon]. *16 An abandoned and dispersed people [explanation as adjective of abandon]. *17 Their abandoned fathers [explanation, plus long and critical discussion of Dr Johnson].

These notes cover more space than the entries themselves. The author is obviously eager to give his dictionary philological substance and to make no unexplained assumptions, for example, with reference to etymology. The same holds for grammar, where ‘Dr Lowth’ is quoted as a contemporary authority. Also obvious is the author’s eagerness to avoid in his explanations any words which are undefined in their specific meanings, which forces him to use definitions within definitions. Note that he also discusses this problem of endless definitions in his Prolepsis. Dawson was obviously a man with vast plans for synonymy. Perhaps the philological groundwork included in his dictionary is even more innovative than his ideas about synonymy in principle. In spite of his frequent criticism of Dr Johnson, the use of quotations for the semanticization of words is reminiscent of that influential dictionary. 6.4.5

Perry (1805)

William Perry: The Synonymous, Etymological, And Pronouncing English Dictionary; In Which The Words Are Deduced From Their Originals, Their Parts of Speech distinguished, their Pronunciation pointed out, and their Synonyma collected, Which Are Occasionally Illustrated In Their Different Significations, By Examples From The Best Writers; Extracted from the Labours of the late Dr. Samuel Johnson; Being an attempt to Synonymise his Folio Dictionary of the English Language To Which Is Prefixed An English Grammar. [. . .]. London: Printed for John Walker [. . .] By T. Gillet, Salisbury-Square. 1805. Pp. 47 (preface, grammar) ⫹ 400, fol. BL 12983 g. 21. The author and the book

William Perry (no dates available) is the author of quite a number of dictionaries dealing with pronunciation and spelling which,

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although printed in Britain, made a great impact on the lexicographical scene of the United States before Thomas Sheridan and John Walker (Green 1996: 237). The author has an entry in Allibone (1882), but not in the DNB. He himself mentions his career in the navy, which brought him into contact with the British Embassy in China. His work on the dictionary of synonyms extended over the years 1801 to 1805. There is no further information on his life and personality. The folio-sized book is a monumental work having an average of sixty entries per page which amount to some 24,000 entries in all. These are the dimensions of Dr Johnson’s dictionary, and indeed it is this unique achievement of English lexicography which William Perry wanted to produce again with a different profile. The title gives a precise description of how this is to be done, including the important statement that his dictionary is ‘an attempt to Synonymise [Johnson’s] Folio Dictionary of the English Language’. Like Johnson’s, Perry’s dictionary is introduced by a preface and a grammar. The pronunciation of words is given in phonetic writing, their etymology by very short references. The various claims of the title are indeed satisfied by each entry, but the synonyms are by far the most extensive part of the entries. This is obviously where the author’s interest really lay. Perry and Dr Johnson

Dr Johnson was well aware of the difficulties of synonymy.25 He thought of ‘the signification of English words’ (1755: preface, C) as one of the main aims of his book and saw two ways of achieving it: (i) by the replacement of one lexeme by another (or more than one other), and (ii) by quotations. The exchange of lexemes demands that they be semantically ‘reciprocal’ (Johnson’s term). But he knew that this reciprocity was in most cases far from perfect. Therefore, Johnson complemented the synonymous lexemes with short definitions and, most importantly, with quotations. William Perry pruned his predecessor’s dictionary of all these quotations—merely retaining the names of the authors, if that—and thus arrived at a potentially complete alphabetical dictionary of a whole language, English, consisting mainly of lexemes with longer or shorter chains of other 25

See Ch. 5.2.2.

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lexemes and only brief defining phrases between them (see below). In his preface (pp. v–xix), he rightly called his work ‘the only synonymous [English] vocabulary ever offered to the public’. The English vocabulary appeared as a network of semantically related lexemes for the first time. The artificial, but strict alphabetical order provided access. This book was also an outstanding practical achievement, because, as Perry rightly assumed, searching for synonyms is the most common method of producing spoken and written texts, and everybody depends on it: Every person accustomed to write, whether on private concerns, or for public instruction, must have felt the want of such an assistant, not only to guard him against the tiresome repetition of the same words, but to enable him to select terms to express his ideas with greater clearness and precision (p. v).

The intention of providing this dictionary as a word finder for (almost) everybody presupposes that synonyms need no (or hardly any) explanations for native speakers. By definition these speakers are able to understand the meanings of the words in their language. Consequently, they may also be trusted to recognize overlapping meanings and synonymous, if sometimes minimal, contrasts. To this extent, Perry moved away from the other authors of books on synonyms, who thought it their task to explain them. While Trusler, Piozzi, and Taylor, in the wake of Girard, set out to explain the nature of synonymy in selected examples, Perry assumed that this discovery would occur by itself to native speakers if the lexemes of the language were arranged accordingly. Admittedly, there is a confidence trick in this: the reader is supposed to understand a linguistic principle without expressly being told. Microstructure

Perry’s book is also different from the previous ones in that it is a dictionary with all the properties of this genre. Its entries, which are of varying length, have a typical microstructure which, in addition to its arrangement, is indicated by certain typographical means. This structure consists of a lemma (lexeme) which is complemented in various ways. In the case of nouns, we find one or more defining phrases, very much in the manner of Johnson, mostly followed by

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other lexemes as synonyms. In the case of verbs, the defining phrase is generally missing; instead we find a series of lexemes regarded as synonymous with the lemma, frequently enriched with an object or an adverb. Adjectives and adverbs are complemented with more adjectives and adverbs, frequently embedded in nominal or verbal phrases. Occasionally, the names of authors, without quotations, are mentioned; very rarely the quotation itself is added. Finally, the entry may contain an idiomatic phrase with a definition of its meaning. Note the following examples:26 Bed something made to sleep upon; lodging (Shake.); marriage (Clarendon); bank of earth laid in garden; the channel of a river, or any hollow; the place where anything is generated, or reposited; a LAYER27, ledge, row, stratum. To bring to bed, to deliver of a child. Friendship the state of minds united by mutual benevolence, amity, highest degree of intimacy, benevolence, favour, personal kindness; assistance, help (Shak.’s King Lear); conformity, affinity, correspondence, aptness to unite. Dryd. NOISE any kind of sound; a hoot, a shout, outcry, clamour, turbulence, brawl, bustle, racket, clank, clang, din, rout, clatter, clutter, boation, conclamation, vociferation, bomb, bombus, bombilation, clap, report, repercussion, displosion, explosion; bluster, boasting or importune talk; occasion of talk. Spectator. SHELTER a cover from external injury or violence, an asylum, a sanctuary, a refuge; a cove, a harbour, a haven; a screen, shade, covert, coverture, privacy, concealment; a protector, a defender, one who gives security; the state of being covered, protection, security. ANNOY to incommode, inconvenience, be inconvenient to, to disturb, discommode, interrupt, impede, hinder, embarrass, trouble, vex, tire, weary, pester, perplex; to damage, endamage, or injure lightly. Display to spread wide (Fairy Queen); to shew, to exhibit to the sight or mind: to set ostentatiously to view (Shak.); to talk without restraint (Shak.); to carve, to cut up. Mince to cut into very small parts, to hash; to mention any thing scrupulously by a little at a time, to palliate, to extenuate: as “Iago, thy honesty 26 27

Only lemmata and elements pertaining to synonymy are quoted. For capitalized lexemes (radical synonyms), see below.

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and love does mince this matter, making it light to Cassio.” (Shak.);—to speak with affected softness, to clip the words. Throw to fling, to cast, to send to a distant place by any projectile force; to toss, to put with any violence or tumult: comprising always the idea of haste, force, or negligence;—to lay carelessly or in haste; to venture at dice; to cast, to strip, to put off; to emit in any careless or vehement manner (Shak.); to spread in haste (Pope); to overturn in wrestling; to drive or send by force (Addison); to repose, to rest upon; as, throw yourself upon God;—to change by any kind of violence. Pope.28

Note that groups of lexemes or phrases are separated by a semicolon (sometimes together with a hyphen), whereas lexemes or phrases belonging to one group are separated by a comma. Sometimes a colon appears in cases where a subsequent definition or quotation applies to several preceding lexemes or phrases. The order in which lexemes or phrases that belong to one headword follow each other depends on the meanings of the lemmata. Yet some very broad rules seem obvious: ‘direct meaning’ and ‘metaphorical meaning’ (see bed); ‘abstract meaning’, ‘mental state’, and ‘action’ (see friendship); ‘comprehensive meaning’ and ‘special meaning’, like genus and species (see noise); ‘institution’, ‘locality’, ‘object’, ‘person’, and ‘state’ (see shelter). In the case of verbs, the head lexeme of each group has a special function with reference to the lemma, for example incommode and damage (for annoy); spread, show, talk, carve (for display); cut, mention, and speak (for mince), and finally fling, toss, lay, cast, emit, spread, overturn, repose, and change (for throw). The subsequent lexemes of the group refer to this headword rather than to the lemma of the whole entry. But, as the last example shows, there are of course also headwords which have no other lexemes. The sequence of various groups of lexemes (synonyms) in one entry and the typographical conventions of separating them reappear in many other dictionaries and also in Roget’s Thesaurus. Radical synonyms

There is one important innovation to be found in Perry’s dictionary. He introduced the idea of a radical synonym. It can appear anywhere in the series of synonymous lexemes, highlighted by capitalization, 28

For an adjectival entry (sharp), see below.

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signalling that its own significations are indicated in its own entry, which is located according to the alphabet. This method can be understood as a merely typographical device to save space. Indeed, it avoids repeating (polysemous) words over and over again. But it also expresses, if only dimly, various ideas on synonymy which, if elaborated, are of theoretical significance. Synonyms can be found on several levels. They form clusters within clusters within clusters, and so on. Synonyms function differently in different contexts. They need explanation by other synonyms, and they also provide such explanations. Finally, the order of lexis appears not to be anything objectively given but as dependent on a pivotal point (in this case the alphabetical location of the first lemma) which any speaker can choose. If we pursue these ideas, we arrive at the concept that the vocabulary of a language is a multi-dimensional, endlessly branching and correlated hierarchical arrangement of words. Every single lexeme, if examined closely, reveals itself as an infinitely complex network of (shades of) meanings. Only a ‘formal’, not a ‘semantic’ alphabet, is available. This foreshadows many ideas on semantics which have been current since the last quarter of the twentieth century.29 William Perry did not think of his own book in this way. For historiographers with the advantage of hindsight, however, it becomes clear that, in effect, he transposed the phenomenon of synonymy from the area of style, its home at least since Girard, to the area of lexical semantics. What Trusler, Piozzi, and Taylor had regarded as isolated cases of tricky word usage, Perry turned into a method for the definition of word meanings in general. At the least, his dictionary can be seen as the threshold of this kind of linguistic procedure: it is the door into a practical form of network semantics. It is also the door beyond which Peter Mark Roget was waiting. (He had a copy of the book in his library.) For the moment, it remains to be shown with the help of two examples how Perry developed his dictionary from the dictionary of his great predecessor, Samuel Johnson. Two sample cases: throw and sharp

The entry to throw is certainly among the most difficult for a lexicographer because of the many shades of meaning of that 29

See Ch. 3.6.

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lexeme. Johnson gives it thirteen sub-entries with twelve more following, which explain throw ⫹ particle. Johnson’s first series of sub-entries is: 1. To fling; to cast; to send to a distant place by any projectile force. (7)30 2. To toss; to put with any violence or tumult. It always comprises the idea of haste, force or negligence. (5) 3. To lay carelessly, or in haste. (2) 4. To venture at dice. (1) 5. To cast; to strip off. (1) 6. To emit in any manner. (3) 7. To spread in haste. (1) 8. To overturn in wrestling. (1) 9. To drive; to send by force. (3) 10. To make to act at a distance. (1) 11. To repose. (1) 12. To change by any kind of violence. (2) 13. To turn. (0)

Note the corresponding entry in Perry: Throw to fling, to cast, to send to a distant place by any projectile force; to toss, to put with any violence or tumult: comprising always the idea of haste, force, or negligence;—to lay carelessly or in haste; to venture at dice; to cast, to strip, to put off; to emit in any careless or vehement manner (Shak.); to spread in haste (Pope); to overturn in wrestling; to drive or send by force (Addison); to repose, to rest upon; as, throw yourself upon God;—to change by any kind of violence. Pope.

The dependence of the latter on the former is obvious. Johnson’s carefully paragraphed enumeration of meanings was turned into a block of text, one word following the other. However, Johnson’s hierarchy was nevertheless retained. Perry separated the lexemes inside one paragraph by a semicolon, using the comma only within phrases. He separated the subentries, whose numbering he dropped, with a semicolon, and the lexemes within one subentry by a comma, thus showing the different degrees of semantic cohesion through punctuation. (Roget later adopted this typographical device.) Sometimes the semicolon was coupled with a hyphen. There are several deviations from the original. In 2, there is a small rephrasing. In 5, Johnson’s strip off is truncated to strip and 30

Number of quotations following the synonyms or synonymous expressions.

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put off is added. In 6, Johnson’s phrase is expanded to emit in any careless or vehement manner. This is the first instance that hints of criticism. In 9, Johnson’s two synonyms are linked with or by Perry, probably in order to relate the adverbial by force to the verb drive as much as to the verb send. This, too, is suggestive of criticism. Johnson’s subentry 10 is left out. In 11, we find the unique case (in this entry) of Perry adding something of his own (to rest upon) and then complementing it with an extract from Johnson’s example from ‘Taylor’s holy living’ (throw yourself upon God). Subentry 13 is left out. Subentries not mentioned are retained as series of verbs within semicolons. Only some of the authors of Johnson’s quotations are mentioned. Obviously, there are no substantial differences between the two dictionaries here. The few which Perry made can be attributed to the wish for more clarity. The main innovation is the classification of words by typographical means which exactly follow Johnson’s paragraphs. Perry’s entry sharp can serve as an example of his idea of radical synonyms. It appears that here his adaptation is much more creative. I have rearranged the entry by telescoping the entries following the various radicals into the entry following sharp. This creates three levels of synonyms (1, 2, 3): [level 1] SHARP a. keen, piercing, cutting having a keen edge, having an acute point, not blunt; terminating in a point or edge, acute, aculeated, acuminated, picked, piked, not obtuse; ACUTE31 [level 2] ACUTE SHARP, ending in a point: opposed to obtuse or blunt: - ingenious, penetrating, witty, ready, smart, keen, argute, parlous, arch, sagacious, subtle: applied to men: Figuratively, vigorous, powerful in operation - applied to the senses. Acute disease, a disease terminating in a few days: opposed to chronical. Acute accent, this accent (´) placed over sharp and quickly accented syllables. [level 1 continued] of mind witty, smart, ingenious, inventive; quick, as of sight or hearing: as a sharp eye;—SOUR 31 Words in capitals are radical synonyms; words in bold are not in Johnson but have been added by Perry.

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[level 2 continued] SOUR acid, acetous, tart, sharp, austere, pungent upon the palate with astringency, as vinegar, or unripe fruit; harsh of temper, crabbed, dogged, currish, peevish, severe, morose; afflictive, painful (Shak.): expressing discontent: as, he said a sour thing to Laura the other day. Tatler [level 1 continued] without astringency, sour, but not austere, acid; shrill, piercing the air with a quick noise, not flat: severe, harsh, biting, SARCASTIC [level 2 continued] SARCASTIC keen, sharp, biting, harsh, taunting, severe, satiric, satirical [level 1 continued] severe, quick to punish, cruel, severely rigid; eager, hungry, keen upon a quest (Shak.); painful, afflictive (Shak.); fierce, ardent, fiery: as, a sharp contest, or assault;—attentive, vigilant (Dryden); acrid, biting, pinching, piercing, cutting, as the cold; subtle, acute; nice, WITTY [level 2 continued] WITTY judicious, ingenious, inventive; full of wit, full of imagination, acute, smart, sharp, arch, keen, argute, parlous, facetious; sarcastic, full of taunts [level 1 continued ] of things;—among workmen, hard: as the sharpest sand is best for mortar (Moxon);—emaciated, LEAN [level 2 continued] LEAN not fat, wanting flesh, barboned, skinny, lank, haggard, gaunt, starved, spare, slender, macilent, marcid, scragged, scraggy, meagre, not unctuous, thin, hungry; low, poor: in opposition to great or rich;— jejune, dry, BARREN [level 3] BARREN incapable of producing its kind, effete, impotent, teemless, unprolific: applied to animals;—unfruitful, sterile, not fertile, infertile, infecund, fruitless, sandy, empty; scanty, not copious: figuratively, unmeaning, uninventive, dry, dull, unaffecting, jejune, lean, wanting matter, wanting pathos [level 2 continued] not comprehensive, not embellished; as a lean dissertation. Sh. [level 1 continued] Milton.

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Besides a few minor alterations, three explanatory phrases (as a sharp eye, as a sharp contest or assault, as the sharpest sand is best for mortar) were added after the relevant quotations in Johnson’s dictionary. Noteworthy also is the occasional reference to antonyms and the inclusion of figurative meanings. But most eye-catching, of course, are the many added lexemes. Marking one lexeme as being radical is Perry’s own decision; there is no indication of this whatsoever in Johnson. It is obvious that Perry was eager to give weight to this decision by inserting lexemes which he did not find in the model dictionary. Of course, he could do this fairly easily, because he was not dependent on quotations as Dr Johnson was. The one example given (sharp, etc.) indicates that many additional lexemes were taken from the store of hard words; this is by no means the general rule, however. A thorough investigation of Perry’s work would be needed to find out how far it deviates from Johnson’s model, which he acknowledged in his title. The general impression is that the additions to the articles devoted to the so-called radicals make those articles more impressive. This would mean that, for Perry, distinguishing between synonyms and radical synonyms was not merely a means of saving space. 6.4.6

Crabb (1816)

George Crabb: English Synonyms Explained, In Alphabetical Order; With Copious Illustrations and Examples Drawn From The Best Writers. To Which Is Now Added An Index To The Words. [. . .]. Sixth Edition, Carefully Revised, and Greatly Improved. [. . .] London: Baldwin and Cradock [. . .] 1837. 8⬚, 799 pp., BL 1494.c.15. The author and the book

George Crabb (1778–1851), called a ‘miscellaneous writer’ (DNB), was educated at Magdalen Hall, Oxford, after studying German in Bremen. He worked as a barrister at the Inner Temple. Besides law treatises, he published Johann Christoph Adelung’s German work on the English language in an English translation (1800) and edited German prose texts (1800, with several further editions). In addition to his dictionary of synonyms, for which he is best known, he published A Dictionary of General Knowledge (1830, with many

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subsequent editions) and a Universal Historical Dictionary (on names and places, 1825). English Synonyms is one of the most successful and popular books of its kind: ‘This is the standard authority, partly because it is very full and explanatory, but chiefly because it is the only full and explanatory book of the kind we possess’ (Anonymous 1851: 263). The first edition appeared in 1816, with further editions in 1818, 1824, 1826, 1837, 1839 (see below), 1844, 1859, 1875, 1884, 1889, 1893, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1923 (two), 1926, 1930, 1935, 1941, and 1953. In 1817, there was an edition which turned the dictionary of synonyms into a dialogue between teacher and pupil. The influence of Crabb’s book abroad is testified by an edition in Germany: English Synonyms Explained In Alphabetical Order; With Copious Illustrations. By George Crabb. A New Edition Revised And Corrected By J.H. Hedley. Leipsic: Printed For Julius Wunder 1839.32 The book is closely printed in two columns. It is different from Perry’s, which was modelled on Dr Johnson, because it combines the expositions of meanings, modelled on the early books by Trusler, Piozzi, and Taylor, with the perfection of a dictionary. This is evident in Crabb’s ambition to include all the synonyms of the language, in strict alphabetical order and in the many cross-references which allocate every lexeme of the language to an article.33 Headwords above the articles and at the beginning of the relevant paragraphs are capitalized; inside the text they are italicized. Quotations are given in smaller print (in the 1837 edition; the 1839 edition does not have quotations). This typographical layout makes it clear to the eye that the book is a dictionary. With the help of font variation, readers are enabled quickly to find the information they want. The book is not for reading long stretches at a time, as might be said of Trusler and, though less so, of Piozzi. The articles are of varying length, between four and five per page. Occasionally one article extends over a whole page. The order of lexemes treated in one article is not necessarily alphabetical. The index of words numbers some 5,600 (1837) and 4,700 (1839) entries respectively. This amounts to a total of about 2,400 articles for the whole book. 32 33

The following remarks are based on the 1837 and 1839 editions. For example: ‘Noisome. See Hurtful’. / ‘Noisy. See Loud’. / ‘Nomenclature. See Dictionary’.

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Like the layout, this large number testifies that the book has the character of a rather comprehensive dictionary and not of a treatment of selected lexemes of the English language. The careful phrasing of the articles, however, together with the mass of detailed information given, turns it into an argumentative text again, as does the strong personality of the author. He is someone who is looking for the truth, and not so much for speech habits. The use of etymology as indicating the first meaning of a lexeme and the assertive tone of statements on present-day word meanings point in this direction, too. Not everybody seems to have liked this, as is shown by the severe complaints of bulkiness, unhelpful etymologies, and redundancy by the otherwise benevolent critic quoted above (Anonymous 1851: 264). Many personal convictions are also presupposed or expressed. Crabb’s dictionary is a hybrid of a philological and a philosophical work. It is to the credit of this part-time lexicographer that he, as sole author, was able to maintain his ambitious aim and his scientific style when dealing with such a wide range of material. In the ‘Preface’ (1837),34 George Crabb regrets the lack of works dedicated to synonyms in English as compared to those having appeared in France on French and in Germany on German. His aim, he writes, is to treat the material in a scientific manner. He excludes words whose differences are clear already (like abandon vs. quit). For the ones he includes he lays down a principle of arrangement: Although a work of this description does not afford much scope for system and arrangement, yet I laid down to myself the plan of arranging the words according to the extent or universality of their acceptation, placing those first which had the most general sense and application, and the rest in order. (p. iii)

Consequently, one of the criteria of synonymous contrasts is class inclusion. Other criteria are appropriateness, classical purity, and justness of sentiment. Although George Crabb shows a certain understanding of the fact that many opinions on sentiment and morality enter into a book like his, he finds a general consensus in language use on many of the most important questions in moral and religious terms. Therefore, the book is also devoted to what can be 34

The 1839 edition has no preface.

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called ‘good order’. The selection of synonyms was made after the perusal of such generally accepted authors as Addison, Johnson, Dryden, Pope, and Milton. The number of articles which pertain to word pairs is slightly higher than those which pertain to three words, which is again higher than those pertaining to four. Together they cover about 90 per cent of the book, the rest being filled with articles on five words and more. Most headwords are monolexematic. Again nouns, verbs, and adjectives are in the majority with a large number of derivations (nouns from adjectives and verbs). As a fair sample of the vocabulary chosen, I have selected (i) the first twenty articles and (ii) a handful of articles35 listed under H according to their headwords: (i) to abandon, desert, forsake, relinquish to abandon, resign, renounce, abdicate to abase, humble, degrade, disgrace, debase to abash, confound, confuse to abate, lessen, diminish, decrease abettor, accessory, accomplice to abhor, detest, abominate, loathe to abide, sojourn, dwell, live, reside, inhabit ability, capacity ability, faculty, talent ability, dexterity, address able, capable, capacious to abjure, recant, retract, revoke, recall to abolish, abrogate, repeal, revoke, annul, cancel abominable, detestable, execrable above, over, upon, beyond to abridge, curtail, contract abrupt, rugged, rough to abscond, steal away, secret one’s self absent, abstracted, abstract, diverted, distracted (ii) to happen, chance harm, firm, solid hardly, scarcely hateful, odious 35

In fact every fifth article.

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healthy, wholesome, salubrious, salutary heavy, dull, drowsy to help, assist, aid, succour, relieve high, tall, lofty to hold, keep, detain, retain holy, sacred, divine honour, dignity humble, modest, submissive hurtful, pernicious, noxious, noisome Areas of vocabulary

Just as in Trusler’s and Piozzi’s books, the vocabulary chosen by Crabb mainly denotes cognitive, emotive, and behavioural phenomena. Words which give the names of physical objects are almost totally lacking. Naturally, such words are not rich in synonyms— unless metaphorical and metonymical meanings are included. But they are not included, either here or in other works on synonymy. A lexeme like hand, for example, which Dr Johnson listed with no fewer than 41 meanings (among others palm with fingers, payment, labour, agency, cards held at game, person employed), is not to be found anywhere. Due to the far greater number of lexemes treated, Crabb was also able to cull a kind of vocabulary from his sources which was different from that of his predecessors. It can be characterized in two ways: as ‘hard words’ in the old lexicographical meaning,36 and as encyclopaedic. The following sample of articles includes lexemes which previous authors would presumably not have thought relevant to their readers: to abash, confound, confuse feast, banquet, carousal, entertainment, treat ebullition, effervescence, fermentation abridgement, compendium, epitome, digest, summary, abstract axiom, maxim, aphorism, apothegm, sayi[ng!], adage, proverb, bye-word, saw37 heinous, flagrant, flagitious, atrocious transfigure, transform, metamorphose

36 37

See Chs. 5.1.2 and 5.1.3. One of the very few articles with more than six lexemes.

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It is obviously this lexicographer’s aim to collect words more comprehensively than others, i.e. to compile a full-sized dictionary of the English language, and it is this philologist’s aim not to leave out words which prove difficult for people without a Latin education. Thus the differentiation of synonyms offered a new method to the lexicographical aim, already two centuries old in England, of making the Latinized part of the English vocabulary popular and usable for (almost) everybody. This new method also gave this task a new impetus and assisted, in its own way, the general discussion on the so-called language bar which was to become prominent in the following century (Grove 1950).38 Microstructure

All of the articles are constructed according to the same pattern. They have a canonical form which only seldom allows deviations. First, the etymology of lexemes to be explained is given as constituting a basic meaning; this is done regularly in the sequence in which the lexemes appear in the heading. Etymological derivations come from Greek, Latin, German, and French, and occasionally also from other languages like Hebrew or Dutch. They are sometimes supported by remarks on word formation. Second, the meanings of the lexemes are explained descriptively in their assumed present-day use. However, there is generally no breach between the etymological and the present-day meanings. As the sequence of the lexemes moves from the more generic to the less generic and the specific, the explanations follow this same logical principle. This means that common semantic features are mentioned first and then the specific ones. For example: implacable, unrelenting, relentless, inexorable (339) Inflexibility is the idea expressed in common by these terms, but they differ in the causes and circumstances with which it is attended. play, game, sport (431) Play and game both include exercise, corporeal or mental, or both; but play is an unsystematic, game a systematic exercise.

Third, examples are given at a general level, frequently in direct comparisons. The criteria used for comparison are not different from those used in older works on synonymy. A paragraph is 38 The other way, instead of explaining hard words, is to show how to get around them, as is done in the plain style movement.

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reserved for each lexeme, with the lexeme capitalized in the first instance. Then, in one paragraph after the other, the meaning of one lexeme after the other is elucidated by sample sentences. They paraphrase each other, frequently giving two or three versions consecutively. For example: We forsake those with whom we have been on habits of intimacy; they are deprived of the pleasures and comforts of society; a lover forsakes his mistress, a man forsakes his companion. (1, see below)

Quotations from respected authors follow. Finally, the lexemes under discussion are compared in a kind of summary, frequently all in one sentence. The parallelism of the articles is so strict that in many cases the same sentence patterns are repeated. Note, for instance, the plan of the first article, on abandon, desert, forsake, relinquish: ¶1. abandon: etymology, basic meaning, three versions ¶2. desert: etymology, basic meaning, explained ¶3. forsake: etymology, basic meaning, two versions ¶4. relinquish: etymology, basic meaning, two versions ¶5. abandon and desert, compared ¶6. abandon, desert, forsake, compared ¶7. abandon, three examples ¶8. desert, three examples ¶9. forsake, three examples ¶10. abandoned, deserted, forsaken, compared ¶11. abandoning, forsaking, relinquishing, compared ¶12. abandon, desert, forsake, relinquish, summarized

In the 1837 edition, the various descriptive and discriminative statements are corroborated by quotations. In the 1839 edition, these are omitted. George Crabb’s style is magisterial and clearly attains a high level. His definitions of meanings consist of general statements on the use of lexemes. He finds the one feature which characterizes a word in itself and marks the minimal difference between its synonyms. For example: Heed applies to matters of importance to one’s moral conduct; care to matters of minor import. (319) Individious qualifies the thing; envious qualifies the temper of the mind. (361) We are jealous of what is our own; we are envious of what is another’s. (362–3)

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There is an inexhaustible wealth of such penetrating, impressive, and brilliant formulations of word meanings in this dictionary. Yet the features used for this kind of semanticization do not constitute a system with mutual correlations, as the later semantic theories would demand. Or at least the author never hints at any idea of this sort. To put it in modern terms: his arguments are linguistic in the descriptive and not in the cognitive sense. We can be fairly certain that a careful analysis of many articles would uncover a set of notions which recur again and again. But they would merely exhibit the author’s conventional ways of thinking. The reader also needs a certain training in understanding abstract deliberations in order to be able to use this dictionary successfully. Sentences like ‘Ability is to capacity as the genus to the species’ (ability, capacity, 3) or ‘These epithets are all used to mark the excess or distortion of a tender sentiment’ (amorous, loving, fond, 38) are quite typical. Apart from their logical strictness, the descriptive and discriminatory texts often display the religious and moral predilections of the author. Note, for example, this passage from the entry for human and humane: Though both derived from a man they are thus far distinguished that human is said of the genus, and humane of the species. The human race or human beings are opposed to the irrational part of the creation; a humane race or humane individual is opposed to one that is cruel and fond of inflicting pain. He who is not human is divested of the first and distinguishing characteristics of his kind; he who is not humane, of the most important and elevated characteristic of his nature. (331) 6.4.7

Platts (1825)

John Platts: A Dictionary Of English Synonymes [!]; comprehending the derivations and meanings of the words; and the distinctions between the synonymes illustrated by examples. For the Use of Schools and Families. [. . .]. London: Published by J. Souter, School Library, 73, St. Paul’s Church Yard. 1825. 4⬚, 292 pp. BodL 1825.200. The author and the book

The author (1775–1837) calls himself ‘Reverend’. According to the DNB he was a Unitarian minister who worked in Boston, Lincolnshire, and in Doncaster. In order to enlarge his rather small

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income he took to writing on various subjects. He published a universal biography (5 vols., 1825) and a so-called self-interpreting New Testament, as well as reading lessons for ladies. A short advertisement defines the book functionally as a short version of Crabb’s monumental work, suitable for either boys’ or girls’ schools and for the general speaker. The author introduces himself as a teacher who believes that dictionaries of synonyms are necessary in general. According to the alphabetical index, the book contains 4,040 lexemes in alphabetical order. However, the distribution among the letters of the alphabet is very uneven. 210 pages are devoted to the letters A to Q, and the remaining 82 pages to the remainder of the alphabet. It looks as if the author lost patience in redoing the older work. Microstructure

The rather original microstructure of entries is worth mentioning. It consists of a lemma given in capitals in large type, with its derivation from other languages, where applicable, and accompanied by synonym(s), which are separated by a semicolon. Thereafter follow synonyms to the lemma, in smaller type and each one beginning a new line, with their own derivations and their own rows of synonyms. They are followed by sample phrases, printed in still smaller type, which were obviously taken from or modelled after the books of synonyms generally available. Lastly, these phrases are elucidated in one or more sentences. Thus the entry articles are rather long. The intention of the compiler is, obviously, to combine the usual type of synonym book with the usual type of dictionary. A rather short article which contains all of the elements mentioned is: CALAMITY; [calamitas, L.] misfortune; cause of misery; distress. DISASTER, [désastre, F.] misfortune, grief, mishap, misery. MISFORTUNE, [mis and fortune,] calamity; ill luck; want of good fortune. MISCHANCE, [mis and chance,] ill luck; ill fortune; misfortune; mishap.

MISHAP, [mis and hap] ill chance, ill luck, calamity. A dreadful calamity; a melancholy disaster; a grievous misfortune; a slight mischance; a trivial mishap. - It is a calamity to be disgraced and ruined; a misfortune to lose one’s friend; a disaster to be wounded; a mishap to soil or tear one’s dress.

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Platts and Crabb

Platts’s entries are heavily dependent on Crabb as far as synonyms are concerned but in the sample sentences they are original. The differentiation of synonyms is frequently given by one-feature oppositions. Many nouns are differentiated by adjectives or following infinitives, verbs by adverbs or phrases. Correspondingly, adjectives are often differentiated by nouns. Note Platts’s first article: ABANDON [2 synonyms] DESERT [3], LEAVE [2], FORSAKE [3], RELINQUISH [2], QUIT [5], RESIGN [2], RENOUNCE [3]; ABDICATE [3], GIVE UP [1], SURRENDER [2], YIELD [1], CEDE [3], CONCEDE [3], FOREGO [3]. Bad parents abandon their childen; men abandon the unfortunate objects of their guilty passions; a mariner abandons his vessel and cargo in a storm when he has lost all hope of saving them; we abandon our houses and property in the spoils of an invading army; men are abandoned by their friends; they abandon themselves to unlawful pleasures; we desert a post, or station; leave the country; forsake companions; relinquish claims; quit business; the soul quits the body. ‘Quit, oh quit this mortal frame’.—Pope. Resign an office; renounce a profession, the world; abdicate a throne; give up a place scheme; surrender a town; surrender what we have in trust; cede a province; concede a point; yield to an opponent; yield not to temptation; resign an office; abandon a measure; forego a claim.

Platts obviously conflates several articles of Crabb’s into one in order to shorten the text. He must have done this for didactic purposes. The article mentioned corresponds to five of Crabb’s entries, namely: abandon, desert, forsake, relinquish abandon, resign, renounce, abdicate give up, deliver, surrender, yield, cede, concede give up, abandon, resign, forego leave, quit, relinquish

Another technique with a similar aim is to formalize information which Crabb gives discursively. Compare these two rather short entries: [Crabb] EDUCATION, INSTRUCTION, BREEDING INSTRUCTION and BREEDING are to EDUCATION as parts to a whole: instruction respects the communication of knowledge, and

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breeding respects the manners or outward conduct; but education comprehends not only both these, but the formation of the mind, the regulation of the heart, and the establishment of the principles: good instruction makes one wiser; good breeding makes one more polished and agreeable: good education makes one really good. A want of education will always be to the injury if not to the ruin of the sufferer: a want of instruction is of more or less inconvenience, according to circumstances a want of breeding only unfits a man for the society of the cultivated. Education belongs to the period of childhood and youth: instruction may be given at different ages; good-breeding is best learnt in the early part of life. [two quotations]. [Platts]

EDUCATION, [from educate,] formation of manners in youth. INSTRUCTION, [from instruct,] the act of teaching; information. BREEDING, [from breed,] education, instruction, qualification. Education of childen and youth; instructions for persons in general; instruction on business, the arts, &c.; his agreeable and polished manners shows [!] that he is a person of good breeding.

