Puslapio vaizdai

able to think or reason without the aid of language are under an illusion. Yet his contention, as interpreted by himself, is at any rate far nearer the truth than it appears at first sight. I myself hold to the old view that the indispensable instruments of reasoning are not words but signs; and that any perceptual object which can be reproduced with sufficient distinctness is capable of becoming the sign of a concept. But those signs by means of which we communicate with our fellows have obvious advantages, as instruments of thinking, over signs of other kinds; and it is probable that as human language has developed its share in the process of thinking has progressively increased. It is not to me an incredible supposition that in man as he now exists the simplest act of thought is in reality enormously complex, and that, whatever else it may contain, it always involves some elements derived from speech: not necessarily words (though we do sometimes really think in words), but at least some faint and fleeting images, auditory or articulatory images suggested by recollections of verbal expression. If I have rightly understood Dr. Sapir, the position for which he contends is not very far removed from this.

If Dr. Sapir has devoted a smaller proportion of his space to phonetics than writers on language usually do, the reason is that he has a clearer apprehension of the truth that the production and combination of sounds is not speech at all. Language is the expression of meaning through the medium of sounds; and though a knowledge of phonetics is highly important for the study of individual languages and of their historical relations, for the general science of language it has a quite secondary value. The author rightly insists that the ultimate elements of language are not individual sounds, but words. While admitting that in particular instances it may be impossible to say whether a significant succession of sounds should be called a word, a phrase, or a sentence, and abstaining from the vain attempt to provide a concise definition of what constitutes a word, he decidedly rejects the view maintained by some eminent philologists of the last century, that the 'word', as distinguished from the sentence, has no existence except as a product of grammatical analysis. This fallacy,

indeed, now finds few if any supporters. The phenomena of Verner's Law in Germanic, and those of the treatment of final syllables in Germanic, Celtic, and other languages, show clearly that (whatever we may conjecture about primitive conditions) the individual word really existed in the consciousness of uninstructed speakers in certain extensive areas and historical periods. In the inscription of the Moabite Stone, also, the words are separated by points. Dr. Sapir does not touch on arguments of this kind, but he adduces an interesting piece of evidence from his own experience. He has twice taught American Indians a phonetic alphabet of his own devising, merely instructing them how to render the individual sounds. His pupils applied this alphabet to the writing of their own language. 'Both had some difficulty in learning to break up a word into its constitutional sounds, but none whatever in determining the words. . . In the hundreds of pages of manuscript Nootka text that I have obtained from one of these young Indians the words, whether abstract relational entities like English that and but, or complex sentencewords' (such as are common in the American languages) 'are, practically without exception, isolated precisely as I or any other student would have isolated them.' This testimony is

all the more valuable because the peculiar structure of the American Indian languages might suggest that in them the breaking-up of the sentence into words would naturally be more than ordinarily difficult.

In the portions of the work that treat of the relations of language to race and culture there are several statements that appear to me wholly fallacious. I will quote only one example. 'It is impossible to show that the form of a language has the slightest connection with national temperament. Its line of variation, its drift, runs inexorably in the channel ordained for it by its historic antecedents; it is as regardless of the feelings and sentiments of its speakers as is the course of a river of the atmospheric humours of the landscape.' This piece of philological mysticism, which treats a language as having an existence of its own independent of human minds, seems strangely alien from the spirit of the author's utterances in other places. To talk of a language as having a

'tendency' to change in a certain direction (as if it were a physical mass with an acquired momentum) is mere mythologizing; what is really meant is that the people who speak the language have a tendency to change it in that direction. The future development of a language, as of a religion or an art, is not predetermined by its 'historic antecedents'; the past history of a community may create a tendency towards a particular mode of action or a particular direction of change, but whether the tendency will persist or die out depends on conditions that are not implicitly contained in the past. Dr. Sapir's comparison of language to a river admits of two interpretations, and on neither of them does it support his argument. The age-long channel of a river has often been diverted by natural agencies. And the lower half of a river does not necessarily flow in the same direction as its upper half. It has been a common mistake to overrate the significance of language for national psychology; but Dr. Sapir is no nearer the truth when he runs into the opposite extreme.1

The later chapters appear to me to have been less carefully thought out than those near the beginning. They contain a good deal that is sound and well expressed, but also much that is doubtful; and they sometimes show a tendency (perhaps due to the desire for brevity) to substitute dogmatic assertion for argument. However, if the work does not everywhere maintain the same high level of excellence, it well deserves the attention of all students of linguistics.

