Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
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Editors
Dirk Geeraerts
John R. Taylor
Honorary editors
René Dirven
Ronald W. Langacker
De Gruyter Mouton
Historical Cognitive
Linguistics
Edited by
Margaret E. Winters
Heli Tissari
Kathryn Allan
De Gruyter Mouton
ISBN 978-3-11-022643-0
e-ISBN 978-3-11-022644-7
ISSN 1861-4132
Preface vii
6. Afterword
Prospects for the past:
Perspectives for cognitive diachronic semantics
Dirk Geeraerts 333
Index 357
Preface
The rapid success of Cognitive Linguistics as a theory, from the mid-1980s on,
has led to continued exploration of many subfields of Linguistics through its
lens. Diachronic work has not been exempt from this general interest, although
here, as within other theories, it has not attracted the attention given to syn-
chronic studies. To the best knowledge of the organizers, in fact, the diachronic
session at the meeting at Krakow in August of 2007 was the first to focus di-
rectly on historical questions at an International Cognitive Linguistics confer-
ence. The first goal of this theme session was, therefore, a simple one: to bring
historical linguists working within this framework together to report on their
various strands of research. The result, the organizers (and present editors)
hoped, would be more interaction among those doing diachronic research and
more awareness among cognitive linguists of historical studies. In addition we
hoped to start a conversation about the interaction between diachrony and syn-
chrony, thus stimulating wider discussion about what each of these approaches
might contribute to the other.
Not all of the presenters at the conference are represented in this collection
of papers, although most of them are, and one additional paper was also in-
cluded (by Silvia Luraghi). The organizers decided against formal respondents,
assigned to each paper, but rather ended the day-long session with a panel dis-
cussion where all the papers were commented on as a group. The focus of this
final panel was, however, the future of diachronic cognitive linguistics. More
specifically, there was dialog about what might develop from the approaches
underlying the presentations and what needed more attention in the future.
There was no attempt to capture this multi-faceted conversation in this volume;
rather a final paper by Dirk Geeraerts, who was one of the panelists, has been
included.
As editors we have listed ourselves in reverse alphabetical order. This some-
what unusal order was chosen in order to emphasize the very collaborative
relationship we have enjoyed as session organizers and editors.
There are many people we would like to thank, starting with ElĪbieta Ta-
bakowska who organized the Krakow conference. We are grateful to her for
the idea which has led not only to the conference session and, ultimately, this
volume, but also to a new collaboration and indeed friendship for the editors.
We thank all the participants in the session, those whose papers are in the
volume and those who for various reasons did not participate further; it was a
stimulating and satisfying day! Anke Beck from Mouton de Gruyter and Dirk
Geeraerts, in his role as editor of the Cognitive Linguistic Research series, en-
viii Preface
couraged us to think about publication from the very beginning and have been
sources of support all along, as has Birgit Sievert, also of Mouton de Gruyter.
We want to thank all those as well who read and commented on drafts of the
papers; the volume in its final form is greatly enriched as a result.
Päivi Koivisto-Alanko, also an organizer of the conference session, was un-
able to stay with us to the end in the editing of the volume, but her contributions
at the beginning were indeed valuable. We missed her advice and her good
sense after she had to withdraw from the project.
Each of us has personal expressions of gratitude which serve as well as the
dedication of this volume. Margaret Winters would like to thank, as always,
Geoff Nathan who never fails to support her undertakings. Heli Tissari wants
to thank her mother, Leena Tissari, for always listening patiently to any long
and detailed descriptions of university life. The result is that not only has her
mother encouraged her professionally, but also has begun to read philosophy of
science herself, among other things. Kathryn Allan would like to thank Philip
Durkin for all his support and encouragement during the preparation of the
volume and for the many, many cups of tea.
1. History and Develoment
Introduction: On the emergence of diachronic
cognitive linguistics1
Margaret E. Winters
Abstract
While 1987 might be considered a pivotal year in the development cognitive linguis-
tics (Lakoff 1987; Lakoff and Johnson 1987; Langacker 1987), the actuation of the
theory must be dated somewhat earlier. Kemmer (1992) refers, in fact, to Ross (1972)
on fuzzy grammatical categories as an early analysis of phenomena which have be-
come central to the contemporary theory. While little was published in a specifically
cognitive vein in the 1970s, it is certainly the case that explicitly cognitive papers
were appearing and being noticed in the early and mid-1980s and that a few of these
were already taking up a diachronic approach (see Sweetser 1982; Geeraerts 1983;
Winters 1987a and b). These papers explored, variously, conceptual (Sweetser) and
lexical change (Geeraerts), as well as a methodology for talking about grammatical
evolution (Winters). At that time – and to a lesser extent still – historical approaches
were considered somewhat secondary to synchronic studies, in part because connec-
tions between synchrony and diachrony were ignored or even actively denied in other
theories. This was never the case in cognitive grammar. To be particularly noted is
Sweetser’s (1990) far-ranging consideration of the relationship between synchrony
and diachrony with attention to the semantic elements and processes common to both
(cf. Kemmer 1992 as well).
By the end of the 1980s, in part precisely because the theory has always posited
crucial conceptual and linguistic relationships between language history and current
language use (in addition to Sweetser 1990, see Langacker 1987), other issues like the
expression of emotions and grammaticalization were being approached diachronic-
ally as well as synchronically. There was not, however, extensive attention paid by the
cognitive community to language history. One exceptional conference in 1990 was
dedicated to the relationship between diachrony and synchrony (cf. Kellermann and
Morrissey 1992 and the papers within it both by cognitivists and by others with sym-
pathy for the already growing body of cognitive scholarship), while the Milwaukee
Symposium on Historical Linguistics drew several cognitive grammar contributions
(cf. Kemmer 1992 and others). To the best of this author’s knowledge, however, the
theme session at the International Conference on Cognitive Linguistics 10 (Krakow
1 This chapter has benefited from discussion with my co-editors and with others at
the conference at Krakow. I would particularly like to thank Geoffrey Nathan and
Dirk Geeraerts for their insights and suggestions.
4 Margaret E. Winters
2007) was the first session at either an otherwise cognitive or a diachronic conference
dedicated to the intersection of language history and cognitive theory.
This paper reviews this body of work across time in terms of its thematic contribu-
tions both to cognitive grammar and the study of language history. It also considers
where the papers were presented and published, that is, to uncover to what extent cog-
nitivists were interested in language change and specialists in diachronic linguistics
were interested in cognitive grammar. In a final section it provides an overview of the
papers in the volume, commenting on how they fit into the approaches discussed in
earlier parts of this paper and how they break new ground.
1. Introduction
2 A word is appropriate here as to sources: as with most historical studies. even those
of relatively shallow time depth, this one relies whenever possible on written re-
sources and attempts to avoid too much reliance on the memory of the author,
Introduction 5
despite the fact that I was a participant from the early years in historical cognitive
linguistics. For matters where I had to rely on my memory, I apologize in advance
for errors, particularly those of omission.
6 Margaret E. Winters
work of approaches) are particularly salient in this regard. First, it has, like
other linguistic theories of that era, a historical orientation; it also displays a
psychological orientation, and, finally, can be characterized as a hermeneuti-
cal discipline. As will be discussed immediately below and throughout this
introduction, cognitive linguistics has never been primarily historical in its
approach. It does, however, share this psychological orientation. Through its
place among what are called sciences humaines (as compared to natural sci-
ences), it looks for the “expressive intention behind …forms of expressions.”
(Geeraerts 1988: 652). Early European cognitive linguistics arises therefore
as something of a return to this pre-structuralist approach to semantics, in
part as a reaction against the strictures of structuralist linguistics. It is note-
worthy that whether the impetus toward a cognitive approach was an anti-
generativist or an anti-structuralist stance, there was agreement from the be-
ginning as to the need for a firmly entrenched psychological component to
the theory.
centage of those exploring the possibilities of the new theory (not a large number at
first although it grew quickly) attended the same conferences and became aware of
research when it was still unpublished.
8 Margaret E. Winters
illustrative examples (Sweetser 1990) shows the uses of because in these three
different modalities of “causality”:
(1) a. She typed his dissertation because she loves him (root causality ex-
pressing an external cause for this action)
b. She loves him because she typed his dissertation (epistemic causality
expressing the source [or cause] of the speaker’s knowledge that she
loves him)
c. What are you doing tonight? – because there’s a good movie on
(speech act causality expressing why the speaker is asking the ques-
tion in the first half of the utterance)
Also of importance in the early to mid 1980s was Dirven (1985), addressing
specifically the role of metaphor in semantic extensions. The paper pro-
vides a typology of domains for extension, ranging from sounds (via sound
symbolism) to entire discourse (Orwell’s Animal Farm as an elaborately ex-
tended metaphor). Also of note among these early papers is Lewandowska-
Tomaszczyk (1985) which considers a view of semantics where meaning
goes beyond truth-conditionality to include the interactional, the affective,
and the cognitive.
Finally, a new and particularly thought-provoking theme in some of the
earliest historical cognitive work consists of explorations of the relationship
between synchrony and diachrony.4 Sweetser (1990) approaches this often dif-
ficult – and too easily dismissed – topic directly. Her thesis is that, because of
the structure of the human mind, we can find the same kinds of directional-
ity of semantic elaboration, often yielding metaphors, both in current English
(where, for example, speakers use grasp or – more recently – get in the sense
of ‘understand’) and also in the diachronic development of these terms and
others. In parallel fashion, Langacker (1987) often hypothesizes on these same
relationships, not always in a fully developed exposition, but in notes and short,
sometimes sketchy, analyses and musing about how polysemy lends itself to a
panchronic approach. One such is his discussion of the development of to go
4 It has been pointed out to me by Dirk Geeraerts (p. c.) that this theme and the
immediately preceding one cannot be clearly separated, one from another. It is
the case, after all, that the relationship between synchrony and diachrony emerges
precisely from the nature of extension. What I find important here, however, is the
overt claim (Sweetser 1990 and elsewhere) that synchrony and diachrony interact
in intricate ways and that they should be studied together rather than kept distinct
as they were – and are – in much of Structuralism and other formal theories.
Introduction 9
in English and aller in French where they are similar markers of the future
(developed in detail in Langacker 1999). In both cases, the concept of motion
expressed in the verbs is still associated with the future marker as well and can
be recreated by prompting native speakers, although the ideas of futurity and
motion have become otherwise largely distinct. As a result the interrelationship
of the spatial and temporal meanings is neither strictly synchronic nor com-
pletely diachronic, but the steps which are necessary for a synchronic explana-
tion of this relationship are very much the same ones that can be seen to have
occurred diachronically in the development of these future markers. This third
area of inquiry is, of course, not clearly to be separated from the questions of
directionality that were mentioned above.
It is my memory that presenters did not feel the need to set out the basic tenets
of cognitive linguistics as a theory; enough had circulated by then to allow us
an assumption of some basic knowledge on the part of the broader audience of
historical linguists who, indeed, confirmed that knowledge through their ques-
tions and comments.
In 1990, as well, the first conference that one might think of as specific to
diachronic cognitive issues was held in Duisburg, Germany. Entitled “Dia-
chrony within Synchrony: Language History and Cognition”, it drew partici-
pants who had been developing diachronic theoretical views within cognitive
linguistics as well as other historians whose approaches might be thought of as
less generative and more functional, or perhaps as not fitting fully into either
of these loose but prevalent divisions of linguistic theory. Among those who
had by 1990 considered themselves as affiliated with the cognitive enterprise
were Dirk Geeraerts, Brigitte Nerlich, Barbara Lewandowska-Tomaszcsyk,
and Margaret Winters. However the discussion was not just theory-specific.
Rather, in tune with the theme of the conference, there was a great deal of ex-
ploration of different ways of looking at the interrelation between synchrony
and diachrony; I remember in particular a great deal of discussion of Keller’s
(1990) use of the concept of the invisible hand to explain the actuation of
change.5
Other participants were not cognitivists; of them, two should be mentioned.
First, R. Anttila made a presentation in which he set out ways in which cogni-
tive theory follows from a strong Cartesian tradition and is therefore not as new
as claimed. This kind of argumentation is, of course, often difficult to refute
or fully substantiate given the amount of interpretation needed to establish the
parallelism of different approaches, philosophical or linguistic, even when the
subject matter of the two theories being compared is the same. The more the
objects of analysis diverge, the more tenuous conclusions turn out to be. The
importance here, however, is that the cognitive approach was being considered
and analyzed by a diachronic linguist who also studied the philosophy and his-
tory of linguistics. Secondly, Dieter Kastovsky gave a talk on morphological
and typological considerations in changes in English. Kastovsky spoke from
the viewpoint of Natural Morphology, a somewhat different approach within
the general category of functional linguistics but, one which has been sympa-
thetic to the cognitive enterprise (cf. Dressler 1990; Winters 1994). The final
paper was given by Dirk Geeraerts who summed up the state of diachronic
cognitive linguistics as it was presented and discussed at the conference. He
provided an overview of how the notion of the prototype could be put to use in
changed the landscape of cognitive linguistics; in that same year Ronald Lan-
gacker, George Lakoff, and Mark Johnson all saw major books appear. In
1990, the first issue of the journal Cognitive Linguistics appeared. Individual
publications grew during the late 1980s as well, including proceedings vol-
umes from the early International Cognitive Linguistics Association meetings.
On the European side, Geeraerts (1983) was, to the best of my knowledge, the
– or one of the – earliest work in English.
For a very informal and totally unscientific survey of publications, I went
through the tables of contents of two journals, one dedicated to the linguistic
subfield of historical linguistics (Diachronica) and the other to the theory of
cognitive linguistics (Cognitive Linguistics). Diachronica, which is one of the
most widely read journals dedicated to studies of language change, publishes
articles based in a wide variety of theories. Since its founding there have been
two articles in a cognitive framework, one by Margaret Winters (1987) on the
history of French negation and the other by Janice Aski (2001) on prototype
categories and phonological split. In addition there have been reviews of ex-
plicitly cognitive volumes, one of Laura Janda’s 1996 book (reviewed by Raimo
Anttila 1997) and the other (2003 by Andrew Carstairs-McCarthy) of William
Croft (2002).6 As the title implies, Cognitive Linguistics is the principle jour-
nal dedicated to this specific framework and publishes articles based in a wide
variety of approaches to the study of language, synchronic and diachronic.
Since 1994 it has published, by my count, six diachronic articles (Bybee 1994;
Rohdenburg 1996; Ziegler 1997; Winters 1997; Györi 2002; and Ziegler 2004).
With Bybee’s article on phonology and Winters’s on analogical change, the
other four have been on the semantics of grammar and grammaticalization.
There have, in addition, been a few reviews of historical works.
As another sign of growing interest in cognitive linguistics, the International
Cognitive Linguistics Association was founded in the late 1980s and held its
first conference, in Duisburg, Germany, in 1989. Conferences have taken place
every two years since, with an ever-expanding number of participants (about 70
at the first conference and almost 500 in Krakow, 2007). The range of linguis-
tic themes has increased as well from each one to the next, a clear reflection of
the expansion in the influence of the theory. There have never been, however,
many diachronic papers, neither in regular sessions nor in the increasing num-
ber of special topic – or theme – sessions.7 This is not to say that diachrony was
totally absent but, while there were a few diachronic papers at every confer-
ence, I do not remember any specified subsection of the general session or any
theme sessions devoted to this approach until the conference that has given rise
to this volume.
Two conferences with historical focus should be recalled here. The first,
Diachrony in Synchrony (Duisburg 1990), has already been discussed. The
second symposium, called Historical Semantics and Cognition, took place
several years later (Berlin 1996) and once again addressed the relationship
between synchrony and diachrony. The organizers made a conscious attempt
as well, through the invitation of both European and American speakers, to
create a trans-Atlantic dialogue, but found that the “expected synergetic effects
were perhaps not as intensive as we had hoped” (1999: v). Like the Duisburg
conference, this one brought together established cognitive linguists (Geer-
aerts, Langacker, and the co-editors Andreas Blank and Peter Koch) with oth-
ers who are perhaps better seen as sympathetic, but do not do all their research
in a cognitive framework, like Elisabeth Traugott, Brigitte Nerlich and David
Clarke. The papers approached the interaction of synchrony and diachrony
from various directions. They included rather abstract discussions; for example
both Langacker and Traugott questioned the degree to which lines of historical
development and of synchronic relatedness are truly parallel in their direction-
ality. Both papers concluded that the strict parallelism is not necessarily pres-
ent in all cases, with the result that historical precedence does not always lead
to perception of the same order of synchronic basic and extended meaning. At
the other end of the scale of abstractness there were, in addition, several data-
oriented case studies, one a lexical study of the evolution of body part names
from Latin and other sources in Romance (Thomas Krefeld) and another, lean-
ing more toward the grammatical, on the semantics of have and be in a range
of languages (Peter Koch).
The attraction of cognitive linguistic theory was clear from the beginning to
those working in the history of language or of specific languages. As was said
above, however, there was not, in the 1990s – that is, the period of most notice-
able growth for the theory – a great deal of interest in language change per se.
As a result, although language historians were turning to cognitive approaches,
there simply were not very many of us. This is not to say, however, that dia-
chronic matters never came up in other ways, either related to specific matters
of change (but not looking broadly at change itself) or through semantic analy-
ses which did not make specifically cognitive claims. One of the most obvi-
ous connections was to the growing area of research into grammaticalization;
Ravid) while two others (Janda and Kemmer & Schylkrot) had some diachronic
discussion in what were otherwise generally synchronic papers.
14 Margaret E. Winters
here the notion of semantic extension was put to work, explicitly or not, in the
description of the development of grammatical particles and affixes from inde-
pendent morphemes (for example, Britten 1990). There also began to be con-
nections made between cognitive theory and typology (Croft 1990) and with
corpus-based linguistics (Schönefeld 1999), that is, areas with a relationship
to diachronics without necessarily being diachronic themselves. Typology, on
the one hand, can be looked at both diachronically and synchronically; it can
be thought of as an area where the line between the two is almost necessarily
blurred. At the same time it addresses broadly the existence of grammatical
features and their relationship to each other, another part of the research pro-
gram which would attract cognitive approaches. Corpora, on the other hand,
serve as the basis of many kinds of investigation and find their affinity with
cognitive theory in the openness of this theory to real-life, “messy” data.
Both grammaticalization research and work in typology have served to shed
light on both diachronic theory and on cognitive semantics. Other approaches
as well demonstrate the interconnectedness of synchrony and diachrony and, at
the same time, point up the necessity of opening cognitive linguistics to wider
diachronic studies. One of these might be called cultural variation, the study
of human behavior and its linguistic expression as depending on the wider con-
text; Geeraerts and Grondelaers (1995), for example, questions the universality
of such metaphors as anger as heat by suggesting that they are culturally
transmitted. Also variationist in its approach is what can be thought of as cog-
nitive sociolinguistics (Kristiansen and Dirven 2008 and the papers contained
in this volume). Variation has long been recognized as the basis for the spread
of change (Weinreich et al. 1968 is the foundational paper) and again bridges
synchrony and diachrony in important ways.
While virtually all aspects of language are now being looked at through cog-
nitive linguistics, meaning continues to be a (or perhaps the) central concern
of the theory. The radially configured semantic set (Lakoff 1987: 83–84 and
passim) remains a point of departure, and both lexical and grammatical units
have been analyzed as to both their relationship to the prototype and to each
other. Since metaphor is the primary (although not sole) source of extension of
items within the set, a natural extension of the field has been to the diachronic
inquiry into the birth of metaphors and, at the other end of their lifespan (a met-
aphor in itself), the nature of so-called “dead” metaphors. As a subcategory,
the expression of emotion and its development/disappearance have figured in
recent diachronic work (two comparatively early instances are Fabiszak 2001
and Tissari 2003).
Introduction 15
The discussion thus far has dealt with the development of diachronic cognitive
linguistics, the aspects of it that first caught the attention of researchers and the
development of this historical subfield in the early days of the broader theory.
The remaining sections of the paper will be devoted to the present – and per-
haps future – of these areas of investigation. More specifically, it will consist
of an overview of the papers in the volume, with some comments about how
they may be either continuing the development of the various strands of inquiry
already mentioned or else extending the investigation of language change in
new directions. In many instances, of course, these two possibilities – continu-
ation and extension – are not mutually exclusive. Before turning to this preview
of the rest of the volume, it is worth pausing for a few moments to talk more
broadly about the intersection of cognitive linguistics with the development of
linguistic theories of historical change.
A large part of the research in cognitive historical linguistics has followed,
in a certain broad sense, the lead of other frameworks; here as in other cases,
entities which were first posited synchronically are looked at in terms of how
they might have changed over time: emerging, being modified, or disappear-
ing. A clear example of this pattern can be seen in early diachronic work within
the framework of a relatively early version of generative grammar (for an over-
view, see King 1969). Since in this formulation grammar consisted of underly-
ing forms (the deep structure) and transformations or rules, change takes place
generally through the addition, loss, or reordering of these transformational
rules with eventual permanent reshaping, across generations, of the underlying
forms in deep structure. A more modern formal example of the same general
approach is the notion of change within Optimality Theory. Here the reorder-
ing of constraints results in the identification of a different “best candidate”
among the infinitude of candidates as the outcome of each process (Jacobs
1995). In both these cases and, as we will see, in cognitive theory as well, enti-
ties in the synchronic description of language (transformations, optimality-the-
oretic constraints) constitute the engines of language change. The relationship
is causal: it is because these specific entities change that wider language change
occurs. While this is a very brief (almost disrespectfully brief) summary of
what is considered change, it points up the all too easy use of description within
a theory to take the place of cause.