As a short and easy reference book Platts is very good and efficient, Crabb is more discursive and reflective. Platts gives rules for use by short explanations, Crabb gives long and abstract explanations. Platt comes closer to merely listing cumulative synonyms. 6.4.8

Carpenter (1842)

William Carpenter: A Comprehensive Dictionary of English Synonyms. [. . .]. London Printed for Thomas Tegg, 73, Cheapside. MDCCCXLII. Third ed. 8⬚, 180 pp., BodL 1842.36.

According to the DNB, William Carpenter (1797–1874) was ‘a miscellaneous writer’. He had no school education but learnt several ancient and modern languages by self-study. He worked as a journalist, advocated legal and political reform, and wrote on Biblical subjects. There is no mention of his work as a lexicographer. The synonym dictionary is unique among his many publications. This Comprehensive Dictionary is a pocket book. In spite of its small size, it contains a large number of words in alphabetical order. There are 4,320 entries (lemmata) with an average of four synonyms per entry, i.e. about 17,300 lexemes, though repeated lexemes have to be deducted from this number. The book consists simply of

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keywords (in capitals) with synonyms after a dash, without any comments. This is the simplest microstructure imaginable. According to the preface, the book is ‘at once comprehensive and easy of reference’ with more lexemes than even in Crabb. The extant synonym collections, says the author, demand that the reader look up several pages, which is mortifying. Not this one: ‘A Dictionary of Synonymes [!] is consulted rather to assist the memory, where it is momentarily at fault, than to inform the judgment, where it is untaught.’ This is the precise use which the author wants his book to serve. There are other books available, he says, which serve wider needs. The arrangement is that more general and comprehensive senses of words are given at the beginning, followed by the more concrete and limited ones. A total change in meaning is indicated by separating the lexemes with a semicolon. There is no clear principle to be found in the selection of words, apart from the author’s obvious aim of providing synonyms for quite normal and common language use. The synonyms of verbs and adjectives are more numerous than those of nouns. Phrasal verbs are frequent. All of these features make the book appear quite unacademic. Note, as examples, the following ten consecutive entries: To ABASE—depress, degrade, bring low, humble, disgrace, cast down. To ABBREVIATE—contract, curtail, shorten, abridge, compress, condense, reduce, epitomize. To ABET—aid, assist, encourage. ABETTOR—assistant, accessory, ally, accomplice. To ABANDON—forsake, desert, renounce; relinquish, resign, give up, abdicate, quit, forego. ABANDONED—profligate, corrupt, vitiated, depraved, reprobate, vicious, wicked. To ABASH— confuse, confound, disconcert, shame. To ABATE— diminish, reduce, decrease, lessen, liquidate; lower, subside. To ABDICATE—abandon, relinquish, forsake, resign, renounce, give up, quit. To ABHOR—detest, abominate, loathe.

6.4.9

Graham (1846)

G.F. Graham: English Synonymes [!] Classified And Explained; With Practical Exercises, Designed For Schools and Private Tuition. [. . .].

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London: Longman, Brown, Green, & Longmans, Paternoster-Row. 1846. 4⬚, 376 pp. BL 828.d.37. No information is available concerning the author. The book

It is difficult to determine the genre of this book. On the one hand, it is highly academic because it develops a ‘philosophy of synonymy’ (introduction, 4), i.e. an ambitious theory which brings certain features of human cognition together with synonymy into an all-pervading structure of lexis. This theoretical framework is counterbalanced by ‘practical exercises’ in textbook style—texts with blanks to be filled in by the reader, who must choose one of a pair of synonymous words. These texts are rather schoolboyish.39 In consequence, Graham’s book is neither a textbook proper, nor a dictionary of synonyms, nor a theoretical treatise on synonymy. However, it is worthy of attention because it is the first publication to attempt a classification of synonymy, or rather of the relations between synonyms. The introduction

The author places his book in the context of the discussion of synonymy as initiated by the Abbé Girard and conducted in many European countries. He refers to the many authors in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain, displaying ample knowledge of their writings, and subscribes to their aims of general linguistic education. In his own country, he deplores the ‘pernicious style’, mainly because differences in meaning between words are not observed. All objects in nature, he argues, differ in substance, shape, dimension, colour, etc., even if they look alike. Overlooking these differences leads to indistinct conceptions. Language cannot provide words for all these distinctions, so speakers must distinguish between words which are close ‘in their leading idea’, but nevertheless different in their meanings. Some people can do this intuitively, but others need to think about this. Only the study of what the author calls ‘metaphysics’ can help. Nobody has yet produced ‘a system of language referable to the human mind’ (6). 39 The didactic nature of the book will not be discussed. Nevertheless, it testifies to the close relation between linguistic education, even at guide or elementary level, and the discussion of synonymy.

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A ‘comprehensive classification of our language’ is therefore needed, because classification is the beginning of all natural science. (As mentioned already, Roget began his general discussion of synonymy with a similar reference to natural history.) With respect to grammars this is done with its classification of word classes. But a further classification within each word class is now called for.40 Semantic criteria must complement syntactic criteria. Graham suggests as criteria for the classification of words within word classes: (i) generic vs specific, (ii) active vs passive, (iii) intensity, (iv) positive vs negative, and (v) miscellaneous (11). They are principles of the mind which must be turned into principles of language. However, the author admits that this classification cannot be applied as extensively to language as to the natural sciences (11). The five criteria are none the less applicable to all languages, including older ones. Etymology is helpful in determining the meaning of a word, but the changes over the centuries must be kept in mind in order to subsume words correctly under the five headings. All this is in the service of linguistic education, which is meant to lead to better communication and also to a love of style and literature. The classification

The discussion of synonyms proceeds according to the general classification combined with the system of word classes. In order to demonstrate Graham’s procedure, examples and full entries will be given from sections I to III and V; section IV is self-explanatory. Section I: Generic and specific synonyms Examples: adjective—epithet, answer—reply, bravery—courage, conduct—behaviour, comparison—analogy. Fear—terror Fear is the generic word. Terror is a species of fear. Fear is an inward feeling. Terror is an external and visible agitation. The prospect of evil excites our fear; we feel terror at the evil which is actually before us. We fear an approaching storm; the storm itself excites terror. Fear urges us to action; terror urges us to flight. Fear prompts us to prepare for the coming evil; terror urges us to escape it. 40 There is also a historical argument concerning the origin of synonyms in English under Latin influence, which seems to be taken from Taylor (1813).

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Section II. Active and passive synonyms Examples: ability—capacity, burden—load, poetic—poetical, chief—head Poetic—poetical Poetic is the active, and poetical the passive term. Poetic qualifies what produces poetry, or is an agent in producing it: thus we have poetic rage, poetic frenzy, etc. Poetical qualifies that which already exists as an object of our thought or contemplation: thus we have poetical language, a poetical license, etc. Section III: Synonyms of intensity Examples: act—action, artisan—artist, compunction—remorse, diligence—industry To surprise—to astonish Both these words imply a disturbing of the senses. To surprise is to take one off his guard; to astonish is to confound the senses. We are longer in recovering from astonishment than from surprise. We are surprised at what is unexpected; we are astonished at what is beyond our comprehension. Surprise is more temporary; astonishment more lasting. We are taken by surprise; we are struck with astonishment. What we are prepared for does not surprise us; what we can conceive clearly does not astonish us. Section IV: Positive and negative synonyms Examples: despair—hopelessness, disability—inability, disbelief— unbelief, freedom—liberty, a lie—an untruth Section V: Miscellaneous synonyms with relations to each other that have no application to other lexemes Examples: accent—emphasis, an address—a direction, arms—weapons, a contest—a conflict Discretion—prudence Prudence is the quality which enables us to foresee probabilities, and to act accordingly. Discretion has to do with tangible realities—with things that are before us. The prudent man prepares for what is coming; the discreet man judges of present affairs. We are determined by our prudence to follow one course to the exclusion of others; we are determined by our discretion to do one of two things. It is prudent to provide against bad weather; it is discreet not to allude to an offensive object. To decrease—to diminish To decrease is to grow less; to diminish is to make or become less. To decrease is relative and gradual; to diminish is positive. To decrease is an internal, and to diminish an external action. In addition to which distinction it may be proper to remark, that to decrease is more frequently applied to quantity or size, and to diminish to number. Things decrease

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when they grow less from within, or when the cause of their growing less is imperceptible. They are diminished when something is taken from them from without, or when the cause of their becoming less is more evident. Water exposed to the sun decreases in quantity. A snow-ball during a thaw will decrease in size. An army is diminished in numbers by disease or famine. Many substances decrease in size by shrinking, such as flannel, cloth, &c.

Each of the sections contains a not inconsiderable number of exercises which were obviously meant for classroom practice. Section I, for example, has 22 more word pairs with nouns plus 22 with verbs plus 20 with adjectives and one with on—upon. Section II has 26 more pairs with nouns plus 13 with verbs and 28 with adjectives. And so on. Every section begins again at A and proceeds through the alphabet. It is obvious that the strength of Graham’s definitions lies in his clear juxtapositions and the strict parallelism of his arguments. In the case of his positive vs negative dichotomy, his juxtapositions lead to repetitions of the lexemes themselves. As can be seen from the material quoted, Graham’s book is less dependent on the previous literature concerning synonyms, probably because his strict observation of the pair arrangement forced him to be original. 6.4.10

Whateley (1851)

[Elizabeth Jane Whately:] A Selection Of English Synonyms. London: John W. Parker. MDCCCLI. 8⬚, 142 pp., BL 12982.c.29, 8⬚

No author is mentioned on the title page. The ‘Editor’s Preface’ is signed by Richard Dublin, i.e. Richard Whately, Archbishop of Dublin (1787–1863), the husband of the author. The book is quite different from all the others, but it cannot be regarded as an extraordinary achievement. It is, however, the only one of this genre which Roget mentions in his ‘Preface’ (p. xix, fn.). The book is, moreover, highly praised by the anonymous reviewer already mentioned who was so very strict in his reproaches of Trusler, Piozzi, and (partly) even Taylor. ‘It will be seen at once’, he says, ‘that the author proceeds upon the method which we hold to be the true one—that he liberates the subject from all extraneous illustrations, however valuable or interesting in themselves, and is governed in his definitions by the usage of the “purest

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writers and most correct speakers of our own days” ’ (Anonymous 1851: 264).41 The editor’s (not the author’s) theoretical justification for dealing with synonyms is extraordinary: But the importance of this, and of all that relates to language, will be much less highly estimated by those who have adopted the metaphysical theory of ideas and who consider the use of language to be merely the conveying of meaning to others, than by those who adhere to the opposite—the nominalist—view [. . .] and who accordingly regard words—or some kind of signs equivalent to words—as an indispensable instrument of thought, in all cases, where a process of reasoning takes place. (A2)

This is a verdict against Lockean philosophy which is not found in other synonym dictionaries and was obviously the archbishop’s concern. In her own preface (‘Preface, by the author’), Elizabeth Whately makes the usual reference to Abbé Girard. English is particularly rich in synonyms, she writes, because of Germanic and Latin elements in the language. Synonyms refer to the same thing, but ‘regarded in different point of view’ (p. vi). Cognates in different languages often mean different things: ‘It is curious, and illustrative of national character and customs’ to observe this (p. viii). Older meanings are not decisive for the present, so etymology is not the way to explain synonyms. Likewise, quotations from Shakespeare, Milton, Addison, or Johnson are not complete guides to word meanings, because of the linguistic changes that have occurred. The arrangment of synonyms is also extraordinary. They are grouped according to word classes and arranged in the rather unusual sequence of adverbs, pronouns, and particles (11 entries), verbs (19 entries), adjectives (34 entries), and nouns (58 entries). Within the word classes no meaningful sequence of entries is discernible. The entries are not printed in columns but as running text. Note these examples: ABANDON [in the group ABANDON, DESERT, FORSAKE] We may abandon not only persons, but things: we can only desert a person or a cause. A man abandons house, lands, and wealth; he deserts his friends, his country, or his standard. 41 Given that the review and Whateley’s book both appeared in 1851, it is not unreasonable to speculate that Elizabeth Jane Whateley is herself hiding behind that anonymity of the review, which appeared in September. The book’s rather long introduction which deals with synonyms and their use

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‘To abandon’ is generally, though not always, blameable. It usually implies that the thing or person abandoned suffers some loss; hence, it must imply blame, except in an abstract case, such as ‘abandoning a useless pursuit or hopeless undertaking’. ‘To desert’ is always disgraceful, even when used in an abstract sense; ‘to desert’ a cause, is to abandon it in a case where it cannot be abandoned without disgrace. A soldier who abandons his standard shamefully deserts his duty. SINCERE, HONEST, UPRIGHT ‘Sincerity’ may be used in two senses; and this leads to much ambiguity in reasoning. It may either mean, on the one hand, reality of conviction and earnestness of purpose,—or, on the other, purity from all unfairness or dishonesty. Many people overlook this; they will speak of a man’s being ‘sincere’, when they mean he has a real conviction that his end is a good one,—and imagine this must imply that he is ‘honest’; whereas, he may be ‘sincere’ in his desire to gain his end, and dishonest in the means he employs for that end. ‘Honest’, on the other hand, is not an ambiguous term; it implies straightforwardness and fairness of conduct. ‘Upright’, implies honesty and dignity of character; it is the opposite of ‘meanness’, as ‘honesty’ is of ‘cunning’.

There is nothing special about these explanations, except that they are rather moralistic and say more about the character and life of the speakers (or the author) than about the words. 6.4.11

Fenby (1853)

Thomas Fenby: A Copious Dictionary Of English Synonymes [!], Classified and Explained; with a brief outline of English grammar; a selection of Latin and French quotations, with corresponding English translations; a list of French and English abbreviations, &c., &tc. [. . .]. London: Whittaker & Co, Ave Maria Lane [. . .]. 1853. 8⬚, xvi ⫹ 224 pp. (10pp. appendix), BodL 302.g.267.

This book has an estimated 4,700 entries with an average of 22 synonyms each. The resulting number of more than 100,000 lexemes is, of course, much higher than their absolute number. The qualification ‘copious’ in the title is somewhat bold; the word ‘classified’ is meaningless. As this is the first dictionary of its kind to appear in general points to the same conclusion. As Roget quotes Whateley only one year later, we are justified in assuming that he also knew this review, which means that he was aware of the discussion of synonymy in his country since Girard.

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after Roget’s Thesaurus, the motive of self-publicity may lie behind them. The macro- and microstructures of the dictionary are quite simple. The macrostructure is the alphabet, the keyword printed in capitals followed by a dash. The microstructure is a row of synonyms complementing the keyword and separated by commas. Note as examples: ABANDON—forsake, desert, quit, leave, relinquish, resign, renounce, reject, abdicate, surrender, yield, forego, cede, concede, give up, neglect. ANNOUNCE—publish, proclaim, notice, advertise, pronounce, declare. ANNOY—incommode, disturb, injure, molest, tease, vex, weary, plague, worry, harass, torment, tantalise. NOISE—cry, outcry, clamour, vociferation. PICTURE—likeness, representation, resemblance, similitude, reflection, image. TURN—movement, revolution, change, alteration, vicissitude, form, cast, bent, character, shape, manner, convenience, occasion, purpose, pass, revert.

These examples show that the complementation of a lexeme by a row of synonyms, without any explanation, has by now become a possible and therefore stable technique. The number of synonyms varies; the sixteen words for TURN are not extraordinary. There are no unusual or specific lexemes to be found. The proximity of this dictionary to Roget is obvious. The only marked difference from Roget is the alphabetical arrangement. 6.4.12

Mackenzie (1854)

D. L. Mackenzie: A Practial Dictionary Of English Synonyms, Alphabetically Arranged. [. . .]. London: G. Willis, Great Piazza, Covent Garden. 1854. 12⬚, 215 pp., BL 12985.c.14.

This pocket-size book is closely printed in two columns. There are about 10,000 entries with an average of five or six synonyms each (some have only two or three, but quite a number have ten to twelve). The resulting 50,000 to 60,000 lexemes do not of course coincide with their absolute number, which is much lower, though still high for a practical book. A short preface explains that the dictionary is meant to be a help for people who cannot remember the right word, which is very much in the spirit of Roget. (Mackenzie’s book appeared two years after the Thesaurus.) There is a semicolon

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between words where a change of meaning occurs, otherwise lexemes are separated by commas. This, too, coincides with Roget. The editor claims that his book has no equal, because it is comprehensive in character and easy to use: ‘The alphabetical arrangement adopted throughout the work, affords facilities of reference to those consulting it, confessedly, of some importance’ (p. iii). Although the meaning of this sentence is not quite clear, it may very well be an allusion to Roget’s different macrostructure. Note as examples: To ABANDON. Forsake, desert, renounce, yield, give up, abdicate, resign; cede, surrender; relinquish, quit, forego; let go, waive. To ANNOUNCE. Publish, advertise, proclaim, blaze abroad, report, notify, give out. To ANNOY. Molest, incommode, discommode, inconvenience, disaccommodate, vex, tease, gall, chafe. HOME. Domicile, dwelling, residence, abode. NOISE. Cry, outcry, vociferation, clamour, hallabaloo; din; ado, fuss; riot, hubbub, uproar. PICTURE. Likeness, image, resemblance, drawing, representation; effigy; exponent, representative; mirror.

Verbs and adjectives tend to have more synonyms than do nouns. Phrasal verbs and verbs plus prepositions are numerous. The language is quite formal and ambitious. Unusual lemmata like to calumniate (12 synonyms), canorous (musical, tuneful), and cecity (blindness) are to be found; common ones like bed, friendship, and layer are often missing. Without any discussion, the author uses the network idea in lexis by making each synonymous word in a row the lemma of a row of its own. Note the following entry, TURN, and the ten further entries corresponding to the synonyms of the first (with only spiral and sinuation excepted). TURN. Gyration, spiral; maze, labyrinth; meander, sinuosity, sinuation; cast, bent, tendency, character, tone. GYRATION. Whirl, circumvolution, circumgyration, spiral, turn. MAZE. Labyrinth, mizmaze; uncertainty, perplexity. LABYRINTH. Maze, mizmaze. MEANDERING. Meandrous, winding, sinuous, serpentine. SINUOUS. Bending, winding, turning, meandering, meandrous, serpentine; flexuous, tortuous. CAST. Character, turn, tone, description. BENT. Inclination, disposition, tendency, bias, prepossession, propensity, predilection, proneness.

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TENDENCY. Inclination, leaning, propensity, proneness, predisposition; scope, drift, aim. CHARACTER. Cast, turn, tone, description; nature, disposition; reputation. TONE. Cadence, sound; intonation, enunciation; pitch, tenor, strain, mode.

This technique multiplies the number of entries, sometimes unnecessarily. However, it does display the complex web of lexis, i.e. the play between semantic identity and variety in synonyms. For example, in the first entry, ABANDON, fourteen lexemes (starred) have their own entries which repeat each other, sometimes word for word. Two lexemes (yield, give up) are extended with more synonyms. Only let go fails to turn up again. To ABANDON. *Forsake, *desert, *renounce, *yield (produce, give, afford, impart, communicate, confer, bestow; concede, grant, allow; comply, conform, accede, assent, acquiesce; succumb, sink, submit), *give up (dedicate, consecrate, hallow, sanctify), *abdicate, *resign; *cede, *surrender; *relinquish, *quit, *forego; let go, *waive.

The overlapping entries could very well be unified into one. Again the structural proximity of this dictionary to Roget’s Thesaurus is obvious, because they are both cumulative dictionaries. 6.4.13

Smith (1871)

Charles J. Smith: Synonyms Discriminated. A Complete Catalogue Of Synonymous Words in the English Language, With Descriptions Of Their Various Shades Of Meaning, And Illustrations Of Their Usages And Specialities. Illustrated By Quotation From Standard Writers. [. . .]. London: Bell & Daldy [. . .]. 1871. 4⬚, 610 pp., BL 12984. There is no entry for the author in the DNB. Macrostructure

The title betrays the fact that the author was planning a monumental book. Although there are no theoretical explanations whatsoever, his deliberations obviously conform with the synonymy movement in European linguistics, according to which synonymy is characteristic of a whole language and therefore can and must be collected in a ‘complete catalogue’. The book is printed in two columns. Headwords are given in capitals, metalevel quotations of lemmata

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in italics, but not quite systematically; otherwise the book is printed in Roman type. Italics are also used as signs of stress and for descriptive terms. Groups of synonyms are taken together as headwords in the usual way, on average between three and five. Within an entry article, each headword is treated separately, if not always in the same sequence as the heading. The ordering of entries is alphabetical, based on the first headword. Quite often single headwords are given with cross-references to groups. There is a reference from PLEAD to PLEA and from PLEA to APOLOGY, which is the head of the group (APOLOGY) PLEA; DEFENCE; JUSTIFICATION; EXCULPATION; EXCUSE; PLEA. SHARP has a reference to ACUTE, which is the head of the group (ACUTE), SHREWD, SAGACIOUS, SHARP, with a further reference to KEEN. Sometimes these references move in a circle, for example with ‘NOISE see SOUND’ and ‘SOUND see NOISE’. This referencing combines the technique of a fully alphabetized explaining dictionary with that of cumulative synonymy and gives access to the lexis of English at every conceivable point. The necessity of looking up a word on more than one page is obviously not seen as cumbersome. With an estimated one and a half articles per page plus three cross-references, there are approximately 1,000 articles with three to five lexemes plus 1,850 cross-references, which amounts to c.4,000 lexemes plus 1,850 cross-references. Note the first twenty entry articles (without cross-references): Abandon, forsake, desert, relinquish Abandoned, profligate, reprobate, unprincipled, depraved Abase, humble, degrade, disgrace, debase, humiliate, dishonour Abash, confound, confuse Abate, lessen, diminish, decrease Aberrant, abnormal, eccentric, exceptional, erratic Abettor, accessory, accomplice Abhor, detest, abominate, loathe Abide, sojourn, dwell, reside Ability, skill, capacity, capability, cleverness, talent, genius Abjure, recant, retract, revoke, recall, renounce, repudiate Abolish, abrogate, repeal, revoke, annul, cancel Above, over, beyond, upon Abridge, abbreviate, curtail, contract Abridgement, compendium, epitome, digest, summary, abstract, draught, synopsis

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Absent, abstracted, diverted, distracted, absorbed, engrossed Absolute, despotic, arbitrary, tyrannical Absolve, acquit, exonerate, clear, exculpate Abstain, forbear, refrain Abstinence, fast Abstinent, sober, abstemious, temperate, moderate. Microstructure

The microstructure is dominated by fairly elaborate explanations which may extend over a whole page for just a single word. They combine discursive explanations, etymological derivations (mostly following the lemma), and quotations (usually as a kind of confirmation at the end). Allusions to etymology and historical meanings are used sparingly. All of this means that the leading techniques of lexicography are all present at a sophisticated level. The first entry is a good example of the discursive style of the book, rather extreme in length, but not at all unrepresentative: ABANDON. FORSAKE. DESERT. RELINQUISH The etymological force of ABANDON (Teutonic ban, which appears is the old French bandon, outcry, proclamation, as vendre à bandon; the low Latin abandonnare; the Old English bandown, meaning possession, jurisdiction; and the modern English ban and banns) has well-nigh disappeared from this word. To abandon is now, in the most comprehensive sense, to give up finally and absolutely, with the implied idea, in many cases, of transference to some power or person external to ourselves. A trace of the old meaning, that of placing beyond jurisdiction or outlawry, and so disclaiming possession, appears in Shakspeare:—[quotation]. Spenser used the form aband. No praise or blame is absolutely expressed by the term abandon, which is one [of] the widest in the English language, though it has a tendency to imply blame when used of persons without qualification. So to abandon friends sounds blameworthy, because, under this simple expression the mind contemplates nothing but the deserted friendship. Yet it is right to abandon friends if they betake themselves to what is dishonest or disgraceful. We may abandon persons or things; in particular, places, positions, ideas, opinions, hopes, expectations, offices, possessions, good or evil habits, as the case may be. Where loss or injury is entailed on the person abandoned, or the abandonment is a dereliction of duty, this moral colouring belongs not to the force of the term, which is, essentially speaking, no more than that of final leaving, but to the circumstances of the case, as in the following from Milton:— [quotation].

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It is only when all efforts to save his ship are hopeless that the captain abandons her to the rocks and waves. In times of early Christianity, men were called upon to abandon houses, lands, and relatives, in such a way as would be now not only uncalled for, but an unjustifiable desertion of them. We may observe that a twofold idea seems inherent in abandonment (for the noun follows all the forces of the verb). We may abandon directly or indirectly, by actively transferring or putting away from ourselves; or by merely avoiding and taking ourselves off. It is the former force which was the more predominant in the old English, the latter in the new.

6.5

Roget and the English synonym dictionary

In the dictionaries discussed in this chapter, the ideational background and the lexicographical practice relative to synonymy in English achieved a state of the art which provided a starting point for Roget’s Thesaurus. That art is characterized by several general features which can be summarized in three statements. (i) The discriminating and the cumulative type of synonymy are genuine objects of lexicography and, in principle, appreciated and used by educated speakers; they can be trusted to work, because synonymy is a property of normal language awareness. (ii) The discriminating and the cumulative type of synonymy are principles for presenting a whole language, not just selected lexemes; they belong to those linguistic areas (similar to grammar and rhetoric) where expert linguistic knowledge can serve the practical needs of native speakers. (iii) For these native speakers, both types of synonymy are intelligible, not only because of the semantic explanations given, but also by the way in which the words are arranged. It is of no great importance what Peter Mark Roget actually knew about the emergence of synonym dictionaries. As a highly educated and language-conscious man, he will have been acquainted with Dr Johnson’s dictionary, and also with the books by Perry and Crabb, and possibly with others, for example Whately’s. They may have been on his desk. He must have been aware of the linguistic ideas and techniques available at his time. But he put them to an additional, highly interesting use, that of compiling a topical, rather than an alphabetical, dictionary.

7 The Topical Tradition in English Lexicography 7.1. Onomasiology between 800 and 1700 7.1.1. Lexicographical aspects: macrostructure 7.1.2. Lexicographical aspects: microstructure 7.1.3. Historical aspects 7.1.4. Wilkins’s ‘Tables’: macrostructure and word selection 7.2. The classification of knowledge 7.3. Onomasiological lexicography between 1700 and 1852 7.3.1. Andree (1725) 7.3.1.1. The preface 7.3.1.2. Macrostructure 7.3.1.3. Microstructure 7.3.2. Booth (1835) 7.3.2.1. History of the book 7.3.2.2. The plan of an analytical dictionary 7.3.2.3. The dictionary as a history of ideas 7.3.3. Maimieux (1797) 7.3.3.1. Pasigraphy 7.3.3.2. Maimieux’s semantic system 7.3.3.3. Examples

7.1

Onomasiology between 800 and 1700

Roget’s Thesaurus rests on two pillars, the lexicographical traditions devoted to synonymy and to onomasiology.1 The former has been treated extensively in this book; the latter will be surveyed in its final two chapters. As I have already dealt extensively with 1

See Ch. 1.1.

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onomasiology in a comprehensive monograph,2 a concise conspectus will suffice for our purposes here. 7.1.1

Lexicographical aspects: macrostructure

Formally speaking, dictionaries are nothing more than the sum of their entries. These entries range from a few hundred (in pocket editions) to many hundreds of thousands (for example in the OED). Dictionaries are not normally meant to be read in toto. They are consulted for information on specific lexemes. Dictionary entries should therefore be arranged in a convenient order. This order is called the macrostructure. The best known is the alphabet: it is easy to use and utterly dependable. Difficulties which stem from homonyms (homographs) are minor. In itself, however, the alphabet is meaningless. Less well known, but just as well established, is a different, nonalphabetic type of macrostructure with entries sequenced not according to spelling but semantic affinity. Words which have ‘similar’ meanings are placed close to each other. Unfortunately, these dictionaries have been given a plethora of names. They are called ‘ideological’, ‘ideographical’, ‘analogical’, ‘semantic’, ‘thematic’, ‘conceptual’, ‘topical’, or ‘onomasiological’. In spite of some pertinent arguments in favour of one or the other, these names mean the same insofar as they characterize a dictionary type which deviates in its macrostructure from alphabetical order. For reasons given elsewhere (Hüllen 1999a: 3–27), I prefer the terms ‘topical’ and ‘onomasiological’ (used here as synonyms) in the present context. Their antonyms are ‘alphabetical’ and ‘semasiological’. However, the two different macrostructures are not just two ways of doing the same thing, i.e. ordering the entries of a dictionary. They are in fact indicative of two different but natural ways of processing language. Ultimately, they are grounded in the nature of the linguistic sign with its two inseparable aspects, form and content (expression and meaning, signifiant and signifié). 2 Hüllen 1999a, on the topical tradition in English lexicography between its beginnings in glossaries (c.800) and 1700. I shall borrow from this monograph without giving detailed references; that work should be consulted for further arguments and for analyses of sample dictionaries. In the lexicographical works treated here and in the major points of my arguments, I do not go beyond the limits of the older work. In the present context, I merely wish to provide the necessary link between my description of the development of the English synonym dictionary and my analysis of Roget’s Thesaurus. This is the only innovation of the present chapter.

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The two ways of processing are apparent in language learning. Learners of any age see something, point at it, gesticulate or somehow show that they want to know its name. They go from the meaning of a word—as the most natural unit of the linguistic sign3—to its expression. The same learners may hear a word which they do not understand. In learning its meaning, they go from the form of a sign (word) to its content. When we sit down to write a letter or a paper or to explain something to our interlocutor, we also start from a meaning which is, in some pre-linguistic way (see below), in our minds, with the intention of finding the signs which express it. However, when we listen to a speaker or read a text, we again have to travel from the forms of the words to their meanings. Scientific analyses of linguistic structures can proceed in either of the two directions. We can investigate, for example, how a language expresses invitations or concessions. We can also investigate the meaning, in the same language, of ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ or ‘although’ or negative questions in a conversation.4 In all these cases, one aspect of the linguistic sign is the unknown (the explanandum) whereas the other is the known, which serves as an explanans. If we wish to move from the form to the meaning, the dictionary with an alphabetical macrostructure serves our needs. We readily find the formally familiar, yet semantically obscure, word and are then informed about its meaning. If, however, we wish to move from the meaning to the form, it is the topical dictionary which facilitates this, because its entries are to be found in a pre-existing and, ideally, well-known semantic system. When engaged in conversation, we take it for granted that we are constantly able spontaneously to change the direction of our language processing, because we alternate between speaking and listening. It is only when difficulties in communication arise that we become aware of this technique. As happens often, linguistic principles become visible in problematic cases.5 3

See Ch. 3.1. Note that the meaning of ‘meaning’ is not just ‘reference’ or ‘concept’, but the whole semantic potential that a word acquires by itself, by the text in which it appears, and by the situation in which an utterance is made. 5 For bilingual dictionaries, the dichotomy between these two types is clear only in older works. In more recent ones, it is not so sharp; because these dictionaries usually appear in pairs, for example, as both an English–German and a German–English version. The English native speaker can therefore first use the English–German version to find a variety of German expressions for some meaning and 4

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However, the dichotomy between language processing and its parallel macrostructure in dictionaries is not as symmetrical as it may seem in this chain of lexicographical arguments. Alphabetical order is perfectly straightforward presupposing no more than the knowledge of the alphabet. Topical order, however, is far from straightforward, and never unanimously accepted. It depends on encyclopaedic knowledge of the world and a classification of that knowledge which ultimately rests on philosophical principles. Contrary to the alphabet, it is meaningful in itself, but this meaningfulness is more often than not controversial. In consequence, topical dictionaries serve their purposes best in speech communities and in thematic domains where such controversies rarely or never occur, unless the ordering principle is based on generalities that nobody can reasonably challenge, as in certain modern topical dictionaries (e.g. the Longman Lexicon of Contemporary English, 1981 with later editions). The former can be assumed to have been the case in earlier centuries, when our outlook on the world was much more unified by theology and philosophy than it is today.6 Ultimately, the onomasiological principle rests on an epistemological axiom which separates objective and subjective reality on the one hand—i.e. the world of natural things and material objects and that of concepts in the mind—from language—i.e. a system of signs that gives names to these things and concepts but is essentially not a part of them. But almost all the relevant discussion since the end of the eighteenth century has pointed out that this is too simple a view, that our way of looking at the world is dependent not only on the world and the human mind but also on language itself. One of the most influential originators of this idea was John Locke, one of its best-known representatives in the philosophy of language was Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835), and one of its generally acknowledged linguistic proponents was Benjamin Lee Whorf (1897–1941). The direct influence of language on thought is generally

then the German–English one to check the unfamiliar German lexemes. Hence there is no need for an onomasiological dictionary. 6 Obviously, these remarks presuppose a certain type of modern society, namely the liberal state, where significant disagreements between world-views are possible. There are, of course, also societies where this is not the case. The mutual dependency of dictionary types and societal conditions is closer than we usually realize.