As the book is sure to be reprinted, it may be useful to point out that the Latin for 'the man sees the woman' is not homo videt feminam. Also, Der Bauer tötet das Entelein is not normal German for 'the farmer kills the duckling', though this diminutive may be current in some dialects.


1I do not know whether anything turns on the author's use of the terms 'temperament', 'feeling', and 'sentiment', which might admit of being defined in a way that would convert the paradox into a truism.


HERE are many interesting legends about the original division of the Earth among the sons of men. Yet, in the pages of history such divisions are rare. In Europe diplomatic claim and counter-claim rise from a confusion of conquest and restoration, and race is inextricably mingled with race. Only in a new country is clear cut partition possible.

In the midsummer of 1784 such a division was made at Cataraqui, when the townships, situated upon the northeastern shore of Lake Ontario and the lower end of the Bay of Quinte, were chosen as sites for settlement by the leaders of the Loyalist bands. An account of the allotment is given by a son of Capt. Michael Grass, who relates how his father received the first choice (Kingston), Sir John Johnson the second (Ernesttown), Major Rogers the third (Fredericksburgh), and Capt. Van Alstine the fourth (Adolphustown), while the remaining township (Marysburgh) fell to Capt. McDonnell. According to this choice the area with which we propose to deal was settled. What were the origins of these pioneers? Without going into that tale of Whig and Tory contention in the colonies which had its roots deep in English history, let us briefly consider the situation which preceded the exodus of the Loyalists. The causes, though based upon

As it is possible to find numerous authorities either for the use or the omission of the final 'h' in such names as Mechlenburgh, Fredericksburgh, etc., I have followed the custom of most modern writers who have included the letter. An exception, however, is made of Pittsburg, and quotations are given according to the source. The term Cataraqui has been used when referring to the period before that name was changed to Kingston.-R. W. C.

1The Loyalists of America and their Times. By Egerton Ryerson, D.D., LL.D., in two volumes. Toronto: William Briggs, 80 King St. East, 1880, vol. II, ch. xli, p. 208.

conflicting theories of government, were frequently complicated by local issues which differed in each county.

New York supplied most of the Loyalists who came to Upper Canada. In this colony party warfare had been both long and bitter. Church and State had stood together as in the England of Charles I, and many of the Dutch, naturally conservative, were also supporters of the established order. On the other hand, the Presbyterian and Independent elements had no illusions about the divine right of kings. Social position was also a dividing factor, though when the Revolution came many of the landed gentry (and even members of the same family) were found on either side. Many of the poor were discontented; yet not a few placed loyalty to the King higher than democratic ambition.

In the earlier phases of the struggle both Whig and Tory were united against the British Government's assertion of the right to tax the colonies. The more moderate, however, were not in favour of armed opposition and, when the crisis came, prepared to fight with, rather than against, the British. Yet it must be remembered that their sentiment was, in most cases, colonial and that they considered themselves to be the true American patriots.

The war was waged in almost every part of the country and was carried on in a manner calculated to cause the greatest possible distress to the Loyalists. Many fled or were expelled during the struggle; many departed with the British at its close. Those who were wealthy went, as a rule, to England; though some, like Sir John Johnson, chose to remain in the British colonies. The vast majority of those who came to Upper Canada were the tradesmen and farmers who had made up the rank and file of New York's 23,500 Loyalist soldiers. Many of them would rather have pursued their vocations undisturbed but, in a conflict like the American Revolution, it was almost impossible to avoid taking one side or the other; and the victors showed little disposition to forgive those who had borne arms against them.

The passion of that time is, perhaps, not difficult for us to understand, whether it expressed itself in the wanton indignities of the mobs or the legal penalties imposed by various

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