Cognitive explorations have often taken the same general path. The enti-
ties here are, of course, the internal components of the radially configured
semantic set – the prototype and extensions at varying distances from the pro-
totype – and the set itself. Change has been characterized as movement of vari-
16 Margaret E. Winters
ous extensions within the set into and out of sets or nearer to or farther from the
prototype. There are also changes that come from the interaction of sets with
each other: overlap, merger (partial or complete), or the split of one set into two
or more (Winters 1992). A final locus of change is in the connections which
link extensions to the prototype and to each other. Here too change is change
in the expression of these connections, often metaphors or metonymies (Sweet-
ser 1990 is one of the first to discuss this diachronic point at length although
Dirven 1985 provides a panchronic typology of extension types). All of these
entities, sets, prototypes, extensions and the lines of connection among them,
can be described as evolving from one state (using the term very informally) to
another across time. There is, however, little light shed on what change really
consists of and, like the transformations and constraints of other theories, the
realignment of semantic sets and their internal configurations are more accu-
rately to be viewed as the results of change rather than the cause.
In order to identify what cognitive linguistics has contributed to broader the-
ories of change, we need to look beyond the purely linguistic to the cognitive.
The major claim of Lakoff’s work (1987 in an elaborated statement) is that the
cognitive phenomenon of categorization is key to how language is understood
and produced. Most of the conclusions which have been drawn about cognitive
function are completely synchronic, in part because all experimentation with
speakers is carried out necessarily on contemporary forms of language and in
part because the relationship between language and the brain is investigated in
the great majority of instances by researchers who are not historians. Probably
more important, however, is the fact that most if not all brain structure has been
invariant over even the most extensive span of time considered in diachronic
linguistics (to the extent that time depth can be accurately established), in fact
since the evolution of other related species into homo sapiens. As a result of this
pervasive cognitive invariance, we must proceed with caution in exploring how
to characterize language change in its relationship to cognitive processing. As
far as we can tell through what direct evidence exists and through the judicious
use of the uniformitarian hypothesis, humanity categorizes today as we have
always categorized, in both linguistic and non-linguistic matters.
The same dilemma prevails if we look not just at the process of categoriza-
tion, but at the ways in which human beings populate and arrange categories
around degrees of proximity to the prototypical member(s) of the category.
Recent work has centered on the notion of emergence, that is the way in which
understanding arises through the assignment of units to categories, not through
specific pre-existent mental structures, but by continuous application of these
processes. Conventionalization may at times be the ultimate result of repeated
assignment for some specific community of speakers, but this is secondary
Introduction 17
8 It seems increasingly clear that frequency alone is not the motivating factor for
change, since frequency is rather the result of some other phenomenon. I would
suggest that salience is more basic, but this discussion goes beyond the scope of the
present paper.
18 Margaret E. Winters
psychologically real, claims of these kinds are not only descriptively useful,
but anchor language change in cognition.
Viewing cognitive function as essential to language prepares the way for
an important further step in diachronic theory, a way of relating synchrony
and diachrony which goes beyond a simple list of changes to a unified theory
of language. Recognition of the centrality of cognition is an important com-
ponent of this insight. It provides strong evidence for a non-modular and, in
many ways, atemporal view of language. Categorization and recategorization
underlie variation and therefore the actuation of change, while recent views on
frequency of usage have shed light on acquisition, the link between social fac-
tors such as prestige and variation, and, diachronically, the spread of change;
Bybee (2007) provides an overview. What is most important here is, again, that
these cognitive functions go beyond language itself and in doing so provide
an extra-linguistic framework for explaining diachrony, a perspective that is
usually lacking because work on language history has traditionally remained
enmeshed in the linguistic and the social.
A final way in which cognitive linguistics might be said to contribute to the-
ories of language change has to do again with the nature of human cognition.
In this case, the insights have to do not so much with the content of categories
or their internal or external relationships, but rather with the manner in which
they are constructed. Most of the ways in which the connections among units
within a radial set develop derive from mental transformations or leaps of vari-
ous kinds: comparison (metaphor), viewing the part as representing the whole
(metonymy), and others (among them, image schema transformations [Lakoff
1987: 440–444]). Any of these, often unexpected and – at first – novel ways of
seeing relationships, can motivate extensions from the prototype outward in a
semantic set or inward from outside the set toward the center. These changes
can all be viewed as resulting from variations on analogical (or abductive; cf.
Andersen 1973) thinking, that is, precisely, this mental leap or transformation,
not via syllogistic inductive or deductive reasoning, but rather through such
comparatively low-level mental operations as juxtaposition and comparison
(Winters 1997; Wanner 2006).
Analogical thinking, then, as it is defined in a broad sense both as extension
and also as leveling, becomes crucially important under this view of language
change. Its importance is that it results in the expansion of categories, either
within the category or through the development of new ones, in the child or
even the adult speaker/hearer. It is these associations which, over time, be-
come the driving force behind diachronic shifts. Among other consequences
of viewing this cognitive process as central, in fact, is the very necessity of
seeing language change as taking place within the purview of both children
Introduction 19
The papers in the present volume examine and expand on many of the themes
discussed above. In the last section of this Introduction they will be briefly pre-
sented, with a word or two on their content but, more importantly, with a view
of how they fit into and interact with the aspects of cognitive linguistics laid out
above. Of greatest importance is the relationship between language and mind
as envisioned in this framework and how cognitive theory may blur the lines
between synchrony and diachrony.
The volume is arranged in five sections, admittedly loose groupings of dia-
chronic themes, ranging from papers on the development of this very point
of convergence of historical linguistics and cognitive semantics (the pres-
ent paper) and language evolution (Frank & Gontier; Sylvester; Mulsolff), to
more specific analyses of syntactic change (Luraghi; Heyvaert & Cuyckens),
of semantic change (Allan), and the expression of emotions over time (Trim;
Fabiszak & Hebda; Tissari). An Afterword by Dirk Geeraerts looks forward
to the potential for historical cognitive linguistics to extend further, with the
consequent enrichment of both diachronic linguistics in general and what we
might call panchronic cognitive linguistics.
The section on evolution and change looks at language history from the point
of view of analytic techniques as well as the results of analysis. Roslyn Frank
and Nathalie Gontier (“On Reconstructing a Research Model for Historical
Cognitive Linguistics [HCL]: Some Theoretical Considerations”) present a dis-
cussion of the methodology of Complex Adaptive Systems, coming from the
Biological Sciences and its potential for shedding light on human linguistic be-
havior in shorter time periods. This approach lends itself to interaction with the
notion of emergence and also tends toward a panchronic viewpoint as well as
looking at language use in specific temporal and social settings, another theme
central to cognitive linguistics. Louise Sylvester, more specifically again, is
interested in the individual’s mind, centering her paper (“The roles of reader
construal and lexicographic authority in the interpretation of Middle English
texts”) on how meaning is calculated when one has the resources of dictionar-
ies of older varieties as well as one’s mental constructions. Language change,
therefore, as understood by individuals, is change in conceptual structure as
well as being linguistic. Finally in this area, Andreas Musolff (“Metaphor in
discourse history”) looks at the evolution of a class of conceptual metaphors
(state/society as a body), again showing the strength of panchronic analysis.
Studies of syntax change are relatively rare whatever the theoretical frame-
work, although not as rare as they were in the past. Two papers here undertake
analyses of grammar change, in both cases adopting the now well-established
Introduction 21
cognitive linguistic point of view (cf. Langacker 1987 for an early expression
of it) that syntax is symbolic of meaning and that, therefore, grammar change
is a special form of semantic development. Both Silvia Luraghi (“Where do
beneficiaries come from and how do they come about? Sources for beneficiary
expressions in Classical Greek and the typology of beneficiary”) and Liesbet
Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens (“Finite and gerundive complementation in
Modern and Present-day English: Semantics, variation and change”) explore
the interaction of the conceptual and the purely linguistic, the former in a paper
on beneficiary expressions in Greek and the latter in the development of clausal
complements in English. Heyvaert and Cuyckens, like Allan, consider as well
questions of directionality, a diachronic issue which is addressed in a wide
number of theories. They return as well to one of the formative topics of cogni-
tive linguistics, the meaningfulness of grammatico-lexical items and phrases
which are considered purely syntactic in other approaches.
The section on the lexicon and semantic change contains one paper, although
one could argue that semantic change writ large pervades the volume. Kathryn
Allan (“Tracing metonymic polysemy through time: material for object
mappings in the OED”) looks at metonymy (in particular the well-exemplified
material for object) to consider the question of whether metonymies persist
over time or whether they are recreated in every generation of speakers. Her
topic, then, is again the blurring of synchrony and diachrony; she also touches
on other historical and cognitive issues, specifically directionality of change
and the line – if there is a clear one – between metaphor and metonymy, re-
spectively.
The last section transcends from a certain point of view the purely linguistic
nature of the volume since it deals with the expression of emotion (cf. La-
koff 1987, an early example of this kind of undertaking, where anger and its
expression are looked at in detail). Richard Trim’s focus is the development
of English metaphors pertaining to love (“Conceptual networking theory in
metaphor evolution: Diachronic variation in models of love”); he calls upon
both conceptual networks and the time-specific setting of linguistic use in his
discussion. Like Allan, he also explores the notion of salience as an indicator of
likelihood for change; this notion and frequency (Bybee 2007) should be seen
to complement rather than compete with each other in explanations of change.
The last two papers, by Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda (“Cognitive
historical approaches to emotions: Pride”) and by Heli Tissari (“English words
for emotions and their metaphors”) add one more dimension to the breadth of
approaches in that they both use corpora as sources of data. As was said above,
this is a fast-growing aspect of cognitive research, both synchronic and dia-
chronic. Fabiszak and Hebda discuss the concept of pride, again situating the
22 Margaret E. Winters
5. Conclusions
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26 Margaret E. Winters
Abstract
This paper examines how historical cognitive linguistics can benefit methodologically
through the application of the notion of language as a complex adaptive system. The idea
that languages are complex adaptive systems (CAS) was introduced initially in computa-
tional evolutionary linguistics, a discipline that was and remains inspired by biological,
systems theoretical approaches to the evolution of life. Here the way that the CAS ap-
proach serves to replace older historical linguistic notions of languages as organisms and
languages as species is explained as well as how the CAS approach can be generalized
to encompass linguistic domains. Specifically, an overview of the CAS approach and its
implementation in linguistics is provided with an emphasis on stigmergic, embodied,
usage-based and socio-culturally situated language studies in particular.
1. Introduction
Our paper begins by focusing on theoretical issues relating to 19th and 20th
century conceptual cross-fertilization between linguistics and evolutionary bi-
32 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
ology, namely, the way that aspects of research models utilized by the natural
sciences, most particularly biology, have intersected with theories of language
evolution, and hence, the manner in which the traditional research paradigm of
historical linguistics was constructed in terms of the way that “language” was
conceptualized (Bugarski 1999; Frank 2008b; Janda and Joseph 2003). Most
particularly, we examine the three points of intersection. First, we will look at
the analogy of “language” as an “organism”; second, we will explore the way
that “language” came to be viewed simultaneously as an “organism” and “spe-
cies”; and third, we will conclude by taking up the most recent position that
views “language” as a “complex adaptive system”. Initially, we provide a brief
review of the way these disciplinary interactions have shaped how we think
about “language” and by implication the role played by these conceptualiza-
tions of the phenomenon of “language” in historical linguistics, including the
heuristic applications of evolutionary biological thinking to linguistics, and to
the nature of variation and language change (Croft 2000, 2002; Mufwene 2001,
2005). Finally, in this first section we introduce the “complex adaptive system”
(CAS) approach (cf. Lansing 2003), a framework currently gaining ground in
the theoretical discourse of genomics as well as many other fields.
In the next section of the paper we turn our attention to the question of how
those of us interested in constructing a research model for historical cogni-
tive linguistics (henceforth HCL) might profit from recognizing the remarkable
conceptual connections holding between these allied disciplines and our own
concerns with language change. By gaining a better understanding of the way
that metaphors/analogies have flowed back and forth, heuristically, across dis-
ciplinary boundaries, specifically between biology and linguistics, we will be
able to appreciate better how the phenomena under analysis in each field have
undergone modification over time, e. g., how “language” first was analogized to
an “organism”, later on compared to a “species” (Gontier 2006a, b, 2008) and
how it has come to be viewed as “activity-process” (Frank 2008b).
Finally we address the contributions that HCL might make to research cur-
rently being carried out in related disciplines concerned with the evolution of
language and culture, if HCL were to frame its findings in more cross-discipli-
narily recognized terminology and adopt the more inter-disciplinary theoreti-
cal approach of CAS, given that the latter is recognized across a number of
allied disciplines. In short, we will outline the advantages that this framework
might have as we begin the joint task of developing a research model and meth-
odology for use in HCL.
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 33
In the 18th and 19th centuries in biology we find both Lamarckian (Lamarck
[1809] 1999) and Social Darwinian models (e. g., Darwin 1871; Spencer [1879]
1978). Both of these models focus on the individual organism and how it relates
to other organisms and the environment through competition for resources. The
model was constructed through recourse to the dominant “organic” or “organi-
cism” root metaphor of the epoch (Pepper 1942). As a result, focus was on an
essentialist, internalized law-governed orthogenesis of the organism. Inspired
by these evolutionary ideas, linguists regularly viewed languages as bounded
“living beings”. The model was one characterized by Linnaean typological and
genealogical categorization models with vertical (tree-branching) axis.
34 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
For example, we find Jean Baptiste Lamarck (1744–1829) stating: “We give
the name genus [genera] to the groups of races, called species, brought to-
gether following a consideration of their interconnections […] all the races
(what are called the species) which belong to a kingdom of living creatures”
(Lamarck [1809] 1999). In short, in the writings of 18th and 19th century
biologists race and species were commonly used as synonyms. It would not
be until nearly a century later that the English term “race” would acquire
its more narrow modern meaning.1 Even at the time that Charles Darwin
(1809–1882) was composing his major opus, the older equivalency was still
operating. In contrast, today most readers misconstrue the meaning of the
latter half of the full title of his work: On the Origin of the Species by Means
of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle
for Life (1859). The second half of the title shows that Darwin was merely
talking about “races” of pigeons, among other things. In addition, we may
cite Schleicher’s equivalencies. Clearly influenced by Linnaeus’ taxonomy as
well as by Darwin’s 1859 work, Schleicher in his Die Darwinishche Theo-
rie und die Sprachwissenschaft [Darwinian Theory and the Science of Lan-
guage] (1863) explicitly equates language families with genera, languages
with species, dialects with races, and idiolects with individual organisms
(McMahon 1994: 319; Richards 2002).2
1 Under “race” The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language lists
the following entries, which reflect the semantic shift that has taken place in the
term’s core meanings since the mid-19th century. At that point in time what are
today the fourth, fifth and sixth entries of the following definition would have been
among the first to come to mind: “1. A local geographic or global human population
distinguished as a more or less distinct group by genetically transmitted physical
characteristics; 2. Mankind as a whole; 3. Any group of people united or classified
together on the basis of common history, nationality or geographical distribution;
4. A genealogical line, lineage, family; 5. Any group of people more or less distinct
from all others, the race of statesmen; 6. Biology a. a plant or animal population
that differs from others of the same species in the frequency of hereditary traits,
subspecies; b. a breed or strain of domestic animals” (Morris 1969: 1074–1075). An
even greater appreciation of the depth of these shifting currents can be gained by
consulting the relevant entries in the Oxford English Dictionary.
2 A few years later this essay was translated into English and published, in 1869,
under the title of Darwinism Tested by the Science of Language (1869).
36 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
In the first half of the 20th century we encounter the emergence of the Mod-
ern Synthesis and the development of population genetics wherein evolution
is mathematically modeled (Mayr 1975). Over time, progress in the field of
population genetics would come to influence the field of linguistics and would
eventually give rise to the “language-as-species” trope we have today where
“species” is understood in its modern, biological sense.3 Indeed, by 2000, we
find this new type of population thinking and concept of “language-as-species”
being applied to modeling language, as exemplified by the research on this
topic by Croft (2000) and Mufwene (2001). At this point language is defined
as “a population of utterances”. Hence, we discover a shift in emphasis. In
the case of the older “language-as-organism” trope, focus was on global level
structure and internal agency; language was viewed as a closed, bounded and
finely balanced object. In contrast, at the end of the 20th century when the
“language-as-species” trope comes on the scene, we find increasing empha-
sis being placed on local level structure and external agency: language usage.
Moreover, language comes to be viewed more and more as an open, unbounded
and constantly changing object. Nonetheless, from this perspective language
still is conceptualized primarily as an object, albeit a highly mutable one, rath-
er than as activity.
3 As was pointed out in the previous section, the terms “species” and “races” used
to be synonymous. Furthermore, especially in Scholastic philosophical discussions
of this topic, “species” was a concept used to refer to (essential, bounded) types
(Wilkins 2003).
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 37
Perhaps one of the most well known initiatives in evolutionary and compu-
tational linguistics is that of Luc Steels and his team of researchers working
at the Free University of Brussels (Vrije Universiteit Brussel). Steels founded
the Artificial Intelligence Laboratory (http://arti.vub.ac.be/) in 1983 where lab-
members carry out projects in collaboration with the research units of Sony
CSL in Paris. Over the past decade, they have investigated ways in which artifi-
cial agents can provide windows on certain aspects of language evolution such
as concept and category formation, recursion, compositionality and phonology.
Central to their research projects is the hypothesis that language is a complex
adaptive system, one that emerges through adaptive interactions between the
artificial agents and one that over time continues to evolve as a self-organizing
system, adapting itself to the needs and capabilities of the agents. At the same
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 39
time the system is being structured by the actions of the individual agents.
Other related initiatives include the simulation and synthesis of living systems,
along with simulations of the co-evolution of language and social structure
using various computational frameworks. In some cases the data used in the
simulation is itself simulated, while in other cases the data is drawn from natu-
ral language(s) and then often modeled or cross-checked using artificial agents
(Gong et al. 2004; Hashimoto 1998; Li 1998; Wang, Ke and Minett 2004).4
The CAS approach to language states that global order derives from local
interactions. Language agents are carriers of individual linguistic knowledge
which becomes overt behavior in local interactions between agents. Through
these local level (microscopic) interactions agents construct and acquire indi-
vidual ontologies, lexicons and grammars. When the latter are sufficiently en-
trenched within the system, they become part of the global level (macroscopic)
properties of collective ontologies, lexicons and grammars of the speech com-
munity. Actually, the process is even non-linear in the sense that individual
ontologies, lexicons and grammars continuously contribute to and, in turn, are
influenced by the global level. This shift in perspective provides us with a
different view of language in which it is understood as a constantly evolving
system that defies simplistic taxonomic, essentialist categorization. In short,
language is understood as a multi-agent complex adaptive system in which
emergent phenomena result from behaviors of embodied, (socio-culturally)
situated agents.5
As stated, the phenomenon of language is best viewed as a complex adaptive
system that is constantly constructed and reconstructed by its users. Therefore,
language should be considered an emergent phenomenon, the result of activity,
the collective, cumulative behavior of language agents over time. These emer-
gent phenomena have a strong causal impact on the behavior and learning of
each individual language agent. Hence, there is a type of recursiveness to the
4 We should also mention the research being carried out in computational evolu-
tionary linguistics and simulations of living systems at the Santa Fe Institute; the
ongoing investigations taking place at the Language Evolution and Computation
Research Unit, located at the University of Edinburgh; the Ikegami Laboratory at
the University of Tokyo under the direction of Takashi Ikegami (cf. Ikegami and
Zlatev 2007), as well as and Language Engineering Laboratory, located in the Chi-
nese University of Hong Kong.
5 These dialectics are also pointed out at the psychological level by Herbert Clark
(1996: 100–120) when he introduces his famous distinction between personal and
communal common ground. And also Tomasello’s (2004: 4) characterization of
cumulative cultural evolution as a kind of ratchet effect can be interpreted as an
attempt to capture these dynamics.
40 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
6 The close parallels holding between this CAS model and usage-based approaches
to language are found in the following discussion of “units of language” where
the latter are defined as “not fixed but dynamic, subject to creative extension and
reshaping with use. Usage events are crucial to the ongoing structuring and opera-
tion of the linguistic system. Language productions are not only products of the
speaker’s linguistic system, but they also provide input for other speakers’ systems
(as well as, reflexively, for the speaker’s own), not just in initial acquisition but in
language use throughout life” (Kemmer and Barlow 2000: ix).
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 41
the local (between language agents) and within the global level (between lan-
guage communities), interaction is the rule rather than the exception. These
interactions again, in a non-linear manner, influence the future of the language
system.
7 The search for analogies between selectionist evolution on the one hand and cogni-
tive and cultural evolution on the other is a research avenue that has been undertak-
en multiple times in the past. This attempt was first systematized in the discipline
called “evolutionary epistemology” (Campbell 1960; Gontier 2006b).
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 43
4. The potential of the CAS approach for the study of natural languages
8 The fact that historical linguistics and historical biology can be recognized as two
specific areas of a general theory of evolution and viewed through complex sys-
tems theory was discussed early on by Stevick (1963: 169), who asserted that “they
were particular developments of a general model of persistence with modification
of complex systems”. In other words, languages and species are both systems which
exist and persist through time, while changing as they do (cf. McMahon 1994:
314–340, esp. 335). Furthermore, in the works of Boas (1928) and especially Kroe-
ber (1923), language was already recognized as a self-organizing, “superorganic”
structure.
44 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
It is our belief that those working in HCL can profit from becoming more
familiar with the work in these allied disciplines of cognitive science which
is informed by CAS approaches. More specifically, simulations that integrate
CAS modeling and its central notion of self-organization – as it is laid out and
discussed by Frank (2008b, 2009) and by evolutionary linguists such as Steels
(2004) – are closely aligned with the view of language as “distributed cogni-
10 We would like to express our appreciation to the anonymous reviewer for his/her
suggestions concerning the conceptual linkages holding between a CAS approach
to language and recent directions in social and variational studies within cognitive
linguistics.