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assumed to be culture-specific. More recent experts in the cognitive sciences (or cognitive linguistics), however, are inclined to find the general condition of human cognition to be a genetically conditioned faculty. But according to all these thinkers, language is not a neutral instrument of communicating about reality but one of its most essential means. Therefore, the assumption that the macrostructure of onomasiological dictionaries is language-independent is, philosophically speaking, too simple. However, dictionaries are not treatises on logic or epistemology. They serve our natural ways of processing language, as explained above, and a dictionary is useful for this purpose if it is ordered macrostructurally according to topical classifications which are, in the framework of a given culture, generally accepted or at least intelligible. Such dictionaries are undoubtedly possible, but not always feasible. They are more useful in certain domains of reality and corresponding vocabulary than in others, such as the world of nature (e.g. plants, animals, humans) and man-made objects (e.g. houses, tools, vehicles) in older dictionaries and, additionally, the world of technical achievements in more recent ones. Emotions (e.g. the four humours), logical concepts (e.g. the various degrees of abstraction), and ideological assumptions (e.g. religious dogmas or basic political assertions) have often been seen as bestowed by nature, but appear to a more sceptical view as cultural artefacts and thus also dependent on linguistic possibilities. But it is the layperson’s (though not perhaps the philosopher’s) opinion that meanings can always be constructed by using pictures and images, gestures and indications, metaphors and metonymies, etc., i.e. communicative means independent of words used literally. And laypersons, after all, consult topical dictionaries. Even lexicographically speaking, the division between alphabetical and topical dictionaries is not that clear-cut. In their techniques of explanation, alphabetical dictionaries in many cases cannot do without onomasiological elements. Definitions of species by reference to their genus (e.g. the cow as a mammal), illustrations of emotions in certain situations (e.g. expression of sorrow at a funeral), or explanation of an activity in a specific situation (buying and selling in shops)—all presuppose phenomena and structures of reality which are not linguistically given in the explanation. The inevitability of using encyclopaedic knowledge for the determination of word

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meanings, a topic so frequently debated in cognitive linguistics, is nothing more than the inevitability of using onomasiological assumptions for semasiological determinations. These assumptions appear in pragmatic tags such as ‘terminology’, ‘medical language’, ‘nautical term’, or ‘poetical’. Nevertheless, in spite of these complexities, the differences between onomasiological and semasiological principles are perfectly clear in dictionaries. It is the distinction between topical and alphabetical order which distinguishes the needs of speakers and allocates dictionaries clearly to one class or the other. 7.1.2

Lexicographical aspects: microstructure

Whether a dictionary has the one macrostructure or the other also has repercussions on the microstructure, i.e. the order within its entries. Semasiological dictionaries first list the lemma (keyword), i.e. the lexeme as a linguistic form, and then the explaining elements. Depending on the type of dictionary, the latter include indications of pronunciation, of grammatical behaviour, of pragmatic features concerning style, register, etc. and, above all, indications of meaning in the shape of definitions, paraphrases, quotations, and so on. The precise form of a microstructure—to the level of punctuation and abbreviations—is specific to each dictionary. It is important, however, that the lexeme to be explained (the explanandum) comes first, and the explaining elements (the explanantia) follow. Thus, the reader’s eye proceeds from the formally known, but otherwise unfamiliar, element to the explaining ones. In topical dictionaries, however, the sequence is reversed. Microstructurally, the entry starts with the known lexeme (the explanantium), such as ‘mammal’, which serves as an explanation of the following lexemes (the explananda), such as ‘lion’, ‘mammoth’, and ‘bear’. It is obvious that this arrangement imposes natural restrictions on microstructures. Whereas, for example, in the semasiological microstructure it is natural to have a definition follow the headword of the entry, it would be rather curious (though systematically justifiable) to begin an entry in an onomasiological microstructure with a definition and then list the subsequent lexemes. This further corroborates the statement that onomasiological dictionaries prove more useful in certain domains of communication

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than in others, for example, in those that have obvious hierarchical networks of meanings. The reader’s eye here proceeds from the semantically known to the formally unfamiliar elements. It also follows from the nature of onomasiological dictionaries that entries are grouped together because of their semantic affinities. This creates the so-called pragmatic structures. They are highly interesting, but frequently neglected, because they often reflect the lexicographer’s idiosyncrasies. In a semasiological dictionary, each entry starts afresh, so to speak, and without any relation to the previous or following entry.7 In onomasiological dictionaries, entries like ‘mammal’, ‘fish’, and ‘bird’ will appear close to each other; in semasiological dictionaries they will be far apart. Where is the dictionary of synonyms to be located in this system? Synonyms are lexemes with partially overlapping and partially differing meanings. Their special linguistic feature is that they can be used in both of these semantic properties, depending on the context and the information which is intended to be conveyed. Human languages cannot work without them. Usually, a row of synonyms starts with a well-known lexeme and complements it with several others standing in a synonymous relation to it and to each other. As the boundaries of synonymy vary between small groups and large semantic fields, the number of lexemes in these rows can vary enormously too. They can, but need not, be accompanied by explanations. If they are, we call this row of synonyms explaining; if not, they are cumulative. This entry structure corresponds to the microstructure of an onomasiological dictionary. However, most synonym dictionaries follow the alphabet in the listing of ‘first’ lexemes which begin the rows of synonyms. Thus synonym dictionaries have a semasiological macrostructure, but an onomasiological microstructure. This is the special property of almost all of them. They consist of a sequence of content-oriented word lists arranged in an alphabetical succession of keywords. The user of such dictionaries must, therefore, engage in both ways of processing language when using them. It is the outstanding property of Roget’s Thesaurus to combine the onomasiological macrostructure with an onomasiological microstructure, i.e. to be onomasiological in both respects. The term 7 There are natural exceptions to this, of course: lexemes with varying derivations or compounds with the same initial element. In so-called nesting dictionaries, they are subsumed under one entry.

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‘thesaurus’ can rightly be reserved for this sort of arrangement. Before Roget, no other dictionary, properly speaking, had been organized in this way, although at least two works were also thesauri in this sense, namely John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ and Jean de Maimieux’s list and nomenclators (see below). However, neither are dictionaries in the usual sense, but are rather the semantic part of universal language schemes. The other synonym dictionaries are hybrids located between semasiology and onomasiology. 7.1.3

Historical aspects

Historically speaking, the onomasiological tradition is older than the semasiological one. At the beginning of European written culture north of the Alps, the translation of Latin words into AngloSaxon ones in so-called glosses and their collection in glossaries laid the foundations of English lexicography. At first, they were exclusively devoted to semantically related vocabulary. Listing the Latin terms (for plants, fish, precious stones, etc.) and finding vernacular equivalents for them was not merely a linguistic exercise but also the collection of encyclopaedic knowledge. In spite of focusing on words, these glossaries approached the status of encyclopaedias, an important genre in the early and high Middle Ages. Admittedly, topical glossaries were soon reorganized into alphabetical ones and thus made more usable, but the tradition of topical glossaries and, later, dictionaries was never disrupted. It became important for surveying the knowledge of the world (e.g. in anatomy and botany), for the training of craftsmen (e.g. in husbandry and seafaring), and for the learning of languages, most of all Latin. Classical studies in the wake of the Renaissance and Humanism gave them a strong boost. Although finally outstripped by alphabetical dictionaries, the topical tradition pervaded cultural life for centuries and came to an end only around 1700, with John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ the last work of this kind. Topical glossaries and dictionaries played their part in the encyclopaedic and also in the pedagogical tradition of language learning down to the seventeenth century. Their philosophical background is the assumption of a pre-existing reality which is to be mirrored in the ordered arrangement of words. This philosophical background

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changed towards the end of the seventeenth century, mainly because of the epistemological deliberations of John Locke.8 This can be illustrated in this (and only in this) respect by an analysis of John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’. This is the last great onomasiological work of the seventeenth century and of the old tradition, and it was mentioned by Roget, albeit critically, as a forerunner of his own work. Only a few other works in the onomasiological tradition were published between Wilkins and Roget (see below), and none of them would be so closely related to Roget’s Thesaurus as Wilkins’s ‘Tables’. 7.1.4

Wilkins’s ‘Tables’: macrostructure and word selection

In paragraphs II and III of chapter V, part I, of the Essay (1668: 19–21), John Wilkins explains his onomasiological programme. Although the author’s use of terms is unfortunately not very precise, this programme is sufficiently clear. Its pivotal point is the conviction that people generally agree on the principle(s) of reason and the apprehension of things. Concerning the latter, Wilkins distinguishes between reality, the mind, and the expression of the mind for the sake of communication. Reality is the realm of ‘things’. They are ‘natural’: they have their own ‘nature’, ‘shape’, and ‘use’. In the mind, notions correspond to things. Notions are called ‘mental’ and ‘internal’, which allows things to be called ‘real (⫽ natural)’ and ‘external’. Notions are also called ‘conceits’, ‘apprehensions’, and ‘conceptions’. The expression of notions (etc.) is by sounds which we find in ‘articulate voice’ and ‘words’. Writing, which is also in words, gives a ‘figure’ or ‘picture’ of the sounds. Words which express the notions of things are also called ‘names’, ‘marks’, and ‘characters’.9

8

See Ch. 5.2.1. It is confusing that Wilkins speaks of ‘things and notions’, but just as often of ‘things or notions’, leaving it undecided whether notions always stem from things and go together with them, or whether there are also notions as such, for example, abstract notions, as independent products of our thinking. This is, of course, the old problem of nominalism vs realism in logic. One would have to study the whole of Wilkins’s book to sort this vagueness out, and, as Wilkins was not a subtle philosopher, it could very well be that he is indeed undecided on this point. But we can safely assume that Wilkins obviously conceived of two kinds of notions, one corresponding to things like trees or horses (his examples, 1668: 20), the other one functioning as predicaments (i.e. the categories of Aristotle) and to ‘such matters, as by reason of their Generalness, or in some other respect, are above all those common heads of things called Predicaments’ (24) (i.e. notions like being, thing, notion itself, moreover genus, 9

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In spite of this bewildering abundance of terms, it seems clear that Wilkins has in mind a world of things parallel to which there is a world of notions, governed by the ‘predicaments’ as ordering principles. These predicaments are given in the first three tables (called ‘General’, ‘Relation mixed’, and ‘Relation of Action’). Language is added as table IV. The title of this table reads ‘Of Discourse, Or the several notions belonging to Grammar or Logick’, but the introductory text speaks of ‘The several things and notions belonging to discourse’ (44). According to its nature as ‘external expressions, whereby men do make known their thoughts to one another’ (44), language is located between notions and things. What are formally termed ‘words’ are functionally ‘names’ which are made up of marks, notes, or characters. The main philosophical assumption of the onomasiological lexicographer is that there is order in this world, that this order defines the nature of things and is discernible by the human mind. It is Wilkins’s programme to arrange the names of things in such a way that the sequence itself reflects the arrangement of notions which reflects the arrangement of things: The first thing to be considered and enquired into is, Concerning a just Enumeration and description of such things or notions as are to have Marks or Names assigned to them. The chief Difficulty and Labour will be to contrive the Enumeration of things and notions, as that they may be full and adequate, without any Redundancy or Deficiency as to the Number of them, and regular as to their Place and Order. (20)

It is the order of entries in the ‘Tables’ which ‘contribute[s] to the defining of them, and determining their primary significations’ (22). If we look at the macrostructure of the ‘Tables’, we find that this order follows the general principles of traditional logic and ontology. The ultimate source of both sets of principles is Aristotelian, just as the differentiation between the thing, the mental image, and the word is Aristotelian. This does not mean that Wilkins actually used Aristotle or some commentary like Porphyry’s as his model. difference, and species, hence the so-called predicabilia). In genera I, II, and III of his ‘Tables’, he enumerates this latter kind of ‘Universal notions’ (23), which he then explicitly intends to use as ordering schemata for tables V to XL. Again, nobody so far has investigated whether this was done coherently, i.e. whether the notions of tables I, II, and III do indeed reappear as ordering categories in later tables.

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He probably depended on one or more books by the so-called schoolmen which were available at his time and which represented the mainstream of traditional philosophy, often via a discussion of the works of Peter Ramus.10 After the epistemological introduction in chapter I (i.e. genera and tables I to IV), there follows chapter II (genera and tables V and VI) on God and the world as a whole, which functions as a bridge. After this, the macrostructure of the ‘Tables’ is determined by the five predicaments (categories) substance, quantity, quality, action, and relation as the headings of the relevant chapters of word lists, and then by the differentiation between genus, difference, and species within each of them. In chapters III to VI (genera and tables VII to XX), governed by the predicament substance, we find entries pertaining to natural history, i.e. the elements and the various kingdoms of nature. In chapter VII (genus and tables XXI to XXIII), governed by the predicament quantity, we find entries pertaining to geometry and algebra. In chapter VIII (genera and tables XXIV to XXVIII), governed by the predicament quality, we find a mixture of entries which have in common that they pertain to certain states and faculties of human beings. They deal with the dispositions of characters and the body, with the senses, manners, habits, etc. Chapter IX (genera and tables XXIX to XXXII), governed by the predicament action, deals with human behaviour and activities in the world, including games and sports, the arts, crafts, and trades. Finally, chapters X and XI (genera and tables XXXIII to XL), governed by the predicament relation, deal with houses and everything belonging to them, and with the great societal systems, i.e. the law, military forces, the navy, and the Church, in terms of people, offices, objects, instruments, activities, etc. The macrostructure can be fully set out as follows: Chapter I: predicabilia, predicaments, language genus I: General, genus II: Relation Mixed, genus III: Relation of Action, genus IV: Discourse (⫽ language)

10 I am thinking, for example, of the books by Dudley Fenner (?1558–1587), Thomas Blundeville (fl. 1599), or Samuel Smith (1587–1620). But there may be others (Hüllen 1999a: 284–92).

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Chapter II: God and world as creation genus V: Creator, genus VI: World Chapters III–VI: substance, nature genus VII: Element, genus VIII: Stone, genus IX: Metal, genus X: Herb, Leaf, genus XI: Herb, Flower, genus XII: Herb, Seed Vessel, genus XIII: Shrub, genus XIV: Tree, genus XV: animal Exsanguinous, genus XVI: Fish, genus XVII: Bird, genus XVIII: Beast, genus XIX: Peculiar Parts of animals, genus XX: General Parts of animals Chapter VII: quantity, geometry, algebra genus XXI: Magnitude, genus XXII: Space, genus XXIII: Measure Chapter VIII: quality, states and faculties of human beings, souls and body genus XXIV: Natural Power, genus XXV: Habit, genus XXVI: Manners, genus XXVII: Sensible Quality, genus XXVIII: Sickness Chapter IX: action, human behaviour and activities, sports, crafts genus XXIX: Spiritual, genus XXX: Corporeal, genus XXXI: Motion, genus XXXII: Operation Chapters X–XI: relation, societal systems genus XXXIII: Oeconomical, genus XXXIV: Possessions, genus XXXV: Provisions, genus XXXVI: Civil, genus XXXVII: Judicial, genus XXXVIII: Military, genus XXXIX: Naval, genus XL: Ecclesiastical.11 All these areas of reality and their corresponding areas of lexemes are well known from the tradition of glossaries, nomenclators, and topical dictionaries. Wilkins calls the entries in the tables radicals. By far the greatest number come in pairs, which are either antonyms or otherwise related to each other. This prefigures Roget’s arrangement in opposing columns. The meanings of the radicals are provided by their position in the table, i.e. by the categories above them. Most of these entries are complemented by one or (sometimes) more lexemes which are obviously thought to be synonymous. 11 Wilkins’s terms capitalized as in the original, my own terms italicized; each genus is allocated one table.

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The predicaments on the level of the macrostructure are necessarily abstract. But what is the nature of the vocabulary which is carefully and neatly distributed into these abstractly defined semantic compartments? In most of the chapters, though not all, it is notable for its semantic concreteness, for the visual, palpable, audible, easily imaginable character of word meanings. For Wilkins, reality truly seems to consist of things with their own characters and shapes, and also with their natural uses. No proof of this is needed concerning the entries under substance (genera VII to XX). The word lists here swarm with names (in Wilkins’s sense) of the objects of nature. His lament that he is unable to enumerate them exhaustively itself shows that this was actually his aim. Even the headings of the genera and species, i.e. abstract terms, are introduced with quite concrete features. Elements, for example, are ‘the great Masses of natural Bodies, which are of a more simple Fabric than the rest’ (56); fire is ‘the hottest and lightest’ element (57); air is known ‘for its Levity and Warmth’ (58) and water for ‘its Gravity and Moisture’ (58); finally ‘the Coldest, Thickest, Heaviest, of any of those Bodies counted Elements, is called Earth’ (59). The essentially descriptive taxonomy of biology and related disciplines at Wilkins’s time supported his method. The whole taxonomy of minerals, stones, plants, and animals, including their exterior and interior parts, is represented. The entries under quantity (genera XXI to XXIII), divided into ‘magnitude’ and ‘measure’, also contain lexemes with concrete meanings, because they denote the simple and complex figures of geometry, the numbers of algebra, the units of value (money), of quantity and duration. Only the chapter ‘Of Space’ (genus XXII) is different in that it does not enumerate imaginable chunks of reality but ideas (see below). With the tables under quality (genera XXIV to XXVIII) the picture is slightly different. Lexemes denoting the powers of the soul (e.g. understanding, judgement) and the body (e.g. the senses), habits (e.g. emotions, virtues), manners (e.g. candor, patience), and sensible qualities (e.g. sweetness, fattiness) indicate ideas rather than things or actions, mostly expressed by nouns derived from adjectives (like equity, vigilance, peaceableness, condescension, submission). But then there follow entries with the names of diseases

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(genus XXVIII), which denote fairly concrete phenomena and states (e.g. ulcer, wart). Derived lexemes denoting ideas are also to be found among the entries of the tables under action (genera XXIX to XXXII), in this case mostly nouns derived from verbs (like blessing, assurance). But they are to be understood as ‘actions of (blessing, assurance, etc.)’, which again gives them a concrete appearance. Whereas for the ‘spiritual actions’ it is sometimes difficult to decide whether an abstract idea or its concrete realization is meant, there is nothing equivocal about entries pertaining to ‘corporeal actions’ (like drinking, reading, or laughing, including gestures), ‘motions’, and ‘operations’. To the latter belongs everything people can do with the help of instruments (like forging, casting, kneading, or turning), i.e. the whole world of crafts and labour. Finally, the tables under relation (genera XXXIII to XL), probably the most abstract of all the predicaments, nevertheless almost exclusively consist of the names of concrete objects. ‘Oeconomical [i.e. domestic] relations’ are defined by degrees of consanguinity (like parent and child), by possessions (like farms or bridges and everything pertaining to buildings), and finally by provisions (i.e. edibles). ‘Civil relations’, ‘judicial relations’, ‘military relations’, ‘naval relations’, and ‘ecclesiastical relations’ are merely the umbrella terms for the names of people, offices, objects, actions, processes, etc. in families, law courts, the army, the navy, and the Church. Admittedly, the distinction between concrete and abstract may in a number of cases be open to debate. When put to the test, the difference between an abstract term and the name of a concrete thing (in Wilkins’s sense) is not always that clear. But it is still safe to say that, beginning with genus VII, the vocabulary of Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ is dominated by lexemes expressing well-delimited, clearly imaginable, concrete things, presenting to readers a universe of experience, though classified in a traditional system of thought. The exceptions in genus XXII and genera XXIV to XXVII (‘space’, and then ‘natural powers’, ‘habits’, ‘manners’, and ‘sensible qualities’) may find an easy explanation. For most of the entries in these genera there are adjectives in common use. Elsewhere in the tables, however, the vast majority of entries are nouns for which no common adjectives are available. Wilkins may have changed most of the adjectival entries of genera XXII and XXIV to XXVII to

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nouns on purely formal grounds. He may have written ‘gentleness’ instead of gentle, ‘prosperity’ instead of prosperous, and ‘redness’ instead of red, without wishing to indicate that he was changing the level of abstraction and hence speaking of the idea of gentleness, prosperity, redness, etc. and not of the states themselves. This is also why verbs are generally, though not exclusively, rendered in the nominalizing -ing form. Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ are probably the last specimen of onomasiological lexicography, which combines three essential properties that all depend on a traditional philosophical background: (i) intentional universalism, i.e. the wish to bring all of the lexical means of language use into one system; (ii) strict (in Wilkins’s case rather philosophical) classification; and (iii) an attitude towards reality which is largely governed by experience and observation. The words in this system are like names tagged to ‘things’ or ‘notions’, i.e. to objects or mental representations.12

7.2

The classification of knowledge

The purpose of dictionaries is first and foremost to explain the meaning of lexemes. The semasiological and the onomasiological types do this in their own ways. Onomasiological dictionaries come close to being encyclopaedias whose main purpose is not the explanation of words (with the help of things) but the explanation of things (with the help of words). On the surface, this is evident in their textual structure. The more lexemes that are embedded in explanatory and narrative prose, as is the case, for example, in Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ or in Booth’s so-called analytical dictionary,13 the more a work of this lexicographical structure distances itself from a dictionary proper. The parallelism between world and dictionary (and even encyclopaedia) was characterized by the metaphor speculative, i.e. ‘in the manner of a mirror’ (see n. 12).

12 With reference to this kind of onomasiology, I have spoken several times of a ‘speculative tradition’. This is meant to express a parallelism with so-called speculative grammar. ‘Speculative’ means that grammar as much as dictionaries tends to be a mirror (speculum) of the order of the world. In dictionaries, this is to be achieved by the macrostructural arrangement. The term ‘speculative’ is historiographically descriptive, i.e. no grammarian or lexicographer has ever used it in this sense. 13 However, it was a fixed term in encyclopaedic books. See Ch. 7.3.2.

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In the eighteenth century, this division changed. There appeared books whose aim was to explain a certain type of ‘things’ but which did this in the manner of (semasiological) dictionaries, i.e. by an alphabetical arrangement of key words and fairly short articles.14 These works certainly continued the older tradition of assembling legal or medical terms, names for plants or minerals, etc. in dictionaries. However, their focus now was not the explanation of terms (i.e. the meaning of words) but the presentation of matter. Though these two intentions are close to and presuppose each other, there is a marked difference between them, lexicographically speaking. It was undoubtedly the tremendous development of the arts and sciences in the eighteenth century and the concomitant pedagogical interest in them which made it appear feasible that human knowledge in these areas could be presented in a conspectus to anyone who cared to read it. For this aim, alphabetical order proved most practicable and easy to use. Conducive to this decision was the fact that, in the meantime, epistemological analyses, such as, for example, those published by the most influential philosopher of the time, John Locke, regarded human knowledge of the world no longer as a mirror image of reality (i.e. as ‘speculative’) but as a cosmos of simple and complex ideas, originating from experience (sensation) and thinking (reflection) and developed into an ideational world which was best expressed by signs. The most important property of this world is its having been constructed by the human mind according to general communicative needs. It is certainly not inappropriate to find here the beginnings of what is today called ‘mental’ lexicography. With this new approach to the status of human knowledge, the onomasiological order of dictionaries and encyclopaedias became outdated. It no longer made any significant contribution to understanding and could be replaced by the far handier alphabet. The only devices needed were the explanation in words of the various connections between ideas—for example, the ways in which simple ideas make a complex one—and references to relevant information. 14 For example, John Harris, Lexicon Technicum; or, an Universal English dictionary of arts and sciences, London, 1704; John Barrow, A New and Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, London, 1751; A Society of Gentlemen, New and Complete Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, London, 1754; and Temple Henry Crocker, Thomas Williams, and Samuel Clark, The Complete Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, London, 1764.

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In accordance with the pedagogical endeavours of the Enlightenment, the wish to encapsulate many areas of knowledge in dictionary form broadened into the wish to do this with human knowledge in toto and for everybody. The term encyclopaedia adopted this new meaning—‘the presentation of all knowledge available at a certain era in a form which was intelligible to everybody’ (OED). The huge projects undertaken for this purpose were borne along by an enthusiasm for teaching and the firm belief that the arts and sciences are helpful for mankind. In this respect, the encyclopaedists rightly saw their ancestor in Francis Bacon. In 1728, Chambers’ Cyclopaedia appeared for the first time. The name ‘cyclopaedia’ (which remained unique to this book) was chosen to stress the image of a circle of knowledge. The plan was to inform ordinary people by means of fairly short articles about anything worth knowing. Note the full title (of the second edition), which best describes the intentions of the whole undertaking: Cyclopaedia: Or An Universal Dictionary Of Arts and Sciences; Containing An Explication Of The Terms, And An Account Of The Things Signified Thereby, In The Several Arts, Both Liberal And Mechanical; And The Several Sciences, Human And Divine: The Figures, Kinds, Properties, Productions, Preparations, and uses of Things Natural And Artificial: The Rise, Progress, And State of Things Ecclesiastical, Civil, Military, And Commercial: With the several Systems, Sects, Opinions &c among Philosophers, Divines, Mathematicians, Physicians, Antiquaries, Critics, &c. The whole intended as a Course of ancient and modern Learning. Extracted from the best Authors, Dictionaries, Journals, Memoirs, Transactions, Ephemerides, &c in several Languages. By E. Chambers, F.R.S. [. . .]. The Second Edition, Corrected and Amended; With Some Additions. In Two Volumes. [. . .] London: Printed for D. Midwinter [. . .]. M.DCC.XXXVIII. BL L 40/14.

Chambers’ Cyclopaedia became the direct model for the French project which was to establish the generic meaning of encyclopaedia all over Europe. Edited by Dennis Diderot (1713–1784) and Jean d’Alembert (1717–1783), the seventeen volumes of the Encyclopédie appeared between 1751 and 1765 after many political difficulties had to be overcome in the course of its preparation. Eleven volumes with illustrations were to follow. The book has a reputation for being the most elaborate and extensive undertaking of

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its kind and of its time.15 It also has the reputation of being the joint effort of a great number of contributors of unique scientific eminence. Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des Sciences, des Arts et des Métiers, par une Société de Gens des Lettres. Mis en ordre et publié par M. Diderot [. . .] et quant à la Partie mathématique, par M. D’Alembert [. . .]. A Paris, chez Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. 1751–1765.

Although acknowledging Chambers’ Cyclopaedia as the seminal forerunner of their Éncyclopedie, Diderot and d’Alembert deviated from this book in one most important point: they were not content with giving information for the general reader in short articles, but were ambitious enough to present a cross-section of knowledge in all of the sciences and arts in extensive articles written and organized according to generally accepted style and methods. The editors and authors of the Encyclopaedia Britannica adopted this project whole-heartedly and produced the counterpart of the Encyclopédie in Britain. Its first edition appeared in 1771; its seventh edition, with substantial changes and amendments, in 1842, with Peter Mark Roget among its authors. The additions to the seventh edition consisted of historical and biographical articles, which had been absent in the Encyclopédie. According to the ‘Preface’ by its editor, Macrey Napier, each science was treated in a systematic form, and an extensive, in fact book-long, ‘Dissertation’ showed the progress that had been made between the first and the seventh edition. The Encyclopaedia Britannica. Or Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and General Literature. Seventh Edition, With Preliminary Dissertations On The History Of The Sciences, And Other Extensive Improvements And Additions [. . .]. Adam and Charles Black, Edinburgh M.DCCC.XLII.

In the prefaces to all three books, the authors go out of their way to explain that the articles are interconnected. The information, though not arranged according to the alphabet, is linked by scientific discipline and by the cross-references to other articles. The old 15 In fact, the German counterpart of the Encyclopédie, with its twenty-five volumes is even more voluminous: Johann Heinrich Zedler’s Großes vollständiges Universal-Lexikon aller Wissenschaften und Künste welche bishero durch menschlichen Verstand und Witz erfunden und verbessert wurden, Halle and Leipzig, 1731–50. In 1796, Friedrich Arnold Brockhaus published in Germany his first Konversations-Lexikon für die gebildeten Stände, whose six rather thin volumes were written by Renatus Gotthelf Löbel. It has since grown into an enormous publication of twenty-five volumes whose last edition was issued in 1996. In German, the term ‘Brockhaus’ now has the generic meaning ‘encyclopaedic dictionary’.

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order of onomasiological dictionaries, which had some fundamentum in re, is now replaced by a classification of human knowledge according to methodological principles. The preface to Chambers (1738: ii–xxv), for example, sets out a system of 47 scientific disciplines broken down into six groups according to the following argument. All knowledge is either natural or artificial (technical). Natural knowledge is either (i) sensible or (ii) rational. Artificial knowledge is either (iii) internal or external, which is either (iv) real or (v) symbolic. Consequently (i) comprises the disciplines belonging to physiology or natural history, (ii) the disciplines belonging to mathematics and quantifying procedures, (iii) logic and ethics, (iv) all the other sciences, and (v) language-related disciplines. The system of human knowledge which is appended to the preface of the Encyclopédie has three main categories under which all the sciences and arts, both liberal and mechanical (crafts), are to be subsumed: (i) memory, (ii) reason, and (iii) imagination. (i) is for everything historical, be it man-made or natural, (ii) is for everything philosophical dealing with being in general, God, humanity, and nature, and (iii) is for the liberal arts. The whole system contains more than 150 disciplines, of which many carry the note ‘etc.’, indicating that the system is not yet perfect. The system of the Encyclopédie has an obvious affinity to that of Francis Bacon, who distinguished between historia (naturalis, civilis), philosophia (de deo, de natura, de homine) and poesis (narrativa, dramatica, parabolica).16 Chambers’ system has an obvious affinity to the last chapter of John Locke’s Essay, called ‘Of the division of the sciences’: All that can fall within the compass of human understanding being either, first, the nature of things, as they are in themselves, their relations, and their manner of operation; or, secondly, that which man himself ought to do, as a rational and voluntary agent, for the attainment of any end, especially happiness; or, thirdly, the ways and means whereby the knowledge of both the one or the other of these is attained and communicated. (Locke 1961: ii, 308–9)

Locke does not give his division as a stemma but as an argument. To the first group belong what was then called theology, metaphysics, 16 See, for example, the second book of The Advancement of Learning (Bacon 1857–74: iii, 321–491).

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mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural history. The second group is ethics, and the third what was then called logic and would today be called linguistics or semiotics. In his search for a comprehensive framework in which to place the synonyms of English, Roget could not go back to Wilkins, whose work he knew and mentioned in the preface of his book. Though he would not have expressed himself in precisely these words, he would have agreed with Jeremy Bentham that the semantic principle of the ‘Tables’ was outmoded: ‘In the character of a practical project fit for use, this work, with all its ingenuity, failed in its design: being written before the discoveries made in the field of Pscycology [!] by Locke’ (Bentham 1983: 323).17 It was as simple as that. Instead, Roget would turn to the various classifications of knowledge which had taken the place of onomasiological order. Such classifications were in demand, especially in the rapidly growing natural sciences. William Whewell, the founder of mineralogy and a highly influential natural scientist, had devised a complex system. Roget himself worked in this field,18 and as a contributor to the seventh edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica he was used to this kind of thinking. In the preface of his book, he acknowledged having read a pamphlet by J. W. Lubbock (1838) which discussed classificatory systems at great length, from the Porphyrian Tree to Jeremy Bentham, in the context of constructing adequate systems for cataloguing the great libraries, which were growing rapidly at this time. In 1816, Bentham, with whom Roget had worked in his youth,19 had drawn up an elaborate ‘chrestomathic table’ (Bentham 1983) intended as a curriculum for a so-called Lancaster School. This was a secondary day-school with a special tutorial system, in which an able boy was paired with a less able one. The teacher taught the former, who taught the latter. Bentham became very enthusiastic about the project and, in addition to the curriculum, wrote many papers about its foundation and implementation. However, it never got off the ground, or at least it is not known that this classificatory system was ever used for teaching. It is elaborated in a complex stemma, leading eventually 17 The quotation is taken from Bentham’s ‘Appendix Nr. VII’, titled ‘Hints towards a system and course of Technology, from Bishop Wilkins’ Logical work, published by the Royal Society, A⬚ 1668, under the title of “An Essay towards a Real Character, and a Philosophical Language” ’. 18 19 See Ch. 2.3. See Ch. 2.2.

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to eighteen fields of knowledge. The umbrella term for the entire curriculum is ontology. I reproduce the entire stemma here, rearranged as a numbered list.20 Bentham’s terminology is strictly organized but very idiosyncratic, so I have not followed his usage in all cases. Nevertheless, the denominations of the sciences are all taken from his stemma. Ontology 1

regarding properties common to all beings: metaphysics

2 2.1 2.11 2.111 2.1111 2.1112 2.112 2.12 2.121 2.1211 2.1212 2.12121 2.12122 2.121221 2.121222 2.122 2.1221 2.1222 2.2 2.21 2.211 2.212 2.2121 2.2122 2.22 2.221

regarding properties peculiar to different classes of beings: related to the body related to quantity [mathematics]: not regarding form arithmetic algebra regarding form: geometry related to quality related to nature [natural history]: related to the heavens: astronomy related to the earth not possessing life: mineralogy possessing life botany zoology related to man [natural philosophy]: mechanics (experimental and technical) chemistry (experimental and technical) related to the mind related to the intellectual faculty logic related to communication grammar rhetoric related to the sensitive faculty related to volition [ethics]:

20 Designations in square brackets have only a logical function; designations in italics name the scientific disciplines, i.e. the subjects of the teaching envisaged.

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2.2211 2.2212 2.22121 2.221211 2.2212111 2.2212112 2.22122 2.222

expository ethics censorial ethics related to the state related to internal government legislation administration related to the individual: private ethics related to the senses: aesthetics

This is a system of 22 scientific disciplines which Roget would remember when making a blueprint for his thesaurus: metaphysics; [mathematics], arithmetic, algebra, geometry; [natural history], astronomy, mineralogy, botany, zoology, mechanics, chemistry; logic; grammar, rhetoric; [ethics], legislation, administration, politics, private ethics; aesthetics.

7.3

Onomasiological lexicography between 1700 and 1852

John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’—in essence a thesaurus of the English language though incorporated into his sketch of a universal and philosophical language—was the last attempt at compiling the complete lexical potential of the English language in an onomasiological manner. The two outstanding intentions of the century-old genre of topical dictionaries—knowledge-based (foreign) language learning and the classification of human knowledge for any other purpose— were now catered for by alphabetical dictionaries and by alphabetical encyclopaedias. The convenience of the former, for example in school classes, outweighed the educational benefits provided by the semantic cohesion of vocabulary. As noted earlier, the growing habit of publishing dictionary pairs—English–foreign language and foreign language–English—gave dictionary users the opportunity of first learning the meaning of a foreign-language word in their mother tongue by translation and then of using this knowledge to proceed further in the foreign language itself. The availability of alphabetical encyclopaedias on many levels— from the Encyclopaedia Britannica to the topical alphabetical dictionary for everyone—made accessing information on any kind

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of human knowledge much easier, since the idea that encyclopaedias should structurally mirror the world was abandoned. As soon as words were taken to indicate ideas and not things or notions, it no longer mattered how they were arranged.21 Between (roughly) 1700 and 1852, the year of publication of Roget’s Thesaurus, only a few major works in the old genre appeared. Of course, this does not mean that such books, in particular the smaller ones, vanished altogether. Textbooks for school use continued to collect vocabulary topically in appendices, for example, as did glossaries appended to editions of literary texts. The three works discussed in this section represent in various ways the category of general topical dictionaries. Andree (1725) is fairly traditional and can be regarded as a late-comer of the old genre. Booth (1835) is most astonishing because it instrumentalizes an enormous list of keywords by arranging and connecting them textually so as to create a general European history of culture. It is heavily influenced by diachronic studies as they evolved during the nineteenth century out of Indo-European philology. It is a dictionary because it deals with words, although it does not display them as a list. (But John Wilkins can also be said to do this because he combines his entries, which are displayed as a list, with an explanatory text.) Maimieux (1797) presents the lexical part of his universal language schema, a perfect parallel to John Wilkins. Maimieux (and also Wilkins) were mentioned by Roget in the preface to his Thesaurus. We cannot ascertain whether he knew the two other works. 7.3.1

Andree (1725)

[R. John Andree [Andrée]:] A Vocabulary, In Six Languages; Viz. English, Latin, Italian, French, Spanish, and Portugues [!], After A New Method, To Shew the Dependance of the four last upon the Latin, and their mutual Analogy to each other. With Proper Rules for several Pronunciations; and a Dissertation upon their Origin, Change, and Mixture; besides many other Advantages, not to be met with in common Dictionaries and Vocabularies. [. . .]. London: Printed and Sold by P. Vaillant, in the Strand, and W. Meadows, at the Angel in Cornhill. M.DCC.XXV. 21 Recent so-called cognitive linguistics (semantics) seems to hark back to the old onomasiological pattern by assuming that lexis is stored in a ‘cognitive’, i.e. meaningful, way in the human mind.

