You only have to look at the beginning of the Oration ᾿Επιτάφιος [Funeral Speech] attributed to Demosthenes,1 where he discourses on the nobility of the Athenian people, to grasp how entrenched the dogma of the inequality of nations was among the Ancients, and how they would avail themselves of fables, traditions, etc., in order to convince themselves that it was not arbitrary but reasonable and well-founded to hold one’s own nation to be different from others in nature and kind, and hence in rights, etc. etc. An eminently useful and necessary conviction, as I have demonstrated elsewhere [→Z 923–25]. (12 May 1821.)
A language is not fully formed nor is it ever fixed save by being applied to literature. This is clear from the example of them all. No language that has not been applied to literature has ever been either fully formed or fixed, [1038] still less perfected. How, then, could Italian have attained perfection in the 14th century? It is one thing to write a language (as ancient Teutonic, which was never well formed or perfect, was written) but quite another to apply it to literature. Italian was only used for literature in the 16th century. In the 14th century, it was really and truly used by only three writers (setting to one side the barbarous translations of that century), and everyone can see whether that can be called a perfect application to literature. If writing a language was the same as applying it to literature, Latin’s era of perfection would have to be placed not in the age of Cicero, etc., but at the time of the first Latin scribblers, or with far more justification that of Ennius, etc., and of the writers before Lucretius, Catullus, and Cicero (contemporaries), since then Latin was generally used in much more literary works than in the whole of the 14th century. And the same goes for other languages, whether living or dead. (12 May 1821.) See p. 1056.
In the early middle ages, the Germans and the English—that is to say, the cultured part of those nations, who wrote in Latin and used it for their correspondence, letters, etc., and spoke the national languages—were genuinely δίγλωττοι [bilingual]. And so too were the Italians, the French, the Spanish, who already spoke a vernacular very different from written Latin. But this:
(1) is a διγλωττία [bilingualism] that, because it belongs to the written rather than the spoken language, forms no part of my argument. And the [1039] universality of Latin, which was universal then in the West, because it belonged to writing alone, has nothing to do with what makes men speakers of two languages, that is, genuinely δίγλωττοι [bilingual], the only topic I am discussing here.
(2) The Latin language was then truly dead, more or less as it is today, not being spoken but merely written. And a language that is merely written is a dead language. Now, however much the use of such a dead language was more common then than it is today, and as it was after the rebirth of letters, the universality of dead languages that were and still are studied, whether for literary purposes or because old customs demand it, does not enter into my argument, which is solely concerned with the universality of living languages. So also today one could describe the Greek language as more or less universal in Europe, and in the educated countries, but as a dead language. (12 May 1821.)
For p. 1031, beginning. Like French literature, so too the French language is exactly modern, both because of the paramount influence in the language of the literature that shapes it (and in our case has done so very much to shape and define it, changing it greatly from what it was at the start, and from its own original nature), and because of the immediate influence on the French language of the same causes that influenced French literature and shaped it. [1040] Now, just as the French language is strictly modern, and hence strictly characteristic of contemporary universality, because it is modeled on reason, and these days almost on mathematics (following the true tendency of the century), so too the Greek language was characteristic of the universality of its own times—especially among the Eastern and Western peoples of the south, who are and always were more imaginative—because it was strictly ancient, and this because it was strictly modeled (when perfect) on nature. By contrast with Latin, which was modeled on art instead. And it is fair to say that the perfection of the Greek language was in accordance with and had its foundation in nature, not being therefore less perfect nor rendered artificial, and the perfection of Latin was in accordance with and had its model, its type, its foundation, its norm in art. (12 May 1821.)