46 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
For example, the path formed by an ant society is an emergent phenomenon of the
actions of the individual ants. There is no global coordination nor supervision and
the individual ants cannot oversee the total path. Nevertheless the path is more
than an epiphenomenon. It plays a causal role in the behavior of the individual ants.
The path is formed by pheromones deposited by the ants as they follow the already
existing trail. The more ants deposit pheromone the stronger the path becomes and
the more the path causally impacts the behavior of the individual ants. Without the
path the ants would move in all directions. (Steels 1999: 144)
The first principle concerns the boundaries of the unit of analysis for cognition:
• Distributed cognition looks for cognitive processes in the functional re-
lationships between elements that participate together in a process – the
traditional cognitive unit of analysis is the individual.
The second principle concerns the range of mechanisms that may be assumed
to take part in cognitive processes:
• While traditional views look for cognitive events in the manipulation of
symbols inside individual actors, distributed cognition looks for a broader
class of cognitive events and does not expect all such events to be encom-
passed by the skin or skull of an individual.
When one applies these principles to the observation of human activity, various
distributions of cognitive processes become apparent. The following three are
of particular interest:
• Cognitive processes may be distributed across members of a social group.
• Cognitive processes may involve coordination between internal and exter-
nal (material, environment) structure.
• Cognitive processes may be distributed through time, so that the products
of earlier events can transform the nature of later events.
acquired, is used, and changes. These processes are not independent from one
another but are aspects of “the same complex adaptive system (CAS)” (Beck-
ner et al. in prep). Hence, we allege that the CAS approach reveals commonali-
ties across many areas of language research, including historical linguistics,
psycholinguistics, language evolution, first and second language acquisition
and computational modeling.
As Beckner et al. (in prep.) point out, the “CAS approach reveals commonali-
ties in many areas of language research, including first and second language
acquisition, historical linguistics, psycholinguistics, language evolution and
computational modeling”. Moreover, another advantage of CAS thinking is
that it provides conceptual structure and terminology that is well recognized
across the disciplines, while it also avoids some of the pitfalls of more geneti-
cally-inspired linguistic models, those that tighten the blend, so to speak, to in-
clude, for example, linguistic counterparts of DNA, or even the “genes/memes/
linguemes” analogical sequence proposed by Croft (2000). In some instances
the heuristic afforded by the biological source can be perceived as exercising
excessive control over the conceptual shape of the resulting analogically con-
ceived linguistic target (Ansaldo 2003). Naturally, in the process of developing
new conceptual tools for examining language change and exploring the field
of evolutionary linguistics, these cross-disciplinary analogies will continue to
be developed. At the same time, however, the analogies elicited can give rise
to problems concerning their suitability, the one-to-one applicability of the
biological source to a particular language phenomenon.
For example, it is difficult to characterize the unit of language evolution.
Croft, when introducing the notion of a lingueme, recognizes that “In biological
evolution, the gene determines to a great extent the structure of the organism,
that is, the organism’s phenotype. […] In language use, it seems to be the other
way around: the speaker’s grammatical knowledge, also called her grammar,
determines to a great extent the structure of the linguemes” (Croft forthcoming
b). Moreover, when speaking of linguistic models that draw heavily on the heu-
ristic provided by biological sources, for those working in cognitive linguistics
a certain level of discomfort or even distrust might be elicited by models that
have their roots too firmly planted in the Chomskyan modular paradigm, e. g.,
the genes/memes analogy where language is sometimes viewed as a “meme”
or “virus of the mind”, or more broadly, where language change is viewed as
a process of “exact replication of linguistic information” between individu-
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 53
als and from one generation to the next, another type of epidemiology and a
position that dominates in certain sectors of traditional cognitivist thinking
(Christiansen 1994: 125–126, in prep.; Deacon 1997: 110–115; Hohenberger
2002; Jenkins 1997, 2000). In contrast we could cite the work of researchers
working from within somewhat different frameworks such as Enfield (2003),
Gontier (2006a, 2007, 2008) and Sperber (1996, 2000)12 where the emphasis is
on analogies to “horizontal” or epidemiological transfers. A similar perspec-
tive is found in recent work on “discourse metaphor” (Chilton 2005; Musolff
2006, 2008; Musolff and Zinken 2009; Zinken, Hellsten and Nerlich 2008).
But the hardest problem we are faced with is the difficulty in locating the
site of agency in language. This issue has often been compared to the problem
of agency associated with “the theory of the invisible hand”, while language
itself has been categorized as “a phenomenon of the third kind”, based on the
fact that it looks like something that was brought about by prior design, but was
not (Keller 1994: 61–107). According to Keller, “phenomena of the third kind”
can be perceived and described on the micro-level as well as on a macro-level,
while he compares language itself to something much more highly complex
than a system of footpaths, yet similar in its constitution, an analogy that reso-
nates strongly with complex adaptive systems thinking, the notion of circular
causality, as well as that of stigmergy (cf. also Mufwene 2003). Moreover, today
many of the systems that Keller listed as belonging to this class of “phenenoma
of the third kind” are regularly modeled using a complex adaptive systems
framework where agency becomes distributed throughout the system.13
6. Concluding thoughts
Over the past two decades developments in the field of cognitive science have
brought together pre-existing methodologies and theoretical approaches from
a wide variety of disciplines and at the same time promoted cross-disciplinary
dialogue relating to the development of new methodologies and theoretical
frameworks (cf. Bono 1990, 1993, 1995). As we have noted, this cross-fertil-
ization has been particularly rich in the case of researchers concerned with
modeling language in a number of new settings, e. g., those involved in working
with artificial distributed agents associated with research projects in AI and
12 Most readers will also be familiar with the seminal work by Sperber and Wilson
(2004).
13 For additional discussion of agency in language as well as the difficulties associ-
ated with the gene-meme-lingueme equivalencies, cf. Frank (2008b).
54 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
14 Of particular note are the following centers working on “artificial societies”: the
Santa Fe Institute, the University of Michigan Center for the Study of Complex
Systems and the Brookings Institution. Cf. also the Journal of Artificial Societies
and Social Simulation and Epstein & Axtell (1996).
On constructing a research model for historical cognitive linguistics 55
15 The same would hold for the possibility of enriching approaches put forward by
Mufwene (2001) and Keller (1994). In this sense, while Croft appropriates the
terminology utilized by Hull, relatively uncritically, Mufwene distances himself
somewhat more, drawing on the language-as-species trope, but making it crys-
tal clear in his writings that this metaphorical-analogical appropriation of terms
should not be excessively tightened nor understood too literally. In turn, he fre-
quently brings up the many disanalogies that come into play when applying this
trope and the heuristic disadvantages of it. In addition, he occasionally brings into
play concepts and terminology associated with non-linear systems. At the same
time, Croft, too, often expresses his own reservations. Cf. Ansaldo (2003: 123) for
further relevant discussion of Croft’s model.
56 Roslyn M. Frank and Nathalie Gontier
Little would need to be changed in the above paragraph in order to make it ap-
ply to language and language change, other than substituting a word here and
there, e. g., “language” for “culture”, “linguistic artifacts” for “cultural items”,
etc.
Thus, there are significant benefits that would accrue by adapting a CAS
modeling technique for conceptualizing language, not the least of which would
be the fact that by using a framework whose terminology is recognized across
the disciplines we would obtain a kind of passport that would allow HCL re-
search to more readily cross these disciplinary boundaries. At the same time
the adoption and application of such CAS terminology and associated con-
cepts, e. g., “extended mind”, “cultural conceptualizations” and “feedback
loops”, to linguistic data would allow us to begin communicating in what is al-
ready rapidly becoming the lingua franca of social and behavioral sciences. In
sum, CAS approaches are already part of a cross-disciplinary research frame-
work that is circulating in many subfields within the biological and informa-
tion sciences. And perhaps more importantly, it is gradually gaining currency
in many other related subfields brought together under the umbrella term of
cognitive science. In short, since the CAS framework and its related terminol-
ogy are already widespread in many fields of cognitive science, our adoption of
this framework and terminology in HCL would allow for fluid communication
across the disciplines and perhaps bring about unexpected synergist results.
Acknowledgements
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Andreas Musolff
Abstract
How can diachronic variation be accounted for in cognitive metaphor theory? Should
it be viewed as an accidental aspect of “mere” language use, or as a significant aspect
of historical semantics? If the latter – how does the cognitive approach relate to the
research traditions of conceptual history/history of ideas? The paper discusses these
questions with regard to the history of the metaphor of a state is a (human) body. Its
use can be traced back to medieval times and even to antiquity but the metaphor is also
productive in present-day political discourse. Does such continuity of use constitute
a “historical” tradition in an empirically testable sense, or are we just dealing with
successive instances of a fundamentally ahistorical cognitive operation? The paper
concludes with a proposal to view cognitive, historical and discursive dimensions of
metaphor analysis as complementary aspects.
1. Introduction
Four centuries separate the two quotations cited above; the latter is a pun at-
tached to the famous “fable of the belly”, which the Roman Senator Menenius
in Shakespeare’s play uses to pacify rebellious plebeians. The fable, which
can be traced back to the Aesopian tradition and was popular with Roman
historians since Livy’s History of Rome (Shakespeare’s source) explains that
seemingly idle rulers are entitled to receive their revenues to redistribute them
1 This paper has benefited greatly from comments on earlier versions by participants
of the ICLC 10 workshop on “Historical Cognitive Linguistics” as well as by Jörg
Zinken, Zoltán KĘvecses and Felicity Rash and two anonymous reviewers.
Metaphor in discourse history 71
justly to all other “organs of state”, in analogy to the seemingly “idle” belly or
stomach in a human body that takes all the nourishment from the “working”
limbs. The lesson of the fable is the maxim that if the body members rebel
and do not pass the food to the belly for redistribution, they all die together.2
The Tory Mayor of London since 2008, Boris Johnson, might have approved
of the conservative slant of the fable but he likened himself self-deprecatingly
to an even “lower” body part than the one which Menenius used to denigrate
the leader of the Plebeian rebellion: the toenail, just as the toe, stands low in
the hierarchy of the human anatomy.
How should we connect these two metaphors, which are evidently based on
similar mappings of source and target concepts? Cognitive metaphor analysis,
whether in the form of conceptual metaphor theory or blending theory (Grady,
Oakley and Coulson 1999; Fauconnier and Turner 2002), can deal with the toe-
and toenail-metaphors as near-parallel cases, as far as the conceptual domains
or mental spaces and the implied body hierarchy are concerned. Of course,
the discursive and social contexts of Menenius and Johnson’s utterances are
extremely divergent, but does this matter for the analysis of metaphor as a
cognitive phenomenon? If yes, how does the cognitive approach relate to the re-
search traditions of conceptual history/history of ideas and discourse history?
This paper attempts to outline theoretical and methodological issues that may
be of relevance in answering these questions.
Historical investigations have not been the foremost concern of cognitive
metaphor analysis so far. Even if the historicity of conceptual metaphor systems
such as the Great Chain of Being was acknowledged, as in Lakoff and Turner
(1989: 166–167), the main emphasis was put on the synchronic investigation
of the metaphor’s “basic version” that is “largely unconscious and so funda-
mental to our thinking that we barely notice it” and that “occurs throughout a
wide range of the world’s cultures” (Lakoff and Turner 1989: 167). In cognitive
“embodiment” theory, the role of the body as the experiential and physiologi-
cal basis of perception and conceptualization has been explored further, with
special regard to its biological foundations in neurological structures and to
2 For the tradition of the “fable of the belly” see Hale (1971: 25–27), Guldin (2000:
101–103).
72 Andreas Musolff
3 See Johnson (1987); Lakoff and Johnson (1999); Grady and Johnson (2002); Gibbs
(2006).
4 See Kövecses (1995), (2005), (2006); Geeraerts and Grondelaers (1995); Gevaert
(2005).
5 See Yu (2008: 401–403).
6 See Fabiszak (2007); Goatly (2007); Musolff (2004b), (2008).
Metaphor in discourse history 73
ity as they have become lexialised, but this does not concern the underlying
conceptual mapping a state is a body. Some extensions of this mapping,
especially the extension social order of a state is health of a body, have
been applied in 20th century and current political discourse in Europe and
the USA to give emphatic expression to strongly biased ideological perspec-
tives (see below, 3.3). The course of semantic “fading” thus seems to have
been reversed – is this the start of a new “life cycle” for the metaphor or just
a “revival” of its original resonance? Is such a “revival” only to be treated as
evidence of the universality of the respective embodied source concepts, or do
we need to take culture-specific discourse traditions into account as parts of
the cognitive analysis?
3. Religion, politics and racism: scenes from the life of the Body Politic
To find ways of answering these questions, linguists have to take notice of the
research findings in disciplines such as historical semantics, conceptual his-
tory and political philosophy, whilst reflecting the methodological differences
and resulting mediation problems. In Cultural and Political History, the term
body politic is still used to denote political and social entities or groups of
them.7 Building on classic accounts of the body politic concept in the “history
of ideas” by F. W. Maitland, E. M. W. Tillyard and E. H. Kantorowicz and oth-
ers, which were first published in the 1930s–50s,8 a vibrant research tradition
on this topic area has emerged that still continues in the studies of Hale (1971),
Harris (1998), Soll (2002), Banks (2009), Zavadil (2009), Mouton (2009), to
name but a few. Most of these studies are not written from a specifically cogni-
tive perspective (with the exception of Mouton’s in-depth critique of ahistoric
tendencies in parts of cognitive theory) and many of the methodological and
theoretical tenets of conceptual history have changed since the early “history
of ideas” studies.9 Neo-Hegelian assumptions concerning an idea’s immanent
“dialectic” working through its manifestations in history, or an era’s character-
istic “world picture” have been largely discarded. Still the project of writing an
idea’s history presupposes a narrative schema that imposes its own logic on the
7 See, for instance, de Baeque (1997); Egan (1999); Olwig (2002); Morissey (2006);
Musselmann (2006).
8 See Tillyard (1982), Kantorowicz (1997), Maitland (2003).
9 See the seminal critique of the early “history of ideas” approaches in Skinner (1978,
vol. 1: x–xv); for a detailed debate see the contributions in Hampsher-Monk, Til-
mans, and van Vree (1998).
74 Andreas Musolff
3.1. The body politic in the Middle Ages: John of Salisbury’s Policraticus
(1) For a republic is, as Plutarch declares, a sort of body […] The position of
the head of the republic is occupied by a prince subject only to God and
to those who act in His place on earth, inasmuch as in the human body
the head is stimulated and ruled by the soul. The place of the heart is
occupied by the senate […] the feet coincide with peasants perpetually
bound to the soil, for whom it is all the more necessary that the head take
precautions, in that they more often meet with accidents while they walk
on the earth […]. Remove from the fittest body the aid of the feet; it does
not proceed under its own power, but either crawls shamefully, uselessly
and offensively on its hands or else is moved with the assistance of brute
animals. (John of Salisbury 1990: 66–67).10
On account of his head-to-feet depiction of the res publica, John’s text was
judged by E. M. W. Tillyard as “one of the most elaborate medieval statements”
of the body-state analogy within the Great Chain of Being (Tillyard 1982:
103). For Tillyard, the “world picture” of the Middle Ages “was that of an or-
dered universe arranged in a fixed system of hierarchies but modified by man’s
sin and the hope of his redemption”; it was a system of “correspondences” that
could be compared “with a gigantic game where everything is included and ev-
ery act is conducted under the most complicated system of rules” (1982: 13–14).
He contrasts this idealized medieval worldview with that of the “Elizabethans”
who “no longer allowed the details to take the form of minute mathematical
equivalences: they made the imagination use these for its own ends; equiva-
lences shaded off into resemblances” (1982: 107). The medieval worldview, in
this interpretation, did not allow for a truly metaphorical interpretation of the
Great Chain correspondences such as that between human anatomy and social
order: they belonged in a system of “equivalences” that was literally believed
in as an ontology underwritten by Christian doctrine.
However, when we look closer at the text of Policraticus, we find that some
aspects of John’s explication of the body-state analogy do not fit its interpre-
tation as a standard version of a stable, medieval-as-premodern “world pic-
ture”. It is true that the medieval feudal order is represented in the head-to-feet
anatomical hierarchy but this aspect is in fact counterbalanced by the maxim,
which John re-emphasizes throughout Policraticus (chapters 6–17 of Book V,
chapters 1–20 and 24–29 of Book VI), that, notwithstanding their different
10 For the Latin original of these and further examples from Policraticus see John
of Salisbury (1965). Most scholars have declared the reference to Plutarch to be
a literary fiction; see, for instance, Liebeschütz (1950: 23–24), Nederman (1990:
xxi).
76 Andreas Musolff
positions in the God-given hierarchy, all parts of the “political body” depend
on each other and must work together to enable the whole body to stay healthy
and function properly.11
Such relativisation of the seemingly static anatomy of the “political body” is
also evident in a further version of the body-state metaphor in Policraticus in
the form of the “fable of the belly”, which is presented as a moral-political les-
son taught to the author by Pope Adrian IV. According to John, he was prompt-
ed by the pontiff to report on complaints of corruption and simony against the
church and, after having done so, he challenged the Pope: “If you are father,
[…] why do you accept presents and payments from your children?” (John of
Salisbury 1990: 135). The Pope then told the fable as an instruction to “mea-
sure neither our harshness nor that of secular princes, but attend to the utility of
all” (1990: 136). Whilst the belly-v.-members version of the body-state map-
ping is obviously different to the head-to-feet version in terms of the source
domain concepts, the argumentative import is arguably similar, i. e. a double
focus on the obedience that the lower members owe their secular and spiritual
authorities and at the same time on the duty of all body members to co-operate.
But the Policraticus presents a further body politic model which is the very
opposite of a well-ordered political universe; this is the “republic of the impi-
ous”:
(2) Its tyrannical head […] is the image of the devil; its soul is formed of
heretical, schismatic and sacrilegious priests […]; the heart of impious
counsellors is like a senate of iniquity; its eyes, ears, tongue and un-
armed hand are unjust officials, judges and laws; its armed hand is vio-
lent soldiers […] its feet are those among the more humble occupations
who oppose the precepts of the Lord and legitimate institutions. (John of
Salisbury 1990: 193–194)
Here, the body-state analogy receives the opposite target input to that of a
Christian kingdom. From the head down to the feet, the devil’s anti-state forms
a body mirroring that of the proper state, but now the function of every body
part is destructive. That such a devilish res publica was not just a theoretical
horror vision becomes clear when we read John’s advice to the Prince in case
11 These anti-hierarchical aspects have been linked to the reformist 12th century
“medieval humanism” movement, see Liebeschütz (1950: 22); Nederman (1990:
xvi), Bass (1997: 203–210); Guldin (2000: 57–58) and to John’s condemnation of
“tyranny” in book IV of the Policraticus and his involvement in the conflict be-
tween the Crown and the Archbishops of Canterbury (Struve 1978, 1984: 309).
Metaphor in discourse history 77
any of his subject body parts does rebel. Relying on the authority of the famous
passage from the New Testament (Matthew, 18: 9, “If your eye or your foot of-
fend you, root it out and cast it away from you”), John explains what seems to
him to be the only possible solution:
(3) I think this is to be observed by the prince in regard to all of the mem-
bers to the extent that not only are they to be rooted out, broken off and
thrown far away, if they give offence to the faith or public security, but
they are to be destroyed utterly so that the security of the corporate com-
munity may be procured by the extermination of the one member. Who
will be spared, I say, by him who is commanded to do violence against
even his own eyes? (John of Salisbury 1990: 140–141)
Ptolemy of Lucca, Giles of Rome, Marsilius of Padua, John Wyclyf and Nicho-
las of Cusa, who advocated amputation or strong medication as a means of
curing the body politic from its illnesses (Shogimen 2008: 89–91). There are of
course also differences between the treatises of the 12th century Anglo-French
Bishop John of Salisbury and the 15th century Cardinal of Cusa but they and
others seem to share the culture-specific preference for radical crisis solution/
therapy in their application of the body-state metaphor. Shogimen traces this
European tradition back to the early medieval reception of ancient Latin and
Greek literature, e. g. Cicero’s concept of the medicus rei publicae in On Du-
ties, which in turn was based on the metaphor of “punishment as cure” in Ar-
istotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (2008: 91–92). For the Japanese side, the political
healthcare imagery had its roots in religious and legal restrictions of traditional
Japanese medicine; in the course of the 18th–19th centuries, both the source
knowledge system and its metaphorical application “gave way to the Western
counterpart of the eradication of pathological causes” (2008: 102–103).
Shogimen thus demonstrates that culture-specific traditions in the develop-
ment of a conceptual metaphor can be reconstructed and plausibly motivated
with reference to specific textual continuities that differ across cultures. They
help to make sense of an otherwise seemingly idiosyncratic variation of the
metaphor and they provide testable hypotheses about cultural differences in
the development of key concepts in politics. Further empirical corrobora-
tion is needed, e. g. for the “Western”/“European” side as regards other likely
candidates for originator texts for body imagery such as the Pauline biblical
tradition,12 with similar provisos for the Japanese side. But such a reconstruc-
tion offers a new way of generalizing over cultural and periodic ensembles of
texts without pressing them into the straitjacket of a supposedly “worldview”
of a particular age. Crucially, they are specific enough to formulate empirical
hypotheses about metaphor variation at the concrete level of documented texts
that build up to discourse traditions.