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No mention of author; dedication to John, Lord Garteret signed ‘R. John Andree’. 4⬚, 178 pp., i.e. 256 pp. because opposite pages have an identical number. BL RB. 23.a. 14332. There is no entry for the author in the DNB. 7.3.1.1

The preface

In his preface ‘To The Reader’, the author presents a curious mixture of rather traditional ideas and more recent deliberations on language learning. On closer inspection, this mixture reveals itself to be the most distinctive property of the entire book. Rather traditional is the reference to the universal language which was lost in Babel and which forces us to learn national languages; rather new, however, is the observation that climate, diet, education, disposition, and the genius of a people are also responsible for the differences between them. This, and the remark that some notions can be expressed in one but not other languages, reminds us, for example, of James Harris. However, it amounts to only a somewhat timid espousal of what was later called ‘linguistic relativity’, without consequences for the dictionary itself. It is a Lockean concept that foreign languages have to be learnt in order to communicate ‘[i]deas of things, present, past, and absent’. The choice between the available languages is guided by the criteria of usefulness: Latin is the language of the learned, Italian the language of princes, French is used everywhere in Europe, Spanish and Portuguese are useful for trade in the West and East Indies. There is no mention of German. English is a mixed language and, because of this property, superior to the others: In this they have so well succeeded, that their Tongue is capable of all the lively Strains of true Eloquence, nothing inferior to the most fluent Orations pronounced of Old by the Romans; And as that Language ought to be valued most, by which Men are best enabled to explain themselves clearly and concisely, I make bold to add, that the English has as fair a Claim to Preference as any. (p. xi)

This kind of linguistic pride is, again, well known from authors of the previous century. In spite of his attitude to English, Andree compiled his dictionary for learning other idioms. Quite new in this respect is his systematic exploitation of the similarities between Latin and the Romance languages for the purpose of memorization.

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At least two of them, he maintains, can therefore be learnt at once. This is to be done with the help of lists of nouns being ‘brought in by way of a natural Discourse’ (p. xiv), i.e. in semantically related groups—again a very old idea. The advice given for learning in general and for mastering pronunciation in particular shows that the author is a man of practice rather than of rules (pp. xiv, xxii). He does not like what he calls ‘tedious grammar’. 7.3.1.2

Macrostructure

The chapters of Andree’s book are arranged as follows: Ch. I: Of Things; Their Mode, Manner, Beginning and End. Of the Sky and Caelestial Bodies. Ch. II: Of the Elements. Of Fire. Of the Air. Of Rain, Hail, and Snow &c. Of Water. Of Land or Earth. Ch. III: Of Minerals. Kinds of Stones. Precious Stones. Ch. IV: Of Plants and Herbs. Eatable Herbs and Roots. Sorts of Corn. Ch. V: Of Trees and Shrubs. Of Fruits. Of Spices. Of a Plant. Ch. VI: Of Animals in general. The five outward Senses. Inward Senses. Ch. VII: Of Insects. Ch. VIII: Of Birds. Parts of a Bird. Ch. IX: Of Fishes. Parts of a Fish. Ch. X: Of Four footed Beasts. Wild Beasts. Tame Beasts. Parts of Beasts. Ch. XI: Of Man, respecting his Age and Kindred. Male Kindred. Female Kindred. Stations of Man. Ch. XII: Proper Names of Men. Proper Names of Women. Ch. XIII: Parts of Man’s Body. Humours of the Body. Excrements. Ch. XIV: Of Diseases. Of Remedies. Ch. XV: Of the Mind and its Affections. Of Virtues. Vices. Passions of the Mind. Of Actions. Hunger, Thirst, etc. Ch. XVI: Of Meats and Drinks. Kinds of Meats. Kinds of Meals. Ch. XVII: Of Apparel in general. Mens [!] Apparel. Womens [!] Apparel. Ch. XVIII: Of Buildings. Parts of a House. Workmens [!] Tools. Ch. XIX: Of Household Stuff. Furniture for a Room. For the Kitchin. For giving of Light. Kinds of Vessels.

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Ch. XX: Of the Country. Of Coaches and Waggons. Bridle, Halter, &c. to govern Beasts. Ch. XXI: Of Societies, and their several Members. Of Dignities and Honours. The King’s Ministers. Names of Tradesmen. Of music and musical Instruments. Of Diversions and Games. Ch. XXII: Of a School and Learning. Of Writing. Kinds of Studies. Ch. XXIII: Of Ecclesiastical Affairs. Of a Church, and what belongs to it. Ch. XXIV: Of judicial Affairs. Of Crimes. Of Punishments. Of Rewards. Ch. XXV: Of Military Affairs. Of Peace, Of War. Of Military Persons. Of Weapons, or Arms. Warlike Instruments. Ch. XXVI: Of Naval Affairs. Kinds of Ships or Vessels. Parts of a Ship. Ch. XXVII: Of Time. Days of the Week, Chief Holy Days. The twelve Months. The four Seasons. Ch. XXVIII: Names of Countries and Cities. Ch. XXIX: Nouns Adjective. Ch. XXX: Of Cardinal Numbers. Ch. XXXI: Of Ordinal Numbers. Ch. XXXII: Of Colours. Ch. XXXIII: Verbs. The nouns (I–XXVIII) are arranged according to semantic affinity, the adjectives (XXIX) and verbs (XXXIII), however, according to the alphabet. English is the language mainly used for this purpose. The numbers (XXX–XXXI) are treated seriatim, while the colours (XXXII) have a scarcely intelligible order of their own. Sometimes we find an alphabetical ordering within the topical chapters. There is, for example, an alphabetical list of craftsmen, from armourer to work-man, in chapter XXI. Also part of the macrostructure is the arrangement in parallel columns. There are six of them: English, Latin, and Italian on the left-hand pages, French, Spanish, and Portuguese on the right. Lexemes with one (presupposed) meaning are printed in parallel and on one line. However, the discovery of a common etymology is left to the reader. There are no explanations. The author obviously supposes that the graphic and phonetic appearance of words will

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suffice for an explanation. Moreover, the author does not bother about cases where this principle does not hold. Note, for example, the following lines: barley/hordeum/orzo/orge/cevada/cevada foolishness /stultitia /pazzia/folie, sottice/locura/parvoice shop/officina/bottega/boutique/tienda, officina/tenda

This is the deliberate introduction of comparativism to topical lexicography. The principles of topical order, including even its exceptions, had already been used in former dictionaries, and Andree’s topics themselves might have been copied from some earlier work. They show the speculative tendency, i.e. the ambition to mirror the objective world in a list of words, by giving names to things and notions. This function is obviously seen to be the overriding mechanism in language learning. It explains the preponderance of nouns in semantic order and the alphabetical ordering of adjectives and verbs. Nouns are chosen according to subject matter. Adjectives and verbs, however, are chosen in reference to nouns. The parallel arrangement of various languages is modelled on the multilanguage textbooks that had been appearing on the Continent since the early fifteenth century, although in these textbooks no comparison of languages was intended, at least deliberately. 7.3.1.3

Microstructure

In the leftmost column only lexemes are given, without further information. This column is intended for native speakers. In the Latin column adjoining, the nominal lexeme is followed by gender markers and numbers of declension, the adjectival by the three endings of genders, the verbal by the first-person present ending and number of conjugation. In Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese the adjectival lexemes are followed by gender markers only. These columns are intended for learners. However, the author does introduce something new to this traditional scheme which, even in the parallelism itself, seems to follow older examples (Hüllen 1999a: 305–60). The entries of the English column, though not of the others, are bound into a syntagma in a rudimentary way. Note for example: A PLANT is an Herb

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a Shrub a Tree A[n] Herb is Grass Flax Hemp Some of the most common herbs and Flowers are Anis [and 58 further entries in alphabetical order] Eatable Herbs are Artichoke Sparrow Grass Lettice Colewort or Cabbage Colliflowers Eatable Roots are Beet-Root [8 further entries] Olerocious Fruits are Cucumber [4 further entries] Corn is Barley [6 further entries] Whence cometh Meal or Flower Bran Pulse is a Bean [6 further entries] In Corn is a Beard [7 further entries]

Only the lexemes which are identified by such defining syntagmas have foreign counterparts in the parallel columns. As Andree recommends initially learning the verbs be and have in all the languages, instead of memorizing any grammatical rules, his expectation was obviously that the syntagma of the English column could easily be transferred to the other languages and that this was the core of foreign language learning. Short texts can be created in this way:22 In a School are a Master [⫹1]; a Master teaches Good Manners [⫹2]. Men declare their Thoughts by a Discourse [⫹3]. In a Discourse there are 22 Words of the syntagma in Roman fonts, newly introduced words in italics. [⫹number] indicates the number of words introduced in addition to the one mentioned.

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a Letter [⫹3]; [words] which compose a Fable [⫹9]. A Book hath an Author [⫹3]. A writer is a Poet [⫹0] who writeth one single verse [⫹1]. For Writing they use a Pen [⫹7]. A Pen hath a Slit ⫹[0] and is made by a Pen-Knife [⫹1]. [A line] is made by a Rule [⫹1]. For Correction the Master useth a Rod [⫹1] and sometimes gives Holy Days. Men apply themselves to a Study [and sciences] such as Arithmetic [⫹10].

Such stories determine the pragmatic order of entries, i.e. the sequence of words within the various chapters. This technique is not entirely new either. It looks like a Comenian text put into the format of a multilingual dictionary. Indeed, we find a very similar pattern23 in an adaptation of the Orbis pictus to English. Note the very successful London Vocabulary by James Greenwood (1713; Hüllen 1999a: 422–30). Even the style of the miniature texts has a Comenian ring. The embedding of words into syntagma, if a rudimentary one, was certainly meant as a counterweight to the predominantly paratactic appearance of the languages on account of the long lists of nouns. It is significant that there are no syntactic links in the chapters which list adjectives and verbs. 7.3.2

Booth (1835)

David Booth: An Analytical Dictionary Of The English Language, In Which The Words Are Explained In The Order Of Their Natural Affinity, Independent of Alphabetical Arrangement; And The Signification Of Each Is Traced From Its Etymology, The Present Meaning Being Accounted For, When It Differs From Its Former Acceptation: The Whole Exhibiting, In One Continued Narrative, The Origin, History, And Modern Usage Of The Existing Vocabulary Of The English Tongue; To Which Are Added, An Introduction, Containing A New Grammar Of The Language, And An Alphabetical Index, For The Ease Of Consultation. By [. . .]. London: Printed For James Cochrane And Co., 11, Waterloo Place, Pall Mall. 1835. [Inner title-page: the former plus] In Two Volumes. Vol.I. London: Printed And Published By J. And C. Adlard, Bartholomew Close. 1830. 4⬚, i–ccxxx ⫹ iv ⫹ 455 pp. ⫽ 689 pp, BL 626 L. 4. Continuous, narrative text, i.e. not arranged in any dictionary format. In the text, topicalized lexemes (see below) are printed in capitals.

23 John Wilkins, too, embeds his lexemes and their synonyms in such defining sentences, if on a much higher intellectual level and certainly not for teaching purposes. He explained the configuration of semantic features in this way.

306 7.3.2.1

The Topical Tradition in English Lexicography History of the book

After a ‘Prospectus of an Analytical Dictionary’ (which seems to be lost) a general announcement of an ‘analytical dictionary’ appeared in 1806: David Booth: Introduction To An Analytical Dictionary Of The English Language. By [. . .]. Edinburgh: Printed for the Author [. . .]. 1806. 8⬚, 158 ⫹ x pp. (Index), BL 626.h.9.

The 1835 edition begins with a preface bound before the title-page, dated 1822. It may have been published separately, but is now not traceable. Obviously, the book of 1835 is the final version, whose publication had been planned for 1830 (according to the inner titlepage), a plan which however did not materialize. A second volume, as announced in 1830, never appeared. A third title-page indicating ‘Part 1’ is sandwiched between the ‘Introduction’ and the dictionary. It reads: ‘London: Printed For R. Hunter, Successor to Mr. Johnson. No 72, St. Paul’s Churchyard. 1822.’ There is, however, no separate publication traceable to this year. From this complicated and enigmatic history of the book and from the fact that the whole undertaking was eventually abandoned it follows that the author worked under severe difficulties and also, perhaps, that the whole work overtaxed the resources of one man. David Booth (1766–1846) was a brewer, and later schoolmaster in Newbury, Fifeshire. He went to London (c.1820), where he worked for the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. 7.3.2.2

The plan of an analytical dictionary

Booth elaborates on his project in the introduction of 1806 and in the preface and the 230-page introduction to the 1835 edition. The starting point is a direct adaptation of Locke: ‘Ideas are the reflected images of nature. Words are the pictures of ideas. Simplicity of thought will produce simplicity of expression; and hence the individual impulses of the mind will be marked by monosyllabic sounds. Two or more simple impressions form what is termed a complex idea, which is expressed by as many primitive words’ (1806: 11–12). This means that the dictionary pays attention not only to word classes, because each of them is indicative of certain classes of ideas, but also to the regularities of word formation (in

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particular prefixation and suffixation) because they mirror the regularities of ideational processes. The author knows that he is attempting something very new. In the preface to the 1835 edition he derides former dictionaries which suggest that to abandon, give up, resign, quit, desert, forsake all have the same synonymous meaning (1835: ‘Preface’, p. v)—i.e. the normal type of synonym dictionaries—and comments: A marked feature in the plan of this Dictionary, and that which will distinguish it from every other that has hitherto appeared, is its perfect freedom from the fetters of Alphabetical arrangement. In consequence of this emancipation, the Author is persuaded that he has been enabled materially to improve his definitions, both as to correctness and to perspicuity, while the ease of consultation will be sufficiently provided for by an Index. (1835: ‘Preface’, pp. v–vi)

It was planned as a dictionary to be read in toto, not consulted to resolve local difficulties. The preface of 1806, like the long introduction of 1835, is dominated by philosophical ideas on human communication and the groundwork of universal grammar. The differences between word classes corresponds to differences between ideas: ‘An investigation, into the composition of language, is resolvable into an enquiry, concerning the classifications and abstractions of the human mind’ (1806: 15). These classifications are nomination, quality, state, or action for nouns, adjectives, and verbs respectively. This is the ontological underpinning of grammatical word classes, well known from universal grammar. It is applied to all the classes and to many grammatical structures (genitive, participle, affixes, etc.). It is taken to be axiomatic that linguistic simplicity indicates ideational simplicity and linguistic complexity ideational complexity. The dictionary proper (if that is the right term—see below) then begins with a reprint of the 1822 preface entitled ‘To The Public’. The main text extends over 455 Arabic-numeralled pages. ‘To discover the thought that each of these words expresses, in the written language of this country [i.e. English], is the object of the present work. [. . .] Whether the thread that shall connect the tale be real or imaginary, we are anxious that the features of the description shall be true to nature’ (1). This dictionary therefore aims to reconstruct the ways in

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which the linguistic mind assimilates the surrounding world and makes it the contents of human consciousness. It is an aim of great philosophical ambition which rests on, among other sources of the history of culture, the methods of comparative philology as it developed from the end of the eighteenth century. The text shows that its author is very knowledgeable in both fields. 7.3.2.3

The dictionary as a history of ideas

What then follows is an account of the history of the basic ideas of mankind, guided by such lexemes as Indo-European languages, and in particular English, have coined for them. The philosophical framework regarding word classes and word formation in general, and also simple and complex ideas, is no longer topicalized but permeates the arguments and explanations. Thus the book is not, properly speaking, a dictionary, but rather a narrative of the history of ideas. The lexemes are its points of reference. The narrative moves along a chain of key terms, departing from them in order to deal with morphologically (word-formational) or semantically (associatively) determined extensions (see below), and then turns back to the key terms. It is only the typographical device of capitalizing the lexemes under discussion which allows the reader’s eye to travel over the pages as if they were the pages of a dictionary. The lexemes on the first 64 pages of the dictionary are, for example, all linked to the word and idea homo. Note, for example, this chain of lexemes (without morphological extensions): Man–Wife, Woman–Male–female–Homo, Human, Virtue, Virtus–Anthropos, Ape, Baboon, Moon, Luna. Marriage, Matrimony, Husband, Sponsor, Wed, Gage, Bride, Hymen, Epithalamium, Concubine, Adultery, Bastard, Strumpet (etc.). Father–Mother–Child, Parents (lat. lexemes), Dame, Matron, Womb. Boys–Girls, Youth, Adolescence, Infant, Knight, Cavalier, Knave, Esquire, Lad, Nymphs, Brothers and Sisters, Friar, Monk, Hermit, Consanguinity, Affinity, Genus, General, Pedigree, Generation, Ingenuity, Sex, Conception, Brain, Nation. Nature, Physis, to Get, to Breed, to Hatch, Genitals. Elder, Minister, Alderman, Pagan, to Pullulate, Chicken.

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People, Census, Republic, Vulgarity, Lout. To Bear, to Bring, to Produce. The following montage of quotations from one particular section, which moves from ‘branch of tree’ to ‘arm’ as a member of the body and then as ‘weapon’, then to ‘army’ and ‘war’, and from there back to ‘measure’ and ‘branch of tree’ (1835: 117–42), illustrates the microstructure and narrative style of this dictionary: The Latin ramus was oftener written than brachium to denote the Branch of a tree. Ramous, to ramify. The Latin armus, originally denoted the whole of the human arm and shoulder. The Greek harmos denoted a joint or articulation, and particularly the shoulder. Arm, the whole of the limb. The metaphorical usage is unbounded. Armlets, armileated, armillary sphere. Unarmed, disarmed, armipotent, armistice. To alarm is from the Italian alarma, which literally signifies ‘To arms’. To Harm appears to be merely a varied orthography of to Arm. Harmful. Harmless. The Saxon hearm signified Harm, and likewise the Arm. Following the Latin arma, when denoting the materials of war, is always written in the plural. Weapon. This word is common to all Gothic dialects. Weaponed. Weaponsalve. Weapontakes. Firearms. The German Waffen is equivalent to our word Arms. The Swedish Vapen is both singular and plural. [The narrative then deals with armour and all its parts in the Middle Ages, armée as a ‘Corps of armed men’ with all its organizational divisions and ranks, including musical instruments, and with firearms in their various kinds and handling. It ends with: ‘A large force organized and provided with all the materials of Warfare is an Armament.’] The Saxon eln (Latin ulna) and Old English Ell, signified the Arm, but is now used only to denominate a linear measure. The Elbow (Swedish Armboge) is the bow or bend of the arm, and a chair with two branches or arms. The Cubit (Latin cubitus from cubare, to bend), applied to the Elbow, has been a measure of length among different nations. The English Cubit is eighteen inches. The stems and branches of trees and shrubs are closely covered and surrounded, as with a skin, by a substance of a softer texture than the wood, called the Bark or Rind.

This montage shows how the author moves from the lexemes to their extensions and the associative chain of the meanings themselves. Also obvious is the historical and comparative attitude with reference to Indo-European languages. Although the arrangement is that of a continuous text, the dictionary structure remains clearly discernible once the reader has got used to this format.

310 7.3.3 7.3.3.1

The Topical Tradition in English Lexicography Maimieux (1797) Pasigraphy

It is difficult to ascertain when the artificial word pasigraphy (pasi ⫽ for all, graphy ⫽ writing) came into use. The relevant OED entry mentions 1796, and the first quotation indeed comes from this year. However, there is a report in existence called Narrative of M. DeChaumereix [Duroys de Chaumereys], Who Escaped From The Massacres Of Aurai And Vannes, London, 1795 (BL 9210.c.37), with an appendix by ‘Mess. De Mémiev and Sicard’ in which the two advertise the ‘Pasigraphy, Or, First Elements Of The Art Of Printing And Writing In Language To Be Understood In All Languages Without Translation’ (Alston 1974: vii, no. 300).24 This points to an earlier origin. Finally, Roget refers in his ‘Introduction’ to an ‘anonymous work’ which appeared in Paris in the year 1797. This must in fact have been the book which is usually regarded as the original of pasigraphy, though it did not appear anonymously. Its author was the Franco-German Jean de Maimieux (see below). In sum, the years 1795 (or earlier), 1796, and 1797 all qualify as possible years of origin for the pasigraphical project and, in consequence, for the name. Pasigraphy was immediately regarded as a noteworthy project. In a review of the same year (Anonymous 1797: 562–5), it was welcomed as an exciting attempt at universal communication, though not without criticism. The reviewer complained that the new language would ‘supercede so effectually all idiomatic associations, that no work of imagination nor of eloquence could retain any influence in this new dress’. In consequence, it could serve only for the sciences. But ‘science possesses higher principles of classification than are [here] applied’. In spite of these obvious shortcomings, pasigraphy developed almost at once into a powerful movement. In a later pamphlet (Damm 1876), more than twenty authors and their relevant projects were listed under the heading ‘Praktische Pasigraphy Oder Die Kunst Mit Allen Nationen Der Erde Correspondieren Zu Können, 24 Roch A.C. Sicard was famous for teaching the deaf and dumb. The entry in Alston has notes as to where copies of the publication of 1795 can be found. However, an anonymous review (Anonymous 1796) represents the book as being published in 1796.

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Ohne Deren Sprache Mächtig zu Sein’, strangely excluding the best known of them, Maimieux himself. The meaning of the term became quite general in the course of time. The later OED entry (2nd edn) reads: A name given to a system of writing proposed for universal use, with characters representing ideas instead of words, so as to be (like the ordinary numerals 1, 2, 3 etc.) intelligible to persons of all languages. Applied originally to a system proposed in 1796; subsequently to others having a similar object.

This shows that the term was eventually applied indiscriminately to all universal language projects, including the earlier ones of the seventeenth century, although it would require a more thorough investigation than is possible here to show how the meaning of this term became so broad. Janne Damm (1876) was already using the word for all of the relevant projects between Johann Joachim Becher (1635–1682), who invented a secret writing with numbers (Hüllen 1996b), and 1876; Damm even mentioned Chinese signs and hieroglyphs as alleged forerunners of pasigraphy. Indeed, Maimieux’s undertaking has much in common with the exclusively theoretical reflections on universal languages by René Descartes and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz and the blueprints by George Dalgarno (Cram and Maat 2001) and John Wilkins. They all intended to create a universal character, i.e. a reading language, by constructing signs which express ideas that are the common property of everyone. Algebra or the signs of the zodiac were the models, and indeed some experiments used the Arabic numbers for this purpose. To this extent, pasigraphy is indeed comparable to the earlier universal language projects. However, the problem was always how this plan could be achieved, i.e. how ideas of things could be indicated by graphical signs and what ‘ideas of things’ actually are. These questions identify the philosophical issues of the early universal language projects, which still attract the attention of scholars today (Subbiondo 1992; Hüllen 1999a; Isermann 2002). However, in pasigraphy this issue is almost tacitly regarded as being resolved. Except for appeals to common sense we do not find any serious discussion of it. Today’s historiographical research on the seventeenth century no longer uses the term pasigraphy in its extended meaning, but rather, following Wilkins’s terminology, so-called ‘universal’ or

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‘philosophical’ ‘characters’ or ‘languages’. Pasigraphy is used in its original meaning or, if at all, for similar linguistic projects after 1800.25 A quite parallel similarity/difference is to be found in the effects hoped for. Dalgarno and Wilkins had a theological and philosophical background. They wished to reverse the curse of Babel and to restore the early universality of communication to the human race. In order to achieve this, they went back to the philosophical foundations of language use in epistemology. Eventually, this would also provide a chance to propagate the Gospels throughout the world (e.g. in the newly founded American colonies). The representatives of pasigraphy had a less philosophical and more political intention. Only a few years after the French Revolution, some people began to believe in world citizenship and the common good to be furthered by universal communication (e.g. Vater 1799). De Maimieux himself referred to the atrocities of the Franco– German War, which he had endured and which he wanted to prevent for the benefit of future generations. For Damm, the advantages of pasigraphy were like those of the newly built railways (1876: p. vi). These people had the same humanistic seriousness as the seventeenthcentury scholars, but more on the political and economic than on the philosophical level.26 The blueprint of an artificial language—be it in the universal language or in the scheme of pasigraphy—consists of a presentation of the universal signs and of a systematic arrangement of words as ideas of meanings to be expressed by them, and finally a general grammar to combine these signs to form orderly sentences. Our 25 In Roget (2002) pasigraphy is placed between ‘diplomatic language, international l., International Scientific Vocabulary, Basic English’ and ‘artificial language, Esperanto, Ido, Interlingua [. . .]’ (¶557, p. 303). 26 The following is de Maimieux’s conspectus of the advantages of a universal use of pasigraphy. It is interesting not only for his expectation of commercial advantage, but also for his plan of establishing an interlingual norm between languages:

1⬚. Mehr Verbindung in der Gesellschaft und im Handel, sowohl zwischen einzelnen Menschen, als zwischen Voelkern; 2⬚. Eine Art von Glossometer, der dazu dient, die woertlichen Uibersetzungen in dem gewoehnlichen Briefwechsel zu ergaenzen, die Unrichtigkeiten der gelehrten Uibersetzungen [!] zu berichtigen, und den Sprachen einen allgemeinen Maasstab zu verschaffen; 3⬚. Mehr Schnelligkeit, Leichtigkeit und Richtigkeit, mehr Sparsamkeit, Geheimnis und Sicherheit in diplomatischen, militaerischen, bürgerlichen und Handels-Geschaeften; denn derselbe Dienstmann, der nur seine Sprache zu verstehen braucht, kann zehn Briefe pasigraphiren, die in ebenso viel Sprachen gelesen werden koennen; 4⬚. Mehr Einfoermigkeit in der Bekanntmachung der Dinge, die die Menschheit betreffen; 5⬚. Endlich mehr Mittel, eine grosse Anzahl von Lehrern, Meistern, Schriftstellern, Schriftstechern, Schrifftgiessern und Buchdruckern zu unterhalten, die sich damit abgeben würden,

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interest in pasigraphy is confined to the systematic arrangement of words as ideas of meanings because, taken together, they are a universal thesaurus applicable to all languages. In this sense, pasigraphy is mentioned by Roget in addition to the onomasiological Sanskrit dictionary of Améra Coshá (Hüllen 1999a: 32–3) and John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’. Although Roget criticizes all three of them, his mention shows what was in his mind when he was devising his own ‘Plan of Classification’. 7.3.3.2

Maimieux’s semantic system

Maimieux, J. von [Maimieux, Jean de]: Pasigraphie, XXX oder XXX, Anfangsgründe Der Neuen Kunst-Wissenschaft In Einer Sprache Alles So Zu Schreiben Und Zu Drucken, Dass Es In Jeder Andern Ohne Übersetzung Gelesen Und Verstanden Werden Kann. Erfunden Und Verfasst Von J.*** von M*** [. . .]. XXX Erste ausgabe, die, wie die franzoesische; originalausgabe ist [!]. XXX. Zu Paris, Im Bureau der Pasigraphie, rue Notre-Dame de Nazareth, numéro 118. 1797. 4, 62 pp. BL 12902.f.13.27 Identical with: Pasigraphie, XXX Ou XXX, Premiers Élémens Du Nouvel Art-Science D’Écrire Et D’Imprimer En Une Langue De Manière A Être Lu Et Entendu Dans Toute Autre Langue Sans Traduction; Inventés Et Rédigés Par J.*** De M***, Ancien Major D’Infanterie Allemande. XXX. Première édition, originale comme l’édition en langue allemande. XXX. A Paris, Au Bureau de la Pasigraphie, rue Notre-Dame de Nazareth, numéro 118, 1797. 4, 63 pp., BL RB 23.b.95. ‘XXX’ indicates pasigraphic text of varying length. die Elementarbuecher in verschiedenen Gegenstaenden zu vervielfaeltigen; denn diese, wenn sie einmal in einer Sprache erschienen sind, koennen dann in allen andern gelesen werden. Dies sind Zweige von Industrie, die doch von aufgeklaerten Regierungen unterstuetzt zu werden verdienen. (1797, 1–2) 1. More contact in society and in commerce between individuals as well as between peoples; 2. A kind of linguistic metre serving to complement literal translations in the exchange of common correspondence, to correct the faults of learned translations, and to provide a general yardstick for languages; 3. More speed, ease, and correctness, more thrift, secrecy, and security in diplomatic, military, civil, and commercial business; because the same assistant, who needs to understand only one language, can render ten letters into pasigraphy which can be read in as many languages; 4. More uniformity in the publicizing of things of concern to mankind; 5. Finally, more money to maintain a great number of teachers, masters, writers, typecutters, type-founders, and printers who would be busy copying elementary readers on various topics; because they can be read in various languages, once they have been published. These are branches of an industry which deserve to be supported by enlightened governments. (my translation) 27

The following analysis is based on this edition.

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In another publication of 1801, the author developed his writing system into a speaking system called pasilaly, just as Wilkins had developed his ‘character’ into a ‘language’. In its philosophical foundations, the semantic system of pasigraphy is quite similar to that of Wilkins’s ‘Tables’, but it is rather different from them in layout and technicalities. Similar is the recourse to a classification which claims to follow common sense (‘gemeinen Menschensinn’) and the rational mind using analogy (‘ein durch Analogie aufgeklaerter Verstand’, Maimieux 1797a: 6). For the author, common sense and analogy guarantee the logical path from genus to species and from the known to the unknown. However, this is not knowable a priori as it was for Wilkins. Rather, pasigraphy allows for many semantic systems of lexis, but one must choose a single system, so the rational mind (‘Verstand’, 25–6) can support the memory when learning this language. The author distinguishes three semantic schemata (‘Hauptrubriken’) into which all possible words are to be placed: (i) the list (‘Verzeichnis’), (ii) the minor nomenclature (‘kleiner Namengeber’), and (iii) the major nomenclature (‘großer Namengeber’). (i) consists of two frames (‘Rahmen’) with six columns (‘Kolumnen’) each. Each column is broken down into six paragraphs (‘Abschnitte’) with six lines (‘Linien’) each. Consequently, the list has 432 lines, i.e. entries.28 (ii) consists of twelve frames with six columns each (totalling 72). Again, each column is broken down into six paragraphs with six individual lines, amounting to 2,597 entries in toto. Finally, (iii) consists of twelve classes (‘Klassen’), consisting of six columns each (totalling 432). Their paragraphs and lines amount to as many as 15,552 entries. Although the author does not mention these numbers, they in fact delimit the lexical possibilities of his written language. (i) lists words which combine phrases and complete them emotionally (‘leidenschaftlich’), i.e. conjunctions, adverbials, and interjections. (ii) is a collection of lexemes used for objects, actions, ideas, and inclinations by speakers in families or society and among friends when engaging in business, trade, and transactions in banks (‘Gegenstände, Handlungen, Ideen, Neigungen; Familien, Gesellschaften, Freunde; Geschäfte, Handel, Bank’). 28 The number of lines/entries does not equal the number of lexemes, as several lexemes can be included in one entry (see below).

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(iii), finally, is a collection of terms from the arts and the sciences. According to a footnote (1797a: 7), the word lists of the major nomenclature are merely a fragment of a comprehensive work which ‘scientists, physicists, mathematicians, geometers, astronomers, moralists, and philosophers’ from all the countries of Europe have promised to put together. It is announced for a future volume which, however, never appeared. The axis of this semantic system is the twelve columns of the list (i). Their semantic determinations reappear in the frames of the minor nomenclature (ii) and the classes of the major one (iii). This means that the columns of (i), the frames of (ii), and the classes of (iii) have the same headings. These are: material substance, position, change the plant kingdom the animal kingdom the physical human being the sensitive and rational human being the pious and social human being craftsmen, trade the arts, agriculture, amusements, games linguistics, arithmetic, the sciences time, eras personal (pro)nouns, possessives (pro)nouns of place29

(i) col. 1, (ii) fr. 1, (iii) cl. 1 (i) col. 2, (ii) fr. 2, (iii) cl. 2 (i) col. 3, (ii) fr. 3, (iii) cl. 3 (i) col. 4, (ii) fr. 4, (iii) cl. 4 (i) col. 5, (ii) fr. 5, (iii) cl. 5 (i) col. 6, (ii) fr. 6, (iii) cl. 6 (i) col. 7, (ii) fr. 7, (iii) cl. 7 (i) col. 8, (ii) fr. 8, (iii) cl. 8 (i) col. 9, (ii) fr. 9, (iii) cl. 9 (i) col.10, (ii) fr. 10, (iii) cl.10 (i) col. 11, (ii) fr. 11, (iii) cl.11 (i) col. 12, (ii) fr. 12, (iii) cl.12

The intentions of this system are obvious, if not always convincing: the list contains structure words, the minor nomenclature the words 29 Translations mine. The original German terms are: col. 1: Materie, Stellungen und Veränderungen; col. 2: Pflanzenreich; col. 3: Tierreich; col. 4: Der physische [Mensch]; col. 5: Der mit Sinnen und Verstand begabte [Mensch]; col. 6: Der fromme und gesellige Mensch; col. 7: Handwerker, Handel; col. 8: Künste, Ackerbau, Vergnügungen, Spiele; col. 9: Sprachlehre, Rechenkunst, Wissenschaften; col. 10: Zeit, Epochen; col. 11: Persönliche und ‘Besitzungsfürwörter’; col. 12: Fürwörter, den Ort betreffend.