For p. 1016. At any rate Greek words that might be found in familiar and popular use, in Italian or French (especially if they are not found in Latin writers) are bound to derive from ancient Vulgar Latin, no matter where it received them from, whether directly from Greece, and in ancient times, by whatever means, or from an origin shared with that of the Greek language, or indeed from Greek colonies in Italy or Gaul, or from any [1041] communication that was had with the Greek language. How, in fact, could these words have reached us, without passing through Vulgar Latin, when the Greek language died out at a fairly early date in Gaul, and also in Italy (though perhaps later, e.g., in Sicily, than in Gaul), and conversely, when Vulgar Latin established itself in these places it has endured, with a greater or lesser degree of alteration, from its foundation to the present day? No matter how it may have occurred, then, Greek words that are in common use (I am not referring to scientific words, or those peculiar to writers) in Italian or French today (and likewise in Spanish), those that particularly belong to these languages and can be considered as originally belonging to them, must necessarily have existed in ancient Vulgar Latin, which sits midway between the use of Greek in some regions of Italy or France and the use of Italian or French, in such a way that these words must necessarily have passed through this channel and therefore belong to ancient Vulgar Latin. Nor, after the major and principal alteration of Vulgar Latin and the birth of modern vernaculars that derive from it, did Italy or France have sufficient communication with the Greek language (and especially with the ancient, or even very ancient language, to which a number of these words or expressions belong) [1042] to introduce Greek words and expressions into our everyday and routine use, often relating to basic needs or used very frequently, a feature commonly observed by the philosophical etymologists and accorded great weight by them.
My argument, therefore, remains unshaken, as does my proposition that Italian, French, or Spanish words derived from Greek that belong in common use and the ancient, original, proper patrimony of these languages, and which are not found in Latin writers, must necessarily have existed in and come to us from ancient Vulgar Latin, given that these languages derived from Latin, specifically from Vulgar Latin, and that it is not possible for them to have taken any vulgar word or expression or one that is original to them immediately from the Greek language.
This argument, if it concerns Italian words or expressions, is wholly convincing and demonstrates that these words or expressions existed in our own ancient Vulgar Latin, that is, in the language that was spoken in Italy in former times. Where French words are concerned, one can only demonstrate it with regard to the ancient Vulgar Latin that was spoken in Gaul, which could differ somewhat (and did indeed differ, being a dialect) from the one spoken in Rome or Italy. Which is as much as to say that in that vernacular there could be some Greek word or expression, derived from the Greco-Gallic colonies, which was not [1043] found in the Vulgar Latin of Rome or Italy. Especially if the words in question are found today only in the French language and are lacking in Italian. And likewise the other way around, if some Greek word passed over into Italian from the Greco-Italian Colonies, or from other communications with Greek travelers, etc. etc., after the introduction of Vulgar Latin into Gaul. (13 May 1821.) For it is not surprising if other Greek words that had already been introduced into Latin before that time, even if they came from Greek colonies in Italy, also crossed with Latin into France and elsewhere.1
England, despite its climate, its geographical position, and, I believe, despite the origin of its inhabitants also, today belongs more to the southern system than to the northern. It has all tha
t is good from the northern system (activity, courage, profundity of thought and of the imagination, independence, etc. etc.), but nothing that is bad. And likewise from the southern system it has the liveliness, polish, subtlety (once attributed to the Greeks: see Montesquieu, Grandeur, etc., ch. 22, p. 264),2 refinement of civilization and character (nothing similar can be found except in France or Italy), and also sufficient agreeableness and fecundity of imagination and similar good qualities, without having its torpor, inclination to idleness or to inert voluptuousness, softness, effeminacy, weak, sybaritic, cowardly French corruption, its peace-loving disposition, etc. etc. You merely have to compare an English soldier to a German or Russian, etc., soldier to understand the huge difference there is between the English and the northern character. And just as Italy has no army, and Spain no longer knows how to run one, etc., there is no army in Europe more closely resembling the French than the English, more competent, along with the French, because of the soldier’s ardor and individual life, moral strength, [1044] receptiveness, etc., as against mere brute strength, such as that of the Germans, Russians, etc. See p. 1046.