3.2. The body politic in the 17th century: Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan
12 For the medieval reception of biblical and patristic traditions of the political body
metaphor see Nedermann and Forhan (1993); Bass (1997); Kantorowicz (1997:
42–86); Kempshall 1999.
Metaphor in discourse history 79
(4) […] the Soveraignty is an Artificiall Soul, as giving life and motion
to the whole body; The Magistrates, and other Officers of Judicature
and Execution, artificiall Joynts; Reward and Punishment […] are the
Nerves […] The Wealth and Riches of all the particular members, are the
Strength; Salus Populi (the peoples safety) its Businesse; Counsellors
[…] are the Memory; Equity and Lawes, an artificiall Reason and Will;
Concord, Health; Sedition, Sicknesse; and Civill war, Death. […] the
Pacts and Covenants, by which the parts of this Body Politique were at
first made […] resemble that Fiat, or the Let us make man, pronounced
by God in the Creation (Hobbes 1996: 9–10).
13 For the interpretation of the frontispiece see Brandt (1987); Mintz (1989); Mal-
colm (2002: 220–233); for the central function of the body-state metaphor in
Hobbes’s political philosophy: Johnston (1986); Bertman (1991); Mintz (1996);
Skinner (1996: 387–390), (2002: 177–208).
80 Andreas Musolff
At the same time it alludes to the tradition of contrasting the body natural and
the body politic, which had acquired constitutional status to differentiate the
personal and political obligations of the King in 16th century England (Kan-
torowicz 1997: 7–41 and passim). In chapter 23 of Leviathan, Hobbes gives
a further list that matches “parts Organicall” with “Publique ministers”, e. g.,
“Protectors, Vice-Roys, and Governors” as “Nerves, and Tendons”, teachers,
moral instructors and judges as the “Voice”, officers of justice as “Hands”,
ambassadors and spies as “Eyes” and receivers of petitions as the “Eare”
(Hobbes 1996: 167–169). There are some overlaps between the two lists of
elements in these body/person-state analogies; the nerves, for instance, ap-
pear twice, once as Reward and Punishment, in the first list and then as the
top echelon of “Publique Ministers” in the second. Curiously, head and heart
are not included in the anatomy of the body politic in the text of Leviathan.14
Taken together, the two lists present a more differentiated political physiology
than the one used in the Policraticus, as many more organs and bodily pro-
cesses are mentioned. Furthermore, Hobbes’s physiological body concept is to
some extent mechanistic: he thinks of the body’s life as “a motion of Limbs”
and asks, rhetorically, “what is the Heart, but a Spring; and the Nerves, but
so many Strings; and the Joynts, but so many Wheeles, giving motion to the
whole Body?” (1996: 9). It follows that if the “body natural” can be thought of
as a mechanism, so can the artificial “body politic” of the state.
This perspective on bodies natural and politic as machines has been con-
nected with the gradual replacement of traditional Galenic theories of medi-
cine based on the notion of the “four humors” by the theory of blood circula-
tion and to the general advent of mechanistic models in the sciences in the
17th century.15 Such motivations indicate a further explanatory dimension for
the analysis of diachronic metaphor variation: source-related innovations can
motivate changes in the metaphoric mapping and thus lead to new target con-
cepts. However, some methodological caution is called for against a one-sided
emphasis on the influence of new, scientific source-knowledge. Despite his
well-documented acquaintance with the contemporary mechanical concep-
tion of the body promoted by René Descartes (1596–1650), and his admiration
for William Harvey’s (1578–1657) theory of blood circulation,16 Hobbes falls
back on pre-modern humoral terminology whenever it suits him, for instance
when he describes political illnesses and diseases in chapter 29 of Leviathan.
For instance, he likens conspiracies to “Wens, Biles, and Apostemes, engen-
14 The crowned sovereign’s head is, however, visually present in the frontispiece.
15 See Hale (1971: 129–130); Harris (1998: 141–142); Guldin (2000: 89–91).
16 See Johnston (1986: 123–124); Guldin (2000: 80–89).
Metaphor in discourse history 81
The most infamous instance of political body/illness imagery in the 20th century
can be found in Hitler’s Mein Kampf and in Nazi propaganda in general. Its
traumatic memory is strong enough to be rekindled to this day; thus, a German
politician who spoke of the “homogeneity of the German national body” (Homo-
genität des deutschen Volkskörpers) in the immigration debate was accused of
“pouring oil into the fire” of racial conflicts (Die Zeit, 18 June 1998); President
Ahmadinejad of Iran elicited outraged comparisons with Hitler for denouncing
the state of Israel as a tumour that must be eradicated (The Times 9 December
2005). What is it that made Hitler’s use of body-state mappings so powerful
that they resonate as a distinct form of rhetoric for several generations?
For Hitler, the body-state mapping was less a “metaphor” in the rhetorical
sense than the basis for his whole worldview. According to this ideology, Ger-
many was threatened by a deadly disease that had been caused by the racial
poisoning of its Nordic-Aryan populace by its Jewish enemy race:
(5) This poison [‘of Jewish origin’] was able to penetrate the bloodstream of
our people unhindered and to do its work, and the state was not strong
enough to master the disease. (Hitler 1933: 268; 1992: 224).
(6) [The Jew] is and remains the typical parasite, a sponger who, like an
infectious bacillus, keeps spreading as soon as a favourable medium
invites him. And the effect of his existence is also similar to that of
spongers: wherever he appears, the host nation dies out after a shorter or
longer period. (Hitler 1933: 334; 1992: 277).
17 For detailed analyses of Hitler’s biological and medical metaphor system see
Hawkins (2001); Rash (2005), (2006: 160–169); Chilton (2005), Musolff (2007).
Metaphor in discourse history 83
18 See Weindling (1989); Weikart (2004); for critical assessment of the degree of
influence of social darwinism see Evans (1997: 137–144).
19 See Friedländer (1998: 87); Bärsch (2002: 291–298).
20 See Lovejoy (1936: 313); Tillyard (1982: 117); Kantorowicz (1997: xviii–xix).
21 See Musolff (2004a: 83–114, 2004b) for examples from the context of British and
German debates on EU politics; e. g., anorexia, arteries, birth, blood clot, cya-
nide, death, fever, gall bladder, heart, head, health, liver, muscles, pill, poison,
paralysis, sclerosis, surgery.
84 Andreas Musolff
The preceding sketches of three stages in the history of the body politic meta-
phor are not intended to suggest an overall narrative of its conceptual devel-
opment: they leave open large gaps in chronology and inter-textual traditions.
Nevertheless, these case studies can help us to outline some of the contours of a
cognitively informed discourse history. On the one hand, they show continuities
in the discursive (especially, argumentative and ideological) purposes and ef-
fects of the body politic metaphor and its extensions into illness-, therapy-, and
specifically, radical cure-scenarios, which allow us to conceive of the feasibility
in principle of reconstructing the discourse history of the metaphor. On the other
hand, some early “history of ideas” hypotheses about the metaphor’s overall
“life cycle” have been put in question, if not refuted. Medieval texts, such as John
of Salisbury’s Policraticus did not prove to be less conceptually flexible and re-
flective than Renaissance uses nor did they or Hobbes’s Leviathan provide more
“balanced”, optimistic conceptualisations of radical cures for an afflicted body
than Hitler’s horror-scenarios of racial therapy. In comparison, the latter use
might even be viewed as being the least “metaphorical” one in a rhetorical sense,
when we consider its “literal” implementation in the Holocaust.
The continued use of the metaphor after its conceptual nadir in Nazi pro-
paganda, both in its reflective, historically indexed form and in ideologically
unmarked contexts, provides a strong incentive to discard the “life-cycle” met-
aphor for conceptual history altogether, both in its “history of ideas” version
and in an ahistorical cognitive understanding (see above, section 2). The model
of a metaphor coinage or “meme” that turns into a “faded” terminological ex-
pression and is perhaps “revived” through renewed interpretation (on the basis
of universal “embodied” cognitive structures) simply does not do justice to the
complexity of co-existing uses at various levels of the metaphoric mapping,
e. g., in the form of “faded” terminology (head of state) and in original coin-
ages (toenail of body politic) and in history-sensitive, reflective uses (nation’s
body = reminiscent of Nazi-rhetoric). In particular, the documented judgements
Metaphor in discourse history 85
about what is “politically correct” to say and what is not (e. g. the stigmatized
status of the term Volkskörper in German public debate) provide empirical
evidence of collective memories of the body-state metaphor’s historical role
that are carried forward as a kind of historical stigma-index in all further uses.
Taking account of this historical dimension does not mean at all that cogni-
tive analysis is superfluous: on the contrary, it is indispensable to explicate the
core mappings and scenarios that are required for the metaphor to be used.
But it needs to be complemented by conceptual history and discourse history
perspectives that allow us to reconstruct inter-textual relationships in text-
ensembles, which form historical discourse traditions. The evidence for such
traditions can be found in the socio-cultural memory of speakers and hearers
who remember, for instance, that certain illness-scenarios are “politically in-
correct” or that expressions such as body politic have a quasi-terminological
historical resonance. Such memories may vary in relation to historical exper-
tise, political interest, etc., but some residual degree of memory can in my view
be expected for most users but evidently, further empirical research is needed
in this regard.
According to this view, cognitive and historical analyses do not contradict or
exclude each other; their necessary mediation can be provided by a discourse
history that relates the argumentative bias of metaphoric mappings and sce-
narios to the communicative effects in the socio-historical contexts. It is, after
all, only in empirical discourses that continuities and discontinuities in the
patterns of metaphor use can be identified. These diachronic patterns may be
interpreted as “selective variation” in Croft’s (2000) model of language “evolu-
tion”: the discourse-historical approach thus need not exclude an “evolutionist”
perspective either. However, the conditions for such variation and its results
(i. e. the competitive success of certain metaphor versions over others) need to
be socio-culturally situated and motivated, in order to become accessible to
theoretical modelling and to critical reflection.
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3. Cognitive Approaches to Syntactic Change
Where do beneficiaries come from and how do they
come about? Sources for beneficiary expressions in
Classical Greek and the typology of beneficiary
Silvia Luraghi
Abstract
In this paper, I examine two ways of coding beneficiary expressions in Ancient Greek:
the plain dative and various prepositional phrases. The coding of Beneficiary through
the dative case is attested throughout the history of the Greek language, and appears to
be inherited from Proto-Indo-European. Prepositional phrases, on the other hand, are a
more recent means of expression; their extension from space to more abstract relations
is often documented in texts from different periods.
My discussion addresses the following points:
• Types of beneficiary: benefactive (as in Mary bought a book for John), behalf (as in
I came on my friend’s behalf ), and malefactive (as in My horse died on me).
• The relation between recipient and various types of beneficiary: the dative and the
preposition eis can indicate recipient, besides they can extend to both benefactive
and malefactive. When other prepositions occur, which are not connected with re-
cipient, benefactive and malefactive are based on different spatial metaphors.
• A close connection is sometimes assumed to exist between benefactive and re-
cipient: however, in Greek the most frequently used means of encoding benefactive
(and behalf) do not also encode recipient.
• Greek offers evidence for a possible connection between benefactive/behalf, and
purpose, to the exclusion of recipient.
1. Introduction*
* I thank Seppo Kittilä and an anonymous reviewer for helpful comments on an ear-
lier version of this paper.
1 That is, during the time span that precedes the loss of the dative case in Byzantine
Greek.
2 See Luraghi (2003).
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 95
Typically, from the syntactic point of view, beneficiary is a role taken by ad-
verbials, rather than by arguments, that is, beneficiary constituents are non-
obligatory. Accordingly, (2) is also possible:
3 ‘Situation’ is used here and in the rest of the paper to indicate all types of state of
affairs.
4 “eine kontrollierte, enthält also einen Actor, der hier der Benefizient ist. In einer
prototypischen benefaktiven Situation ist weiterhin ein Undergoer eingeschlossen,
der als Benefaktum zugunsten des Benefiziärs geschaffen […] wird. […] Bene-
faktive Situationen ohne Benefizient oder ohne Benefaktum sind nicht prototy-
pisch.”
5 Lehmann et al. (2000) do not add examples of these two types of non-prototypical
beneficiary situations.
6 Note that This handbook is very useful is also possible: I do not consider such sen-
tences here because the beneficiary is not expressed, albeit implied (if something is
useful, it must necessarily be useful for somebody).
96 Silvia Luraghi
Example (3) does not contain a beneficient (there is no agent NP), but it does
contain a benefactum, which here is syntactically the subject, i. e. the NP this
book. Example (4), on the other hand, does not contain a benefactum, but it
does contain a beneficient, the agent/subject NP the lawyer. Note further that
example (4) may have the two readings in (4a) and (4b):
I will elaborate on the difference between the two possible interpretations (and
the two possible states of affairs) in the next section.
Smith (2005) focuses on the difference between beneficiary in the case that the
state of affairs in which the beneficiary occurs is brought about by an agent or
not, and writes that “One type [of beneficiary construction] always includes an
agent, and it expresses the idea that the agent intentionally carries out the act
for the affectee, and the act is presented as good for the affectee. I refer to this
type as the ‘agentive benefactive’ construction. The other covers more general
benefactive events, and I call this type the ‘event benefactive’ construction […]
whenever an event is agentless, it is always expressed by an event benefactive
construction” (2005: 41).7
Event beneficiary corresponds to non-prototypical cases in which, using the
terminology in Lehmann et al. (2000), no beneficient occurs; agentive ben-
eficiary, on the other hand, may correspond to prototypical beneficiary, if a
benefactum also occurs, or it may correspond to non-prototypical beneficiary
in which there is an agent, but no benefactum. So, with respect to the examples
in section 2.1, agentive beneficiary includes beneficiaries in (1), (4a) and (4b),
while event beneficiary corresponds to the beneficiary in (3).
It needs to be remarked at this point that all types of agentive beneficiary, i. e.
all beneficiary situations that contain a human beneficient, either prototypical
or not, contain a possible controller, under whose intentionality the situation is
brought about. As we will see in sections 3 and 4, the feature of intentionality
plays an important role in the coding of beneficiary in Classical Greek, even
where no activity is overtly indicated (i. e. with states).
7 I borrow Smith’s terminology in the rest of this paper, with some differences de-
scribed below.
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 97
Note that my definition of event beneficiary in this paper does not corre-
spond exactly to the definition in Smith (2005), because it does not include
situations in which neither a beneficient nor a benefactum occur, such as the
ones in (5) and (6) (from Smith 2010):
8 This type of beneficiary is also called “deputative-benefactive”; see Van Valin and
LaPolla (1997: 384).
98 Silvia Luraghi
(8) The vice president delivered a speech on behalf of the president, who
was absent.
Here, the beneficiary benefits from the activity of the agent as a whole, rather
than from the benefactum. The existence of a benefactum remains on the back-
ground, because the important fact in this case is substitution. This is also
remarked in Kittilä (2005: 273), who writes: “whether the result of the event
is regarded as beneficial is less relevant here”. Thus, events containing behalf
beneficiary are similar to non-prototypical beneficiary events that do not con-
tain a benefactum, even in cases in which a concrete object is made or effected
to the benefit of the beneficiary.
Indeed, as noted in Lehmann et al. (2000: 93), a beneficiary is prototypically
conceived of as exerting some degree of control over the benefactum. This
feature of beneficiary is common both to prototypical beneficiary, and to event
beneficiary, thus overriding the possible occurrence of a beneficient.
From the above discussion, it appears that there are two possible poles of the
beneficiary event that may be profiled: either the beneficient or the benefactum.
I will return to the relevance of this possible contrast in the next two sections.
9 See further Kittilä and Zúñiga (2010). An earlier typology of beneficiary can be
found in Van Valin and LaPolla (1997: 382–384).
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 99
As we have already seen in section 2.1, beneficiaries of this type do not gain
control over a concrete entity as a result of benefaction; still, the situation pro-
vides them with some concrete benefaction. I will use the term concrete ben-
eficiaries for beneficiaries as the one in (10).11
As I have argued in 2.2, a further possible feature of benefaction is substi-
tution. Substitution holds in states of affairs in which a person carries out an
action on behalf of somebody else, as in (4b) and (8). According to Kittilä, this
type of beneficiary, i. e. behalf beneficiary in my terminology, groups together
with the second type (non-recipient, concrete beneficiary) in the coding of ben-
eficiary role crosslinguistically. However, the Greek evidence points toward the
existence of a distinction between the two, as we will see in sections 3 and 4.
Based on a sample of genetically unrelated languages, Kittilä finds the fol-
lowing possible types of coding:
(a) tripartite languages, which code recipient, recipient-beneficiary, and other
types of beneficiary in three different ways;
(b) recipient prominent languages, in which recipient-beneficiary is always
coded in the same way as recipient;
In Kittilä’s sample, the only two languages which conform to type (a) are Eng-
lish and Icelandic.12
Note that in his (2005) paper, Kittilä does not mention the other non-proto-
typical type of beneficiary situation mentioned in Lehmann et al. (2000), which
I have called event beneficiary adapting the terminology in Smith (2005), i. e.
the one exemplified in (3), in which there is no agent (no beneficient).
From the above discussion, relevant features for the typology of beneficiary
appear to be the following:
(a) presence/absence of an entity over which the beneficiary gains control and
that s/he may receive as a result of benefaction;
(b) presence/absence of an agent or possible controller by whose intention the
event of benefaction is brought about;
(c) substitution of the beneficiary by another agent.
Combining Kittilä’s typology with the remarks in Lehmann et al. (2000) and in
Smith (2005), I will make use of the following types of beneficiary role:
• recipient beneficiary (RB), as in (1): it occurs in prototypical beneficiary
events, when both a beneficient and a benefactum also occur;
• concrete beneficiary (CB), further subdivided into:
° concrete beneficiary/agentive (agentive CB): it occurs in beneficiary
events in which a beneficient also occurs, but not a benefactum, as in (4a);
° concrete beneficiary/event (event CB): it occurs in beneficiary events in
which a benefactum also occurs, but there is no beneficient (i. e. there is
no agent), as in (3);
• behalf beneficiary (BB), as in (4b), (7), and (8).
As we will see in section 3, this typology does not account for all possible types
of beneficiary in Classical Greek. Consequently, I will argue for the existence
of a further type of event CB (see especially section 3.3.2).
2.5. Malefactive
Also connected with beneficiary, albeit often only mentioned with no further
discussion,13 is malefactive, the role of the entity (normally a human being) to
the detriment of which a state of affairs is brought about, as in (12):
In the latter case, prepositions that code beneficiary and malefactive are differ-
ent: in other words, when more semantic content is expressed the two opposite
notions of benefaction and malefaction are kept distinct. I will elaborate on this
topic below, discussing the Greek data (sec. 3 and 4).
14 Note that expressions such as fight against somebody are not normally treated in
discussions about the malefactive. However, they clearly should be, given the fact
that the parallel expression fight for somebody is usually regarded as containing a
beneficiary.
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 103
The dative case typically codes recipient and addressee in Ancient Greek.15
Third arguments of verbs of giving and verbs of communication, which bear
such semantic roles, take the dative, as shown in (15) and (16):
In (15) the dative hoi ‘to him’ is the third argument of the verb dôka ‘I gave’
and has the semantic role recipient, while in example (16) the dative moi ‘to
me’ is the third argument of the verb eipé ‘tell’ and has the semantic role ad-
dressee. Note that the recipient in (15) can be regarded as the prototypical in-
stance of this semantic role, as argued in Kittilä (2005: 274). The construction
in (15) is the prototypical instance of the “give-construction” in Greek.16
To a limited extent, verbs whose argument structure conforms to the give-
construction may take a PP formed by the preposition eis (Attic) or es (Ionic)
with the accusative.17 This preposition means ‘to’, and usually codes direction
with motion verbs. The occurrence of eis with verbs of giving follows a com-
mon semantic extension, also shown by English to, which conceives of human
beings as destinations, in case they are the target of an event of transfer.
In Classical Greek, eis with the accusative extends to events of transfer lim-
ited to cases where transfer is abstract, as shown in (17) below. Besides, it can
extend to events of communication, which can also be conceived of as abstract
transfer. In (17) eis with the accusative occurs with the verb parékhein ‘offer’,
15 See Schwyzer (1950) for general reference on the use of Greek cases; for further
reference on Homeric Greek, see Chantraine (1953). On the coding of semantic
roles in Homeric and Classical Greek, see Luraghi (2003).
16 See Newman (1998) on recipients and the give-construction.
17 Greek prepositions may take one, two or three different cases. Of the ones consid-
ered in this paper, eis always takes the accusative and pró always takes the geni-
tive, hupér and katá may take either the genitive or the accusative, while prós and
epí may take one of three cases, genitive, dative, or accusative. On the complex
semantic differences connected with case variation in Greek, see Luraghi (2003).
104 Silvia Luraghi
which typically takes the dative, while in (18) it occurs with the verb légein
‘say’:
As I argued in Luraghi (2003: 112–116), eis with the accusative in such pas-
sages is not semantically equivalent to the dative. The preposition profiles a
unidirectional trajectory, while the dative case simply indicates a certain de-
gree of affectedness in Greek (see Luraghi 2003: 63–64). For example, in (18)
the context makes it clear that the passage refers to unidirectional communica-
tion; see Luraghi (2003: 112).
The notion of spatial trajectory is mapped on an abstract plane onto the no-
tion of relation: indeed, eis is common in passages where a relation between
human beings is described as holding from one person toward the other, as in
philía eis tiná ‘friendship towards somebody’.18 Besides, eis with the accusative
does not occur with the verb GtGǀPL ‘give’, i. e. it does not code the prototypical
recipient. Thus, one cannot consider the preposition eis with the accusative as a
possible alternative to the dative for the coding of recipient or addressee. This
type of PP should rather be viewed as providing a coding means for some sort
of other participant, which is similar to recipient or addressee, but occurs in a
construction in which the profiled feature is not reception, but rather a relation,
conceptualized as an (abstract) trajectory.