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of general communication, and the major nomenclature the terms of the arts and sciences. The first four columns/frames/classes comprise words for objects, plants, and animals, including humans, i.e. the traditional ontological levels of the world. The next three comprise words for the various faculties of humans, the traditional ‘souls’, and their functions in society. Two more columns/frames/ classes are devoted to the classical domains of society, and the last three to linguistic structures, among them deixis. All these semantic areas have their traditions in onomasiological lexicography and encyclopaedic literature, if under different headings. The meanings of individual words are constituted by the system with its three subsystems. The signs of pasigraphy, the so-called Gammen, do not indicate meaning: they indicate the locus in the system which is the meaning. Consequently, words are represented by three, four, or five Gammen: in (i) indicating column, paragraph, and line; in (ii) indicating frame, column, paragraph, and line; and in (iii) indicating class, frame, column, paragraph, and line. In each word, this sequence of Gammen is naturally ordered from the general to the specific and individual.30 Consequently, the system needs twelve signs, which can appear up to five times in one word. For words from the list, however, only six signs are needed, so that the language user can choose among two. What can be called the semantic value of each Gamme, therefore, depends on its shape, which is arbitrarily assigned to the various loci in the system, and on its position in the word (first, second, third, perhaps fourth or fifth). This is an algebraic principle, because the value of a digit in a number depends on the digit itself and on its position relative to other digits, just as 2 may equal two, twenty, two hundred, etc. (see below). 30

Note the following passage:

Unter pasigraphischer Ordnung [der Wörter] versteht man hier aber eine Classification, die bloss nach dem gemeinen Menschensinn und von einem durch Analogie aufgeklaerten Verstande entworfen ist. Es gehen naemlich hier die so wenig als moeglich angestrengte Aufmerksamkeit und das durch alle Erinnerungsmittel miteinander von der Gattung zur Art, und von der Art zu den Individuen, oder von dem einfachen [!] zu dem Zusammengesetzten, oder von dem bekannten zu dem weniger bekannten [!] ueber, je nachdem die auffallendsten Beziehungen der Ideen aufeinander diesen oder jenen Gang zu nehmen gestatten. (5–6; see also 26–7. The spelling in this book is often inconsistent, as the quotation shows. I shall not indicate this further by exclamation marks.) The pasigraphic order [of words] is here understood to be a classification which is constructed by common sense and a rational mind using analogy. Here attention, as little strained as possible, and together with all kinds of retrieval, transcends from the genus to the species, and from the species to

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The signs designating the position of a word and hence its meaning are prefixed by signs which determine the sense of the meaning and are suffixed by signs which give grammatical markers. The former include signs for action, instrument, genus, etc. They are comparable to Wilkins’s transcendental particles. The latter include signs for gender, number, and, most important, case. Maimieux gives neither a list of prefixes nor one of grammatical markers. His grammatical axiom is that, besides the (structure) words of the list, a language contains only nouns and three basic verbs, namely to become, to be, and to end being. By suffix derivation the nouns can be converted to adjectives and with the help of the three basic verbs all adjectives can be converted to verbs. With tongue in cheek, the author observes that experts in the sciences (‘Liebhaber einer gründlichen Wissenschaft’, 58) can ponder this, but ordinary people should not worry. Maimieux claims that his system is unalterable. Users of pasigraphical texts are requested not to run through this flight of logical determinations from the general to the specific, but to look up the words in the various schemata and memorize them mechanically (17, 20). The semantic cross-references between columns, frames, and classes will help them to do so (25–6). Taken literally, this coherent system on algebraic principles limits the lexis of any language to exactly 18,576 entries, i.e. lexemes. But Maimieux obviously does not believe his system is that perfect. Referring to the list, he admits that lexematic entries may not fit perfectly. Strict exactness, he says, is impossible and would contradict the genius of language.31 Even more telling is this remark: Wenn die Stufenleiter oder der Maasstab der Begriffe, die den Woertern derselben Sprache entsprechen, nach Entfernungen, nach Groessen, oder nach ganz gleichen Bedeutungen eingerichtet werden koennte, so wuerde es sehr leicht seyn, sie symmetrisch zu ordnen. Wenn sich in ihrem Stammbaume nicht die sich durchkreuzenden Aeste oder die Knoten, die zugleich Zweige und Wurzeln treiben, in einander verschlaengen; so the individual, or from the simple to the complex, or from the known to the less known, depending on which step the most outstanding relations of ideas allow [us] to take (my translation). 31 ‘Eine strenge Genauigkeit ist hier unmöglich; denn sie vertraegt sich nicht mit dem Genie aller Sprachen, und würde auf sehr ungleiche Untherabteilungen führen [. . .]’ (‘Strict exactness is impossible because it does not agree with the spirit of all languages and would lead to quite different subsections’; my translation).

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koennte man von dem ersten Begriffe zum letzten, von dem Stamme zu den Blaettern und Blüthen übergehen, und das Ganze würde einen sehr regelmässigen Plan darstellen. Aber der Begriff, der auch noch so abgerissen, und noch so vereinzelt zu sein scheint, haengt von allen übrigen ab, führt zu denselben, entsteht daraus und erzeugt sie wieder. (24) If the ladder or the measure of terms which corresponds to the words of one language could be constructed according to distance, size, or identical meanings, it would be very easy to give them a symmetrical order. If the branches which cross each other or the nodes which sprout twigs and roots did not intertwine in their pedigree we could move from the first term to the last, from the stem to the leaves and flowers, and the whole would make a most regular plan. But a term, however precisely delimited and individual, depends on all others, leads up to them, is created out of them and creates them in turn. (my translation)

Obviously, the idea of a general semantic interdependence of lexemes is not a purely mathematical notion. It also pertains to the less strictly systematized relations, diachronic and synchronic, between the words of a language, for example between synonyms. Indeed, in the 18,576 loci of his schemata, Maimieux rarely enters just one lexeme; in almost every case he enters several. Thus he admits the existence of synonyms as a natural phenomenon of lexis. 7.3.3.3

Examples

Using a modern analogy, we can say that the list and the two nomenclators are organized like matrices of varying complexity. In the vertical dimension, we have the paragraphs and lines, marked typographically; in the horizontal dimension we have the columns, frames, and classes, all of which have horizontal headings. As an illustration of this abstract schema, note the following examples: List Ninth column: linguistics, arithmetic, sciences [Sprachlehre, Rechenkunst, Wissenschaften]32 First paragraph: line 1: concerning [In Betreff (dieses)] line 2: with regard to the question, in doubt [Bey der Frage, im Zweifel] line 3: in consequence, following [nach Maasgebung, auf d[em] Fuss] 32 I have not tried to imitate the eighteenth-century flavour of the German original in my translations. There are many blemishes in the book.

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line 4: the much more [um so viel mehr] line 5: in relation to [nach Verhaeltnis] line 6: most of all, in spite of all this [vor allem, bey allem dem] Second paragraph: line 1: after, due to [nach, vermoege] line 2: on condition, apparently [vorausgesetzt, es scheint] line 3: on condition, although [mit dem Beding, gleichwohl] line 4: with (by) [vermittelst] line 5: and yet, regardless [und doch, ohne Rücksicht] line 6: consequently, therefore [folglich, daher] [four more paragraphs] Minor nomenclature

Ninth frame: linguistics, arithmetic, sciences [Sprachlehre, Rechenkunst, Wissenschaften], second column: writing and reading [Schreiben und Lesen]: 1st paragraph: line 1: writing, handwriting [Schrift, hand[s]schrift] line 2: handwriting, flowing handwriting [Current[schrift], fliessende [Schrift]] line 3: round, middle, clumsy hand [runde-, mittel-, grobe [Schrift]] line 4: draft, make out [Ausfertigung, abfassen] line 5: daubing, scrawling [klek[s]ige Schrift, schmiererey] line 6: scribbling, daubing [Gekri[t]zel, klecks] Second paragraph: line 1: spell, decipher [Buchstabiren, entziffern] line 2: read, read fluently [lesen, flies[s]end [Lesen]] line 3: dictate, write after dictation [dictiren, nachschreiben] line 4: genuine [object], originality, schema [Original, Originalitaet, vorschrift] line 5: copy, clean, write a fair copy [abschreiben, rein, ins Reine [schreiben]] line 6: collection, make, wrap [?] [Sammlung, machen, einschlagen] [four more paragraphs] Major nomenclature

Ninth class: linguistics, arithmetic, sciences [Sprachlehre, Rechenkunst, Wissenschaften], first frame, second column: the arts with reference to light, fire, water, and air [Künste, die sich auf Licht, Feuer, Wasser und Luft beziehen]:

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First pararaph: line 1: optics, dioptrics, catoptrics [Optik, dioptr[en], catoptr[en]] line 2: vision, brow, see [Sehstrahl, augenbog[e]n, seh[en]] line 3: incidence, reflect back, diffraction [Einfall, zuru[e]kpra [llen], brechung] line 4: field, focus, to focus [Feld, Brennpunkt, zusammenlauf[e]n] line 5: glimmer, to blind [schimmern, blenden] line 6: dial, hand of dial [Sonnenuhr, zeiger der [Sonnenuhr]] Second paragraph: line 1: spectacles, sun glasses [Augenglas, daempfbrille] line 2: magnifying glass, microscope, telescope [Vergroes[serungs] glas, micro[scop], tel[e]scop] line 3: lens, prism, spectacles [Linse, Prisma, Brille] line 4: darkroom, fanlight [Dunkle Kammer, Oberfenster] line 5: optics, magic lantern [Optik, Zauberlaterne] line 6: spun glass, acromatic [Feinglas, acromatisch] [four more paragraphs] These examples, if extended, give a bird’s-eye view of the thesaurus as the semantic corpus of pasigraphy. Identifying the meaning of one particular word is, basically, the same logical procedure as observing the system from the opposite perspective. The name England, for example, is to be found in the minor nomenclature (i.e. non-scientific language), twelfth frame (i.e. local pronouns, in this case proper names), fourth column (i.e. description of the earth, world, Europe [Erdbeschreibung, Welt, Europa]), fifth paragraph, line 1: England, Großbritannien. As always in schemata which demand a lengthy logical deduction from the general to the specific, it is difficult to deduce the concrete entry from the abstract system. In particular, the order of paragraphs and lines in the three schemata is, in many cases, not easy for the present-day reader to understand. The (linguistically) pragmatic rules which ultimately govern the selection of entries vary from frame to frame, following the inherent character of the various topics. A generic nomination followed by a special one is, of course, the most frequently used arrangement. But even this takes on quite different forms. On average, there are between two and four lexemes on one line, i.e. in one slot. Although Maimieux does not use the term, they must be considered synonyms, because they fill the same locus in the system. Sometimes, however, they are antonyms. In many cases, the

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first lexeme of a line is printed either in capitals or in italics, which indicates that it is a keyword. But there is no strict system in this. Note the following conspectus of entries concerning weapons, armoury (major nomenclature: sixth class, second frame, fifth column). The sense of its arrangement is in some loose way obvious, but not generalizable. (Only the first lexeme of each line is given.) First paragraph: rifle, arrow, pike, hammer, catapult, launch [G[e]wehr, Pfeil, Picke, Hammer, Baliste, spannen] Second paragraph: sword, sabre, dagger, mounting, sword-belt, tassle [Degen, Saebel, Dolch, Griff, Wehrgehaeng, Degenquaste] Third paragraph: armour, shield, breastplate, spiked helmet, uniform, quiver [Rüstung, Schild, Brustplatte, Bickelhaube, Uniform, Koecher] Fourth paragraph: musket, sling, pistol, steel, cock, stock [Musketenfeuer, Schleuder, Pistole, Schlos[s]blech, Besatzung, Schaft] Fifth paragraph: artillery, cannon, small shot, cartridge, to load, powder [Artillerie, Steinstück, Schrot, Ladung, lad[e]n, Pulver] Sixth paragraph: carriage, fire, to fail, ricochet, grapeshot (?), bayonet [Wagen, Feu[e]r, versagen, Prel[l]schus[s], Alteis[e]n, Bajonett]. It is not known whether a practical test of this onomasiological arrangement of words was ever made. There were certainly books which worked with numeric systems.33 Janne Damm (1876: p. vi) was courageous enough to write, ‘Dictionaries are being made and businessmen in Germany, England, France, Russia and Sweden will be able to commence pasigraphic correspondence this summer.’ That was in 1876. For Roget, pasigraphy was certainly a powerful indication that what he wanted to do was possible, if not in the same way. As he read French and German all his life, the pasigraphic word lists will have given him plenty of inspiration. 33 Note, for example, Bachmeier (1870). The book, ‘Dedicated to all nations. Humanité et patrie’, has one grammatical and two lexicographical parts, all numbered separately. Between them it lists various European and Asian alphabets, even the ‘alphabet of the Japanese’ [!]. The lexicographical part, called ‘English pasigraphical dictionary for composing pasigrams’ (1–188), consists of lists of words complemented with numbers, and then lists of numbers complemented with words, called ‘Pasigraphical English dictionary for deciphering pasigrams’ (1–169). Note the first five examples each: A, An—1, Aback—2402, Abalienate, to—3049, Abandon, to To leave [!]—14, 3619, Abatement, Discount—46; 1—A, An, 2 Eel, 3 Carcass, 4 To alter. Alteration, 5 Variety. Note how the problems of synonymy and polysemy are dealt with. There is no explanation of the selection or the sequencing of lexemes.

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8 Roget’s Thesaurus: A Topical Dictionary of Synonyms 8.1. 8.2. 8.3. 8.4.

8.5.

8.6.

8.7. 8.8.

8.1

On analysing Roget’s Thesaurus The ‘Introduction’ The macrostructure The microstructure 8.4.1. The units and their sequence 8.4.2. Numbers 8.4.3. Headwords 8.4.4. Rows of synonyms 8.4.5. Verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and phrases 8.4.6. Antonyms 8.4.7. Size of articles Pragmatic structures 8.5.1. Generalized cognitive frames 8.5.2. Pragmatic structures: a comment on class III 8.5.3. Pragmatic structrures: looking up horse Semantic fields 8.6.1. Nouns 8.6.2. Verbs 8.6.3. Adjectives Semantic features Frames, schemata, and scripts

On analysing Roget’s Thesaurus

Thesaurus Of English Words And Phrases, Classified And Arranged So As To Facilitate The Expression Of Ideas And Assist In Literary Composition. By Peter Mark Roget [. . .]. London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1852. Thesaurus Of English Words And Phrases, Classified And Arranged So As To Facilitate The Expression Of Ideas And Assist In Literary Composition.

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By Peter Mark Roget [. . .]. Second Edition, Revised And Enlarged. London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans. 4⬚, xxxix ⫹ 435 pp.1

The following lexicographical analyses of Roget’s Thesaurus regard this book as having been erected on a massive foundation of linguistic ideas which had accumulated during the preceding centuries of European cultural history. (No doubt they could also have been found outside Europe, but given my own limitations and the presumed interest of the readership, I will not consider non-European sources here.) I do not assume that similarities with Roget’s work are due to his knowledge of such ideas. It is simply their presence and richness, their general development and intertextual movement as well as their philosophical (semantic) contact with other domains of thought which I am interested in. Of course, authors as agents of such ideational developments are indispensible in reality, hence I have introduced Roget in this capacity elsewhere.2 The ideas mentioned were at work between the beginnings of classical European culture and Roget’s lifetime or, more precisely, around the year 1852 when the Thesaurus appeared. Essentially, they belonged to two traditions: first, the theory and use of synonyms, including their collection in relevant works (manuals, dictionaries, etc.), and second, the compilation of topical (onomasiological) dictionaries for various purposes. Roget’s book, the first to combine these two traditions on a large scale and with great popular success, will be examined according to the three main criteria of dictionary analysis—macrostructure, microstructure, and pragmatic structures. This is based on the assumption that these three types of structure have constituted and 1 This is the edition I have used throughout for reference purposes. From time to time I used a copy of this edition published ‘Boston, U.S.: Little, Brown, and Company’. It is identical in all respects to the second edition printed in London, except for the title page. (This has recto the different names of publisher and places, and verso the statement: ‘Riverside, Cambridge: Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company’, where the London edition has ‘London: Spottiswoodes and Shaw, New-street-Square’.) Both issues must have been printed from the same plates. My decision to use the second edition, and not the first, comes from the conviction that it better represents the intentions of the author, because it contains amendments and corrections of mistakes and minor blemishes which inevitably creep into the first edition of books like the Thesaurus. Therefore, I consider myself justified in writing about ‘a book of the year 1852’ while using quotations from the 1853 edition. At all events, the history of the Thesaurus as a book is marked by its incredible stability of form and content over many decades. 2 See also Ch. 2 and Hüllen (2002a: 16–28, 29–42).

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marked dictionaries at all times and are therefore universally pertinent, although the terms for these structures were introduced into lexicography only fairly recently. Taken together, they express the general concept that onomasiological, but not alphabetical, dictionaries are texts in the full linguistic (semiotic) sense of the term (Hüllen 1999a). The macrostructure of the Thesaurus consists of the general principles which determine the arrangement of the microstructural units, i.e. the numbered entry articles. These principles operate on the various levels of abstraction indicated in the ‘Plan of Classification’ and the ‘Synopsis of Categories’. Both are blueprints of what Roget considered to be ‘the world of ideas’ or ‘linguistic reality’ (see below). This is why the macrostructure of the Thesaurus, like the macrostructure of any topical dictionary, has a semantic quality. Like any other text, it bears a meaning when taken as a whole. In the same way in which the meaning of a text accumulates in virtue of the meanings of its words-in-sentences, the meaning of an onomasiological dictionary accumulates in virtue of the meanings of its entries. In spite of this and in spite of the systematic character of macrostructures in dictionaries, we must be aware that they (and therefore also the Thesaurus) are not philosophical treatises but an operating system for the collection of words, in this case synonyms. Hence the macrostructure of the Thesaurus cannot be expected to be flawless in the philosophical sense. With the macrostructure on various levels being a kind of allpervading semantic principle in the background, the entry articles appear as the units of its operation. Contrary to the semantic nature of the macrostructure, the microstructure is of a syntactic, i.e. formal, nature. Its principles prescribe the interior order (i.e. sequence) of elements. They are repeated again and again, just as the principles of syntax are repeated again and again in a text. Contrary to normal texts with their structural (obligatory) and stylistic (voluntary) variation of sentences, however, the variation of microstructures in a dictionary is rather small. There are also determining factors which fit in, as it were, between macro- and microstructures, factors which can, but need not, be effective throughout the whole Thesaurus. As a rule, they are limited to various groups of entry articles. They depend on general

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ways of thinking in connection with the topics treated by the interplay between macro- and microstructure. They are most obvious in the selection and sequence of these entry articles below the general macrostructural headings. They are also detectable in other regularities which are not determined by microstructures (see below). They are called pragmatic structures. They are the consequence of the fact that the determining power of the macrostructure is never all-pervasive, leaving situational constraints possible and indeed necessary. Their counterpart in natural texts is the fact that semantic determinants never suffice to generate every single feature of every single sentence, but that rules of style and situational feasibility are also needed. In what follows, the general classification of the Thesaurus with its headings and subheadings will be regarded as indicative of the macrostructure, the numbered entry articles in their formal design as its microstructure, and the sequence and other properties of these articles, in so far as they are not determined by the nearest subheading and by the microstructure, as pragmatic. In some cases, this nearest subheading will also be counted as pragmatic (special reasons for this will be given). It is significant of pragmatic structures that they are of varying extension and stringency. The Europe-wide interest which synonymy enjoyed after Abbé Girard’s seminal book can be regarded as a pre-scientific run-up to semantics, which came into its own only after Reisig’s lectures.3 It regarded word meaning as on a par with grammar, a notion which became even more widely accepted when Saussure introduced his idea of valeur. A broad inspection of semantic theories developed during the twentieth century has led to the insight that synonymy is in fact their nucleus, if we leave aside wider, often problematical, assumptions (such as cultural anthropology, generativism, and the cognitive repertoire of humans). Indeed, synonymy, in the sense that every lexeme in a language has synonyms, turns out to be the essential nature of lexis.4 If this were not so, language could not serve its communicative purposes. Roget’s Thesaurus can therefore also be inspected with the help of such concepts of semantics used avant la lettre. It is even of central interest to reveal that this book, published

3

See Ch. 6.1, in particular Ch. 6.1.4.

4

See Ch. 3.

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in 1852, contains some general truths about the semantic component of natural languages. We may then rightly regard it a pre-structural and pre-cognitive work. A dictionary like the Thesaurus shows that the idea of the mental lexicon, so much to the fore at present, has been discussed since much earlier times, at least since Locke. It does not matter which terminology is used for this idea.

8.2

The ‘Introduction’5

There are three dominant thoughts to be found in the introduction which mark out three perspectives from which the author wants his book to be seen. Although elaborated upon in different ways and in extremely varying detail, all three of them are of great importance. In the very first paragraph, Roget defines the onomasiological programme as different from the semasiological: The purpose of an ordinary dictionary, is simply to explain the meaning of words; and the problem of which it professes to furnish the solution may be stated thus:—The word being given, to find its signification, or the idea it is intended to convey. The object aimed at in the present undertaking is exactly the converse of this; namely,—The idea being given to find the word, or words, by which that idea may be most fitly and aptly expressed. (p. v)

The model authors mentioned later in the introduction point in the same lexicographical direction: the Vocabulary of Sanskrit by Améra Coshá, the ‘well known work of Bishop Wilkins’, and the ‘anonymous’ Pasigraphie (of Jean de Maimieux).6 Roget does not bother to discuss the conceptual differences between these three onomasiological works and his own; he may not have seen any significant linguistic or philosophical differences either. The second dominant thought is that of utility. The Thesaurus is intended to be an eminently practical book. Although obviously organized with the help of scientific and learned principles, it has no scientific purpose but is meant to help people in the difficult art of writing compositions. Conducive to this aim is Roget’s rather matter-of-fact concept of the instrumentality of language. He explains that words express thoughts, and that they must do so with accuracy, perspicuity, and correctness (e.g. p. xi). The sentence 5

See Ch. 5.2.1.

6

See Hüllen 1999a and Ch. 7.3.3.

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‘Words are the instruments by which we form all our abstractions’ (p. x) is not meant to be a profound epistemological statement, for example an affirmation of nominalism or conceptualism. It is the foundation of direct instruction in the art of writing: Every workman in the exercise of his art should be provided with proper instruments. [. . .] the writer, as well as the orator, employs for the accomplishment of his purposes the instrumentality of words. [. . .] It is therefore essential to his success that he be provided with a copious vocabulary, and that he possess an entire command of all the resources and appliances of his language. (p. ix)

To achieve this is the aim of the Thesaurus. The envisaged readership are native speakers who have a natural, i.e. thorough but never perfect, knowledge of the language. Thus Roget expects them to understand synonyms without explanations. His intention is to make these lexemes available when speakers cannot readily think of them: In constructing the following system of classification of the ideas which are expressible by language, my chief aim has been to obtain the greatest amount of practical utility. (p. x)

At the basis of this assumption is obviously Roget’s belief that order enhances learnability and memorization. In keeping with his work as a natural scientist, he takes this order from botany and zoology, setting out to order words like plants or animals. It is not important whether he achieved this goal, i.e. whether his classification has the same stringency as that in, for example, botany. It is the concept behind it which counts. An interesting and somewhat surprising blend of the onomasiological principle and the practical aim of the Thesaurus is to be found in Roget’s subscribing to Wilkins’s scheme of a universal language. He believes that ‘the principles of [his work’s] construction are universally applicable to all languages, whether living or dead’ (p. xxiii) and therefore sees his own book as conducive to the ambitious goal of a ‘strictly Philosophical Language’ which would eventually be adopted ‘by every civilized nation’ (p. xxiv): Nothing, indeed, would conduce more directly to bring about a golden age of union and harmony among the several nations and races of mankind than the removal of that barrier to the interchange of thought and mutual

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good understanding between man and man, which is now interposed by the diversity of their respective languages. (p. xxv)

The third dominant thought is the (admittedly sketchy) Lockean semantic theory. Indeed, the Lockean spirit exuded by the introduction is its most noteworthy feature. As will be remembered, for Locke, human experience of the world (sensations) and of one’s own mind (reflections) leads to ideas which are expressed in words. However, the mind is creative. It shapes and reshapes these ideas in order to adapt them to the needs of communication. Word meanings, therefore, mirror the creativity of humans, not the facts of nature: ‘workmanship’ of the mind is Locke’s term. The lexis of a language represents an idea-driven order which begins in reality but goes far beyond it. Moreover, ideas as the meanings of words are more often mixed than simple. Because of their dependence on direct experience or reflection, the simple ones defy definition. They are intuitively intelligible. But the complex ones are definable by analysis into their parts. Locke uses the metaphor of a knot in order to explain how ideas are bound together into one meaning by the force of a word, which can consequently be resolved into its constituent parts. As the properties of things which are identified in experience—and thus the number of ideas which come together in their names—are virtually infinite, the processes of analysis are endless, too. They do not lead to unambiguous results. People may use identical words for non-identical complex ideas. This is an essential part of human communication which is, in principle, unending and in danger of producing misunderstandings. Meanings vary and language has many words for denoting referentially identical things. The creativity of the human mind is revealed in these varying names, but also in the names of relations and so-called mixed modes, i.e. moral and societal conventions. This summary of Locke’s basic assumptions (Hüllen 1999c) reveals that they are close to those of the Thesaurus, a fact which comes most clearly to the fore in the latter’s introduction. The Thesaurus, of course, is not a treatise on language theory; but it none the less shows the general dependence of this practice-oriented book on a highly influential philosophical theory. The Thesaurus is called ‘a collection of words [. . .] not in alphabetical order as they are in a Dictionary, but according to the ideas which they express’

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(p. v, italics in original). The ‘meaning’ of words is usually given the Lockean term signification. The Thesaurus is a ‘classification of ideas which are expressed by language’ (p. xi). The spirit of the philosopher is all too obvious, in particular when Roget speaks of ‘such classes and categories as reflection and experience had taught [him]’ (p. xi, italics mine). Admittedly, the term mixed mode, which is much in the foreground of Locke’s deliberations, is absent from Roget’s terminology. Instead he speaks of phenomena relating to the intellect, to volition, and to sentient and moral powers. But we can easily attribute this deviation to the author’s wish to attain ‘practical utility’ by not moving beyond the scope of that terminology which the general reader would understand. Then again, he speaks of words ‘which express ideas compounded of two elementary ideas belonging to different classes’ (p. xviii). The Lockean framework of the Thesaurus is best seen in the three structures (macrostructure, microstructure, and pragmatic structures) of this synonym dictionary. The topic of synonymy is conspicuously absent from the introduction. The phenomenon itself is mentioned: ‘On the other hand, it is hardly possible to find two words having in all respects the same meaning, and being therefore interchangeable; that is, admitting of being employed indiscriminately, the one or the other, in all their applications’ (p. xvi). But synonymy is obviously regarded as a matter of practical experience. Everybody finds it difficult to select the precise word when writing compositions, Roget says (p. vi). He knows that there is more to this problem than want of practical skill, yet he decides not to reflect further: The investigation of the distinctions to be drawn between words apparently synonymous, forms a separate branch of enquiry, which I have presumed here to enter upon; for the subject has already occupied the attention of much abler critics than myself, and its complete exhaustion would require the devotion of a whole life. The purpose of this Work, it must be borne in mind, is, not to explain the signification of words, but simply to classify and arrange them according to the sense in which they are now used, and which I presume to be already known to the reader. (pp. xvi–xvii)

The only references which show that Roget was aware of some of the relevant scholarly literature on synonymy are those to Trench (1851) and Whately (1851), i.e. brand-new books at the

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time, and, in addition, to the works by Wilkins and Maimieux mentioned above.

8.3

The macrostructure

The macrostructure of the Thesaurus appears rather complicated because the typographical presentation of the various classes is slightly irregular.7 At first sight, this is, of course, a disadvantage. After all, the macrostructure is the main guide for dictionary users (but see below). The ‘Plan of Classification’ presents the most salient principles, namely class, section, and numbers.8 There are six classes (I abstract relations, II space, III matter, IV intellect, V volition, VI affections), divided into between two and eight sections each, with exactly 1,000 articles in all (i.e. the microstructure). Whereas classes and sections are printed in capitals and denoted by Roman numerals, the entry articles are denoted by Arabic numerals9 from beginning to end (for their capitalization see below). However, on the lower levels the macrostructure varies considerably, as is revealed in the more detailed ‘Tabular Synopsis of Categories’. According to the Synopsis, classes I, II, and VI have between two and five groups (my term) below the sections.10 They are again capitalized and denoted by Arabic numerals as 1⬚, 2⬚, etc. In class III, the groups are further broken down into subgroups (my term) with Arabic ordinal numbers. Between groups and subgroups we find occasional partitions into general and specific.11 In class IV, the sections are subsumed under two so-called divisions each. They again have Roman numerals and are capitalized. It is their headings which are given in the Plan as the names of sections. Division I has seven sections and division II three, each with further irregular partitions. The same holds for class V, with two divisions and five and four sections respectively, and again irregular further partitions below them. Sometimes we find numbered or unnumbered headings 7

In order to follow the subsequent arguments it is advisable to consult the Appendix. The somewhat unfortunate term ‘numbers’, spelled ‘Nos.’, will henceforth be called ‘(numbered) (entry) articles’. 9 Unfortunately, the Plan gives Arabic numerals to the sections. 10 An exception is class VI, section I affections, generally, which has only numbered articles. 11 Class III, section II, group 2⬚ fluids has an additional partition in motion. 8

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between the entry articles of sections, groups, or subgroups; but these should be counted among the pragmatic structures. These diverse levels of arrangement lead to entries with varying hierarchical depth in the system. Examples of the most simple and the most complex types are: Class VI: Affections Section I: Affections generally Numbered entry articles: 820–6

Class III: Matter Section III: Organic matter Group 2⬚: Sensation (1) General Subgroup 5: Sound Numbered entry articles: 402–19

The foregoing description of this arrangement looks more complicated than it actually is. In fact, the schema of the Thesaurus combines the strictness of a logical classification with the flexibility of a taxonomy within wide semantic fields. The six classes name overarching ideas which serve as an initial orientation for the user (unless he or she chooses the alphabet as the entry point). Their importance to the author is shown by the fact that on every single page the numbers of classes, sections, and groups (or classes, divisions, and sections) are printed as running headlines on the inside of the page, whereas the numbers of the entry articles are printed on the outside. Roget obviously expected his readers to memorize them and to use them as a guide throughout the book. As headings of groups and subgroups, the categories special, absolute and relative, simple and complex, and others occur time and time again and are readily applicable to the topics in question. Others are more specific. Touch, heat, taste, odour, sound, and light are (naturally) only applicable in the group sensation (375–449), just as property in general, transfer of property, interchange of property and monetary relations are only applicable in the section possessive relations (775–819). So they, too, appear natural once the user has found the proper class and section. Although categories like acts, causes, subservience to ends, simple, and complex are rather abstract and formal, they acquire a certain concreteness from the semantic domain of their class, section, group, etc. Acts and causes, for example, belong to volition (600–14, 615–17) and so does subservience to ends (631–72); simple and complex differ in meaning when belonging to change (140–8, 149–52) or to action (680–91, 692–701). The obvious (vertical) movement from the

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abstract to the concrete, as demonstrated in the Plan by classes and sections, is thus complemented by detailed (horizontal) guidance from the various semantic domains. It is obvious that the many-layered macrostructure of the Thesaurus is meant to enhance its usability. Metaphorically speaking, the users are guided by signposts, which give six general and then increasingly specific indications to enable them to select a path which is as short and straightforward as possible. It is part of the rationale of the Thesaurus that this signposting is achieved by an ordering of words which is meant to represent the ordering of ideas which are the mental representations of the world. In order to be practical, the number of any lower-level unit and in particular of (numbered) entries must not exceed a certain (flexible) limit. The group under each section and class is the intermediate unit between the abstract categories and the concrete semantic entries. As such it is also the central unit. It is the level of the macrostructure which attracts more attention from readers than others; it is what directly meets the eye. The various divisions mentioned above guarantee that no group exceeds five co-hyponyms. A simple count reveals that almost all groups contain no more than forty entries, the average being fifteen to twenty-five. As soon as more entry articles appear, they are broken down into smaller units, thus making it easy for readers to find what they are looking for.12 Note, for example, the distribution of articles in the group sensation (375–449): four articles (375–8) three articles (379–81) eight articles (382–9) eight articles (390–7) four articles (398–401) four articles (402–5) seven articles (406–12) five articles (413–17) two articles (418–19) eight articles (420–7)

sensation in general special sensation: touch special sensation: heat special sensation: taste special sensation: odour sound in general specific sounds musical sounds perception of sound light in general

12 Most of these articles, of course, are arranged in parallels. If each pair of antonyms are counted as one reading unit—which is justifiable on logical grounds—the units become even smaller and easier to handle.

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six articles (428–33) specific light seven articles (434–40) colours nine articles (441–9) perceptions of light. All they have to do is read the intervening headings and let their eyes skim the pages. Thus, it is precisely the irregularity of the arrangement which enhances the practicality of the Thesaurus. The classes reveal a world-view typical of post-Cartesian philosophy and the post-Newtonian sciences. First, there is the stability of ordered relations according to mathematical (quantifiable) measures and cause-driven developments in time (class I); second, there is the attention given to matter in space as the main object of recognition (classes II and III); and third, there is the view of humans as having intellectual, volitional, and emotional faculties (classes IV, V, and VI), among the first in particular the faculty of expressing ideas by signs. All this betrays Newtonian principles of mathematics and classical physics, new developments in the various biological sciences before Darwin, Lockean epistemology, and, finally, the convictions of the so-called utilitarians with their concepts of knowledge and intersocial affections.13 Religion ranks last in this world—whatever that may indicate about the author. Generally speaking, the macrostructure of the Thesaurus has a strong bias towards philosophical and scientific knowledge, expressing a mind which believed in the importance of the sciences (and also the arts) for the good of the common man. Obviously, Roget did not adopt a certain schema from some classification of knowledge which he knew.14 But we can clearly discern inherent principles in such schemata. He did not, for example, follow the system of the Encyclopédie with its three main chapters, memory, reason, and imagination. But we do find John Locke’s division of the sciences, as explained in the last chapter of the Essay (1961: 308–10), into (i) the nature of things, their relations, and their manner of operation (in classes I, II, and III), (ii) that which man ought to do (in classes V and VI), and (iii) the communication of knowledge (in class IV). Most obviously Lockean are classes IV (formation of ideas, communication of ideas) and V (individual volition, intersocial volition).