All that may perhaps derive from other causes, but perhaps also from their government and political constitution, which has always been more similar to ancient governments and constitutions than any other in Europe, up until the present day, when it has been more or less adopted by the French, though it is too soon to gauge its effects.1 It is certain, however, that the ancient is always superior to the modern so far as the imagination is concerned, and that in this latter respect even the ancient peoples of the north, though they yielded to the ancient peoples of the south, were far superior to the modern peoples of the south. (13 May 1821.)
The memory of pleasure may be likened to hope and it produces more or less the same effects. Like hope it pleases more than pleasure does; it is much sweeter to remember a good (one never experienced, but that when far away seems to have been experienced) than to enjoy it, just as it is sweeter to hope for it because when it is far away it seems possible to taste it. Distance is equally useful to man in either situation, and one may conclude that the worst time in life is that of pleasure or enjoyment. (13 May 1821.)
[1045] Anyone who wishes to see just how much nature has provided in the way of variety should consider how much more various the imagination is than reason, and how all agree as to what belongs to or is based upon the latter, and vice versa. For example, note how varied were the ancient languages built on the model of imagination, and how monotonous the modern that are built on reason. Note how a universal language has to be modeled and regulated in all respects and perfectly by reason, precisely because reason is common to everyone, and identical and uniform in everyone. (13 May 1821.)
In terms of geography, France is the most northern of the European regions that belong within the category of the southern. So it is then that its language has something of the precision, the patience, so to speak, the monotony, regularity, and rigorous reasonableness that forms part of the northern character. And so, too, its largely philosophical literature, and its literary taste in general, even though it derives in large part from the age in which its language and literature were formed, the modern age and consequently an age of reason. Just as, by contrast, England, which in its character is the least northern of all the northern regions (see p. 1043), has a language that in character is one of the [1046] freest languages in educated Europe, and in actual fact the freest of all (Andrés, tome 9, 290–91, 315–16)1 and also perhaps the freest literature and literary taste, etc., in Europe. I refer here to its own literature, that is, its modern literature, and the ancient literature of Shakespeare, etc., not the intermediate literature it borrowed from France. And I also mean fully formed, fixed, and adult literatures, not inchoate, nascent ones. (13 May 1821.)
For p. 1044. This is evident also from the facts, from the unrelenting and celebrated rivalry of the English nation with the French, from the many, sometimes formidable victories won by the English over the French, recorded especially in times gone by, etc. etc., and from England (up until recent times) having perhaps been almost the sole power to have fought one-to-one with the French, and with a consistent display of competence, even though with so much smaller a population, and considering, in particular, the other powers as strong as England, among which she was to prove the only one capable in the past of standing up to France. (14 May 1821.)
The chief reasons why the Greek language remained uncorrupted for so long (see Giordani and the latter part of the letter on Dionysius)2 were indubitably its wealth, and its freedom of character and practice. Such freedom in large part produces wealth, such freedom is the surest, [1047] indeed necessary, indeed unique safeguard of the purity of any language. Because mutation and novelty are inevitable in all things, the language whose character is not free from the start must ineluctably decline from its original character and alter, lose its naturalness, and become corrupted in consequence. But if freedom is among its attributes, it will maintain its original character. And so it may be seen how well the purity of our language is preserved by those who seek to deprive it of its freedom which, as luck would have it, is not only in its character but constitutes one of its main aspects and one of its distinctive characteristics. And that is natural in a language which was in large part forged in the fourteenth century, a time of great freedom because it was very ancient and therefore natural, and antiquity and nature were never subject to the meticulous and precise rules of reason, and still less to those of mathematics. When I say very ancient, I mean in relation to the modern languages, none of which can trace the highly developed formation of the language, along with a very remarkable culture and its application to writing, from so far back nor can show in so remote an age such a degree of universality and such a number of writers and speakers, etc., who still serve as a model today. And this antiquity [1048] of formation and culture, an antiquity unique among the modern languages, may be the reason why the original character of mature Italian is freer than that of every other cultured modern language (just as it is also more natural, more imaginative, more various, further removed from the geometric, etc.).