Closely connected with beneficiary is the so-called dativus sympatheticus,
which occurs in constructions that contain external possessors. Such construc-
18 Note further that eis does not code a concrete direction in events of motion with
the singular of human landmarks in Classical Greek: with such landmarks, this
type of PPs only codes abstract direction, in examples such as the ones mentioned
in this section. See section 4.2.1 for further details.
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 105
The fact that the dative can be employed in such constructions is clearly related
with its use in prototypical beneficiary and malefactive expressions. I am not
going to discuss this matter here, because my main interest is in the meaning
of alternative types of expression (i. e. on the semantic extension undergone by
prepositions, as alternative to the dative).
19 See Haspelmath (1999) for reference on the languages of Europe, and Havers
(1911) on the ancient Indo-European languages, including Greek.
20 Note that both examples can also be considered occurrences of malefactive.
106 Silvia Luraghi
In (21) the dative NP toîs állois ‘the others’ is a RB and the direct object WںQ
HOHXWKHUtDQ ‘freedom’ is the object received through benefaction; in (22)
Samíois ‘the Samians’ is the RB of naûs téssaras ‘four ships’, and in (23) the
pronoun KHǀXW{L ‘him’ is the RB of oikía ‘houses’.
In addition, the preposition es/eis can also code recipient beneficiary to some
extent, as shown in the following examples:
3.3.1. Agentive CB
When an agent, or beneficient, is present, CB is most often coded through the
preposition hupér ‘over’ with the genitive, as shown in (27) and (28):
21 Note that the noun GyVLV ‘gift’ is based on the verb GtGǀPL ‘I give’, which takes a
recipient NP in the dative as its third argument; however, the verbal noun can also
occur without a complement. Thus, HLVDQWKU۸SRXV is an optional constituent.
108 Silvia Luraghi
In (27) the CB hupèr emoû ‘for me’ benefits from the event; note that the con-
text makes clear that the agent helped the speaker in a discussion, rather than
speak in his place. Thus, this is not an instance of BB. Example (28) contains
various instances of CB: KXSqUDPSKRWpUǀQ ‘for both’, hupèr mèn tôn ‘for the
former’, hupèr dè tôn ‘for the latter’. Again, these are not instances of BB: the
passage does not say that the agent acts on behalf of the beneficiary, that is in
the place of the beneficiary, but rather that the agent acts to the benefit of the
beneficiary.
3.3.2. Event CB
Let us now turn to occurrences which do not contain an agent, or beneficient.
Especially with the verb ‘be’, CB can also be coded through the proposition
prós with the genitive, as in (29):
The spatial meaning of prós with the genitive is ‘from the side of’, and it usu-
ally occurs with human landmarks; another extension of its meaning is ‘by’ in
agent phrases. I will discuss the extension to beneficiary below, in section 4.
Note that (29) does not contain an agent; rather, it seems to be an occur-
rence of event beneficiary. However, an oracle is an entity which may exert
influence, and thus, to some extent, control, over a human being. This point
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 109
is made clearer in (30), also with the verb be, where some agency is implied,
albeit not clearly indicated (the subject of the verb be is not an agent), because
the favorable entity is a human being, and the feature of agency implied here
is intentionality:
That the occurrences in (29) and (30) are not completely agentless is also shown
by the fact that where no influence of some possible agent is implied we find
another construction, which is the dative or a PP with eis and the accusative.
Note that coding in this case is the same as for RB. Example (31) contains co-
ordinated occurrences of both constructions:
In (31) event CB is coded once through the dative (toîs polítais ‘for the citi-
zens’), and the second time through a PP formed by es with the accusative (es
toùs pántas xummákhous ‘for all the allies’).
The examples discussed show that not all CBs in this section are the same
regarding the event/agentive parameter. None of the examples discussed con-
tains an acting beneficient; still, in (29) and (30) a potential beneficient is men-
tioned, who is not actively involved in the situation, but still exerts a relevant
feature of agency, that is intentionality as in (30) or control as in (29). Note that
neither (29) nor (30) contain a benefactum (in fact, they contain an intransitive
predicate that indicates a state, the verb ‘be’).
110 Silvia Luraghi
In (31), on the other hand, we find the adjective ǀSKHOLP۸WHURQ ‘more useful’,
a benefactum, teîkhos ‘a wall’, but no mention is made of an agent or benefi-
cient. Thus, only this last example contains a real event CB.
Similar to CB, BB is also coded through hupér with the genitive, as shown in
(32) and (33):
Both in (32) and in (33) reference is made to an agent who acts not only to the
benefit, but in the place of the beneficiary, thus substituting for the beneficiary.
3.5. Malefactive
Depending on specific verbs, malefactive can also be coded through eis with
the accusative, again similar to RB, as in (35):
22 The verb examartánein ‘to wrong’ is not attested in Homer; consequently a dia-
chrony of the constructions in which it occurs cannot be provided.
112 Silvia Luraghi
‘(the gods), who do not put into the Persians’ mind to do an expedition
against the Lydians’ (Hdt. 1.71.4);
Contrary to Classical Greek, RB cannot be coded through eis with the accusa-
tive in Homeric Greek. Thus, RB is always coded in the same way as recipient.
In section 3.3 we saw that the dative can code event CB. In Homer, the dative
occurs both with event CB, as in (43), and with agentive CB. In (41) it is said
that an agent, Cryses, performs the action of praying to the benefit of some-
one. Similarly, in (42) the speaker promises to go to Zeus to the benefit of the
hearer.23
The Homeric data does not seem to support the existence of a specific cod-
ing for semi-agentive CB, as described in sections 3.3.2 and 3.3.3. In passages
where prós with the genitive occurs with the verb ‘be’ and with human or di-
vine landmarks, the PP rather indicates source, as I will show below in section
4.2.3.
It must also be remarked that PPs with eis and the accusative do not occur in
any type of beneficiary expression in Homeric Greek. As we have seen above,
in Classical Geek, eis with the accusative provides an alternative both for RB
and for event CB.
With verbs of fighting, one finds a small number of occurrences such as the
one in (44):
23 Note that neither in (41) nor in (42) is it implied that the agent acted in the benefi-
ciary’s place, because the beneficiary could not perform the action; in other words,
the context makes it clear that these are not occurrences of behalf beneficiary.
114 Silvia Luraghi
The spatial meaning of pró is ‘before’, ‘in front of’. I will discuss the semantic
extension in section 4. Here I would like to point out that the limited extent to
which this type of coding occurs indicates that the semantic extension is based
on a metaphor that has not undergone grammaticalization. Thus, it does not
constitute a stable meaning of the preposition, and this type of PP cannot be
considered a way of coding agentive CB in Homer.
As we have seen in section 3.3.1, this type of PP could also code agentive CB
in Classical Greek. This is not true of Homeric Greek, where agentive CB is
coded through the dative.
In a small number of occurrences, BB is coded through prós with the geni-
tive, as in (47):
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 115
Note that in example (47) the beneficiary is intentionally involved in the situ-
ation, i. e. the beneficient acts on behalf of the beneficiary because this is the
beneficiary’s intention. In (46), on the other hand, intentionality is not neces-
sarily present on the side of the beneficiary: the beneficient may act on behalf
of the benficiary even if the latter is unaware of this, or not in accordance. The
difference is also made clear by the meaning of prós with the genitive in source
expressions, which will be examined in section 4.2.3.
As we have seen in section 3.3.2, prós with the genitive rather codes semi-
agentive CB in Classical Greek. So in the case of the two PPs in (46) and (47),
i. e. hupér with the genitive and prós with the genitive, we find an extension
from BB to CB, albeit in different conditions and with different types of CB:
while hupér with the genitive extends to agentive CB, prós with the genitive
extends to semi-agentive CB. A further difference is that hupér with the geni-
tive still codes BB in Classical Greek, while prós with the genitive does not.
In sum, Homeric Greek displays a wide use of the dative not only for RB, but
for CB as well; however, it presents a well established distinct coding for BB.
This fact provides evidence for a special status of BB.
3.6.4. Malefactive
Malefactive can be coded through the dative, as shown in (48) and (49):
Classical Greek continues the same constructions as in Homeric Greek for the
coding of malefactive, and adds some other prepositional phrases which, as we
will see in section 4, have a directional meaning similar to the meaning of prós
with the accusative.
two possible codings that indicate the existence of different types, event CB
and semi-agentive CB. A further difference is constituted by the fact that RB is
still most frequently coded through the dative, but an alternative construction,
eis with the accusative, also occurs, which can further code event CB. Thus,
Classical Greek is a tripartite language, in the terminology of Kittilä (2005).24
Changes are summarized in the following two tables:
24 As we have seen in section 3.1, PPs with eis are not a possible alternative for re-
cipient. When they occur in constructions that normally contain a dative, they add
some different semantic content; in addition, they never occur with the verb ‘give’.
118 Silvia Luraghi
Next is agentive CB: since there is no concrete benefactum of which the ben-
eficiary can possibly gain control, benefit only derives from the beneficient’s
activity. In the case of semi-agentive CB there is no overt mention of an activity
performed by the beneficient; still a possible controller who could play the role
of beneficient is mentioned, although it is not conceptualized as an agent or
actor. Again, there is no benefactum, so the beneficiary only benefits from the
intentions of the possible beneficient.
In the case of event CB, no mention of any controlling entity is made. On the
other hand, this type of CB may occur with a benefactum; thus, the beneficiary
may get control over a concrete entity, much in the same way as in cases of
prototypical beneficiary, that is, RB. The similarity regards the existence of a
benefactum: accordingly, both RB and event CB are possible recipients, and
can be coded as such at all stages of the Ancient Greek language.
With RB, both the beneficient and the benefactum occur. In principle, the
beneficiary benefits from both the activity of the beneficient and the eventual
control over the benefactum. However, it is the second type of benefit which
seems to be cognitively more salient, as shown by the fact that this type of ben-
eficiary is frequently coded as a recipient crosslinguistically.
Thus, a scale can be drawn that represents degrees of salience for beneficient
and benefactum:
Prepositions involved in beneficiary and malefactive coding are eis with the
accusative, pró with the genitive, prós with the genitive, hupér with the geni-
tive, katá with the genitive, epí with the accusative, and prós with the accusa-
tive. Greek prepositions derive from adverbs which, as shown by the Homeric
Greek evidence and evidence from the other Indo-European languages, origi-
nally had spatial meaning (cf. Chantraine 1953: 82). Thus, abstract meanings
have been acquired in the course of time through metaphorical semantic exten-
sion, as I will show in the next sections.
4.2.1. Es/eis
The preposition eis with the accusative is the most common way of coding
direction, both in Homer and in later writers. An example is (51):
allative
goal …
purpose benefactive
reason dative
…
Figure 2. Semantic extension of allative markers in Nilo-Saharan languages
(from Heine 1990: 131)
4.2.2. Hupér+genitive
The spatial meaning of hupér with the genitive is ‘over’, ‘above’: the preposi-
tion profiles a relation of verticality without contact between a trajector and a
landmark. An example is QƝzVK~SHU ‘over the ship’ in (53):
Note that a trajector placed above or over a landmark may hide it from sight.
This explains the occurrence of the same PP in (54):
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 121
In (54), the wall is built in order to protect the ships, and hide them from the
enemy, but it is not placed above them. However, the relevant feature here is the
covering relation: the trajector hides the landmark from the sight of a possible
viewer, as shown in figure 3:
trajector landmark
Figure 3. Covering relation between trajector and landmark in example (54)
Covering also means that the trajector is seen by a viewer as if it were in the
place of the landmark: in other words, for a viewer the trajector substitutes for
the landmark. The notion of substitution provides a further path of extension
that brings the preposition to code BB. A BB is typically an agent that acts in
the place of somebody else, i. e. as his/her substitute. As shown in section 3.6,
this extension had already taken place in Homeric Greek. Later on, in Classi-
cal Greek prose, hupér with the genitive also extended to agentive CB. Both
a BB and a CB receive a benefit from somebody else’s activity. In addition, in
the case of BB, the activity is performed in the place of the beneficiary. The
extension from BB to CB is possible if the notion of substitution is left on the
background, and only the notion of agency is profiled.
In addition, hupér with the genitive also extends to purpose after Homer, as
shown in (55) and (56):
(56) KyWL QQ RX SHUu Gy[ƝV RXG¶ KXSqU PpURXV NK۸UDV
that now neg about glory:gen neg over part:gen land:gen
SROHPRVLQ
fight:prs.3pl
‘[…] that now they are not fighting for glory or for a piece of land.’
(Dem. 1.5).
4.2.3. Prós+genitive
The meaning of prós is ‘(near)by’, ‘on the side of’. PPs formed by prós with the
genitive indicate motion originating near a landmark, most often human or di-
vine. They frequently occur in expressions of origin, usually where no concrete
motion is indicated, as in (57):
In example (57), Zeus is conceived as the origin of strangers and the poor.
The translation is only partly accurate: the verb in the sentence is the verb
‘be’, which, together with the preposition, acquires the meaning of English
‘to be from’. Indeed, origin can be conceived of as a type of abstract motion:
if one is from somewhere, he or she must have been at his or her original
location at some moment in the past. In Homer, as shown in section 3.6, this
type of PP extends to BB. Let us now see how this semantic extension comes
about.
In an event of motion, the starting point of a trajectory is known, as opposed
to its ending point, which can only be known after the motion has ended, as
shown in figure 4:
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 123
×
Figure 4. Source/origin and direction/goal in motion events
4.2.4. Pró+genitive
PPs formed by pró with the genitive profile a spatial relation in which a trajec-
tor stands in front of a landmark. An example is (59):
4.2.5. Malefactive
Besides the dative, the malefactive is coded through prós with the accusative
both in Homer and in later writers. This type of PP indicates direction, as
shown in (60):
The preposition katá means ‘downwards’, and it indicates that a trajector fol-
lows a downward trajectory, which leads it to a landmark, as in (62):
The four prepositions which may code malefactive in Ancient Greek have dif-
ferent meanings; however, they all have in common the fact that they indicate
direction. In the extension to malefactive, only this feature remains relevant: a
malefactive is conceived of as the endpoint of a trajectory. This process of se-
mantic extension, by which one single feature of the meaning remains relevant
for the new meaning, follows the well known Gestalt effect first described in
Lakoff (1977).
As we have seen above, two of the PPs that can code beneficiary also extend to
purpose. The diachrony of the two extensions is different: in the case of eis, an
allative preposition (typically indicating direction with motion verbs), purpose
already occurs in Homer, while beneficiary only occurs later; in the case of hu-
pér beneficiary precedes purpose. The path of extension from space to abstract
relations is also different, given that hupér with the genitive is not a means of
coding direction.
The relation between beneficiary and purpose has been touched upon in
various works, since polysemy including the two roles is comparatively fre-
quent cross-linguistically (see Schmidtke 2010). However, its complexity does
not seem to have been investigated in a satisfactory way, since similarity of the
two roles is often taken for granted. For example, Rice and Kabata (2007: 481)
write that “benefactive seems to be an obvious special case of purpose; when
one acts for the benefit of another […], he or she is usually acting purposefully”.
Note that this view of beneficiary does not consider event beneficiary. Besides,
126 Silvia Luraghi
the fact that one acts purposefully embraces many other situations (typically all
actions), so the above remark does not seem to cast much light on the relation
between the two roles.
also clear in cases in which this type of PP codes purpose, as in examples (55)
and (56) in section 4.2.2. Both passages can be interpreted as implying that an
agent acts in exchange of what he or she envisages as the purpose of his or her
acting.
It must also be remembered that hupér with the genitive also extends to
agentive CB. If we go back to the passages in which this role is coded, we can
see that the mental attitude of the agent toward the beneficiary is similar to the
attitude of the agent toward the purpose in (27) and (28). Both purpose and
beneficiary, as conceptualized by hupér with the genitive, can be regarded as
instances of another semantic role, reason. That this is the case is shown by
occurrences in which hupér with the genitive cannot be viewed as indicating a
beneficiary or a purpose, but rather the cause of mental state, as in (63):
The cause of a mental state corresponds to the semantic role reason. In (63)
hupér indicates exchange: this notion provides a link for all occurrences which
contain hupér with the genitive. A reason is conceived of as an entity that an
agent receives or achieves in exchange for his or her activity. This semantic role
may play a role in bringing about polysemy involving cause, purpose and ben-
eficiary, as I have shown in Luraghi (2005b). Note that in cases in which benefi-
ciary and purpose are connected through the notion of reason, possible means of
coding are prepositions that indicate location, rather than directional motion.27
27 I cannot elaborate on this topic here, but see Luraghi (2001) and (2005b) for fur-
ther discussion.
128 Silvia Luraghi
In Homeric Greek, most types of beneficiary are coded though the dative, in
the same way as recipient, except for BB, which is coded through PPs. Fol-
lowing the typology in Kittilä (2005), Homeric Greek belongs to the neutral/
fluid category. In Classical Greek, several other ways of coding beneficiary
have emerged, which point towards a typology even more complex than the
one suggested above. While recipient is still coded through the dative case, RB
and event CB1 are coded through the dative or through the allative marker eis
with the accusative. Event CB2, agentive CB and BB are coded though various
PPs. Following the typology in Kittilä (2005), Classical Greek belongs to the
tripartite category.
The distinction between event CB1 and event CB2 is based on the occur-
rence of an inactive possible beneficient in event CB2, whose intention is rel-
evant for the benefit received by the beneficiary. Differences in coding point to-
ward varying degrees of relevance of either the beneficient or the benefactum.
Malefactive can also be coded as RB and event CB1, that is through the da-
tive or eis with the accusative, or it can be coded by means of more specific
prepositions, which mean ‘against’. In the latter case, the coding diverges from
the coding of beneficiary.
Spatial metaphors underlying beneficiary coding are of two types, depend-
ing on whether they involve a preposition that indicates direction, namely the
allative marker eis with the accusative, or a locative marker, either hupér with
the genitive or prós with the genitive. Both types of metaphor also extend to
purpose, the latter limited to hupér with the genitive.
In the case of the allative marker, extension to purpose precedes extension
to beneficiary; both types of semantic extension are based on the notion of
abstract motion along a trajectory. In the case of the locative marker hupér
with the genitive, on the contrary, extension to beneficiary precedes extension
to purpose. The first type of beneficiary to be coded through hupér with the
genitive is BB, indicating the relevance of the notion of substitution for this
Sources for beneficiary expressions in Classical Greek 129
metaphor. The connecting link between beneficiary and purpose in the case
of hupér with the genitive is the notion of exchange, and the semantic space in
which the two roles overlap is that of reason.
Abbreviations
Grammatical glosses
1 first person m/p medio-passive
2 second person n/a nominative/accusative neuter
3 third person neg negation
acc accusative nom nominative
aor aorist opt optative
art article p passive
comp comparative part participle
dat dative pf perfect
dem demonstrative pl plural
fut future plpf pluperfect
gen genitive poss possessive
imp imperative prs present
impf imperfect ptc particle
indef indefinite rel relative
inf infinitive rfl reflexive
instr instrumental sg singular
int interrogative subj subjunctive
mid middle
Note: For the sake of brevity, singular number is not indicated for nominal
categories (except for personal and possessive pronouns), while active diathe-
sis and indicative mood are not indicated for verbal categories; medio-passive
diathesis is indicated only when it is relevant (i. e. not in the case of media
tantum); gender is not indicated except in the case of nominative-accusative
neuter, which has a special gloss (n/a).
Classical authors
Dem. Demosthenes Lys. Lysias
Hdt. Herodotus Pl. Plato
Hom. Homer Th. Thucydides
Isoc. Isocrates
130 Silvia Luraghi
Works
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Finite and gerundive complementation
in Modern and Present-day English:
Semantics, variation and change
Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens1
Abstract
This paper focuses on variation and diachronic change in the semantics and lexico-
grammar of that-clauses and so-called gerundive nominalizations (Lees 1960) func-
tioning as clausal complements (CCs) of factive predicates (Kiparsky and Kiparsky
1971), as in the following examples in Present-day English:
(1) As I said I regret that it all happened and I just want to move on from it. (CB)
(2) I don’t regret helping her start out (…). (CB)
Most attention has thus far been devoted to the relationship between that-CCs and the
to-infinitive (see, e. g. Rohdenburg 1996, Los 2005) and to that between infinitival and
gerundive complementation (Duffley 1999; Smith 2002; De Smet 2004). In this paper,
we show that the distribution of that-CCs and gerundives can also be profitably exam-
ined from a diachronic perspective. We consider factive predicates (such as regret, ad-
mit, accept, acknowledge) because this is a set of verbs where the alternation between
that and -ing is quite systematically found.
It is argued that in general, throughout their evolution, the that- and -ing comple-
mentation systems encode a different semantics which ties in with the diachronic ori-
gins of each of these systems. As such, that-CCs have, from early on, coded a proposi-
tion which is holistically construed, and later, more specific/specialized uses – such as
the metalinguistic use of predicate + that in (3) – are in line with this diachronic origin.
1 Liesbet Heyvaert would like to thank the Fund for Scientific Research – Flanders
for the postdoctoral grant that made this paper possible. Both authors would also
like to acknowledge the financial support of the Interuniversity Attraction Poles
Programme – Belgian State – Belgian Science Policy, project P6/44, Grammatical-
ization and (inter)subjectification, as well as the support of the Spanish Ministry
of Education and Science (grant no. HUM2007-60706/FILO) and the European
Regional Development Fund. Sincere thanks also go to Heli Tissari, Kathryn Al-
lan, Päivi Koivisto-Alanko and Margaret E. Winters, for organizing the Workshop
Historical Linguistics in a Cognitive Framework: From the Present to the Past and
Back at the 10th International Cognitive Linguistics Conference held at the Universi-
ty of Krakow in July 2007. Finally, we would like to thank the anonymous reviewers
for their suggestions for improvement which our paper has greatly benefited from.