13

See Ch. 2.

14

See Ch. 7.2.

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Roget comes even closer to the classificatory model of Jeremy Bentham’s ‘chrestomathic table’ of 1816 (Bentham 1983), because there is an analogy between the order of the two. Classes I and II in Roget are analogous to Bentham’s metaphysics and mathematics, class III to his natural history, class IV to what was then called ‘logic’, and classes V and VI to his various kinds of ethics. Despite such parallels, we must not forget that Roget’s aim was the orderly arrangement of English synonyms for practical purposes and not philosophy. It seems useful to compare the macrostructures of Wilkins’s ‘Tables’15 with the Thesaurus. There are characteristic differences between their systems for arranging entries. The main one is that the hierarchy is much less formal in Roget than in Wilkins and that word meanings are not defined by their location in the system. Roget simply assumed that his readers as native speakers would understand every lexeme. He was merely aiding retrieval. The different functions of overarching categories in their systems reveal themselves, for example, in Roget’s class III, matter, where inorganic and organic matter are separated. Wilkins has the same separation in genera VIII to XX. At the various relevant places in his ‘Tables’ he gives a taxonomy of plants and animals as was current among the botanists and zoologists of his day. Roget, however, is not interested in the taxonomy of plants and animals. Instead, we find the entries animality vs vegetability, animal vs vegetable, zoology vs botany, etc. (364–9). One consequence of this is that the vocabulary of Roget is a good deal more abstract than that of Wilkins. ‘Consanguinity’, for example, is introduced by Wilkins as the first difference under genus XXXIII (‘Oeconomical Relation’). Roget gives it one entry in class I, section II (relation). The relevant entries are (number of synonyms and synonymous expressions in brackets): Wilkins (249): Progenitor/Descendant (7/13), Parent/Child (8/9), Uncle/Nephew (1/1), Brother/Half Brother (1/0), First Cosin/Cosin (1/0)

15

See Ch. 7.1.4.

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Roget (4): Consanguinity (47, among them: kindred, blood, parentage, cousin, brother, sister, brotherhood, sisterhood, cousinhood) Although by force of nature the same words appear in these entries of Wilkins and Roget, the latter apparently stresses the theoretically definable relationships between persons more than Wilkins, who merely gives an enumeration of family names. An even more striking example is number. For Wilkins, ‘Number’, synonymous with ‘Multitude’, is the first difference of genus XXIII, ‘Measure’, belonging to the predicament ‘Quantity’. For Roget, number is section V of class I, abstract relations. The relevant entries are: Wilkins (190): one (6), two (9), three (10), four (7), five (3), six (5), seven (3), eight (3), nine (2) Roget (articles 84–105, 24–7): 1⬚ Number in the abstract: number, numeration, list 2⬚ Determinate number: unity/accompaniment, duality, duplication/ bisection, triality, triplication/trisection, quaternity, quadruplication/ quadrisection, five/quinquesection 3⬚ Indeterminate number: plurality/zero, multitude/fewness, repetition, infinity (more than 1,000 lexemes in all) Here again, in the nature of the case, the entries partly overlap. And yet the difference seems quite clear: Wilkins presents an enumeration (in the literal sense), Roget presents ideas that underlie the handling of numbers. Of course, the naming of concrete phenomena or objects is not altogether absent from the Thesaurus, but a much larger part of its vocabulary is abstract and the concrete lexemes often appear as illustrations of the former. John Wilkins presents a world of experience ordered according to the abstract ideas of traditional philosophy. Peter Mark Roget presents a world of human ideas. Whereas Wilkins, as a lexicographer, faced the world and attached names to its items, Roget, as a lexicographer, entered the human mind and unpacked what he found there. The two onomasiological works represent two different traditions, the speculative and the mental. They are the corollary, in linguistics, of those farreaching philosophical developments which occurred from the end of the seventeenth century onwards. In moving from Wilkins to

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Roget, we move from referential semantics to the beginnings of cognitive semantics (Hüllen 1999a: 433–47). The differences between Wilkins and Roget also show what kind of readers they had in mind. The earlier author’s main concern was the natural philosopher of the seventeenth century, whose central occupation was the taxonomy of objects in the real world. The younger author’s main concern was the natural philosopher of the ninteenth century, whose central occupation was the ideational order of the world of experience.

8.4

The microstructure16

8.4.1

The units and their sequence

Entry articles regularly have the following microstructure, i.e. lexicographical units in this sequence: ● ●

●

●

●

●

●

●

number of article in round brackets headword in capitals (nouns without an indication of word class), sometimes preceded or followed by a short semantic explanation a row of nominal synonyms, no indication of word class, separated from headword by a comma, separated from each other either by a comma or, as groups of lexemes, by a semicolon a row of nominal synonyms starting on a new line and thus forming their own paragraph; lexemes in these paragraphs separated as above a row of verbs, preceded by indication of word class (V.), punctuation and typographical arrangement as above a row of phrases, preceded by an indication (Phr.), punctuation and typographical arrangement as above a row of adjectives, preceded by indication of word class (Adj.), punctuation and typographical arrangement as above a row of adverbs, preceded by indication of word class (Adv.), punctuation and typographical arrangement as above

16 For the understanding of this and the following sections the reader is advised to consult Ch. 3, where the analytical concepts and terms are explained. I also recommend that the reader refer to an edition of the Thesaurus (an early one, if available) in order to follow my analyses of examples of entry articles.

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a row of epithets and/or interjections, preceded by E. and/or Int., punctuation and typographical arrangements as above.

All of the articles contain the first three elements of this microstructure. Virtually all of the articles also contain the next two elements: they appear in articles of at least average length, but not in very short ones. The further elements occur with a decreasing degree of frequency. Adverbs are frequently missing. Most articles list phrases of an idiomatic character, but they can be located, always in final position, in every word class, depending on which word class is the nucleus of the idiom. The last element occurs only rarely. Quite often cross-references by number to other entry articles are inserted at various places. They have the form ‘see (376)’ or only the number, e.g. ‘643’ (both examples from (823) ‘INSENSIBILITY’). There is scarcely any article, except very short ones, which does not have any cross-reference. Sometimes this cross-reference is more detailed, as e.g. ‘Physical sensibility see (375)’ (from (822) ‘SENSIBILITY’). The microstructure of the Thesaurus pertains to every single article. But Roget’s principle of presenting headwords (with their synonyms following) and antonyms (with their synonyms following) introduces a microstructural rule which extends over two articles. This principle gives the Thesaurus its special appearance, although explaining words by antonyms is a habit as old as explaining them by synonyms. There are 780 numbered articles with synonym–antonym headword pairs, whereas 220 articles have no such pairs. The juxtaposition is indicated in print by a parallel-column arrangement with a vertical line between the columns. Whenever an article on the antonym side is missing, the article is printed over the whole width of the page. Whenever the ‘positive’ article (see below) is missing (which is rather seldom), the other (which in this case cannot be called antonymous) is printed flush to the right margin with a wider margin on the left. A similar typographical arrangement is used when two articles differ considerably in length, as happens quite frequently. 8.4.2

Numbers

Lexicographically speaking, the numbering from 1 to 1,000 is, of course, meaningless (and almost embarrassing). Whether the number 1,000 had any symbolic value for Roget is unknown. It

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forced him to make some tortuous arrangements, for example the introduction of numbers 768a and 914a. The numbers are helpful in spotting lexemes for users who come from the alphabetical index. They are printed as a running headline on each page of the main text. 8.4.3

Headwords

The headwords have three functions. First, they serve as flags for each article and are, in this respect, a semantic companion to the numbers. Second, they are the point of reference for the synonyms to follow, and, third, where pertinent, they are the point of reference for the antonym as the headword of the corresponding article. Given these three functions, the headwords must therefore be easily recognizable as the nodes from which the complex networks of synonymy and antonymy emanate. However, this is clearly not always the case. Headwords frequently reveal their meanings only with the help of the macrostructural headings above them, the headwords of entries in the vicinity, or their antonyms. In these cases, various relations between articles are activated and thus become helpful. Note, for example, that the lexemes density, rarity, hardness, softness, elasticity, inelasticity, tenacity, and brittleness are each difficult to understand in isolation, but that together they create a context which is identified by the heading solids of inorganic matter (articles 321–8 as part of class III matter). Sometimes not even this device works. Then Roget adds an explaining phrase, and in order not to interrupt the row of synonyms, he places this at the beginning. Note, for example: (838) Expression of pleasure, REJOICING (839) Expression of pain, LAMENTATION (850) Good taste, TASTE (851) Bad taste, VULGARITY (861) Absence of fear, COURAGE (862) Excess of fear, COWARDICE [Rather pedantic:] (858) HOPE (859) Absence, want, or loss of hope, HOPELESSNESS

Roget pays his tribute to the general predominance of nouns in topical dictionaries by choosing only nouns as headwords.17 But his 17 There is only one exception, article 98 with the numeral as headword five. Other entries on numbers have nouns like duality.

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programme forced him to list lexemes not only for physical and mental objects and for abstractions (like relations or generalizations), but also for actions and states, properties and qualities. All of these are typically expressed by verbs and adjectives. This results in an abundance of nominal derivations from adjectives and verbs in headword position. Among countless examples derived from adjectives are the pairs coherence–incoherence (46–7), newness–oldness (123–4), strength–weakness (159–60), and dextrality–sinistrality (238–9). Right–wrong (922–3) only look adjectival at first sight; they are in fact meant as nouns. Pairs derived from verbs include imitation–variation (19–20), agreement–disagreement (23–4), and many others. Again, snap–roll (406–7), meant to signify sudden and repetitive sounds, only look verbal. They are meant nominally, as the subsequent synonyms show. This habit of nominalization gives the list of headwords, as printed in the Plan and the Synopsis, an almost frightening aspect of abstractness. For example, it is not the facts of being early or being late which are represented, but the ideas of earliness and lateness (132–3). This impression is corroborated by the fact that entries like thief (792) or merchant (797) and their synonyms are relatively exceptional, whereas stealing (791) and purchase (795) are not. Obviously, abstractions are preferred to the names of persons or things, i.e. ideas are preferred to objects. 8.4.4

Rows of synonyms

The headword is not only the flag of an entry article in Roget’s Thesaurus but also the reference point for synonymy. In its meaning it represents a part of reality which everyone knows intuitively, for which it functions as a name. Strictly speaking, headwords are dummies for such parts of reality, and, at the same time, the first member of a row of possible synonyms. As synonymy is strictly reciprocal,18 all the nouns in the first paragraph of the article, including the headword, putatively have the same meaning and could replace each other. However, the conventions of punctuation and the paragraphing indicate that not all lexemes are reciprocal in their meanings but that there are shades of semantic identity. These 18

Samuel Johnson’s term. See Ch. 5.2.2.

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devices show, with little if any further explanation, that synonyms are as much defined by their identity as by their differences. As the headword remains in the flag position of the article, it is in fact shown to be polysemous. Note, for example, article 398: ODOUR, smell, odorament, scent, effluvium, emanation, fume, exhalation, essence; trail, nidor. The sense of smell, act of smelling.

This can easily be rewritten so that the polysemy of the headword is obvious: ODOUR 1 [⫽ olfactory sensation] smell, odorament, scent, efflusion, emanation, fume, exhalation, essence. ODOUR 2 [⫽ malfactory sensation] trail, nidor. ODOUR 3 [⫽ sense for this sensation and act of using the sense] sense of smell, act of smelling.

Native speakers know that there are more shades of meanings of odour in addition to the three submeanings indicated in this way (i.e. by punctuation and by a short explanation). There are, for example, those expressed by the synonymous lexemes smell, scent, and essence. Smell is any sensation of the human nose, scent is a pleasant sensation, emanation is a smell (or scent) in so far it originates in something, essence is the strong smell of a concentrated liquid, etc. Such differences are not explained by the Thesaurus. Roget relies on the competence of the reader to discern the different meanings given. Certainly, there is the assumption in the background that the more synonyms there are, the better the native speaker can discern them, because only the (possibly rather long) row shows the range of words’ semantic possibilities. What the native speaker has to learn is that lexemes in one paragraph are substitutable, but that lexemes are not substitutable between paragraphs of one entry article. This means that the intraparagraphic and interparagraphic senses of the term synonymy are distinct. Synonymy between groups of lexemes formed by semicolons has a sense intermediate between these two. The choice of synonyms presented is not always of the kind rewritten above, where the meanings are quite close to each other. Note, for example, article 747 (rewritten) with the headword SCEPTRE, which has the preceding explanation ‘Ensign, badge, or

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insignia or authority’:19 SCEPTRE 1 [⫽ object as symbol of royal power] regalia, regality, crown, coronet, rod of empire, mace, fasces, wand, baton, truncheon, staff. SCEPTRE 2 [⫽ position from which to govern something] helm, bit, curb, reins, leading-strings. SCEPTRE 3 [⫽ seat as symbol of royal power] throne, chair, musnud, divan, dais, woolsack. SCEPTRE 4 [⫽ headwear as symbol of royal power] diadem, tiara, ermine, signet, seals, talisman, cap of maintenance, robes of state.

This is a rather extreme case in which the lexemes are not so much synonyms as members of a set of words which can together be rendered by a single hyperonym and which, because of their clear semantic delimitations, are not replaceable by each other. The closest term would be ‘semantic field’ (see below). This is certainly true of the relation between the paragraphs, though not of the relations of synonyms within each of them. But even within the rows belonging to one paragraph substitutability is often problematic,20 for example, the articles (412) ‘Animal ULULATION’, (416) ‘MUSICIAN’, and (417) ‘MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS’. In these, the series of lexemes are not so much groups of synonyms as listings of members of a class (see below). Regularities such as these depend very much on the topics treated in the articles and therefore belong to the pragmatic structures of the Thesaurus (see below). In order to understand them, the reader sometimes needs a quite extraordinary knowledge of the world. Is it to be taken for granted that everyone knows the woolsack in the House of Lords to be the seat of the Speaker and thus the symbol (sceptre) of royal power? The less a collection of synonyms explains, the more knowledge a user must have in order to understand it. Roget’s prelexical explanations are of little help. The reader is still confronted with the whole web of lexemes. The various relations between the headword and its synonyms provides one explanation of the fact that the headword tends to 19 As in this case, the preceding explanation is often nothing more than another row of synonyms, frequently more easily intelligible than the following ones which go unremarked upon. 20 The scarcely convincing prelexical explanation and the range of words assembled under the headword SCEPTRE makes it look as if this article had not been carefully planned. Perhaps it found its way into print before being finished. But there are many such cases in the Thesaurus.

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express a certain ideational abstractness, the name of an idea rather than the name of a thing or a person. It functions as an umbrella term for what follows it. 8.4.5

Verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and phrases

It is significant that nouns are not given any indication of word class at all, but all the other word classes are. Obviously, Roget looks upon nouns as basic. Indeed, the selection of lexemes from other word classes is clearly guided by these nouns, although this does not mean that no new lexemes appear. The sequence of word classes is rather traditional. It coincides with other dictionaries which follow this microstructure and also with the treatment of word classes in grammars.21 The phenomenon of synonymy is usually seen as being confined to one word class. Otherwise the crucial criterion, replaceability, does not work. In the case of Roget, however, the borderlines are crossed. But the verbs, adjectives, and adverbs largely repeat the preceding nominal lexemes, rendering them differently only in a syntactic way. Synonymy among nouns remains dominant. Note the verbal and adjectival synonyms in entry article 398: V. To have an odour, to smell of, to exhale, to give out a smell, &c. To smell, scent, snuff*, sniff*, nose*. Adj. Odorous, oderiferous, smelling, strong-scented, graveolent*, niderous, pungent*. Relating to the sense of smell; olfactory*, quick-scented.

Only six lexemes (the starred ones) are really new; the others repeat the nouns in their various meanings. Accordingly, the synonymous relations in the noun class are largely repeated. Quite revealing in this context is the ‘&c.’ at the end of the first row of verbs, which occurs quite often in the Thesaurus. It means ‘etc. as above, i.e. in the row of nouns’. Of course, this technique rests on the assumption that the meanings of nouns and, for example, verbs which consist of 21 If we trace the concept of nominality back to the classical category of substance and that of the other word classes to the various accidents, as was traditionally done in universal grammar, even in Roget’s time, we have a further reason for the general predominance of nouns in topical dictionaries. But Roget’s scientific manner of thinking may also be responsible for the preponderance of nouns in his Thesaurus.

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the same morpheme, are identical, except for those features added by the word class. We now know that this need not be the case. Quite often, the verbs and adjectives in fact only repeat the preceding nouns. Consider article 409, which deals with ‘hissing sounds: SIBILATION’. We find the following nominal synonyms: hiss, buzz, whiz, rustle, fizz, wheeze, whistle, snuffle, squash, sneeze, sternutation. The verbs given are merely ‘To hiss, buzz, etc.’, the adjectives ‘Sibilant, hissing, buzzing, etc.’ Admittedly, rows of adjectives and verbs are not always that meagre. New lexemes do occur, creating new synonymy relations. Entry article 398, quoted above, is a convincing example. Snuff, sniff, nose are substitutes for ‘the act of smelling’, and pungent for ‘niderous’. Olfactory and quick-scented introduce new meanings. The arrangement of synonyms in several paragraphs with rows of lexemes differentiated into groups is semantically meaningful only in the nominal entries. Everything thereafter mainly has the didactic purpose of helping the reader to use these synonyms within the various syntactic constraints of a text. In the rather extensive article (874) ‘DISREPUTE’, for example, the noun shame occurs as one of 33 synonyms, with the headwords in four paragraphs. In the following lists, shame is then given in these combinations: a burning shame, to be conscious of shame, to feel shame, to be ashamed, to take shame to oneself, to cause shame &c., to shame, to put to shame, to throw, cast, fling, or reflect shame, &c., to impute shame to, to hold up to shame, to one’s shame be it spoken, to shame, ashame, feeling shame, ashamed, shameful, loaded with shame. Shame! For shame! Of course, contextualizations like these are very helpful for the native speaker. But it is impossible to say which expression is synonymous with which (and Roget probably never intended to answer this question). 8.4.6

Antonyms

The leading function of the headwords and their nominal synonyms is corroborated by their juxtaposed antonyms. Strictly speaking, those entry articles face each other in the Thesaurus whose headwords are antonyms and which, taken as a whole, stand in an antonymous relation to each other. In many cases, the headword of the left-hand article is merely changed by prefixation or other

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means of word formation into its opposite, which gives the left-hand headword a positive and the right-hand headword a negative meaning. Among the many examples of this are existence–inexistence (1, 2), substantiality–unsubstantiality (3, 4), similarity–dissimilarity (17, 18), increase–decrease (35, 36), order–disorder (58, 59), assemblage– non-assemblage (72, 73), and change–absence of change (140, 140a). The antonymy relation can also be made perfectly obvious by a change of lexeme, as in greatness–smallness (31, 32), whole–part (50, 51), beginning–end (66, 67), strength–weakness (159, 160), verticality–horizontality (212, 213), and arrival–departure (292, 293). In all these cases, we can assume that the left-hand headwords have some priority over the right-hand ones, because reading moves from left to right, a direction which obviously coincides with the fact that language awareness moves from the positive to the negative (see below). There are many cases, however, where the relation between the two headwords is not a simple negation: inhabitant–abode (188, 189), traveller (on land)–mariner (268, 269), vehicle–ship (272, 273), liquefaction–vaporization (335, 336), cry–ululation (411, 412), yellowness–purple (436, 437), experiment–comparison (463, 464). These pairs are all negations in the sense that the meaning of the second lexeme expresses the absence of the meaning of the first, but they are different in what the second lexeme designates outside this comparison. Moreover, they are different in that the absence can be total or partial, absolute or relative, etc. By differentiating between ‘negation’ and ‘opposition’, Roget shows that he was aware of the problem, without however describing it adequately. It does not seem at all feasible to operate with strictly logical categories like existence vs inexistence, inclusion vs exclusion, hyperonym vs hyponym, class vs member of class—though doubtless all of them occur in the Thesaurus. It comes closer to the nature of the language, as arranged by Roget, to assume that there is a natural, not a formal, logic mediating between the ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ headwords as the consequence of the ontological or conceptual differences which prevail between the domains that these lexemes cover. By definition, the ‘opposition’ between yellow and purple (436, 437) is quite different from that between man and woman (373, 374), which again is different from that between lending and borrowing (787, 788) or marriage and celibacy (903, 904), and,

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at least for those using the Thesaurus, it is more important to understand these differences than to subsume them under some formal category of logic. Some macrostructural classifications, however, suggest that Roget was nevertheless more in favour of a formal than of a natural sort of logic. Occasionally, subheadings and explanations seem to have the prior function of establishing a logical opposition where otherwise there would be a natural one. Gulf and plain (343, 344), as well as marsh and island (345, 346), can be cited as examples. They are given a logical differentiation by being subsumed under specific fluids, which creates a class of its own against fluids in general. River and wind (348, 349), like conduit and air-pipe (350, 351), are made logical opposites by the explanations ‘Water in motion’/‘Air in motion’ and ‘Channel for the passage of water/of air’. But such ad hoc classifications are actually quite artificial. All in all, the method of plus/minus classification with its logical stringency does not apply very well to the microstructure of the Thesaurus. Concepts like field or frame are much more suitable (see below), although for some topics, plus/minus classifications do describe antonymous relations quite well. Of course, there are also cases where Roget’s decision to place a headword, and hence an entry article, on the left-hand or right-hand, i.e. on the positive or the negative, side is hard to understand. The problem is which concept, and hence lexeme, to choose as the leading one. If you start with change, the natural antonyms are absence of change, permanence, and continuance (140–3). But it could just as well be the other way round. Similar cases are discord vs concord (713, 714) and disobedience vs obedience (742, 743), where the negative word is in the positive position. In attack vs defence (716, 717) or inquiry vs answer (461, 462), the temporal sequence may have been the determining factor (although this has nothing to do with antonymy). All these pairs depend on presuppositions which cannot be taken for granted. Most of them are part of the general pragmatic structures which pervade the collection of words as a whole (see below). Assuming that it is justifiable to allocate a certain priority to the headwords of the left-hand articles and a corresponding dependence to their antonyms, i.e. the headwords of the right-hand articles, the question arises of whether this relationship then pertains to the

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whole article. This is obviously not the case. After the antonymic headword, the articles on the right-hand side of the page develop in their own way. This does not, of course, preclude some lexemes from the left-hand side finding their antonymous counterparts on the right. But much more often this is not the case. 8.4.7

Size of articles

As is to be expected, the sizes of articles vary. Those with fewer than ten lexemes, e.g. (387) ‘REFRIGERATORY’ (head plus three lexemes), (389) ‘THERMOMETER’ (head plus three lexemes), (393) ‘CONDIMENT’ (head plus eight lexemes), or even (450a) ‘COMPROMISE’ (head only plus cross-reference), are quite exceptional. They fill a systematic slot in the macrostructure, and are perhaps even only explicable in terms of the predetermined number 1,000. Those above 300 lexemes, e.g. (31) ‘GREATNESS’ (head plus c.350 lexemes), (682) ‘ACTIVITY’ (head plus c.320 lexemes), are exceptional too. Articles without an antonymous counterpart (in both directions) tend to be rather long. Quite often, matching articles are not at all equal in size. No pertinent conclusions can be drawn from this. The straitjacket of 1,000 articles may be responsible for some curiously short articles, as well as for some exceptionally long ones. On the whole, however, the size of articles seems not to have been planned, but rather dictated by the number of expressions in Roget’s mind.

8.5

Pragmatic structures

8.5.1

Generalized cognitive frames

The most general pragmatic structures which constitute our common consciousness also determine the selection, the arrangement, and the antonymous juxtaposition of vocabulary in the Thesaurus. Therefore, they are a powerful element for the appreciation of the book. For most people it is, for example, normal that beginning precedes the end (66, 67) and youth precedes age (127, 128). The idea of ‘normality’ is given here mainly by the temporal sequence. But normality also resides in other circumstances, as expressed, for example, in such pairs as symmetry vs distortion (242, 243), direction vs

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deviation (278, 279), conversion vs diversion (290, 291), and warfare vs pacification (722, 723). Indeed, we can hardly speak of the one, e.g. ‘distortion’ or ‘warfare’, if we do not presuppose the other, e.g. ‘symmetry’ or ‘pacification’. Temporal sequence as well as factual dependence are part of the prototypical experience of language users.22 Such experience leads to the so-called generalized cognitive frames which structure our world-view. The Thesaurus is naturally full of these. Besides commonly experienced temporal sequences, it includes axiomatic expectations and assumptions, for example that an initial state is better (more agreeable, more useful, etc.) than a subsequent one. The precise meaning of ‘more agreeable, more useful’, etc. is determined by a whole network of evaluations which, for the most part, are culture-specific. We may find them, for example, in symmetry and distortion, conversion and diversion. These two examples clearly express a preference for ‘order’ over ‘disorder’, which most people agree with but which is not to be taken for granted. Something similar is the case with motion vs quiescence (264, 265) and velocity vs slowness (274, 275). Obviously, motion and velocity are preferred to their antonyms because they indicate a state of being alive. Seen from this point of view, the absence of particular antonyms in the Thesaurus is likewise conspicuous. It may, for example, be indicative of certain convictions prevailing at Roget’s time that business, merchant, mart, and money (625, 797, 799, 800) have no juxtaposed antonyms at all. Admittedly, there are cases of headword and antonym pairs which are difficult to understand. Why does summit precede base (210, 211)? The visual impression (which is a powerful determinant of cognitive frames) of a mountain in the landscape may warrant this sequence, but the action of climbing (i.e. temporal sequence) would warrant the opposite. Why does warfare precede pacification (722, 723)? Why is it not peace vs warfare? Such cases are numerous, because generalized cognitive frames can very well be contradictory. After all, there are many experiences and mental decisions at work among the mass of speakers and even among the mass of experience gained by one speaker.

22

See Ch. 3.6.1.

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The era- and culture-specific world of speakers is also framed by generalized aesthetic and moral principles. In this respect, too, Roget’s Thesaurus is indicative of its time. The group moral practice, for example, has entry articles which clearly present the Christian and utilitarian (Victorian) picture of morality: (953) TEMPERANCE (954) INTEMPERANCE (955) ASCETICISM (956) FASTING (957) GLUTTONY (958) SOBRIETY (959) DRUNKENNESS (960) PURITY (961) IMPURITY (962) A LIBERTINE. So does the following group, institutions, with its entries on the British system of jurisdiction. Such cultural relativity can even be found on more concrete levels. The rather detailed entry article (894) ‘COURTSEY’, for example, assembles lexemes which describe the behaviour of the educated classes in Britain to which Roget himself, the doctor and well-to-do scientist, belonged. Note this selection of nouns: [1] COURTSEY, good manners, good breeding, politeness, suavity, easy temper (23 lexemes). [2] Compliment, fair words, salutation, introduction, respect (15 lexemes). [3] Obeisance, shaking hands, embrace, presenting arms, kneeling (23 lexemes). It is also because of such cultural dependencies that Roget permanently mixed French and extra-European lexemes with English ones. The entry for COURTSEY, for example, contains the French lexemes bienséance, prévenance, accueil, abord, devoir, accolade, and the extra-European ones salaam and kotau.23 The last section of the Thesaurus, on religious affections, would merit a particularly close analysis of its cultural roots. Of course, it is heavily dominated by Christian concepts, images, names, institutions, etc. There is only one rather short article on mythology, (979) ‘JUPITER’, with the special heading ‘Mythological and other 23 Italics in the original. The rather large number of French lexemes may also be due to Roget’s lineage and interests.

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fabulous Deities and Powers’. Otherwise, lexemes on extra-Christian items often, though not always, figure as antonyms to Christian lexemes. For example, ‘Judaism, Gentilism, Mohametanism, Islamism, Turcism, Buddhism, &c. &c.’24 are antonyms to nouns in article (983a) ‘ORTHODOXY’, which deals with Christianity and the churches.25 In the article (996) ‘CLERGY’, the last two of its nine paragraphs list clerical dignitaries and officers ‘under the Jewish dispensation’ and of extra-European religions. Roget’s preoccupation with the western European religious world is obvious, though he was in no sense a zealot. It is just as obvious as his preoccupation with western (British) ways of living and thinking. As he collected his dictionary of synonyms for the general benefit of English-language authors, he obviously did not consider the needs of those who wrote, for example, on Asian or African matters—even with a Eurocentric emphasis. The influence of the British Empire, which, after all, was at its apogee in Roget’s time, is in most cases limited to those lexemes which were linguistically anglicized. The concept of generalized cognitive frames (whether universally or culturally valid) was developed in the context of a treatment of the metaphors26 which we use widely in our language (Lakoff and Johnson 1980). This treatment raises certain assumptions and convictions above the level of what is taken for granted and gives others a position relative to them. In doing so, it defines normal vs extraordinary concepts. The method can be fruitfully transferred to domains outside metaphorization, such as the system of headwords in the Thesaurus. As any world-view consists of a mixture of what is called ‘extraordinary’ or even ‘abnormal’ in opposition to what is called ‘normal’, a thorough analysis of the headwords and their antonyms, but also of the synonyms of both, might well reveal the structures and limits of Roget’s world. 8.5.2

Pragmatic structures: a comment on class III

Users of the Thesaurus are expected to internalize the overall classification in order to arrive at the entry article in which they find the 24

Article 984, erroneously numbered 284. However, there is no preference for the Church of England over other churches. The ‘Roman Catholic priesthood’ is mentioned together with many other ranks of clergy in (996) ‘CLERGY’. 26 Incidentally, one of the major drawbacks of Roget’s work is his total neglect of metaphorization as a systematic method of expressing meanings. 25

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words they are looking for. This is why the overall classification is printed in the abbreviated form of numbers on each single page. If users first refer to the alphabetical index and then locate the numbered entry without understanding its macrostructural environment, they are not using the Thesaurus properly. But in order to find one’s path into the Thesaurus and to locate the lexemes needed for a special purpose of communication, one must also descry regularities which are only rarely indicated by headings. They are now given the name ‘pragmatic’. They disclose themselves in the sequence of entry articles, the paragraphing of blocks of words, the sequence of lexemes, punctuation, and other means of structuring. They change with the nature of the topics. They may be rooted in the person of the author, or may be traditional. Hardly any general rules can be given for them; they can only be pointed out in sample cases. The following is a comment on class III which aims to show such pragmatic structures. In doing this, it also aims to show the sequence of reasoning that must go on in the mind of Thesaurus users, as far as this is discernible.27 Class III, matter, has been chosen because Roget must have been at his most knowledgeable here. This was the world of his professional life. Hence we can expect a particularly well-thought-out structure in these entry articles. One result of our investigations will be that the Thesaurus follows various tendencies on the pragmatic level. This may very well be the case inside a single entry article. The differentiation between various types of articles, as explained in what follows, is one of the consequences of this. ‘Types’ are understood to be obvious tendencies which can dominate an entry article as a whole but which can also go together with the features of other ‘types’. Roget starts with the great logical partition into general (section I: matter in general) and specific, with the latter immediately being divided into the two sections inorganic (II) and organic (III)—a division which he, but also the reader, must have taken for granted, as it followed the scientific tradition and the common understanding of the time. The same can be said of the further subdivision into groups: section II is divided into solids and fluids (groups 1⬚ and 2⬚), and section III into vitality and sensation (groups 1⬚ and 2⬚). This 27 Obviously, a comment like this must be very tentative. There may be counter-examples to almost every detail. I restrict myself to one example.

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follows the principle of proceeding from the more general to the more specific on various levels and the common experience that solid matter is (somehow) more basic than fluid. Group 3⬚ of inorganic matter, headed imperfect fluids, must have come as a slight surprise to readers who were not scientists, because no ‘perfect fluids’ are mentioned. The section on organic matter encompasses the general phenomena of life and death, and the special forms of plants, animals, and humans with their five senses. This macrostructure applies to a considerable part of the Thesaurus, namely 133 entry articles containing about 6,580 lexemes. Where headwords remain difficult to understand, the antonyms certainly help to semanticize them, e.g. semiliquidity vs bubble (352, 353) or cicuration vs agriculture (370, 371). A closer look will reveal that the articles of class III follow divergent tendencies which create their own patterns. These patterns are irregularly distributed in this, as in every other, part of the book. We shall distinguish three patterns which mark three types of entry articles. Type 1

Generally speaking, the headwords of entry articles in class III of the Thesaurus are predominantly taken from the academic vocabulary of the sciences, not the vocabulary of common experience. Physics, chemistry, and biology are the relevant disciplines. Articles 316 to 374 (i.e. matter in general, inorganic matter, and organic matter: vitality) are all headed by abstractions (density, liquefaction, animality, etc.). The names of species (water, river, man, woman, etc.) are also understood as abstractions (337–46, 366–7, 373–4). Typically, they follow those headwords which give ideas, often functioning as illustrations of them. This is also in many cases the principle of the arrangement of nominal synonyms inside one entry article. The earlier paragraphs of such nouns contain words with abstract meanings as synonyms to the headword; the subsequent paragraphs give illustrative objects, states, processes, etc.28 The nominal synonyms in each article with abstract terms as headwords abound themselves with abstract terms. Typically, many names of academic disciplines are given, thus stressing the academic 28 Articles 321 to 332 (section II, group 1⬚) are, moreover, ordered according to one overarching category, heavy/light compactness, and articles 333 to 351 (section II, group 2⬚) according to fluidity and gaseity. Both constitute a topic-specific pragmatic antonymy which appears in neither the ‘Plan’ nor the ‘Synopsis’.

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character of the Thesaurus. (316) ‘MATERIALITY’, for example, lists nine names of the ‘science[s] of matter’. Although many articles have their own organization, the first paragraph of synonyms, at first dominated by very abstract words, have a certain tendency at the end towards concretization. The second paragraph, as already mentioned, often lists quite concrete words throughout which are illustrative of the first. Consider, for instance, articles 319 and 320 (abbreviated): GRAVITY, weight, heaviness, gravitation, ponderosity, ponderousness, pressure, load, burden, ballast, a lump, mass. Lead, a millstone, mountain, Ossa on Pelion. Science of gravity, Statics. LEVITY, lightness, imponderability, buoyancy, airiness, portableness. A feather, dust, mote, down, thistle-down, flue, cobweb, gossamer, straw, cork, bubble; a float, buoy.