All unformed languages are free in character and in practice. In the same way, all languages are free at the beginning of their formation, to a greater or lesser degree, both in character and in practice. They then proceed gradually to lose this freedom, depending on the circumstances of their formation. They all lose some (and rightly so) when they are stabilized, but to a greater or a lesser degree, depending on the character both of the times and the nations and writers who form them.
Speaking then of languages once they are fully formed, I find there to be three kinds of language where freedom is concerned. Some, such as English, are free by nature and in practice. Others are free by nature but not in practice, for example, the attempt being made today by pedants to shrink our language for the simple reason that pedants can never know anything but the surface of things and it follows that they have never known and never will know the character of the Italian language. A [1049] language of this sort, despite the original and characteristic freedom of its formation and of its fully formed character, is nonetheless liable to be corrupted when in practice it does not employ this freedom in accordance with its own genius, and it is liable to lose its original and native freedom in order then necessarily to usurp one that is spurious, inappropriate, and alien to its character, as is happening to us today. And already in the 16th century some (such as Castelvetro, etc.)1 had begun to forget this quality of our language, its freedom, something that happens to almost all languages and often in their best periods, no sooner has the stark and sterile art of grammar started to be introduced, instead of taste, tact, judgment, natural feeling, and the ear, etc.
The third kind consists of languages that are not free either by nature or in practice, such as French, and such languages necessarily become corrupted. The Latin language, whose formation did not give it a free character (see pp. 1007, end–
1008) was corrupted amazingly quickly. And I note in Horace’s Ars poetica2 that in his day Latin writers were denied the use of new words just as Italians today are denied them by pedants, something I do not recall [1050] ever having observed in any Greek writer in relation to the Greek language (and the same is true of any other ancient language). At most, Greek grammarians and philologists who are neither very early nor from the best periods of the language would fuss about the purity of Atticism with the idea of excluding this or that word or phrase from this or that dialect, while still acknowledging it as Greek and not excluding it from the Greek canon, as the Tuscans do with regard to Italian.
People will say that the French language, the most timid, servile, and constrained of any language ancient or modern, cultured or uncultured, still stays pure, however. I reply:
(1) The French language, though a slave as regards expressions, is completely free (both by rule and in practice) in its words.
(2) Where a language is servile, its purity may not endure, on account of the inevitable mutation and novelty of all things. But the French language, fully formed as it is today, is still new. Circumstances have led to it receiving a stable form in a modern period, and through this form to it being established as a language that is precisely modern in character. It is therefore not to be wondered at that modern things do not corrupt it. This modernity [1051] of formation was also the cause of its servility. If it had been possible for the French language to receive a form of a kind like the one it has at present and thus become servile during the period in which the Italian language, for example, was formed, it would today be so barbarous and misshapen, it would so utterly have lost any form and character, that it would no longer be recognizable. As indeed the ancient form of the French language is unrecognizable in the form it was given by the Academy; in order to establish it as it is the Academicians (or the age and genius of the times) had to change it completely from its ancient nature (see Algarotti, Saggio sulla lingua francese),1 and this would have been tantamount to ruining it, and the French language would today be called corrupt if before that time it had ever received a stable form. And even though it did not receive such a form, and the earlier writings are not for the most part of any great merit, nonetheless Amyot alone, who even today is deemed a classic, shows what a difference there is between the ancient, original, and inherent character of French and its modern state, how if that language had ever been classical (which it was not only because of the small number of such writers) the present language would be barbarous, how free that language was in its forms and expressions, etc., the difference in historical periods even in France, etc. And note that Amyot, too, as indeed Montaigne,2 Charron, etc., lived in the 16th century, the period in which the Italian and Spanish languages and the literature of these languages were truly formed. And I can well believe that Amyot’s style drives modern Frenchmen to distraction [1052] when they are intent on imitating it (see Andrés, tome 3, p. 97, Loschi’s note),1 for their language has completely lost the ability to do so, and see the passage from Thomas that I have quoted elsewhere [→Z 208, 970].
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