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 133
(3) regret that = ‘to feel sorry that one says/has to say that’
My lady and Miss Rachel regret that they are engaged, Colonel; and beg to be
excused having the honour of seeing you. (CLMET 1780)
As well, gerundive -ing CCs, which originally derive from action nouns in –ing, typi-
cally continue the ‘action semantics’ of the action nouns which they originate from,
through control by the subject of the matrix clause (‘S of matrix clause Verb-s having
been/being involved in a certain action’), as in (4):
(4a) but before the words were well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered
them. (CLMET 1780)
(4b) I slackened my pace, but next moment regretted having done so. (CB)
At the same time, it can be observed that the distribution of gerundive -ing CCs has
come to (partially) overlap with that-CCs because gerundive -ing CCs, in spite of their
origin in action nouns in -ing, have come to profile the more schematic instantiation of
a process by a subject, which is also implied in the grounded process types of that-CCs
(Heyvaert 2006).
In our paper we present an analysis of Late Modern English and Present-day Eng-
lish corpus data which tries to shed light on the emergence of that- and -ing CCs with
factive predicates, we identify the factors that seem to have influenced their varying
distribution, and we point to some interesting implications for the analysis of comple-
mentation structures in general.
1. Introduction
In this paper, we will consider variation and change in the distribution of that-
clauses and gerundive -ing clauses functioning as clausal complements, as in the
following examples with the complement-taking predicates regret and admit:
as their complement”, Noonan 1985: 113) such as agree ‘have the same opinion
as someone else’ and admit ‘agree unwillingly’; and ‘emotive’ or “commenta-
tive” predicates (providing “a comment on the complement proposition which
takes the form of an emotional reaction”, Noonan 1985: 117), such as regret
and resent. Both the cognitive and emotive type of predicates can be classified
as “factive”(Kiparsky and Kiparsky 1971) in that they are, at least in some
uses, followed by a proposition which is “pre-existent to the relation in which
it participates” (Davidse 2003: 126). Their factive status, Davidse (2003: 126)
has argued, implies that either the speaker and/or a second consciousness (e. g.
the processor of the cognitive/emotive predicate) is committed to its truth.2
Because it shows many interesting resemblances with the complementation of
regret and resent, we also included complementation of the emotive adjective
sorry as in be/feel sorry for/that in our analysis.
The alternation between that- and -ing complement clauses (henceforth also
called that-CCs and -ing-CCs) has hardly been researched yet. Most attention
has thus far gone to the distribution of that- and to-infinitive complements
(see, among others, Rohdenburg 1996; Los 2005) and to the distribution of
to-infinitive and gerundive (see, among others, Declerck 1991; Fanego 1996;
Duffley 1999; Smith 2002; Mair 2003; De Smet 2004). We will show in this
paper that the distribution of that-CCs and gerundives, too, can be profitably
examined from a diachronic perspective and that the cognitive and emotive
predicates under investigation show both interesting parallels and differences
in their use of that- and -ing CCs.
This paper firstly has a descriptive purpose in that it intends to show how
the complementation by that- and -ing-CCs of the cognitive and emotive predi-
cates agree, admit, regret, resent and sorry has evolved from Early Modern
English to Present-day English (spread, varying distribution). In that respect, it
will be seen that these predicates occurred earliest with that-CCs. When -ing-
CCs first became a possible alternative in Late Modern English (LModE), they
showed semantic and structural overlap with that-CCs in a good deal of their
occurrences. Interestingly, in the period from LModE to Present-day English,
we can observe a growing semantic and lexicogrammatical division of labor
between that-CCs and gerundive -ing-CCs, whereby the former tend to express
2 As such, factive predicates differ from non-factive complements as in (1) and (2),
where the that-clauses are primarily true for the cognizant whose process of con-
sciousness is represented (as in [1]) or for the sayer of the verbal process of telling
in (2) – not necessarily for the speaker:
(1) Mark supposes that it is raining.
(2) Anne told us that he has been found guilty.
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 135
a state of affairs that the subject of the matrix clause is not itself responsible
for or involved in (typically encoded by an inanimate subject of the that-CC
which is different from the matrix clause subject), and the latter increasingly
express “action” semantics in a control environment. In addition to describing
the variation, through time, between that-CCs and -ing-CCs with agree, admit,
regret, resent and sorry, we will try to identify the factors that have played
a role in this varying distribution. In that respect, the semantic and lexico-
grammatical specialization that that-CCs and -ing-CCs have each increasingly
exploited will be seen to play an important role. Outside of the factor “special-
ization” other factors that we will show may account for the changing distri-
bution between that-CCs and -ing-CCs relate to the formal characteristics of
the that-CC or to processes of semantic extension and semantic divergence in
the matrix predicate. Finally, we will argue that the development of -ing-CCs,
showing increasing syntactic and semantic bonding with the predicates they
are used with, can be seen as an instance of increasing grammaticalization.
After introducing the corpora that we consulted in section 2, we briefly sum-
marize what is known of the diachronic origins of that- and -ing-CCs in section
3. In section 4, then, we present the results of our corpus analysis and discuss
the factors that we argue can account for the changing distribution between
that- and -ing-CCs following regret, resent, admit, agree and be sorry.
For our analysis, we relied on quantitative and qualitative corpus analysis and
made use of the following corpora:
1. CEECS or the Corpus of Early English Correspondence Sampler: 1418–
1680: 450,000 words
2. CEMET or the Corpus of Early Modern English Texts: 1640–1705:
2,000,000 words
3. CLMET or the Corpus of Late Modern English texts (compiled by Hendrik
De Smet):
1710–1780: 3,037,607 words
1780–1850: 5,723,988 words
1850–1920: 6,251,564 words
4. COBUILD or the Collins Birmingham University International Language
Database: 1990s: 56,000,000 words
of the remote log-in system of the corpus itself. We opted for “broad” search
strings so as to avoid missing out on interesting data. In particular, the search
horizons for the complementizers that and -ing were set at three words to the
right of the search word (searches for that-CCs in the COBUILD corpus were
somewhat less broad to keep the number of hits manageable). In Tables 1–4
below, we give an overview of the types of searches that we carried out and the
number of useful instances that we ended up analyzing in detail (notice that, in
order to reduce the data to a somewhat more manageable size, we reduced the
COBUILD hits for admit followed by that and -ing and for agree with that to
200 instances each).3 Among the hits that we ignored in our analysis were that-
and -ing structures that did not turn out to function as complementizers, as in
(5) to (7) and predicates that turned out to function as nouns, as in (8).
3 The normalized figures for these COBUILD data, which signal frequency across
the entire corpus, were readjusted for the relative proportion of useful and spurious
hits in the 200-hit sample.
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 137
3.1. that-complementation
Although this is not entirely uncontested (see Fischer 2007: 221), that-com-
plements have been argued to go back to a pattern of “demonstrative pronoun
+ resumptive demonstrative pronoun” in Old English (Hopper and Traugott
2003: 191), as in
As Hopper and Traugott (2003: 192) point out, “Such features are reminiscent
of oral language and of strategies clarifying interdependencies in the flow of
speech […]”.
The diachronic origin of that-clauses in a pronoun pointing forward to a
state of affairs ties in with Langacker’s view of Present-Day that-clauses (see
also Croft 2002). Langacker emphasizes that in PDE, “the finite clause comple-
ment is construed holistically as a unitary entity” (1991: 449), with the comple-
mentizer that imposing “an atemporal or even nominal [i. e., nonprocessual]
construal on the finite clause” (1991: 448). At the same time he emphasizes
that internally, or “at the level of constituency where that has not yet been
appended”, that-CCs display a complex structure and have “a processual pro-
file” (1991: 448), including the various grounding options of a finite clause.
Given that, over time, that-CCs have seen little lexicogrammatical or semantic
change, the characterization Langacker offers for PDE that-CCs can usefully
be applied to that-CCs in earlier stages of the language.
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 139
(10) ðurh ðæra sacerda blawunge toburston ða wallas (c. 1000, Visser
1963–73: 1165)
‘through the blowing of the priests, the walls broke down’
(11) He hadde i-trespassed, and dredde [the chastisynge of his master]. (Fa-
nego 2004: 6)
In the course of Middle English, a new type of -ing nominals developed with
clausal properties (e. g. subject-predicate-like structure; direct object or com-
plement instead of of-phrase; adverbial modification; tense and voice distinc-
tions) (see, among others, Fanego 1996, 1998, 2004; De Smet 2008):
(12) Master Blifil objected to [the sending away the servant]. (Jespersen
1940, part IV)
(13) The mooste noble and valiant princis of Grece often tymes, to recreate
their spirites, and in augmenting their courage, enbraced instrumentes
musicall. (1531, Thomas Elyot [HC]); quoted in De Smet 2007: 100)
In particular from late Modern English onwards, this new, gerundive system of
-ing nominalization was increasingly used. Note that, like ordinary clauses, it
can be construed with both action and state verbs:
(14) I resent [you fluffing the pillows and playing lady of the manor]. (CB)
(15) She had very much regretted [being from home]. (CLMET 1780–1850)
(16) Some researchers have felt that having a mental illness would lead to
[the individual’s occupying a position in a lower social class]. (CB)
be applied to the entire period from LModE to PDE. In particular, the gerun-
dive system can be said to centre on two fundamental constructional options
(Heyvaert 2008), viz. to link up the atemporalized clausal -ing unit which it is
based on to a subject (explicitly realized or implied through control) or leave
it as such, without subject (Heyvaert 2003, 2008). Its semantics has shifted
from being exclusively “action”-oriented to a somewhat more schematic mean-
ing, i. e. that of type specification (without S) or instantiation (of a particular
atemporalized process type by a specific subject) (Langacker 1991; Davidse
1991; Heyvaert 2008). Examples (17) and (18) show gerundive nominals with
type-specifying meaning:
(19) […] the industry was relieved at [escaping a crackdown] […]). (CB)
(20) My husband speaks very well, but his job involves [my answering the
phone on his behalf quite a bit of the time]. (CB)
Table 5 below presents the frequency of occurrence of the that-CC and -ing-CC
in the period from EModE to PDE. The data include raw frequencies (RawF;
repeated from Tables 1–4), relative frequencies (RelF) of -ing-CCs vs. that-
CCs and normalized frequencies (NormF; normalized per 100,000 words).
The figures in Table 5 suggest, firstly, that in general that-CCs arose earliest as
factive complements but, like -ing CCs, remained infrequent up until the begin-
ning of the 18th century (cf. the CLMET data). A search of the verb admit, for in-
stance, in the 17th century CEMET corpus reveals that in all except two instances
it is complemented by an NP (21), PP (22) or NP + to-infinitive structure (23).
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 141
Table 5. The use of that- and -ing complements with regret, resent, sorry, admit and
agree. A diachronic overview of their frequency of occurrence
(21) Admit me, sacred maid, admit me again to those soft delights […]
(CEMET)
(22) Your passion, madam, will admit of no farther reasoning; but here’s a
silent witness of your acquaintance. (CEMET)
(23) Well, but passing this; my leisure will admit me to stay, and therefore
pray tell me what it is that makes you think that Mr. Badman is gone to
Hell. (CEMET)
Gerundive CCs are only found from Late Modern English, and then especial-
ly from the end of the 18th – beginning of the 19th century onwards (cf. the
CLMET data). Second, while -ing-CCs were later entering the language than
that-CCs, their relative share vs. that-CCs increases substantially over time
with all complement-taking predicates.4 In addition, as the normalized figures
4 Other interesting observations can be gathered from this table. For instance, which
pattern is currently most frequent – -ing or that – , which turns out to be different
for each of the matrix verbs that we analyzed. While the cognitive predicates agree
and admit both show a clear preference for that-CCs, the emotive predicates regret,
resent and sorry differ substantially in their complementational patterns: resent
has come to prefer -ing; regret and sorry both show a strong decrease of that-CCs.
While sorry still prefers that, however, regret is now used more frequently with
-ing than with that-CCs. Our current data sample does not allow us to provide a
satisfactory answer to the questions raised by these findings. The sudden drop in
that-CCs with regret and sorry, for instance, might have to be attributed to their
common elision of that as a complementizer, a factor we cannot investigate as our
data only includes that-CCs with an explicitly expressed complementizer that.
142 Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens
(24) How much do I regret [not having had more opportunities of showing
you my esteem and love (…)]. (CLMET, 1710–1780) [subject controlled]
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 143
(25) She is very kindly inquired after by her friends here, who all regret [her
not coming with her father and mother]. (CLMET, 1780–1850) [subject
expressed]
(26) […] I could not regret [having watched over and laboured to relieve
them]. (CLMET, 1780–1850) [action]
(27) […] she had very much regretted [being from home]. (CLMET, 1780–
1850) [state]
Note that the overlap we describe is an overlap in usage, and does not mean
that -ing-CCs and that-CCs are semantically identical. That-clauses are inde-
pendent, unitary entities, with an internal subject-predicate structure, while
-ing-CCs are atemporalized process types.
When comparing this situation of overlap with PDE, we see that the overlap
has become far less pronounced. Let us consider the cases of regret and resent.
With both predicates, -ing-CCs in Present-day English still exploit (almost) all
of the lexicogrammatical potential of that-CCs (i. e. they occur with different
and same subject, with states and actions); still, the number of -ing-CCs with a
different subject has decreased significantly. This skewed distribution seems to
suggest that the full lexicogrammatical potential of -ing-CCs has been drasti-
cally reduced, or has become specialized.
Interestingly, the skewed distribution of that-CCs and -ing-CCs, that is, the
specialization of that-CCs and -ing-CCs, was already visible, though less out-
spoken, in LModE – at the time when overlap between that-CCs and -ing-CCs
was at its highest. Indeed, in LModE, we already find a preference for that-CCs
144 Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens
– mostly expressing a state – whose subject is different from that of the matrix
subject. It is precisely in these lexicogrammatical patterns that involvement of
the matrix subject is not possible, and it is those that-CCs, therefore, that are
the candidates par excellence to encode dependence from the matrix.
The specialization of that-CCs for different subjects is continued into PDE,
where it can be observed from the COBUILD data that we analyzed that the
proportion “same subject” vs. “different subject” is clearly in favour of “differ-
ent subject” (the figures below first give the number of instances that we found
in the Cobuild data where the that-CC contains the same subject as the matrix
clause, followed by the number of instances where the that-subject is different).
Same subject Different subject
RawF RelF RawF RelF
Regret that: 32 29.6% 76 70.4%
Agree that: 20 10.0% 180 90.0%
Admit that: 62 31.0% 138 69.0%
Sorry that: 21 27.6% 55 72.4%
Here are some examples illustrating the most typical subject patterns with the
predicates regret, admit, agree and sorry:
(28) She regretted deeply [that he had not come a little earlier]. (CLMET,
1780)
(29) […] the women all agree [that having time for themselves is the big fac-
tor that has changed in their lives]. (CB)
(30) […] the Bonn Government admitted [that economic growth was turning
out to be far weaker than expected]. (CB)
(31) […] I am nonetheless very sorry [that Mrs. Costner left him after 20
years of marriage]. (CB)
(32) “I regret [that this has happened],” said Mr. Fitweiler […]. (CB)
(33) I agree [that the top needs to be clearly defined]. (CB)
(34) And he admits [that every sexy scene causes Eve pain]. (CB)
(35) […] but she feels sorry [that the British players had to be thrown out].
(CB)
The lack of responsibility and involvement on the part of the subject of regret,
admit, resent, agree on or be sorry about, it could be argued, is especially clear
when the (different) subject of the that-CC is inanimate.
Conversely, in LModE, -ing-clauses expressing an “action” with same/con-
trolled subjects (the typical way to express actual involvement from the matrix
subject) have already become predominant. Importantly, this specialization is
in line with the diachronic nominal origins of the -ing-CC, which focuses on
“action” and typically shows a control relationship (see De Smet 2007).
Recall that, when at the end of the 18th, beginning of the 19th century gerun-
dive complements came into use after the predicates regret, resent, be sorry,
admit and agree, the system of gerundive nominalization had already under-
gone the shift from the action semantics of its nominal origin to the (more
schematic) semantics of the subject-predicate structure: it could take an action
or state process, be construed in the active or passive voice, take secondary
tense and have a subject expressed, as exemplified in (36) to (38):
(36) […] she had very much regretted [being from home]. (CLMET, 1710–
1780) [state]
(37) […] they now greatly resent [being saddled with the presence of an un-
known urchin]. (CLMET, 1780–1850) [passive]
(38) Every moment I have to regret [the frigates having left me]. (CLMET,
1780–1850) [oblique subject]
Interestingly, however, in the -ing CCs following emotive and cognitive predi-
cates that we considered, these clause-like options are certainly not prominent
and in most cases even on the decline. There is thus not only a striking decrease
in the use of the secondary tense or anteriority marker have after, for instance,
regret (compare I don’t regret [writing the series] with I regret [not having put
146 Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens
enough time into mothering]) (see also Table 9); with most predicates, we also
observe a significant decrease in the use of an explicit subject and in the use of
non-action verbs in the gerundive CC.
Table 9. The use of secondary tense marker have with regret
As Table 10 below makes clear, the subject of the gerundive CCs that follow
regret, resent, admit and sorry (for/at/about) is typically controlled by the
main clause, i. e. it is the same as the subject or object of the main clause and
therefore no longer explicitly included in the gerundive.
Table 10. The status of gerundive CCs following regret, resent, admit and sorry
Some examples that illustrate the use of regret, resent, admit and sorry with
controlled subjects are given in (39) to (42):
(39) I knew that, no matter how much I loved John, I would regret and prob-
ably ultimately resent [not having children]. (CB)
(40) “Gentlemen, I am very sorry for [having kept you waiting so long]”.
(CLMET, 1780–1850)
(41) He half admitted [having rushed to the palace on his road to me]. (CB)
(42) I have heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you regret [using
me thus]. (CLMET, 1710–1780)
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 147
Both regret and admit in Present-day English almost exclusively combine with
gerundive CCs with a controlled subject. As Table 10 moreover shows, they
have also come to prefer action to state verbs. In other words, when the English
language user opts for a gerundive CC after regret and admit, he or she will
typically regret or admit a situation which the subject of the main clause has
been actively involved in itself. This strong preference is further supported by
the distributional behaviour of the that-CC: when the situation that is regretted
or admitted involves a subject that is different from the one in the main clause
(and typically is also inanimate), it is much more likely that the language user
will choose a that-CC, witness also Table 11 below. It shows that the distinc-
tion between that- and -ing CCs following regret, admit and resent is to a large
extent based on the issue of subjecthood, viz. on whether the complements in-
clude a subject, and if so, whether that subject is similar to the subject or object
of the main clause or not. (Note that, of the gerundive CCs with an expressed
subject, only with resent do we find an example of a subject that is similar to
the subject of the main clause, The public resented [their having plays ill acted
when they knew they might have better]. [CLMET, 1710–1780]).
Table 11. The use of that- vs. gerundive CCs following regret, resent, admit and sorry
(43) Not a few have admitted [having suffered spiritual loss and declension
through being mixed up (…)]. (CLMET, 1780–1850)
(44) He half admitted [having rushed to the palace on his road to me]. (CL-
MET, 1780–1850)
(45) No group has admitted [carrying out the attack]. (CB)
(46) […] he admitted [belonging to the illegal Kenya Patriotic Front]. (CB)
(47) Baghdad has admitted to [enriching Uranium]. (CB)
(48) I have to admit [that I’ve shed more than my fair share of tears watching
England’s cricketers at work in recent weeks]. (CB)
(49) But I must admit [that I was worried about the future]. (CB)
5 Of the 136 instances of gerundive CCs following admitted, 106 designated crimes;
likewise, of the 12 cases with admitting, 7 referred to crimes.
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 149
Table 12. The status of gerundive CCs following agree, agree on/with/to
(50) […] how are they all going to decide when they all agree on [going to
war], if that’s the decision? (CB)
(51) […] the EC cannot agree on [cutting farm subsidies] and on a common
position in […]. (CB)
The situation is clearly different for agree with and agree to + -ing, which both
predominantly take gerundives with expressed subject (as illustrated in [52]
and [53] below). More interestingly, they both occur without any subject, i. e.
with gerundive CCs of the “type specifying” type (see Section 3.2, Heyvaert
2008). We include a number of examples of subjectless gerundives following
agree with and agree to in (54) and (55).
(52) I don’t agree with [anybody keeping a venomous snake under any cir-
cumstances]. (CB)
(53) […] your lender may agree to you paying back the arrears over an
agreed period […]. (CB)
(54) I do not agree with [shifting the Trust out of Old government House and
squeezing it into the remnant left of the (…)]. (CB) [no subject]
(55) […] and after sitting in the salient all this time, I am going to agree to
[limiting the progress of my troops at the outset on the first day?]. (CB)
[no subject]
150 Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens
By preferring an expressed subject when used with to and with, agree thus
seems to resemble agree followed by a that-CC and deviate from the pat-
tern that we identified for gerundive CCs following cognitive and emotive
predicates. However, we do recognize significant differences between agree
followed by that or by -ing. First, agree to has the specific meaning of ‘say yes
to a plan, idea or suggestion’ (see also [56]), which agree that does not seem
to have. When used with with, then, agree has a semantics that is comparable
to that of agree that, i. e. ‘have or express the same opinion about a situation’,
but our data shows that in almost half of the cases in which it occurs with a
gerundive CC, agree with opts for a subjectless, or type-specifying CC (as
illustrated in [57]):
(56) So we managed to get the faculty to agree to [giving the title minerals
engineering still to postgraduate degrees (…)]. (CB)
(57) I agree with [abolishing the House of Lords completely]. (CB) [no sub-
ject]
Agree with followed by a gerundive CC thus seems to offer the language user
the option to refer to a situation without including a precise subject, i. e. to
refer to a type of situation and leave the subject unidentified. In the finite
clause that functions within that-CCs this is not possible and a subject has to
be included.