Generally speaking, lexemes with abstract meanings outnumber by far those which designate objects or persons. As the latter function as sample cases for the former, they are logically dependent on them. Moreover, the names of objects are often taken from special domains of reality of which the common speaker has neither experience nor linguistic knowledge. Note, for example, that in article (333) ‘FLUIDITY’ the examples are all taken from medicine, i.e. from the author’s profession: LIQUIDITY, liquidness, a liquid, liquor, lymph, humour, juice, sap, serum, serosity, gravy, rheum, ichor, sanies—Solubility, solubleness. Science of liquids at rest; Hydrology, Hydrostatics.

As regards synonymy, the nouns following the headword and arranged in paragraphs often contribute one or more aspects to the meaning of their lexeme of reference. Among them are (i) synonyms designating the production of the state expressed in the idea, (ii) names of material or objects in which the idea is exemplified, (iii) names of the scientific disciplines devoted to the idea, and (iv) names of the people who work on the idea in their professions. There is no fixed sequence to these aspects. For example, note the following (abbreviated) entry articles: (319) GRAVITY, weight, heaviness [etc.] [ii] lead, a millstone [etc.] [iii] Science of gravity, Statics

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(323) HARDNESS, rigidity, firmness [etc.] [ii] A stone, pebble, flint [etc.] [i] tenseness, stretching, tensure (361) KILLING, homicide, murder [etc.] [i] destruction of animals, slaughtering, &c. [iii] Phthisoics [iv] A butcher, slayer, murderer [etc.]

Verbs often repeat the nominal lexemes and then initiate a series according to one or more of the four aspects mentioned above. Towards the end of the verbal block, such verbs sometimes deviate completely from the nominal block. The subsequent adjectives tend to repeat the verbs. Not all these structures appear together in every article. Note the following examples, which are characteristic of some of the features mentioned: (325) ELASTICITY, springiness, spring, resilience, renitency, contractility, compressibility [one cross-reference]. Indian rubber, caoutchouc, whale-bone. V. To be elastic, &c., to spring back, fly back, rebound, recoil [one crossreference]. Adj. Elastic, tensile, springy, resilient, renitent, buoyant. (337) WATER, serum, lymph, rheum. Dilution, immersion, maceration, humectation, infiltration, sprinkling, spargefaction, affusion, irrigation, douche, balneation, bath, inundation, deluge, a siluent [one cross-reference]. V. To be watery, &c., to reek. To add water, to water, wet, moisten29, dilute, dip, immerse, plunge, merge, steep, souse, duck, submerge, drown, soak, macerate, pickle, wash, sprinkle, affuse, splash, swash, douse, drench, slop, slobber, irrigate, inundate, deluge. To syringe, inject. Adj. Watery, aqueous, wet, aquatic, lymphatic, diluted, &c., reeking, dripping, soaking, washy, sloppy, squashy, splashy, slobbery, diluent.

As a rule, idiomatic phrases do not fit into these patterns: in article 337, for example, they are ‘Wet as a drowned rat; wet as a rag’. To put these observations in a nutshell: the macrostructure, the headwords, and the earlier paragraphs of nominal synonyms in type 1 entry articles have the character of an idea-driven inventory of 29

Cross-reference to (339) ‘TEXTURE’.

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certain sciences, enriched with synonymous variants. The later paragraphs of nominal synonyms, the verbs, and the adjectives are sometimes lists of words which testify to the flexibility of language outside the domains of the meanings given in the headwords. The strict character of a collection of synonyms is abandoned here. The macrostructure, headwords, and many of the nominal synonyms must have been tailored to the needs of academic authors. Other nominal synonyms, the verbs, and the adjectives were certainly much more to the taste of educated, yet non-specialist, users. It is left to the reader whether he or she uses the synonyms in the differentiating or the cumulative sense. Type 2

Of a different pattern are, for example, the entry articles dealing with OCEAN vs LAND (341–2), GULF30 vs PLAIN (343–4), and MARSH vs ISLAND (345–6). These belong to specific fluids. This grouping, however, is rather artificial, because the lexemes of the articles denote the distribution of water and land in the geographical sense and, therefore, come from quite different domains of language use. The headwords are the names of species. No names of ideas and their synonyms are given here, but rather the semantic fields of lexemes, often constituted from technical terms, which are indicated by the headwords as archelexemes. They pertain to highly concrete, tangible and visual environmental circumstances in objective reality. A very general encyclopaedic interest must be at work here: the wish to show factual knowledge as being quite different from the otherwise obvious interest in ideas. The place which this interest is given in the macrostructure of the Thesaurus is far from convincing, considering the abstract and ideational character of class III in general. The articles on ocean, land, etc. are somewhat superficially categorized as belonging to ‘liquid matter’. The same must be said of the rather extensive article ‘(348) Water in motion. RIVER’. Its nominal part is divided into six paragraphs: (1) river plus nineteen words loosely organized in the sequence jet, spirt—waterfall— cataclysm, (2) rain plus fifteen words again loosely organized, in the sequence shower—drizzle—efflusion, (3) spring plus as many as

30

Article 343 has two headwords, GULF and LAKE.

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twenty-nine words with names for the growth of a river from fountain via brook and stream to tide and regurgitation, (4) the two words confluence and corrivation, (5) wave plus seven words, and finally (6) ‘Science of fluids in motion’ with four technical terms. After the headword RIVER and an additional ‘running water’, in (1) nine lexemes denote water being forced upwards and nine lexemes water falling, in (2) sixteen lexemes denote rain, suggesting an increase from light and occasional showers to heavy and permanent defluxion, and (3) follows the development from a trickle to a mighty river that flows into the ocean. The two lexemes of (4) pertain to the special case of (at least) two rivers uniting. Of the seven lexemes of (5), four denote waves of several sizes and three typical waves near the coast, (6) provides the reader with the inevitable terms of the pertinent scientific disciplines. (1) to (5) therefore follows an interior (pragmatic) structure which is dictated by reality. Under the formal heading ‘liquid matter’, we here have five semantic fields of geographical vocabulary, each with a pragmatic structure of its own,31 but without any pertinence to liquid matter (e.g. outside water). This second type of entry article is a kind of anomaly in the system of the macrostructure. The question is whether users recognize the semantic fields at all.32 The synonyms are certainly not meant to be substitutes for each other. Type 3

The macrostructure of section III, organic matter, coincides with that of the previous section. Vitality in general and then special vitality (group 1⬚, 357–63, 364–74) follow the usual path from the generic to the concrete. The most general feature of organic matter is (357) ‘ORGANIZATION of living beings’ contrasted with (358) ‘INORGANIZATION of brute or inanimate matter’. The sciences that deal with these are mentioned. The essential phenomena are (359) ‘LIFE’, the ‘vital spark or flame’ vs (360) ‘DEATH’, the ‘close or extinction of life’. It is perhaps because of the lengthy practice of Dr Roget in a charity clinic that, in this case, the lexemes

31 Roget’s divisions and headwords are sometimes hard to grasp. In this case, the first paragraph has the headword ‘river’ but deals with fountains, and the third has the leading lexemes ‘spring, fountain’ but deals with rivers. One has the impression that draft articles were sometimes given to the 32 printer rather prematurely. For more about semantic fields, see below.

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of the antonymous articles vastly outnumber the parallel lexemes, in particular in the verbal class. It may also be due to this life-long practice that this article is immediately followed by articles on violent death, on (362) ‘CORPSE’, and on (363) ‘INTERMENT’. The overarching opposition is that of (364) ‘ANIMALITY’ and (365) ‘VEGETABILITY’. It dominates articles 364 to 372, which are devoted to the animal and the vegetable kingdoms. The various paragraphs of nominal synonyms contain taxonomies of animals and plants as they also appear in traditional topical dictionaries. They are synonyms in so far as they are members of a semantic field, but inside this field they are differentiated and not to be substituted for each other. They assume the character of terminological taxonomies. These need not be scientific, and indeed can be quite folkloric. The arrangement of animals according to habitat, for example, is quite traditional and generally accepted, but the sequence of species from the most to the least developed (mammal to fossil remains) is rather unusual and might be explained by the fact that this is much more useful for Thesaurus users than the generally accepted reverse order: (364) ANIMALITY, animal life, animation, breath, animalization. (366) ANIMAL, the animal kingdom, fauna. A beast, brute, creature; created being; creeping or living thing; dumb creature; the beasts of the field; fowls of the air; denizens of the deep; flock, fold, herd, flight. Mammal, quadruped, bird, reptile, fish, mollusk, worm, insect, zoophyte, animalicule, &c., menagery, fossil remains. Adj. Animal, zoological, piscatory, fishy, molluscous, vermicular, &c.33

There follows article 368 with no fewer than fifteen names of scientific disciplines that deal with animals, among them Roget’s speciality, comparative anatomy. The parallel articles 365–9 on VEGETABILITY, etc. are similarly structured. Type 3 entry articles combine the semantic fields of type 2 with the arrangement according to ideas of type 1. The lexemes assembled approach what is called a schema, i.e. a terminological inventory, as the following analysis shows.

33

Note the use of comma and semicolon in these articles.

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Section III, group 1⬚, is dedicated to organic matter, vitality. Section III, group 2⬚, is dedicated to sensation (in general, special). Articles 379 to 449 treat the five human senses, with the intervening headings touch, heat, taste, odour, sound in general, specific sounds, musical sounds, perception of sound, light in general, specific light, and perceptions of light. This classification shows that, similar to the entries on water, whole areas of vocabulary subsumed under organic matter are linked to it in the most superficial way imaginable, namely by the fact that only organic matter can have senses. It is only these entries on the senses that we shall analyse further, because they combine the three types of entry articles mentioned so far. In spite of the widely varying numbers of lexemes in these entry articles, we find recurring groups, including: ●

●

●

●

●

those that pertain to sensation, i.e. the objective phenomenon that creates the impression in the senses, those that pertain to perception, i.e. the subjective impression that is created (admittedly, sensation and perception, explained in articles 379 and 380, cannot be separated clearly in all cases), those that pertain to extremes of perception under the general idea of providing physical pleasure or physical pain (as explained in articles 377 and 378), those that pertain to instruments or organs which produce objectively or subjectively the relevant sensation or perception, and those that pertain to special features of sensations and/or perceptions.

The technique employed by Roget here is that overarching categories are themselves introduced in synonym articles of their own (377–80, all of which are very short). Otherwise, the articles have all the features that characterize this unit of the Thesaurus in general, mainly the preponderance of ideas and the sequence of word classes. But it is because of the semantic character of the headwords in this part that, unlike other parts, verbs and adjectives sometimes outnumber the nouns and outweigh them in their importance for synonymy, semantically if not formally. In article (382) ‘HEAT’, for example, adjectives form the largest group (29 lexemes). In article (384) ‘CALEFACTION’, the nouns outnumber all the others (39 lexemes), but they are all derived from verbs. In (412) ‘ULULATION’, i.e. animal sounds, 44 lexemes are given as nouns.

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All of these, however, could also count as verbs (bark, yelp, howl, etc.). The same is true of article (411) ‘CRY’, i.e. human sounds, with 31 lexemes. Most noteworthy, however, is the fact that these articles on the human senses (allegedly typical of organic matter) time and again provide an opportunity to insert schemata as quasi-independent pockets of vocabulary which is otherwise only loosely connected to them. In articles 386–8, there are, for example, many names of different kinds of furnaces, refrigerators, and fuel as belonging to touch. There is a list of sweet edibles in article 396 as belonging to taste. Most outstanding in this respect is a whole sequence of entry articles devoted to ‘musical sounds’, namely MELODY vs DISCORD, MUSIC, MUSICIAN, and MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS (articles 413, 414, 415–17, the last three without antonyms). (415) ‘MUSIC’ contains an exhaustive list of musical genres broken down into (i) music (in general, tune, air, etc.), (ii) instrumental music (solo, duet, etc.), (iii) vocal music (chant, psalmody, etc.), (iv) [mourning music] (dirge, requiem, etc.), (v) [musical] performance (execution, touch, etc.), and, in addition, a list of 21 Italian adverbs as technical terms, ending in ‘etc’. This is a combination of semantic schemata which gathers together a whole area of special language. Article (416) ‘MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS’ is even divided by numbers into 1. stringed instruments, 2. wind instruments, 3. vibrating surfaces, and 4. vibrating bars. This is an inventory with its own order, not selected with respect to synonymy but for the purpose of factual exhaustiveness. Something similar happens in article (445) ‘OPTICAL INSTRUMENTS’, which gives 36 lexemes and is one article in a group of those that deal with ‘perceptions of light’. Schemata differ from fields in the strictness of their order and in their intention of giving their members clear semantic outlines. This is why they need not be substituted for each other—a feature which seems odd in a dictionary of synonymy. If they should be called synonyms at all, they belong to the differentiating, not the cumulative, type. 8.5.3

Pragmatic structures: looking up horse

Another method of discerning the properties and intricacies, the advantages and shortcomings, i.e. the pragmatic structures, of

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Roget’s Thesaurus is to select a single lexeme and follow all its elucidations in the book. In doing so, we will eventually cull a semantic frame from the synonym dictionary, which is present but dispersed by the dictionary’s macrostructure. Our example is the lexeme horse. The desire to look up this word might arise from the task of writing an essay, for example, on horse racing; one would be in need of a number of synonyms and technical terms. The first observation to make is that there is no systematic locus in the macrostructure for animals of the kind to which horses belong. Therefore, users must turn to the alphabetical index. It refers them to class II space, section 4⬚ motion. Obviously the meaning of the lexeme horse is not part of the animal domain but of the abstract world of space in which motion occurs. Consequently, lexemes around horse appear in such groups as motion in general and degrees of motion. In John Wilkins’s ‘Tables’, as a contrast, horse is a ‘viviparous beast’ (i.e. a mammal) and grouped among those that are ‘whole footed’, contrary to those that are ‘cloven footed’. To the former group belong horses, asses and mules, camels (dromedaries), and elephants. Beasts are a species defined as animate, sensitive, and sanguineous. For Wilkins, a horse is obviously a differentia specifica of a certain species, whereas for Roget it is a kind of agent fulfilling certain functions. In class II, section IV, group 1⬚ motion in general, the opposition of ‘motion on land’ and ‘motion on water’ is the differentiating criterion for the headwords and antonyms of the subsequent articles. Article (264) ‘Successive change of place MOTION’ contains only general words, of which some (stand still, stop) could also be applied to horses. Article (265) ‘QUIESCENCE’ has no relevant lexemes. Article (266) ‘Locomotion by land JOURNEY’ contains more than 50 pertinent nouns and 65 verbs in three paragraphs. Among the former are ride and equitation, among the latter the third paragraph is entirely devoted to movements by and on horses: ride, jog on, trot, amble, canter, gallop, take horse, prance, fisk, frisk, caracoler. The two preceding groups, around travel and walk, have 24 and 30 lexemes respectively. Naturally, there are no pertinent entries in article (267) ‘NAVIGATION’. In the following articles, we find very much the same picture. In (268) ‘TRAVELLER’, a group of general words is followed by rider, horseman, equestrian, cavalier, jockey, postillon, all printed

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in one paragraph. In (271) ‘CARRIER’, 37 words are listed after six general synonyms to the headword. They denote horses from various perspectives: Beast of burden, cattle, horse, steed, nag, palfry, galloway, charger, courser, racer, racehorse, hunter, jument, pony, filly, colt, foal, barb, roan, jade, hack, bidet, pad, cob, tit, punch, roadster, goer, packhorse, drafthorse, carthorse, post-horse, ketch, shelty, bayard, mare, stallion, gelding, stud.

The 37 words have different affinities to each other, which Roget, however, does not mark by semicolons. In the same article, there then follows a paragraph with famous horse names from literature, Pegasus, Bucephalus, and Rozinante, and nouns denoting other ‘beasts of burden’. Thus horses are the most noteworthy class of carriers to be mentioned. The same is to be found in article (272) ‘VEHICLE’, where a group of sixteen words (carriage, sled, wheelbarrow, etc.) is followed by as many as 39 words, printed in one paragraph and denoting horse-drawn vehicles. Again, Roget does not mark obvious affinities by a semicolon: Equipage, turn out, carriage, coach, chariot, chaise, phaeton, curricle, whisky, landau, berlin, droschi, désobligeant, post-chaise, car, omnibus, gig, fly, cabriolet, cab, calash, brougham, clarence, buggy, tandem, shandredhan, char-à-banc, kibitka, sedan chair, palankeen (or palanquin), litter, brancard, crate, hurdle, stretcher, velocipede.

The last lexeme is a wonderfully hopeless attempt to give this word, which was (like the thing) an innovation at Roget’s time, some place in his linguistic world. In group 2⬚ degrees of motion there are only two entry articles. (274) ‘VELOCITY’ lists thirty nouns of a more general nature, with, however, race and steeple-chase among them. There then follows, as a single paragraph, ‘gallop, canter, trot, run, rush, scamper, hand-gallop, amble; flight, dart, bolt, spurt, flying, &c.’—all as nouns. Later, courser and race-horse occur among a group of animals famous for their quick movements, such as the antelope and the gazelle. Among the many verbs with specific meanings for movements we again find trot, gallop, amble, bolt, flit, and finally phrases like to clap spurs to one’s horse and ‘whip and spur’. Compared to the many relevant entries of article 274, the antonymous article (275) ‘SLOWNESS’ has, among other words with general meanings, only jog-trot, dog-trot, mincing steps, and slow

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coach. Obviously, horses were known for quick, not slow, movements. All the articles mentioned list numerous lexemes denoting motion which are unspecific and could therefore also be used in connection with horse. Note from this overview that the interest in the animal and the name horse is obviously not of a scientific nature. Surprisingly, the doctor and zoologist Roget did not think of a horse as an animal but as a means of transport, above all of people. Lexicologically speaking, the frame horse is present in his Thesaurus, but it is scattered because of the macrostructure, and readers have to look for the associated lexemes at various places. Within the frame ‘transporting people, traffic’, horses and horse-drawn vehicles form an important module, as can be seen from the number of entries and the ways in which they are grouped. This certainly coincides with the general cultural setting in which Roget lived, where horse-drawn traffic was an important means of transport and horse-breeding a popular, if not common, activity. Many such scattered frames could be found in the Thesaurus. In comparison, Roget’s abstract and idea-driven macrostructure looks quite formal. However, this was obviously no hindrance to success.

8.6

Semantic fields

8.6.1

Nouns

One analytical tool for investigating Roget’s Thesaurus is the concept of the semantic field,34 although it was introduced to linguistics almost one hundred years later. Semantic coherence in ‘fields’ is a timeless feature of vocabulary and was already observed as such by Roget (and also, of course, by authors of other dictionaries). Semantic fields are constituted by a varying number of lexemes of one class which share one meaning, as expressed in the archelexeme, but differ from each other in detail. They are semantically identical in that they belong to one field; they are semantically different, however,

34 The difference between the entry articles which are going to be discussed and the type 2 discussed above is that this time the article is totally dominated by the field concept and not just in parts.

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in that they express variants of this overlapping meaning. To this extent, the semantic field exactly matches the definition of a synonym.35 There is no doubt that Roget’s Thesaurus is full of such semantic fields. Many entry articles present exactly one field with the headword as an archelexeme. Thus they collect many more members under one rubric than is usual in more recent field studies. The articles may not contain all possible aspects, but semantic coherence is, as a rule, easy to find. Note, as an example, article (189) ‘Place of habitation, or resort ABODE’.36 Its 154 lexemes fall into twelve subfields which together cover many aspects of ‘places of habitation’. All the lexemes are nouns. This arrangement deviates from the usual article structure (microstructure), but satisfies the definition of a semantic field. The lexemes are grouped into paragraphs, but, except for two cases, they are not divided into groups by a semicolon. This means that paragraphs can be considered as consisting of one group as a subfield. There are some anomalous lexemes in these paragraphs (subfields), usually at the end of a row of synonyms and separated from the others by a semicolon and a hyphen. The article is arranged as follows: 1. The headword ABODE opens a row of twenty lexemes, most of which are frequently used in conventional speech (dwelling, lodging, domicile, etc.). Berth is anomalous. The last three (tabernacle, throne, ark) form a very special, unsubstitutable group, as is often the case in the articles of the Thesaurus. 2. There then follows a row of fifteen lexemes denoting places of habitation of animals. They are not substitutable in conventional speech. This group makes readers aware that the lexemes of the first group refer only to places of human habitation. Nidification is anomalous. 3. Next come eight lexemes denoting temporary and artificially made habitation in the open country such as bivouac, camp, and tent. Again new semantic features are introduced which determine the limits of the subfield, this time ‘temporariness’ versus ‘permanence’. (This will be done in all of the following subfields.) Each of 35

The wider implications of the field concept will be ignored here, but see Ch. 3. Its being placed as an antonym to inhabitant, i.e. person vs place in antonymy, is one of the cases where Roget’s understanding of antonymy is hard to follow. 36

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them is marked and set off from the others by one or more of these features. Furthermore, the sum of these features, alongside the archelexeme, can serve as a semantic description of the whole field (see below). 4. There then follows a row of eleven lexemes denoting naturally occurring abodes distinct in form and function, like cave, grove, and bower. 5. The next subfield, introduced by home, presents fourteen lexemes as the names of human abodes with a certain emotional overtone: that is, ‘home’ as different from ‘building’. Fatherland is rather anomalous, yet still illuminating: it extends the emotional overtone of home to a whole country. 6. Building as an architectural object is the topic of the next subfield, with eleven lexemes (structure, edifice, etc.). Farm, farmhouse, and grange form a group of their own. Pile seems anomalous. 7. The next eighteen lexemes, introduced by cot, are sorted into three groups: five names of small buildings in the country used by humans (cot, cabin, etc.), eight of buildings to keep tools in (shed, hovel, barn, etc.), and five of abodes for animals (sty, stable, etc.). 8. The next subfield, introduced by house, has more lexemes than the others. Of its twenty words, seven are terms for houses used by humans and are arranged in decreasing size (from mansion to bungalow), the others can hardly be regarded as sharing common features. Perhaps ‘unusual shape’ will do for some (pavilion, rotunda), ‘royal abode’ for others (castle, court, though here the unusual shape could be pertinent, too). Temple stands by itself; hotel has hermitage as a companion. 9. There then follow eight lexemes which denote institutional buildings which cater for people in certain situations (inn, hospice, etc.). As the functional aspects of their meanings are quite distinct (see e.g. caravansary, barracks), they can scarcely be substituted for each other in ordinary speech. 10. The next subfield consists of eleven lexemes for aggregates of places of habitation arranged according to size, from hamlet to metropolis. 11. There then follow fourteen lexemes which appear in conventional street names (street, place, etc.), and seven more which appear in names of public sites (circus, crescent, etc.). Polygon, alongside square and mall, seems very unusual.

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12. The last subfield, seven lexemes, is devoted to mooring-places for ships, like anchorage or dock. This entry is obviously a quite detailed semantic field, more extensive than those of normal field studies. Its location in the macrostructure (class II space, section I space in general, group 3⬚ existence in space) suffers from the usual abstractness of Roget’s categories. But its elaborate presentation is certainly adequate for a rich collection of synonyms. If we take into account the fact that in many entry articles of Roget’s Thesaurus such semantic fields are presented under their headwords, it is probable that the Thesaurus has been the most extensive field study of the English language ever since it first appeared. Its analysis of such fields according to various principles (like natural logic, temporal structure, cultural specificity, etc.) is almost inexhaustible. 8.6.2 Verbs

Verbs, too, come in semantic fields. The somewhat ambivalent relation between the nominal and the verbal part of entry articles (see above) means that field structures are less obvious here or, if they are present, follow the field structures of the nouns. But, in principle, verbs are organized according to those domains of reality which they cover as nouns. A good example is article (348) ‘Water in motion. RIVER’, whose nominal field structure has already been analysed. The verbal part of this article consists of three paragraphs: (1) to flow, run, gush, etc., i.e. movements of water with and without force (27 lexemes); (2) to rain, pour, drizzle, etc., i.e. the prototypical meteorological appearance of water in motion (seven lexemes); (3) to flow into, fall into, open into, etc., i.e. the various kinds of water discharges (seven lexemes). (2) and (3) are obviously verbal supports for the relevant nominal paragraphs (ii) and (iii), as (1) for the nominal paragraph (i); however (1) is richer in its pragmatic structure. On closer inspection, four subfields are to be found, namely (1a) to flow, run, etc., i.e. the movement of water caused by force, (1b) to drop, percolate, distil, etc., i.e. movements of water caused by special manipulations, (1c) to transude, stream, sweat, perspire, etc., i.e. organic fluidity in

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bodies, and (1d ) to overflow, gurgle, etc., i.e. movements and sounds of water overflowing its container and the overflowing itself. Hence the verbal field is not just a repetition of the nominal one. Moreover, there are two further verbal subfields which have no counterpart in the nominal part of the entry. The first addendum is (4) to cause a flow, pour, etc., i.e. verbs with a causative meaning, some of which simply repeat lexemes in (1); but others belong to a very special domain of reality, e.g. open the sluices, or flood gates. The second addendum is (5) to stop a flow, dam, etc., i.e. verbs with an interceptive meaning, obviously regarded as the opposite of those in (4). 8.6.3

Adjectives

It is obvious from the most casual glance at the Thesaurus that adjectives, like nouns and verbs, are lexicologically organized into fields. On the other hand, adjectives do not stand by themselves but constitute and change their meanings together with nouns. To a certain degree this applies to all word classes: nouns as both subjects and objects depend for their meanings on the corresponding predicates. Verbs depend for their meanings on their subjects and on the objects they govern. With adjectives, this semantic correlation between word classes is stronger, however, whenever they occur in a noun phrase. This is why the adjectival parts of entry articles very much depend on the headword and the nominal parts, and to a lesser degree also on the verbal parts. If, as is often the case, the antonymous headword is the direct negative of the parallel one, the adjectives in the right-hand entry also depend on the adjectives in the left-hand one. A suitable example is article (850) ‘Good taste. TASTE’ together with article (852) ‘FASHION’. Both of them are juxtaposed with article (851) ‘Bad taste. VULGARITY’.37 Article 850 has only ten adjectival lexemes, 852 twenty-four, and 851 sixty-four. This seems to confirm the old commonplace that, in certain domains, the potential of human expression is much greater for the negative than for the positive. 37 The selection of examples is to a certain degree, of course, motivated by the intention of finding convincing pragmatic structures. Persons, objects, and institutions best serve this purpose for nouns; states, experiences, and actions for verbs; and qualities or features for adjectives.

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Although printed in one pararagraph, the adjectives of 850 are sorted into four subfields: (i) those which repeat the headword: in good taste, tasty; (ii) good taste in the sense of simplicity: unaffected, pure, chaste; (iii) good taste in the sense of an educational ideal: classical, attic; and (iv) good taste in the sense of sophistication: refined, elegant, aesthetic. The adjectives of (ii) and (iv) are virtually opposed to each other despite being grouped in the same article. Note that, with the natural exception of in good taste, all of the other adjectives would be classified differently if they were put under a different headword. All of these adjectives could therefore appear in different articles. The adjectives of 852, although again printed in one paragraph, comprise three subfields: (i) those which repeat the headword: fashionable, in vogue, etc. (five lexemes); (ii) fashion as the behaviour of the higher classes: stylish, well-mannered, polished, etc. (sixteen lexemes), and (iii) self-assertive behaviour: dégagé, jaunty, unembarrassed (three lexemes). The adjectives of 851 are printed in five paragraphs, although their semantic breakdown is even more fine-grained. In (i) the headword is simply repeated; (ii) lists adjectives denoting the behaviour of the lower class: vulgar, unrefined, etc. (seven lexemes); in (iii) bad taste is identified with the simple: homely, homespun, homebred, and in (iv) with an unkempt appearance: uncouth, slovenly (seven lexemes). Adjectives denoting ill manners appear in (v): impolite, unladylike, etc. (nine lexemes); unkempt and uncombed, which close this paragraph, actually belong to (iv). The next two paragraphs compare bad manners with everything foreign: (vi) rustic, barbaric, outlandish, etc. (11 lexemes) and everything old: (vii) obsolete, gone by, etc. (six lexemes). There then follows a paragraph (viii) with lexemes denoting anything which deviates widely from a norm: odd, monstrous, revolting, etc. (15 lexemes), and a final anomalous group: (ix) gaudy, tawdry, bedizened, tricked out. Comparing these adjectives to those in 850 and 852, we find only a few clear opposites. Adjectives denoting bad taste are not simply the opposites of those which denote good taste. Even the criteria for forming subfields are different. The only obvious overlap is to be found in the subfields with adjectives characterizing the behaviour of the higher/lower classes: well-bred, well-mannered, wellbehaved, polished, gentlemanlike, ladylike, presentable (etc.) vs

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homebred, impolite, ill-mannered, uncivil, ungentlemanlike, unladylike, unpresentable (etc.). Obviously, the opposition between good taste (fashion) and bad taste is clearest in societal norms of behaviour. Whatever the case, it is interesting to extract from such comparisons the criteria that shape societal evaluations and the words for them, in this case class distinctions, appearance, tradition, and/or strangeness. Semantic fields may not reveal national character, but they certainly disclose general elements of human behaviour.

8.7

Semantic features

The theory of semantic features is the modern version of a very old claim: namely, that the semantic exploration of individual words is best done by comparison and comparison is best done by juxtaposing minimal meaning contrasts. This, in its turn, presupposes that word meanings, though normally understood and used holistically, can be broken down into parts (i.e. features) of which one or more can be highlighted and used as yardsticks for the comparison intended. In fact, this insight dates back to the beginning of European thinking on language and synonymy.38 Words appear as complex unities of elementary features, which can be actuated depending on the constraints of the situation and the intention of language use. This procedure is effective for the logical connection of thoughts, and also for stylistic reasons. However, the modern version of this old insight has added something which must not be overlooked. By exploiting earlier traditions of logical classification which proceed from the abstract to the concrete, it has developed these meaning features into a descriptive system which gives them an unclear status somewhere between mental representations and word meanings and has also given them a certain order in the generative process of handling language. Its most typical devices are the binary opposition (plus–minus feature) and the stemma (tree diagram). Roget could not have known about feature theory, which was developed only a century after the Thesaurus, but he was well 38

This is one of the presuppositions which usually go unmentioned in the literature.

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versed in the art of logical classification and in word comparison. This made him a natural precursor of feature theory—a precursor who both fell short of and surpassed that theory. He fell short of it in the formal precision which feature theory later claimed to attain, but he surpassed it in applying the principles of this theory to a huge corpus of lexemes, potentially to the whole of the English vocabulary. No modern linguist has ever dared to do this. Of course, Roget never reflected on what would later turn out to be the principal problem, i.e. the status of features (or markers).39 There are good reasons for assuming that he thought them to be Lockean simple ideas as parts of complex ones. But Roget never states this clearly. If we read the Thesaurus in the light of later semantics, we can detect a prefiguring of feature theory almost everywhere. Its most obvious prefiguring is in the two essential characteristics of the macrostructure of the Thesaurus, the logical hierarchy of categories and antonymy. Indeed, if one wanted to elaborate as exhaustively as possible, for example, on the meaning of the lexeme river, one might construct the logical path indicated in the Thesaurus: from existence (vs nonexistence) to substance (as concrete existence vs formal or modal existence), to space (as a receptacle of substance vs space in general) in its various dimensions (e.g. distance and length, i.e. linear vs e.g. centrical) to motion, to matter, to fluid matter, and finally to fluids in motion. The organization of the Thesaurus, which allows such long derivations, entails that the entries belonging to the abstract notions of class I can be read as explanations of features of the more concrete notions in the subsequent classes, and that the abstract (or general) entries in these subsequent classes provide the features for the following specific ones. The whole arrangement from the generic to the specific that underlies the Thesaurus can be understood in this way. However, what meets the eye is a loose tendency in this direction rather than a well-planned system, though more of a system would certainly be counterproductive to the practicality of the book. In the sample case river, it is clear that the implicit stemma covers a lot of ground which is normally not part of the meaning(s) of river and its synonyms, and also that many

39

See Ch. 3.5.2.

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other logical steps could be interpolated (e.g. concerning landscape, traffic, sports). Thus the derivation of river is both too long and too short. Roget was obviously torn between his belief in the general principles of logical (scientific) thinking and the practical demands on a collection of synonyms. Something similar happens to antonyms. In the strict sense, they share the same semantic features with their ‘positive’ counterparts, except that somewhere in the hierarchy one is marked ‘positive’ and the other ‘negative’. Assent and dissent (488, 489), for example, have the same meaning with reference to intellect (as different from volition), formation of ideas, reasoning processes, and results of reasoning, but at the final step the mental representation is different, namely either positive (for assent) or negative (for dissent). According to their headwords, a number of articles were conceived by Roget in this way. In feature theory, (450) ‘INTELLECT’ and (450a) ‘ABSENCE or want of intellect’, as well as (451) ‘THOUGHT’ and (452) ‘Absence or want of thought, INCOGITANCY’, would indeed start with ‘plus (⫹) existence’ and ‘minus (⫺) existence’, but apart from this essential aspect their stemmata would differ in nothing else. However, language obviously is not constructed this way. The reasons are that all lexemes are polysemous and that the antonymy relation of one lexeme to another represents only one of its potential meanings. Dissent is not just the antonym of assent, because it also means ‘protest’, ‘recusancy’, etc. This has the consequence that it is not just two lexemes which stand in the relation of antonymy to each other but various ones or even many. Without trying to sort this out in a formally correct way, Roget recognized this complex relation by juxtaposing single lexemes (the headwords) and also rows of synonyms. So in (457) ‘ATTENTION’ the headword not only stands in contrast to the antonym ‘inattention’ but also to ‘inconsideration’, ‘disregard’, ‘neglect’, etc., and each of these not only stands in contrast to ‘attention’ but also to ‘advertence’, ‘observance’, ‘heed’, etc. All of these antonyms have their differing features at different places in the hierarchy of those configurations which establish their meanings. Synonymy, the essential part of the microstructure of the Thesaurus, can, of course, also be rendered in feature-theory terms. Accordingly, the lexemes of the entry articles can be understood to have largely identical meanings, i.e. feature configurations, and to

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differ in only a few of them, perhaps only in one. The same is true of the pragmatic structures, i.e. the sequence of headwords (which is also the sequence of entry articles) and the sequence of paragraphs within one entry. Repetitive patterns are recognizable, for example the change from ‘process’ to ‘agent’ to ‘instrument’ or ‘institution’. Note, for example: precedence–precursor (62, 64); production, reproduction–producer, parentage (161–6); motion, journey–traveller (264–8); melody, music–musician–musical instruments, etc. This corresponds to the typology mentioned earlier. Whereas in the macrostructure and the microstructure the semantic features generally appear either in headings or in headwords, in pragmatic structures they are mostly operative without being mentioned. The user of the Thesaurus has to look for them. There are some cases, however, where Roget gives the first lexeme of a paragraph a headword-like function or where he introduces each paragraph with a specification of the feature which will govern the row of lexemes. Both techniques are evident in article (550) ‘INDICATION’: Indication [i.e. the semiotic relation, nine lexemes]. A sign [i.e. the realization of the semiotic relation, 18 lexemes]. Science of signs; Semiotics. Lineament [i.e. graphic signs other than letters, 24 lexemes]. [Signs] For identification [33 lexemes]. [Signs as ] Insignia [34 lexemes]. Indication of locality [25 lexemes]. Monitory indication [16 lexemes]. Indication of danger [nine lexemes]. Badge of authority; of triumph.