Summing up this section, then, we can say that the change in distribution
of that and -ing following the factive predicates that we focus on can, at least
partly, be attributed to specialization, whereby, interestingly, the -ing-clause
and that-clause exploit their original semantics, with the -ing-clause typically
expressing an action in which the (usually unexpressed or controlled) subject
is actively involved, and with the that-clause encoding a proposition that is un-
ambiguously independent from the main clause matrix. With regard to the mo-
tivation for specialization, we would like to suggest “economy”. Even though
overlap in language is widely present, it seems more economical to have a
neat distinction between two CC-types (think of remember + to-infinitive vs.
remember + gerund).
The development of -ing-CCs from a structure with a fairly broad potential
(in that it could overlap with the lexicogrammatical potential of that-clauses)
to a specialized structure with a high degree of semantic and syntactic bond-
ing between matrix and complement structure opens up new perspectives for
grammaticalization research. Indeed, in a number of respects, the increasing
semantic and syntactic bonding between matrix and -ing-CC that we observed
in our data can be regarded as an instance of increasing grammaticalization.
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 151
1. Complement structures with tight semantic and syntactic bonding (no sec-
ondary tense, control) show a type of syntactic coalescence that can be
likened to morphological coalescence (one of the Lehmann’s [1982] gram-
maticalization criteria).
2. When in this shift from loose to tight bonding, finite clauses are replaced by
non-finite ones, or, as is the case here, when there is an increase in the rela-
tive proportion of non-finite (more bonded) structures to finite-structures
this development can be viewed as an instance of decategorialization (and
in particular, desententialization, cf. Lehmann 1988).
3. From the point of view of the matrix, the increasing preference with regret
and admit to encode an action in which the (usually unexpressed or con-
trolled) subject is actively involved by means of an –ing gerundive can be
viewed as increasing obligatorification.
(58) Others admit, [that if a nation could be separated from all the world, it
would be of (…)]. (CLMET, 1710–1780)
(59) She hesitated to admit [that to her Sophia was the least in the world
formidable]. (CLMET, 1850–1920)
152 Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens
… and they can take complex subjects, as shown in (60) and (61):
(60) I admit [that twice two makes four is an excellent thing]. (CB)
(61) However the Secretary of State did not agree [that a criterion of the
Structure Plan policy that a new settlement would “provide safe and
easy access to the A10” had been met]. (CB)
(62) She regretted, indeed, [that she had not instantly returned it to the cas-
tle]. (CLMET, 1780–1850)
(63) ‘I regretted so much [that I was not at home when you did me the hon-
our to call’], resumed Mrs. Cadurcis. (CLMET, 1780–1850)
(64) ‘You shall not regret, Walter,[that you have only a woman to help you’,
she paused (…)]. (CLMET, 1780–1850)
(65) ‘You gotta admit, son, [that it is kind of odd, when you think about it].
(CB)
(67) I’m sorry [that I can’t be at the meeting this Friday]. (CB) [I’m sorry to
say that…]
(68) I am sorry [that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted him].
(CB) [I am sorry to say that…]
(69) “My lady and Miss Rachel regret [that they are engaged, Colonel]; and
beg to be excused having the honour of seeing you.” (CLMET, 1780–
1850) [they regret to say that…]
Notice the difference with uses like I’m sorry that I said you were assholes (CB)
or He was beginning to regret that he’d come along (CB), where the emotional
stance applies to the situation expressed by the that-clause. The metalinguistic
use of regret and sorry in the meaning of ‘regret to say’ and ‘be sorry to say’
seems to follow earlier uses in which the speech act verb was explicitly included:
(70) I am sorry to tell you […] [that, in this article, your first fact is false].
(OED, 1769)
(71) And I am sorry to say, [that too many of our dramatic performances are
of this latter] […]. (CLMET, 1710–1780)
Nowadays, the combination of ‘sorry to say’ and ‘regret to say’ appears to have
acquired the value of a fixed phrase with parenthetical status, added to a state-
ment as a polite way of saying that you are sorry or feel uncomfortable about
what you have just said/ what you are saying:
(75) […] my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favour by her
loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend guest. She regret-
ted deeply [that he had not come a little earlier, in time for tea], but
offered to have some immediately prepared. (CLMET 1780–1850) [she
said (that she regretted) that…]
(76) Suenens admitted [that ‘it was one of the gravest decisions of my life’].
(CB) [Suenens said admittingly that…]
(77) Wilkinson himself admitted [that ‘our players didn’t get anywhere above
freezing point (…)]’. (CB) [Wilkinson said admittingly that…]
(78) […] they have to field a load of questions about whether Prince is really
a raving nutter and egomaniac. Funnily enough none of them thinks he
is. All of them agree [that the ‘bottom line is that Prince is the ‘boss’ but
they think that he deserves their ‘respect’ (…)]. (CB) [all of them said
agreeingly that]
(79) The former Argy skipper, who blatantly punched the ball into the net,
admits: “I realize that goal should not have stood and I am sorry for
what happened”. (CB)
Finite and gerundive complementation in Modern and Present-day English 155
(80) […] sprung up of which we as yet have only seen what will one day be
considered the antediluvian prototypes of the race. We regret deeply
[that our knowledge both of natural history and of machinery is too
small to enable us to undertake the gigantic (…)]. (CLMET 1780–1850)
(81) […] was becoming direct and partisan in all of her public activities. She
denounced Republicans and defended the New Deal; she acknowledged
the gains American women had made in recent years but regretted [that
politics was ‘still a man’s world’]; and she began to attack racism and
sexism openly. (CB)
Note that the metalinguistic meanings tie in with the diachronic origin of that
as being used to express a proposition or projected unit. As predicates with
metalinguistic meanings, they are essentially “say” predicates, and in that re-
spect take their CCs by analogy with “say” verbs. The importance of analogy
in the diffusion of complements has, for instance, been described by De Smet
(2008) with respect to the development of for…to-infinitives.
5. Conclusions
In this paper we were concerned with the distribution of that- and -ing comple-
ments following the factive predicates regret, resent, admit, agree and be sor-
ry. To identify the spread and varying distribution of their that- and -ing-CCs
together with the factors that might have played a role in that distribution, we
looked at corpus data from Early Modern English to Present-day English. Our
156 Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens
data suggested firstly that in general that-CCs arose earliest as factive comple-
ments but, like -ing-CCs, remained infrequent up until the beginning of the
18th century. Gerundive CCs following regret, resent, admit, agree and be sor-
ry were found especially from the end of the 18th – beginning of the 19th cen-
tury onwards. Even though significant semantic and structural overlap could be
expected between that- and -ing-CCs, we found that from early onwards both
complementation systems started to develop a specific division of labor. Of the
factors that we identified as determining the resulting (varying) distribution
of that and -ing-CCs, the exploitation of specific semantic and lexicogram-
matical properties of that- and -ing constructions (or “specialization”) was dis-
cussed first. Gerundive complementation, we showed, shifted from increasing
independence up until LModE (with the inclusion of a subject, and tense and
voice marking, cf. Givon 1980) to growing dependence (loss of explicit sub-
ject and secondary tense marking). The original “action” semantics of “action
nominals” was shown to have been “picked up” again in PDE, the [predicate
-ing-CC] combinations that we analyzed typically expressing the meaning of
‘S of matrix clause regrets/admits/is sorry for/agrees on having been/being/
getting involved in a certain action as an Agent’. That-CCs, on the other hand,
continue to exploit their original independent relation with the matrix (word
order, complexity of subject, interspersing) and show a strong tendency in PDE
to take a different inanimate subject. The increasing semantic and syntactic
bonding between matrix and -ing-CC that we observed, we suggested, can be
regarded as an instance of increasing grammaticalization, marked by syntactic
coalescence and decategorialization (or desentialization). As examples of more
specific cases of semantic and lexicogrammatical specialization, we discussed
admit and its “crime-related” semantics, and agree, which, depending on the
preposition it is combined with, prefers different types of gerundive construc-
tions, including the subjectless, type-specifying type. Finally, several matrix
predicates with that-CCs (regret, be sorry, admit, agree) were shown to be
developing metalinguistic (and therefore even more independent) usages – this
in line with their diachronic origin as projected units.
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4. Cognitive Approaches to Meaning
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time:
material for object mappings in the OED
Kathryn Allan
Abstract
There has been relatively little work investigating the diachronic development of me-
tonymy. Although it is often observed that metonymy is a common trigger for semantic
change (e. g. Traugott and Dasher 2005), it is not clear whether metonymical map-
pings commonly involve clear stages of semantic development that are diachronically
separate, or whether more often the nature of metonymy results in a much “messier”
situation where several metonymically related senses of a lexeme surface around the
same time. Other questions relating to how metonymical senses develop and change
remain open, such as how and why new senses are motivated at a particular time, why
some metonymically related senses become conventional but other apparently possible
ones do not, and why particular senses become obsolete. There is a need for a much
more detailed consideration of individual cases of metonymic polysemy (a term used
by Koch 1999), which takes account of established theories of lexical semantics along-
side cognitive theories of metonymy.
This paper considers issues relating to the development of particular convention-
alised metonymies in a diachronic context, using data from the Oxford English Dic-
tionary. Specifically, it traces the historical development of a small group of lexemes
that evidence metonymical senses of the type material for object, e. g. glass for
‘vessel’, and explores the extent to which metonymical mappings of a particular type
follow a similar pattern diachronically. It is argued that a diachronic perspective can
be helpful and valuable in formulating and testing theories of metonymy, and in under-
standing the relationship between metaphor, metonymy and literal language.
1. Introduction
Metonymy has long been recognised as a common trigger for semantic change,
and most (if not all) manuals of semantic and lexical change acknowledge met-
onymical processes as a central factor in the development of polysemy. For ex-
ample, Ullmann’s seminal handbook Principles of Semantics lists metonymy
as one of four “cardinal types” of associations that can initiate semantic change
(alongside metaphor, folk etymology and ellipsis; 1957: 79–80), and more re-
cently, Traugott and Dasher argue that it is a major mechanism of semantic
change (2005: 27–34). Blank and Koch suggest that “Nowadays, even manuals
164 Kathryn Allan
To keep things clear, it would be better to call cases like Eng. bar (with respect to
its senses […]) ‘metonymic polysemy’. Nevertheless, there is a close relationship
between ad hoc metonymy […] and metonymic polysemy […]: just as polysemy in
general develops through ‘lexicalization’ of a semantic change ultimately triggered
by a contextual and/or expressive ad hoc usage of a word in discourse, metonymic
polysemy also develops through lexicalization out of ad hoc metonymic usage in
discourse – or put the other way round, metonymy constitutes an ad hoc innovation
that can potentially induce a ‘metonymic change’ in the meaning of the lexeme
concerned, which thereby becomes (metonymically) polysemous. (Koch 1999: 140)
The issues of how and why particular ad hoc metonymies develop into cases of
metonymic polysemy are not addressed by Koch, and appear to have received
little attention in the literature. This paper will examine a group of metonymi-
cal mappings that have become conventionalised, and in particular will con-
sider the following questions:
• Is there usually, or always, time delay between the attestation of the “source”
meaning of a lexical item and the emergence of any metonymically related
senses?
• In terms of diachronic development, do metonymies of a particular type
(i. e., the types identified in lists such as that presented in Radden and
Kövecses 1999 or Peirsman and Geeraerts 2006) behave in a similar way?
• Why do some lexemes develop more conventional metonymies than others?
The data used in this paper is taken exclusively from the Oxford English Dic-
tionary (henceforth OED), because of my focus on the diachronic develop-
ment of metonymic polysemy, i. e. on the results of metonymically motivated
change and the historical evidence for the way in which this change has oc-
curred through time. The OED is a particularly valuable source for this kind
of analysis, because it draws on a huge compilation of data on historical sense
development that spans a long historical period; as an individual researcher (or
as part of a small team) it would be impossible to replicate the results of the
OED’s reading and research by examining currently available diachronic cor-
pora and text databases. To a certain extent, using the OED as a data source ties
this study to a particular analysis of sense distinctions, although the illustrative
quotations provided in each entry allow one to “drill down” to some extent. It
would also be possible to use synchronic corpora to examine the relationship
between established senses and innovative metonymical senses (used by some
speakers but not in general conventional use); research of this kind might make
it possible to identify examples of change in progress, and allow the scholar to
use a synchronic snapshot to explore the mechanisms of change close-up. How-
ever, because my interest here is in the results of change and the time periods
166 Kathryn Allan
involved in this change, I have not further explored the potential for this kind
of work, which would certainly merit a study of its own.
1 However, recent work in the field has suggested that metonymy can also be non-
referential, since metonymy can occur on the predicational and illocutionary levels.
See Panther and Thornburg (2007: 236–263).
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 167
Scholars including Radden (2002) have observed that “the traditional distinc-
tion between metaphor and metonymy can no longer be upheld” (Radden 2002:
431). He proposes that the two types of mapping are most helpfully seen as
points on a mapping continuum, with “prototypical” metaphor at one extreme
and “prototypical” metonymy at the other. A prototypical instance of metaphor
might be one that is very clearly motivated by perceived similarity between
source and target, such as pig for ‘untidy person’; a prototypical instance of
metonymy might be one that is very clearly referential and motivated by conti-
guity between source and target, such as suit for ‘business man’. More difficult
cases, such as metaphor motivated by metonymy (e. g. an instance of primary
metaphor) can be placed somewhere in the middle of the continuum. Although
it is not the focus of his article, Radden also suggests that literal language is
part of the same continuum, and is located next to metonymy. He considers dif-
ferent uses of the attributive adjective high as illustrating a “gradual transition
from literalness via different stages of metonymy to metaphor” (2002: 409);
there are relatively clear examples of the literal, metonymical and metaphori-
cal use of high (in high tower, high temperature and high quality, respectively),
but also uses that appear to represent mid-points between these categories. He
argues that high tide is “‘partially’, or weakly, metonymic” (2002: 409) since
it refers to both vertical extension, i. e. the literal sense of high, but at the same
time also to horizontal extension, which he considers a metonymical use of the
lexeme. (High temperature is more clearly metonymical, since it maps the scale
of verticality to degrees of temperature.)
This study accepts the idea that neither metaphor nor metonymy are clear-
cut categories, and focuses on the relationship between metonymy and literal
language. A diachronic investigation of the material for object mapping
appears to support the view that metonymy and literal language are located on
a continuum, since some instances of the mapping are intuitively more clearly
metonymical than others (discussed further below). Metonymy might therefore
be viewed as the middle point of a continuum with prototypical metaphor at
one end and literal language at the other, as Radden suggests.
168 Kathryn Allan
3.1. Data
The data that is examined here relates to one particular type of metonymy, the
mapping between material and object that is evident in examples like glass
(with the meaning ‘drinking vessel’) and iron (with the meaning ‘appliance
used to smooth clothes’). The material for object metonymy has been cho-
sen because it is uncontroversial in terms of any debate about the defining prop-
erties of metonymy as distinct from metaphor; it relies on the close conceptual
relationship between an object and one of the properties of that object, i. e., the
material from which it is constituted, and there is no sense in which these two
entities can be said to be similar (or to be perceived as similar). In terms of a
metaphor-metonymy continuum, therefore, instances of this type of mapping
would certainly be close to the metonymy end, and could perhaps be consid-
ered as fairly typical examples of metonymy. However, by comparison with
other “clear-cut” metonymies (in this sense), instances of this type of mapping
generally have a feature that is not typical, and this might prevent them from
being considered prototypical in some frameworks. Following scholars such as
Blank (1999) and Seto (1999), Peirsman and Geeraerts examine metonymy as
a category in itself, and suggest that it has a prototypical core focused on the
relationship of contiguity. The category extends from this core along two di-
mensions, “strength of contact” and “boundedness” (2006: 278–279); the most
prototypical examples of metonymy are those where the source and target have
the highest strength of contact (i. e. physical contact between the source and
target) and are both (physical or abstract) bounded entities. By this criteria,
spatial part & whole metonymies like the following form the prototypical
core for the category:
Here one bounded space, England, stands for another, the whole of the UK,
and these have the highest possible level of strength of contact because one is
physically part of the other. material for object metonymies are prototypi-
cal on the “strength of contact” criteria, since they are a specific type of part
for whole mapping, but they are non-prototypical in that they commonly
involve one bounded entity and one unbounded entity, and therefore a switch
from a mass noun to a count noun linguistically. For example, glass in its ma-
terial sense is a mass noun which stands for an unbounded entity, whereas a
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 169
For each item, data from the OED has been used to examine the following:
1. whether one or more conventional metonymically related senses develop;
2. if these metonymically related senses are found in general and lasting use;
3. when they are attested (relative to when the source meaning is attested),
whether there is a time delay between the recording of the source material
sense and the target object sense(s), and why this might be.
In this relatively brief article, the discussions below refer only to selected ex-
amples in considering each of these questions. A full list of the material for
object senses that have been included in the data appears in the Appendix.
The particular examples that have been included in the sample have been cho-
sen on the basis of intuition, partly because there are particular difficulties in
searching dictionaries (or corpora) for instances of metonymy. Markert and
Nissim (2006) discuss the way in which dictionaries treat the metonymical
senses of lexical items in their study of proper names, using data from Word-
net. They conclude that there are three issues that are particularly problematic
for those using dictionary material to study metonymy:2
Dictionaries necessarily include only conventional metonymic senses, whereas
metonymies are open-ended […] But even conventional metonymies are often not
2 They go on to say that it is also problematic that dictionaries do not always include
proper names, but this is not relevant to the present study.
170 Kathryn Allan
included systematically […] Even if literal and metonymic senses are both included
they are listed [in some dictionaries] as unrelated entries and the metonymic rela-
tionship between them is not expressed […] (Markert and Nissim 2006: 154)
3 At the time of writing, when entries from M - ramvert had been revised for the 3rd
edition, the online search of the OED recovered metonymy (or a related form) a to-
tal of 53 times in definitions and 15 times in etymologies as a term used to explain
the relationship between the senses of lexemes. Of these 68 instances, 48 occur
in new 3rd edition entries, suggesting that metonymy is used more frequently to
explain sense relationships than it was in the 2nd edition. It is likely that this is only
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 171
The twenty lexemes included in the data all have metonymical object senses
at some point in their histories, although many of these senses are now obso-
lete (e. g. metal with the sense ‘weapon, armour’), and some are restricted to
particular discourse areas (e. g. iron and wood for particular types of golf club).
Strikingly, although all of these lexemes show patterns of metonymic poly-
semy of the same type, beyond this they vary enormously, to the extent that
it is problematic to present any kind of meaningful statistical analysis of the
data. Perhaps most basically, the lexemes differ in the degree of (material for
object) metonymic polysemy they exhibit, both synchronically and diachron-
ically.4 Some lexemes develop a single metonymical object sense across time,
e. g. vinyl for ‘record(s)’, nylons for ‘stockings or tights’,5 hair for ‘cloth, mat’.
However, this is relatively unusual, and the majority of the lexemes examined
develop many more than one metonymically related sense diachronically. No-
table examples are glass, for which the OED lists 17 different object senses
because it is a more generally used term currently, though; there is no evidence that
the OED has adopted a conscious policy of using terms like this more frequently.
4 My comments here relate to material for object metonymical polysemous sens-
es, but I would suggest that other metonymical and non-metonymical polysemous
senses are also absolutely relevant to the questions of motivation and convention-
alisation of material for object senses. As Allan (2008: 114–115) comments, it
seems likely that it is not possible for a lexeme to exhibit polysemy if this is likely to
result in confusion, and in practice if two meanings are conceptually close enough
to be confused (but distant enough to be distinct from one another) some kind of
change is likely to occur, so that either one sense will become obsolete, or one or
both senses will shift semantically.
5 Nylons always occurs in the plural with this sense; no metonymical sense is record-
ed for nylon singular. Presumably this is simply because items of clothing which
are worn on the legs and are close-fitting are conventionally given a plural name,
e. g. trousers, tights, culottes etc.