In spite of all this, Roget should not be called a structuralist avant la lettre. Rather, it makes sense to point out that the theory of semantic features, which is typical of structuralist semantics, deals in its own way with the common and therefore age-old experience of people who reflect on language. Roget’s Thesaurus is like a lens in which this experience is concentrated.

8.8

Frames, schemata, and scripts

The concepts of semantic fields and frames have much in common. They both indicate an organization of lexis on the basis of semantic

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cohesion which can be conducted on many different scales, from small to large to very large, measured by the number of lexemes involved. The main difference between the two is that fields are confined to one word class, whereas frames transcend these limits. Fields are still dependent on the categorial divisions of reality. They cover those relevant domains which can be indicated by an archelexeme, the linguistic equivalent of the logical generic term. Frames, however, depend more on the various aspects of human behaviour which are linguistically expressed by verbs. A semantic field could be culled from the term traffic (assembling lexemes for cars, drivers, passengers, policemen, etc.); a frame could be culled from the verb drive (assembling lexemes for the same meanings, but also for driving, riding, speeding, careful, careless, etc.). This comparison illustrates the parallels between the two concepts, and also the differences. Obviously, the two concepts do not exclude each other, because fields incorporate some cognitive order in their word lists and frames cannot avoid registering what is available in the (objective and subjective) world. In many respects, frames look like a bundle of semantic fields. A typical field in Roget’s Thesaurus is entry articles 428 to 440 on colours, because the interest in putting them together lies in showing which and how many lexemes are available for the expression of this domain of reality. A typical frame in the Thesaurus is entry articles 775 to 818 on possessive relations, i.e. property, because the various objects, persons, processes, activities, and mental concepts are listed which constitute this domain in society.40 The logical nature of Roget’s macrostructure provides headings which look very much like the archelexemes of (mainly nominal) fields, but the pragmatic structures of entry articles frequently give them the character of a frame. Articles 775 to 818 on possessive relations are divided into those that deal with the nature of property in general (775–81), with the transfer of property (783–93)—which evolves out of the nature of property—with the interchange of property (794–9)—which is a kind of specialization of the transfer—and with money (800–18), the instrument for all this. Differences between lending, taking, and stealing are, for example, the direct consequence of the nature of 40 The verb buy was actually the prime example with which Fillmore introduced his notion of ‘frame’ into linguistic discussion (Fillmore 1978, 1985).

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possession. Many of the terms and associated lexemes open up new vistas. (780) ‘PROPERTY’ leads to an enumeration of movable and immovable objects, (784) ‘GIVING’ leads to a list of all legal kinds of transfer and (789) ‘TAKING’ to a list of all legal kinds of deprivation, different from (791) ‘STEALING’ and (792) ‘THIEF’, which list illegal actions. They are followed by (797) ‘MERCHANT’, giving names for legal actions on the market. This frame constitutes a complex and heterogeneous world which is, nevertheless, a cognitive unit. Of course, many convictions peculiar to Roget’s era and culture enter into the constitution of a frame like this (see below). Another contrast between fields and frames is that the latter often have an inbuilt temporal dimension. The order of lexemes as a chain following the sequence of certain situations or actions (for example, in a restaurant, in the theatre, or in a bank) is usually called a script. In the strict sense, there are no such scripts in the Thesaurus. But the frames nevertheless often have a certain temporal order (see above), as in, for example, the articles on property, because people first acquire possessions before they trade with them. Another example is articles 963–73 on legal institutions. After initial abstract reflections, the reader is led to the institute, the personnel engaged (i.e. judge and lawyer), a lawsuit with acquittal or condemnation, and the final reward or punishment. Such examples may seem trivial, and yet what they show is not to be taken for granted, namely the way in which language is organized in our minds. This is also shown by a series of articles on heating, ‘CALEFACTION’ (382–9), and by a series of articles on ‘PREPARATION’ (673–9). Entry articles 888 to 905 from ‘FRIENDSHIP’ and ‘LOVE’ to ‘MATRIMONY’ and occasionally ‘DIVORCE’ follow natural chronological steps. Another type of frame is to be found with Roget’s lexemes in the strict ordering of terminologies. These lexemes are themselves the names of cognitive frames, and are called schemata. Whereas frames are structured by usage, i.e. by folkloric patterns, schemata are structured by the principles of scientific thinking. This is the case, for example, in the articles on numbers (84–105), on indication (550–9), and on language (560–99) as a natural means of indication. The first batch is naturally structured by the order of algebra, the second by that of linguistics, and the third by that of semiotics. The last is a remarkably early blueprint of what is considered to be a very recent discipline.

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The batch of entry articles on language deserves fairly extensive reproduction and comment:41 1. Language generally (560) LANGUAGE [⫽ total phenomenon] (561) LETTER [⫽ smallest unit] (562) WORD [⫽ next larger unit] A (563) NEOLOGY [⫽ special aspect of word] (564) NOMENCLATURE [⫽ words as a text format] A (565) MISNOMER [⫽ functional opposite of nomenclature] (566) PHRASE [⫽ next larger unit] (567) GRAMMAR [⫽ combination of words] A (568) SOLECISM [⫽ functional opposite of grammar] (569) STYLE [⫽ quality of words and grammar] [Heading] Various Qualities of Style (570) PERSPICUITY A (571) OBSCURITY (572) CONCISENESS A (573) DIFFUSENESS (574) VIGOUR A (575) FEEBLENESS (576) PLAINNESS A (577) ORNAMENT (578) ELEGANCE A (579) INELEGANCE [⫽ kinds of style with clear reference to rhetoric]. 2. Spoken Language (580) VOICE [i.e. sound ⫽ smallest unit] A (581) APHONY [⫽ opposite of voice] (582) Speech [⫽ combination of sounds] A (583) IMPERFECT SPEECH [⫽ functional opposite of speech] (584) LOQUACITY [⫽ style of speech] A (585) TACITURNITY [⫽ opposite of loquacity] (586) ALLOCUTION [⫽ basic act of speech] A (587) RESPONSE [⫽ complement to allocution] 41

‘A’ before number ⫽ antonym to foregoing article.

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(588) INTERLOCUTION [⫽ basic act of speech] A (589) SOLILOQUY [⫽ opposite of interlocution]. 3. Written Language (590) WRITING [⫽ technique] A (591) PRINT [⫽ another technique] (592) CORRESPONDENCE [⫽ written text format] A (593) BOOK [⫽ printed text format] (594) DESCRIPTION (595) DISSERTATION (596) COMPENDIUM (597) POETRY A (598) PROSE (599) THE DRAMA [⫽ formally defined text format]. This sequence of articles deserves closer comment than is possible here. But we can say the following by way of overview. There is a threefold division into language in general, spoken language, and written language. After the generic term itself, the units of language are presented in ascending order from the elementary42 to the complex. This is in accordance with traditional grammar, but also with the predilection of a scientist for calling the totality of words ‘nomenclature’ and its antonym ‘misnomer’. The subsequent articles on style are in the tradition of scientific writing as it had developed since the founding of the Royal Society in 1660, with its ideals of linguistic plainness and perspicuity. At the same time, Roget follows the Lockean principles of style, and, underlying these endeavours, the principles of rhetoric. Articles on spoken language start with its basis, voice, and then move on to monologous and dialogous oral texts. The same sequence is observed in the articles on written language. This is a comprehensive conspectus based mostly on tradition, but also on the interests of the author. It opens up many new areas. (580) ‘VOICE’, for example, leads to details of what today is called phonetics, and (590) ‘WRITING’ to shorthand, cryptography, manuscripts, writers, and writing instruments. Note

42 In accordance with the language theory and grammar of the time, letter is understood to be an abstract elementary unit of language which may be concretized either by writing or by speaking.

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also in this context the paragraphs of the entry article (599) ‘DRAMA’: The Drama, stage, theatre [etc. ⫽ general terms]. Play, stage-play, piece, tragedy, comedy [etc. ⫽ kinds of drama]. Puppet-show, Punch and Judy [etc. ⫽ kinds of informal drama]. Theatre, playhouse [etc. ⫽ place of drama-acting]. An actor, player, stager, performer, mime [etc. ⫽ persons acting in drama]. [6] Mummer, guise [etc. ⫽ persons acting in informal drama]. [7] Dramatic writer, playwriter [etc. ⫽ authors of drama].

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

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Bibliography Primary sources Dictionaries and books of synonyms treated in detail are given their full titles in the text. Together with other primary material, they are listed here in a shortened format which conforms to present-day rules of bibliographical references. Historical sources merely mentioned, but not analysed or used as arguments, are not listed as references, except where there are good reasons (e.g. because they are quoted). ANDREE [Andrée], R. JOHN (1725). A Vocabulary, In Six Languages; Viz. English, Latin, Italian, French, Spanish, and Portugues [!], After A New Method, [. . .]. London: P. Vaillant and W. Meadows. ANONYMOUS (ms. c.1400). Medulla grammatice. British Library Harlian Ms 2257, fo. 68r. ANONYMOUS (ms. c.1430). (H)Ortus vocabulorum. London: Winand de Worde, 1500. Repr. Menston: Scolar Press, 1968. ANONYMOUS (ms. c.1440). Promptorium parvulorum [. . .]. London: Richard Pynson n.d. Repr. ed. A. L. Mayhew, London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1908, Menston: Scolar Press, 1968. ANONYMOUS (1483). Catholicon anglicum [. . .]. Ed. S. J. H. Herrtage. London: Trübner, 1881. ARISTOTLE (1984). The Complete Works of Aristotle. Vol. 1. Princeton: Princeton University Press. BACHMEIER, ANTON (1870). Pasigraphical Dictionary and Grammar [. . .]. Augsburg: Volkhart. BACON, FRANCIS (1857–74). The Works of Francis Bacon. Vol. 3. Ed. J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis, and D. D. Heath. London: Longman. Repr. Stuttgart-Bad Canstatt: Fromman Günther Holzboog, 1963. BARCLAY, JAMES (1774). A Complete and Universal Dictionary [. . .]. London: Richardson and Urquart. BARET, JOHN (1573). An Alvearie or Triple Dictionarie, in Englysshe, Latin, and French [. . .]. London: Henry Denham. BENTHAM, JEREMY (1983). Chrestomathia. Ed. M. J. Smith and W. H. Burston, in The Collected Works of Jeremy Bentham. Ed. J. R. Dinwiddy. Oxford: Clarendon. BEOWULF (1950). Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg. 3rd edn. Ed. Fr. Klaeber, with introduction, bibliography, notes, glossary, and appendices. Lexington, Mass.: D. C. Heath. 1st publ. 1922. —— (1993). Beowulf: A New Translation (1999). Trans. S. Heaney. London: Faber and Faber. BLAIR, HUGH (1783). Lectures On Rhetoric And Belles Lettres. 3 Vols. Dublin: Whitestone, 1999. BLOUNT, THOMAS (1656). Glossographia [. . .]. London: Thomas Newcomb. Repr. Menston: Scolar Press, 1969. BOOTH, DAVID (1806). Introduction To An Analytical Dictionary Of The English Language. [. . .]. Edinburgh: Printed for the Author [. . .].

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Index The index lists all proper names (except those of fictional characters) and such terms as appear in at least two chapters of the book. Quotations, footnotes, and the bibliograpgy have not been included. Note that entries like field, name or idea only pertain to the scientific meanings of their lexemes.

Aarsleff, H. 115, 169, 170 Abel, C. 44 Abelson, R. C. 63 Ackerman, J. viii Addison, J. 174, 188, 256, 269 Adelung, J. C. 253 Aitchison, J. 60 Alembert, J. d(e) 11, 200, 293–4 Allibone, S. A. 11, 245 alphabet, alphabetical 120–1, 134, 139, 189, 191–2, 195, 237, 245–6, 249, 254, 261, 263, 268, 274, 276, 278, 280–4, 292, 294, 298, 302–3, 325, 332, 339, 351, 360 Alston, R. C. 128, 130, 148–9, 152, 155, 157, 159, 214, 223, 236, 238–9, 310 Andree, R. J. 299, 300 antonym, antonymous, antonymy 38, 46, 57, 68, 80, 136, 172, 186, 194, 233, 253, 278, 288, 320, 338–9, 344–8, 350, 352, 360–1, 366, 369, 370 Aristotle 80 Ascham, R. 128 Aulus Gellius 88–9, 93 awareness 29–31, 33, 35, 58, 82, 161, 236, 276, 345 Babbage, C. 15 Bacon, F. 154, 164, 169, 188, 232, 293, 295 Bailey, R. W. 128 Bald, W.-D. viii Baldwin, T. W. 106 Banning, A. 102 Barclay, J. 236–7 Baret, J. 148 Barrie, J. M. vii Barthez, P. J. 14 Bate, W. J. 171 Baugh, A. C. 124–30, 132, 151 Beauzée, N. 201, 204, 232 Becher, J. J. 311 Beddoes, T. 12 Béjoint, H. 120

Bekkum, W. van 79 Bentham, J. 12, 16, 296–7, 335 Berkeley, G. 162 Bichat, M.-F. X. 14 Bierbach, M. 76, 172 Blair, H. 231, 233–4, 239 Bloomfield, L. 50 Blount, T. 151, 153–5 Bolinger, D. 56, 58 Booth, D. 305–6 Bott, G. M. C. ix Bouhours, D. 208 Brandt, R. 162–3 Bréal, M. 28 Briggs, A. 20 Brunt, R. ix Bullokar, J. 128, 151 Bullokar, W. 147 Cable, T. 127–30, 132, 151 Calepinus, A. 121–2, 139–40 Carpenter, W. 263 Cartesian 163–4, 334 see also Descartes Cassirer, E. 50 Cato 92 Cawdrey, R. 149–51, 173 Caxton, W. 124 Chaloner, Sir T. 128 Chambers, E. 293–5 Chesterfield, Lord P. D. 171, 174 Chevalier, J. C. 76 Chomsky, N. 60 Cicero 82–5, 92, 105, 231 Cingularius, H. 122 Claes, F. 122–3 classification 60, 265–6, 280–1, 291, 295–6, 298, 307, 314, 326, 332, 334, 346, 350–1, 368–9 Clercq, J. de 200 Cockeram, H. 152, 157–8 Codoñer, C. 94, 96, 205

406

Index

cognitive 47, 60–2, 64, 71, 79, 165, 166, 170, 209, 260, 281–2, 327, 348, 350, 372 see also dictionary Coleridge, S. T. 16 Coles, E. 157–60 Colet, J. 104–5 Comenius, J. A. 12, 305 Condillac, E. B. 200, 232 contrast 43, 205, 218, 222, 231, 246, 255, 368 conversation 201, 217, 224, 226, 279 Cooper, T. 139–40 Coote, E. 148–50, 158 Coseriu, E. 41, 47–8, 52, 63 Coshá, A. 313 Cotgrave, R. 154 Crabb, G. 20, 212, 253–5, 257, 259, 262–4, 276 Cram, D. viii, 311 Crowley, T. 115 Cruse, D. A. 48 Cuvier, G. de 14–15, 17–18 Dalgarno, G. 311–12 Damm, J. 310–12, 321 Darmesteter, A. 28 Darwin, C. 16–17, 334 David, R. 114 Davy, H. 16 Dawson, B. 240–2, 244 definition (of meaning, word) 32, 68, 84, 89, 94–6, 168, 178–81, 183, 185–6, 190–1, 196, 204–5, 218, 220, 227, 237, 242, 245, 247, 259, 268, 281–2, 329 Defoe, D. 174 DeMaria, R. 188 Democritus 79, 81 Descartes, R. 311 Devis, E. 238–9 dictionary 3–4, 6, 19, 38, 50, 68, 71, 119–26, 134, 136, 139–43, 146, 151, 156, 160, 169, 174, 188, 191, 196 206, 208, 236, 241, 245–6, 255, 258, 273, 276, 278–83, 288, 291–3, 298–300, 303, 305–9, 324–5, 331, 343 analytical 7, 291, 306 bilingual 123, 133, 142, 147 explaining 31, 191 hard-word 6, 123, 133, 147–8, 151, 157–8, 160 interpretative 32, 119–23, 147, 151–2, 157, 177, 180, 187 monolingual 123, 151–2, 158 onomasiological see onomasiology

topical 3, 120, 161, 324–5; see also topical of synonyms, synonym dictionary 3–7, 20, 74, 116, 122–3, 172, 199, 206, 208, 212, 236, 238, 240, 242, 245, 253–4, 263, 269, 276, 283–4, 307, 350, 359–60 Diderot, D. 11, 200, 293–4 differentiae 93–4, 96, 203 domain 3, 34, 39–40, 43, 66, 73, 98, 102, 121, 126, 138–9, 146, 152–8, 190, 205, 217–18, 280–2, 316, 324, 332, 350, 353, 355, 360, 366, 372 Dryden, J. 174, 188, 256 Eberhard, J. A. 229 Elyot, Sir T. 139–42 Emblen, D. L. 11–14, 17, 19 encyclopaedia, encyclopaedic 14, 96, 120, 136, 140, 152, 157–8, 170, 175, 186, 189, 207, 240, 257, 280–1, 284, 291–3, 298–9, 316, 355 entry viii, 21, 122, 138–9, 141–2, 171, 191, 236, 245, 250–1, 254, 261–2, 270–1, 273–4, 279, 282, 289–90, 314, 320, 325–6, 331–3, 336, 339–40, 346, 349–55, 358, 360–6, 369–71, 376 Epicurus 83 Erasmus, D. of Rotterdam 106–8, 139–40, 145 Erdmann, K. O. 28 Evelyn, J. 174 exchangeable, exchangeability 36–7, 179–80, 192–3, 245 extension, extensional (vs intensional) 48, 165 feature see semantic Fenby, T. 270 field see semantic Fielding, J. 239 Fillmore, C. J. 60, 63 Finkenstaedt, T. 125 Flasdiek, H. M. 174 Flood, J. L. viii Florio, J. 113, 125, 154 Fodor, J. A. 34, 53–4 Fögen, T. viii, 83, 85, 122 Fowler, H. W. 206 frame 7, 63, 346, 350, 360, 362, 372–3 see also cognitive Frank, T. 232 Franklin, B. 11 Frege, W. 48 Fuseli, J. H. 12

Index Galen 80 Galfridus Grammaticus 134 Garland (Garlandia), John of 75–6, 96, 134, 138–9 Garret, M. 164 Gauger, H. M. 200–1, 203, 205–6 Geckeler, H. 41, 43, 47–8, 52 George III, King 12 Gibson, B. 17 Girard, Abbé G. 6, 76, 199, 201–8, 210, 213–14, 217–18, 223–4, 228–9, 232–6, 246, 249, 265, 269, 326 Göbels, A. 172 Görlach 124, 126, 128 Graham, G. F. 264–6 Green, J. 147–8, 150–1, 170, 174, 245 Greenwood, J. 12, 305 Greimas, A. J. 52 Grice, D. P. 169 Grove, V. 133, 258 Grundy, L. 103–4 Guazzo, S. 129 Hahn, M. 211 Halle, M. 51 hard words 148, 151, 153–6, 158–9, 173, 237, 253, 257 see also dictionary, hard-word Harris, J. 115, 232, 300 Harris, L. L. 110 Harris, R. 64–6, 162 Haßler, G. 200–1, 205 Hayashi, T. 151 headword viii, 119, 122, 135–8, 140, 143, 190–1, 195, 248, 254, 256, 273–4, 337–40, 342, 344–8, 350, 352–3, 355, 358, 360–1, 365–7, 370–1 Hennigfeld, J. 82 Herbermann, C.-P. 43, 45 Herder, J. G. 115–16 Hesiod 78 Higgins, J. 139 Higginson, E. 116 Hilles, F. W. 170 Hippias 80 historiographer 4, 9, 10, 40, 170, 249 historiographical, historiography ix, 3–4, 6–7, 9–10, 69, 74–6, 178, 188, 206, 311 Hjelmslev, L. 51–2, 55, 58 Hobbes, T. 162 Hobson, M. 15 Hogarth, W. 214

407 Holbrook, D. viii Homer 79, 92 homonymous, homonymy 5, 32–3, 35–7, 40, 58, 62, 64–6, 79, 81, 109, 184, 278 Hooker, R. 188 Howell, W. S. 182–3 Hugutio of Pisa 138 Hüllen, W. viii, 3, 4, 7, 12, 68, 74, 93, 116, 120, 122–3, 125, 132–3, 162–3, 169–70, 172–3, 176, 181, 202, 232, 303, 305, 311, 313, 324, 325, 329, 337 Huloet, R. 139–40, 142–3, 148 Humboldt, W. von 41, 44, 47, 115, 280 Hume, G. 162 Hupka, W. 162 Husserl, E. 48 Hutchinson, J. 17 Huxley, T. H. 16, 17 hyponym, hyponymous 46, 49, 57, 61, 68 idea (Lockean) 163–70, 177–8, 180, 182–3, 292, 306, 329, 332–3, 369 idiom, idiomatic 215, 222, 225, 247, 338, 354 intensional (vs extensional) 48, 165, 217 Ipsen, I. 41, 44 Isermann, M. M. 162, 311 Isidore of Seville 93–6, 140, 203, 205 Isocrates 80 Jackendoff, R. 164–5 Jakobson, R. 50, 51 James I, King 231 Johannes Balbus 134, 138 Johnson, M. 61, 350 Johnson, Dr S. 7, 12, 162, 170–5, 179–80, 182, 185–8, 190, 192, 194, 196, 215, 222–3, 228, 231, 236–7, 244–5, 249–53, 256, 269, 276 Jones, K. S. 67–9 Jones, R. F. 126, 128–30, 147, 173 Katz, J. J. 34, 53–4 Kay, C. 103–4 Kersey, J. (⫽ J. K.) 155, 159–60 Klaeber, Fr. 97–8 Kolb, G. E. 170 Kristeller, P. O. 105, 109 Labov, W. 60 Laches 77 Lafaye, B. 20 Lakoff, G. 61, 350 Lamarck, J.-B. 16

408

Index

Landau, S. J. 174 Lansdowne, Lord W. 12 Lausberg, H. 203 Lehrer, A. 41 Leibniz, G. W. 311 Leisi, E. 125 L’Estrange, R. 239 Levins, P. 148 lexical 27, 63, 70, 132, 173, 249, 298, 314 lexicographer 17, 50, 56, 156, 160, 162, 171, 174, 179, 184–5, 187, 255, 258, 263, 283, 286, 336 lexicographic(al), lexicography viii, 1–2, 5–7, 21, 26, 28, 32, 50, 69, 119–24, 133, 145, 147, 150–1, 161–2, 170, 172–3, 175, 185, 188, 190–1, 217, 237, 240–2, 245, 257, 275–8, 281, 284, 291–2, 298, 303, 316, 324, 337–8 mental 170, 292, 327 practical 121, 162 Lindemann, M. 123 Lipka, L. 48–9, 60 Locke, J., Lockean viii, 6, 7, 161–5, 167–70, 175, 177–8, 181–3, 186, 188, 193–4, 196–7, 269, 280, 285, 292, 295, 300, 306, 329, 330, 334, 369, 375 Longman (publisher) ix, 20, 23, 25 Lowth, E. 244 Lubbock, J. W. 296 Lucius Papirius Paetus 85 Lullus, R. 51 Luther, M. 105 Lutzeier, P. R. 41, 49 Lyly, J. 110 Lyons, Sir J. 41–3, 46, 48, 52, 56–7 Maat, J. 311 Mackenzie, D. L. 271 McAdam, E. L. 171 McCawley, J. D. 54 McLaverty, J. 182, 185, 196 macrostructure viii, 7, 271–3, 279–83, 285–7, 289, 301–2, 324–6, 330–1, 333–5, 339, 346–7, 351–2, 354–6, 360, 362, 365, 369, 371–2 Maimieux, J. de 7, 27, 284, 310, 312, 314, 317–18, 320, 331 Mayer, H. 78, 80 Mehler, J. 164 Meigret, L. 202 Melanchthon, P. 106 microstructure viii, 7, 135, 138, 140, 153, 191–3, 246, 258, 264, 271, 275, 282–3,

303, 309, 324–6, 330–1, 337–8, 343, 346, 363, 370–1 Milne, G. 171 Milton, J. 188, 256, 269 Minsheu, J. 154 Monboddo, Lord J. B. 232 More, T. 104 Mulcaster, R. 128, 147 Nagashima, D. 177 name, naming 162, 167–8, 181, 241, 280, 286, 289, 291, 329 Napier, M. 294 Napoleon, Emperor 13 Nevalainen, T. 126–7 Newtonian 334 Nida, E. 52 Nikias 77 Noyes, G. E. 151, 159–60, 170, 174 Ober, W. B. 26 Öhmann, S. 45 onomasiological, onomasiology (vs semasiological) viii, 3, 4, 28, 68, 120, 161–2, 167, 213, 277–8, 280–6, 291–2, 295–6, 298, 313, 321, 324–5, 327–8, 336 Osselton 124, 159 Panizzi, A. 14 paraphrase 32, 87, 259, 282 Pasteur, L. 14 Pelegromius, S. 123, 142–4 Perry, W. 6, 244–5, 249, 251–2, 276 Pettie, G. 129 Petrus Mosellanus 105 Philips, A. 174 Philips, B. 13 Philips, J. 12 Philips, N. 13 Phillips, E. (⫽ E. P.) 151, 155–8, 160 Piozzi, H. L. 214, 223–9, 231, 237, 246, 249, 257, 268 Plato 77–82, 90 Platts, J. 260, 262–3 Plutarch 77 Polifke, M. 128, 148 polysemous, polysemy 5, 32–3, 35–8, 40, 58, 62, 64–5, 81, 103, 109, 218, 341, 370 Pope, A. 188, 227, 256 Porphyrian 286, 296 Porzig, W. 48, 63 Potter, S. 116 Pottier, B. 52–3

Index pragmatic structures viii, 7, 283, 324, 326, 330, 332, 342, 346–7, 350–1, 359, 365, 371–2 Priscian 93 Prodikos of Keos 77–82 Protagoras 81 prototype, prototypical 4–5, 7, 59–63, 69, 121, 123, 147, 186, 197, 348 Püschel, U. 2 Puttenham, G. 128, 130–2 Quintilian 82, 86–7, 105, 229 Ramus, P. 287 Rastell, P. 115 reciprocal, reciprocity 6, 179, 192, 196, 245, 340 Reddick, A. 170, 174 Reisig, K. C. 6, 28, 326 representation 164, 166–7, 180, 291, 333, 368 rhetoric, rhetorical 86–8, 105, 108, 111, 113, 122, 130, 132, 175, 201, 203, 227, 232, 276, 375 Rider, J. 154 Rijlaarsdam, J. C. 78, 80 Rivarol, A. 200, 208 Rix, H. D. 105 Roberts, J. 103–4 Rochefoucauld, F. de la 207 Roget, J. L. 15, 22, 24 Roget, K. 15 Roget, P. M. 1–7, 9, 10–21, 24–8, 40, 50, 67–8, 74, 76, 103, 116, 152, 209, 212–13, 236, 242, 249–50, 268, 271–3, 276–7, 283–5, 288, 294, 296, 298–9, 310, 313, 321, 323–4, 326–8, 330, 332, 336–51, 356–8, 360–3, 369–73, 375 Romilly, C. 11 Romilly, Sir S. 11, 14 Romulus 79 Rosch, E. 60 Roscommon, D. W., Earl of 174 Roubaud, P. J. A. 200, 206 Saussure, F. de 6, 28, 44, 50, 60, 69–71, 167, 205, 326 Schäfer, J. 122 Schank, R. C. 63 Scheler, M. 126, 132 Schemann, K. 98 Schmidt, H. J. 60–1, 63 Schmitter, P. 6, 78 Schmitz, B. 209, 212–13 Schöpper, J. 123 Schreyer, R. 171, 180, 188

409 Schulze, R. 61 Scott, M. W. 110 Sears, B. 24 semantic, semantical 3, 7, 10, 27, 29–30, 34–40, 43, 45, 49, 51, 54–5, 58–9, 61, 64, 66–7, 69, 71, 73–4, 76, 78–82, 84, 93, 98, 101, 109, 113, 116, 120, 138, 146, 154, 161, 164, 166, 176, 182, 186, 195–6, 201, 203, 205, 207–8, 218–19, 249, 260, 266, 273, 276, 278–9, 283–4, 289, 296, 298, 301–2, 308, 314–18, 320, 325–8, 333, 337, 339–41, 344, 358–60, 363, 366–7 feature 5, 7, 52–3, 55–6, 58–9, 61–2, 71, 165, 172, 218, 258, 363–4, 368–71 field 4–5, 7, 39–40, 42–3, 45–50, 55–6, 59, 62–3, 68–9, 71, 78, 82, 91, 146, 194, 197, 202, 206, 221, 332, 342, 346, 355–7, 359, 372–3 gap 45, 46, 76, 131 model 5, 40, 59, 71 semantics 4, 6–7, 19, 41, 47, 52, 54, 56, 59–65, 69, 71, 146, 161–3, 165–7, 170, 176, 208–9, 217, 232, 249, 326, 337, 369, 371 semasiological, semasiology (vs onomasiological) 278, 283–4, 291–2, 327 Serranus, J. 144–5 Shaftesbury, Lord A. A. C. 233 Shakespeare, W. 106, 109–11, 113–14, 269 Sheridan, T. 245 Sidney, Sir P. 110, 173 sign 32–3, 35–7, 70–1, 161, 164, 169, 177, 278–80, 292, 312, 316–17, 334 Simonides 81 Sledd, J. H. 170 Sluiter, I. 79 Smith, C. J. 273 Socrates 77–8, 81 Somners, Lord 231 Sprat, T. 174 Starnes, De W. T. 133, 135–6, 139–40, 143, 151, 159, 160, 170, 174 Stein, G. 133, 142–3, 146 Steinthal, H. 78 Stephanus, R. (Estienne) 139–40 Stosch, S. J. E. 229 style, stylistic 83, 85–6, 89, 93, 97, 100, 105, 107–8, 110, 112, 116, 132–3, 159, 163, 169, 188, 201–2, 204–5, 208, 218–19, 222, 225–8, 232–3, 235, 249, 255, 266, 275, 282, 294, 309, 325–6, 368, 375 Subbiondo, J. L. 311 substitution 67, 221 Susenbrotus, J. 105

410

Index

Swanton, M. 120 Swift, J. 188, 227, 233 Swiggers, P. 200 synonym, synonymous, synonymy 3, 4, 28, 36–8, 40, 42–4, 47, 50, 58, 62, 64–71, 73–94, 96–8, 100–4, 106–9, 111–12, 114, 116–17, 119–20, 122, 126, 132–40, 142–4, 146, 148, 150–3, 156, 159, 161–3, 170, 172, 175–9, 184–7, 190–5, 203–10, 212–15, 217–18, 220–9, 231–3, 236–42, 244, 246–9, 251, 253–8, 261–2, 264, 268–74, 276–7, 283, 289, 307, 318, 320, 324–6, 328, 330, 335, 337–44, 350, 352–3, 355–61, 363, 365, 369–70 (ac)cumulative 74, 138 236, 263, 273–4, 276, 283, 355, 359 differentiating 74, 355, 359 discriminating 276 explaining 283 identical (perfect) 203, 235 practical 6, 119 radical 248, 251, 253 synonym dictionary, see dictionary of synonyms Taylor, T. J. 164 Taylor, W. 208–9, 214, 228–9, 231, 235, 249, 254, 268 terminology 48, 114, 201, 357, 373 thesaurus vii, 2, 7, 67–9, 104, 171, 284, 298–9, 313, 320 (Roget’s) Thesaurus vii, viii, ix, 1–7, 11, 15–16, 18, 20, 21, 24–6, 28, 40, 50, 67–8, 74, 76, 103, 248, 271, 273, 277, 283, 285, 323, 330, 340–53, 357–8, 360, 362–3, 365–72 Thomas, D. vii Thrale, H. 223 Thucydides 80 Tillotson, J. 233 token (vs type) 32, 166, 218, 223 topical 5, 7, 217, 278, 280–2, 284, 288, 298–9, 302–3, 339, 357 Trench, R. C. 115–17, 330 Trier, J. 40–4, 47

Trubetzkoy, N. S. 50–1, 56 Trusler, J. 200, 214–15, 217–27, 229, 231, 234, 237, 246, 249, 254, 257, 268 Ullmann, S. 41 Ungerer, F. 60, 61, 63 universal language 7, 181, 298–300, 311–12, 328 utilitarian 26, 334, 349 valeur 6, 44, 205, 326 value 28, 70 Varro 88, 93 Vater, J. S. 312 Virgil 90 Voltaire, H. 200, 207–8, 239 Walker, E. C. T. 164 Walker, J. 245 Wandruszka, M. 207 Waswo, R. 162 Watt, J. 12, 16 Watts, I. 182–6 Weinreich, U. 52 Weisgerber, L. 43–5, 47 Whateley, E. J. 268, 276, 330 Whateley, R. 268, 330 Whewell, W. 16 Whorf, B. L. 168, 280 Wiegand, H. E. 2 Wilkins, J. 20, 103, 172, 242, 284–6, 288–91, 298–9, 311–14, 317, 327–8, 336–7, 360 Wilkins’s ‘Tables’ 7, 181, 284–7, 290–1, 296, 335, 360 Wilson, F. P. 110 Wilson, J. 150 Wilson, T. 128–9 Wittgenstein, L. 67 Wolf, D. 125 Woolhouse, R. S. 163 Wotton, Sir H. 154 Wynkyn de Worde 135