172 Kathryn Allan
However, not all lexemes denoting materials that have very characteristic
properties of this kind have a small number of object senses, and to account
for this, intra-linguistic systemic factors must also be considered. One of the
most highly polysemous lexemes in the data is paper, for which the OED lists
21 distinct object senses (some of these are presented as subsenses of more
general categories of object in the OED’s analysis). Obviously paper as a ma-
terial has a very limited number of purposes; it can have symbols or pictures
marked on it in some way, or it can form a wrapper or envelope to cover or
enclose something, and the senses of the lexeme reflect this. However, the OED
entry lists a high number of specialised uses in particular discourse areas. For
example, all of the (plural) sub-senses in sense 12 denote official documents of
some kind, but each of these relate to what is salient within a certain context:7
for the crew of a ship, papers identify and legitimise a particular vessel or
signify an individual’s right to travel (sense 12a); within the military, papers
are certificates which must accompany applications to resign (12b); and for
a vet, papers establish an animal’s pedigree (sense 12c). These are classified
as subsenses in the OED because they are closely related in terms of etymol-
ogy, and develop one from another; the letters that label subsenses within 12
represent developments in a historical branching structure. In this particular
instance, these subsenses are also closely related semantically; in a traditional
classification, they might be regarded as context-dependent co-hyponyms of a
broader superordinate category ‘type of official document’. This close sense re-
lationship means that the OED subsenses would not be regarded as full senses
in some frameworks. Croft and Cruse (2004) discuss multiple meanings in
terms of the degree of autonomy between senses, and by their classification this
group of meanings of paper would be classified as microsenses, i. e. “distinct
sense units of a word that occur in different contexts and whose default con-
struals stand in a relation of mutual incompatability at the same hierarchical
level” (Croft and Cruse 2004: 128–129). These are not considered as full senses
because full senses (of the same lexical form) cannot be hyponyms of a super-
ordinate category, and therefore have a higher degree of autonomy. A similar
example, though one which perhaps demonstrates a more complex relationship
between multiple meanings, is the lexeme glass. A key characteristic of glass
is its transparency and the fact that it can be used to magnify images, so that it
is used to make lenses for different kinds of purposes. It can therefore denote
several lens-type objects including a pair of spectacles (in plural; sense 10a), a
telescope (10b) or a microscope (10c). Each of these uses involves a metonymi-
cal chain, where there is material for object metonymic polysemy (glass
‘lens made of glass’) but also a part-whole mapping to the larger object that
has a lens as its salient feature.
It is also important to take into account the way in which systemic factors
make particular senses “available” for conventional use within the context of
a particular discourse area. Both iron and wood can denote types of golf club
(iron 4e; wood 7g), precisely because of the contrast between them; it would
not make sense to use one material for object metonymy in isolation to
describe a type of golf club, because if all golf clubs were made of the same
material this could not be used as the salient, defining feature that made a dis-
tinction between each type.
Although it is much more difficult to make suggestions about metonymical
senses that do not appear in the data, it seems relevant to consider why theo-
retically possible metonymies do not become conventionalised. As Geeraerts
(1997: 103) points out, there is a difference between extensions of meaning
that are possible or plausible, such as typical classes of mappings motivated
by metaphor or metonymy (like material for object) and those that are ac-
tualized and result in lexical-semantic change. It seems likely that cognitive
principles such as those mentioned in Kövecses and Radden (1998), which can
be seen to either “sanction” or constrain the occurrence of ad-hoc instances
of metonymy, will have an equally strong effect on whether or not a mapping
becomes conventionalised (resulting in metonymic polysemy). To some extent,
this can account for the specialised senses of material for object metony-
mies in particular contexts discussed in the previous paragraph. As well as this,
though, intra-systemic factors must be involved as additional and perhaps even
more powerful constraining mechanisms. Whether or not there are already de-
scriptively adequate lexemes to denote any object must be one of these factors;
if this is the case, it seems less likely that a material for object metonymy
will “stick” in the lexicon. One example might be the lack of any OED sense
‘table’ or ‘table-top’ for the lexeme wood. Table tops are most commonly made
of a large slab of wood, and this was even more usual in the past; given other
comparable examples of metonymic polysemy, notably mahogany for a table
made of mahogany wood, it seems fairly plausible that this kind of metonymi-
cal extension might occur. However, no ‘table’ or ‘table-top’ sense is recorded
for wood. It is notable that in different periods other lexemes have had this cen-
tral meaning. Before table became the dominant term for this concept in Eng-
lish, board was also used with the same meaning, and this can be found from
the Old English period onwards. Table is not attested until the Middle English
period, and came into English as part of the large scale borrowing of Romance
lexis that occurred in the period after the Norman Conquest. As a result of
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 175
this large scale borrowing, very many pairs of synonyms including board and
table arose; subsequently, these diverged, so that board shifted semantically
and is no longer used with the same meaning.8 Wood meaning ‘table’ may not
have become conventional simply because it would have been redundant, thus
violating the principle of efficiency in the lexicon where exact synonymy is
extremely rare (or perhaps non-existent).
Such examples clearly demonstrate the importance of looking beyond any
individual lexeme in examining metonymy and metonymic polysemy, a point
made by Geeraerts in his discussion of mechanisms of semantic change:
Although classifications of lexical-semantic change are often restricted to the sema-
siological perspective, such a strict distinction between the semasiological and the
onomasiological approaches is misleading. It should not be forgotten, in fact, that
the semasiological extension of the range of meanings of an existing word is itself
one of the major mechanisms of onomasiological change – one of the mechanisms,
that is, through which a concept to be expressed gets linked to a lexical expression.
(Geeraerts 1997: 94–95)
Several scholars share this view and have approached figurative language from
an onomasiological perspective (see, for example, Tissari 2005; Fabiszak and
Hebda, this volume). However, it is still the case that exclusively semasiological
approaches are more usual within cognitively-oriented studies of metonymy.
I would suggest that the study of onomasiological change is a key area for
development in the future, particularly as interest in motivation in language
increases. The recently completed Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English
Dictionary (Kay et al. 2009), compiled at the University of Glasgow, promises
to be a useful tool to facilitate diachronic onomasiological study, and is there-
fore likely to alleviate some of the difficulties of retrieving data discussed in
section 3.2.
Apart from the differences in degrees of polysemy in the data, there is also
wide variation in the way metonymical mappings become established through
time. It is important to note that the dates of attestation listed in the OED can-
not be equated with dates of usage, and can only be taken to be very rough
indicators of the periods in which particular senses of each lexeme became
established or faded into obsolescence. There are several reasons for this. The
OED relies on written sources, and it is generally accepted that new lexemes
and new senses of existing lexemes tend to be found first in spoken language,
making it difficult to track their earliest uses in modern times, and impossible
in earlier periods. Furthermore, the first attestations given in the OED are not
always the earliest attestations in print; since the first edition was finished in
1928, many earlier and later examples have been identified, and these will be
incorporated in the third edition, currently underway (see Durkin 2002 for a
discussion of how much this is likely to change the dates of attestation in the
OED as a whole). Finally, but most importantly, the OED records the language
in periods for which the surviving evidence is patchy at best, and this means
that some lexemes are not attested at particular times even though it seems
highly likely that they must have existed. A good example is provided by the
most common current material sense of chalk (OED sense 2), this is attested
in the compound chalkpit (Old English cealcpyt) in a 956 text, and then again
in c1400, but the OED does not list any attestations for the period between
these dates. It seems highly unlikely that this sense of the lexeme faded out
of use for 450 years (though it is possible), and the obvious conclusion is that
if there really are no examples in use this reflects the lack of evidence that
survives in early English. Overall, as Durkin asserts, “Caution is therefore ad-
visable when making use of [… existing OED] data for statistical purposes”
(Durkin 2002: 75).
Having said this, though, the dates of attestation for the material for ob-
ject metonyms presented in the OED do seem to provide some indication of
whether object senses occur significantly later than material senses for this
type of mapping. In some cases, little or no time delay is recorded between the
attestation of the literal sense of a lexeme and a metonymically-related object
sense: for example, nylon, discussed above, is attested earliest with the mean-
ings ‘Any of various synthetic thermoplastic polymers’ in 1938, ‘fabric made
from nylon yarn’ in 1940, and (in plural) ‘stockings or tights’ in 1940. This
clearly shows that the metonymical mapping of the lexeme (and the conscious
coining of the lexeme in the first place) was motivated by new technological
developments: when the new product, nylon hosiery, was created, the material
name was used to refer to it and immediately became conventional because this
name became generally known and used. Since the material was designed for
a particular purpose and used for this purpose immediately after its invention,
there is no discernable time delay between the attestation of the literal ‘fabric’
sense and the metonymical object sense (although a short time delay may
have occurred, this would be impossible to prove). This is a very straightfor-
ward example of a recognised principle of lexical change: when a new concept
emerges (or an existing concept changes in some significant way), either a new
term will be borrowed or created for this concept, or an existing lexeme will be
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 177
used with an “extended” sense, motivating semantic change and potentially the
development of polysemy for particular lexemes. A second example is provided
by sense 9 of lead, defined in the OED as ‘In the knitting machine: The lead or
tin socket holding the shanks of one or more needles’ and attested earliest in
1839. Obviously, a knitting machine is a very recent invention, and occasions
a need for new labels to refer to associated concepts such as constituent parts,
and the new sense of lead arises as a result.
However, in many instances it is much harder to account for the time delay
between the object and metonymical material senses of a lexeme without
doing much more thorough research on the concepts involved and on develop-
ments elsewhere in the lexicon. For example, it is difficult to account for the
time delay between the material sense of metal, which is attested from c1230
onwards, and any object sense, particularly since the material definition
draws attention to the nature of metal ‘esp. as used in the manufacture of ob-
jects, artefacts, and utensils’. The earliest object sense is defined as ‘A weap-
on, arms, or armour made of metal’. This is attested earliest in c1400 and latest
in 1663, but given that no quotations are listed for the 1500s, and the definition
covers several slightly different senses, this may be a fairly rare sense even
though the concepts it denotes would not have been new in the 15th century.
The next earliest attested object sense (in 1485) is ‘a medal, a coin’. Compared
to the other lexemes denoting metals in the data, metal has very few object
senses, and most of these do not appear to be attested over a particularly long
period; the only current senses are (in the plural form) ‘The rails of a railway
or tramway’ and ‘The guns or firepower of a warship, etc.’, which the OED
notes is chiefly found in the phrase weight of metal. By contrast, there is a much
shorter time delay between the material and object senses of steel, which
are both recorded in Old English, and steel has many more object senses with
generally longer periods of currency, although the current senses are also rela-
tively rare and specialised. One possibility is that metal is less used metonymi-
cally because it is a less specific term: steel, copper, bronze and iron all denote
particular types of metals, whereas metal can be used as a superordinate term
for a number of different materials. It is possible that for this reason it is less
likely to be strongly associated with particular objects, but this suggestion can
only be made very tentatively without evidence.
Overall, the huge variation in the diachronic relationship between material
and object senses of any lexeme suggests that there need not be significant
time delay between these; the emergence of metonymical senses appears to be
governed largely by extra-linguistic factors related to the nature of particular
entities and the cultural context (in the widest sense) in which they exist. Logi-
cally, object senses cannot emerge before material senses if the relation-
178 Kathryn Allan
6. Degrees of metonymicity
In his 2006 study of metaphor, Hanks observes that not all metaphors appear
to be equally metaphorical, and suggests that the notion of gradability is help-
ful in analysing examples of metaphor. He argues that the fewer properties
shared between the source and target (in his terminology, primary and sec-
ondary subject) of a metaphor, i. e. the greater semantic “distance” between
the two concepts, the greater the metaphoricity or semantic “resonance”. For
example, he compares the phrases “a desert of railway tracks” and “a desert
of barren obsession”. In the first phrase, the concepts involved in the metaphor
both relate to physical locations, and therefore this is a property they share; by
contrast, in the latter example, the target is an abstract quality, and therefore
is semantically further away from the source. He concludes that “a desert of
railway tracks” therefore has less semantic resonance, because
In the most metaphorical senses, the secondary subject shares fewest properties
with the primary subject. Therefore, the reader or hearer has to work correspond-
ingly harder to create a relevant interpretation. At the other extreme, the more
shared properties there are, the weaker the metaphoricity. (Hanks 2006: 22)
Although I am unsure about some of the terminology Hanks uses, a similar
phenomenon appears to occur in the material for object data, and to some
extent it seems possible to grade the “metonymicity” of the lexemes in the
data. There are some cases that are easy to classify as metonymic polysemy,
since the material and object senses are intuitively separate (although con-
nected). For example, OED sense 4b of plastic is ‘credit card’. Intuitively it is
easy to make a distinction between plastic as a material and credit cards; the
fact that credit cards are made of plastic is only one of their properties, and this
‘credit card’ sense of plastic could be reasonably clearly defined without refer-
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 179
ence to the material (though this is obviously evident from the lexeme itself).
In the terms in which polysemy is discussed in Croft and Cruse (2004), these
are sense units that exhibit a reasonable level of autonomy, and arguably they
might be considered as full senses which are “mutually exclusive as foci of at-
tention” (2004: 112). It is possible to think of examples that seem to illustrate
the degree of autonomy between the two senses, such as the following:
This could mean either that new chairs were fashioned out of the material plas-
tic, or that new chairs were bought using a credit card. Although this is a fairly
contrived example, it does seem to show that in this (unlikely) example, the two
meanings of plastic are antagonistic, so that one reading excludes the other.
To an extent, the fact that most of the metonymical mappings in the data
involve a switch from mass noun to count noun (discussed in section 3.1 above)
separates the source and target and gives each sense a certain degree of auton-
omy; for example, iron ‘type of metal’ and iron ‘implement’ cannot be used in
the same way grammatically/syntactically (as the example above shows, plas-
tic meaning ‘credit cards’ plural is a notable exception, although the OED entry
includes examples where it is used in the singular with a preceding article).
This is one property that the sources and targets of material for object
mappings do not share. In other respects, though, the boundaries between some
of the material and object senses of lexemes in the data are fairly blurred,
and in some cases there is minimal conceptual difference between metonymi-
cal senses and senses that can be considered purely literal. For example, wood
has various closely related senses including OED senses 6b ‘as prepared for
and used in arts and crafts’, 6c ‘as used for fuel; FIREWOOD’, and 6e ‘As the
material of an idol or image (Biblical.)’. These are all listed as subsenses of
6, and are narrowed senses of 6a, ‘The substance of which the roots, trunks,
and branches of trees or shrubs consist’, but OED editors obviously perceived
enough of a difference (and found enough supporting evidence) to separate
each sense rather than simply regarding them as context-specific uses of the
general meaning 6 which did not require separate definitions. 6b, 6c and 6e
would not be considered to be full senses in Croft and Cruse’s framework, but
appear to meet at least some of the criteria to be considered as a possible “fac-
ets” of sense 6a, i. e. “distinguishable components of a global whole” (Croft and
Cruse 2004: 116). 6b and 6e both relate to slightly different uses of wood as a
constitutive material, 6b as a type of raw supply, and 6e a characteristic element
of one type of object. 6c relates to a completely different function of wood as a
type of fuel, and therefore appears to show some degree of autonomy of mean-
180 Kathryn Allan
ing. Firstly, it shows relational autonomy in that it participates in its own sense
relations (Croft and Cruse 2004: 117). It is a co-hyponym of other types of fuel,
e. g. coal, which could not be considered a co-hyponym of either 6b or 6e, and
arguably it is the superordinate for the hyponyms log and kindling; possible
co-hyponyms of 6b might be stone or leather, and types of wood such as cedar
and mahogany are usually hyponyms of this specific meaning. Secondly, 6b/e
and 6c appear to show compositional autonomy: it would be possible to find
predicates that could apply to the ‘fuel’ sense which would not be relevant to
the ‘constitutive material’ senses, such as dry, or vice versa, such as turned or
pliable. It appears to be more difficult to show that these OED subsenses could
be regarded as facets in terms of having autonomous cores, since it is difficult
to “isolate” the ‘constitutive material’ and ‘fuel’ subsenses in the way that the
[TEXT] facet of book can be isolated (Croft and Cruse 2004: 119), but on the
other hand, the subsenses do appear to be referentially distinct in the following
examples:9
Although each of these OED subsenses of wood (sense 6) are literal, narrowed
(or specialized) senses rather than metonymies, they seem to “shade into” the
more clearly metonymical senses of wood listed separately as specific senses
of branch 7, which have a greater degree of autonomy. Branch 7 is assigned the
general meaning ‘something made of wood’, but the specific subsenses also
seem to vary in metonymicity, and in general there is a close relationship be-
tween the senses in branches 6 and 7. Sense 7f, ‘each of the bowls in the game
of bowls’, seems a much clearer case of metonymy than 7b, ‘a block of wood
used for engraving or printing, as distinguished from a metal plate or type,’
even though both can be used as count nouns. In the latter case, the material
seems to be the single defining property of the object, whereas in the former,
9 The fact that each of these OED subsenses relates to wood as a physical entity
makes it more difficult to judge the relevance of the notion of facet, particularly
since most of the lexemes that Croft and Cruse suggest possess facets are not com-
parable. Having said this, they do include the example chicken, which has the facets
[BIRD] and [FOOD], and this seems to be the most similar to wood. The two fac-
ets have different co-hyponyms (e. g. sparrow and pork respectively), and different
predicates can apply to each (e. g. a noisy chicken vs. a tasty bird); as with wood, it
seems more difficult to construct examples to show that these facets have autono-
mous cores.
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 181
tinuum. Close to the metonymy end are the senses of material for object
lexemes that show the highest degree of autonomy from their source object
senses, such as plastic ‘credit card’ or paper ‘playing card’ (OED sense 16a).
Specialised literal senses of lexemes such as wood, which would not be consid-
ered to be full senses (or micro-senses) in frameworks such as Croft and Cruse
(2004), are near to the literal end of the continuum, but perhaps provide a mid-
point between non-specialised uses and straightforward metonymical senses.
This kind of model relates closely to Barcelona’s comments on “typical” and
“peripheral” metonymies:
The relative distinctness of source and target […] helps to distinguish ‘typical’ from
‘peripheral’ metonymies (or ‘relatively central’ metonymies from metonymies in
a ‘broad sense’), and is also useful as one of the factors that facilitate the conven-
tionalization of a given metonymy. ‘Typical’ metonymies are the ones closest to the
basic-level prototype on the metonymicity continuum: like prototypical metony-
mies, their target must be clearly distinguishable from their source […] (Barcelona
2003: 241)
I would distance my comments from those of Barcelona in as much as I am not
using the term “prototypical” in the same way here. My comments on proto-
typicality relate more to metonymies of this particular type; I would therefore
argue that there are more or less “central” metonymical types (since the catego-
ry of metonymy is structured like other categories with a prototypical “core”,
as Peirsman and Geeraerts [2006] argues), but that these types appear to span
areas of the metaphor-metonymy-literal language continuum. Within particu-
lar types or categories of metonymy, there are more or less central instances.
As a category, the material for object type of metonymy appears to span
a section of the continuum relatively near to the literal end of the metonymy
continuum, but within this “section” some instances are clearly further from
the literal end. It seems that particular instances of conventional metonymy
can move along the continuum over time, as the concepts that they denote be-
come more established or change. A good example of this is paper sense 10, ‘A
newspaper or journal. Also in pl., with the: newspapers collectively’. In its early
use (attested from 1642), this might be considered to be somewhere between
the poles of literalness and metonymy on a continuum, since the key property
of a physical newspaper is the material from which it is constituted. However,
technological advances mean that many newspapers now exist in electronic
format, and it is possible to use paper to denote the online version of a news-
paper.10 This sense is still closely related metonymically, but the concept of a
10 Many examples can be found via Google, including the following, which illus-
trates the ‘online’ sense very clearly:
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 183
newspaper has changed so that paper no longer has a literal element. In terms
of a historical perspective, a metonymically motivated meaning change has
resulted in a new sense (perhaps a microsense in Croft and Cruse’s framework),
which is in the process of becoming dissociated from its parent sense as a result
of technological change in the external world.
7. Conclusion
When I finish reading my Sunday newspaper, I can’t help but think I’ve just com-
mitted an egregious environmental sin – all those poor trees that had to die so I
could titter over inane op-eds, guacamole recipes, and overpriced real estate list-
ings! The greener choice would be to read the paper online, correct? (From http://
www.slate.com/id/2185143/, accessed July 2008).
184 Kathryn Allan
References
Allan, Kathryn
2006 On groutnolls and nog-heads: A case study of the interaction between
culture and cognition in intelligence metaphors. In: Anatol Stefanow-
itsch and Stefan Th. Gries (eds.), Corpus-based Approaches to Meta-
phor and Metonymy, 175–190. (Trends in Linguistics: Studies and
Monographs 171.) Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.
Allan, Kathryn
2008 Metaphor and Metonymy: A Diachronic Approach. Oxford: Wiley-
Blackwell.
Barcelona, Antonio
2002 Clarifying and applying the notions of metaphor and metonymy with-
in cognitive linguistics: An update. In: René Dirven and Ralf Pörings
(eds.), Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast, 207–278.
Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.
Barcelona, Antonio
2003 Metonymy in cognitive linguistics: An analysis and a few modest pro-
posals. In: Hubert Cuyckens, Thomas Berg, René Dirven and Klaus-
Uwe Panther (eds.), Motivation in Language: Studies in Honor of Gün-
ther Radden, 223–255. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.
Blank, Andreas and Peter Koch
1999 Introduction. In: Andreas Blank and Peter Koch (eds.), Historical Se-
mantics and Cognition, 1–14. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.
Croft, William
2002 The role of domains in the interpretation of metaphors and metonymies.
In: René Dirven and Ralf Pörings (eds.), Metaphor and Metonymy in
Comparison and Contrast, 161–205. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 185
The following entries from the OED Online are abridged: only senses relevant
to the study have been included, and information on pronunciation, spelling
variation and etymology has been omitted, along with supporting quotations.
The date ranges supplied (on the basis of quotation dates) give the earliest and
latest OED attestations, with a dash indicating continuing use (–) and a plus
sign (+) indicating a gap in the record of 150 years or more. Senses which are
attested later than 1870 are marked as current (>)11.
11 However, it is not suggested that this is always a reliable criterion for current us-
age; there are a small number of senses that clearly survive into Present-Day use
but have earlier final attestations, e. g. glasses ‘spectacles’ (glass 10d).
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 187
1 BRONZE n
1. a. A brown-coloured alloy of copper and tin, sometimes also containing a little zinc
and lead. Formerly included under the term BRASS, q. v.; the name bronze was in-
troduced for the material of ancient works of art, or perhaps rather for the works of
art themselves: see sense 2. [1617] + 1739 >
2. (with pl.) A work of art, as a statue, etc., executed in bronze. a1721 >
4. (More fully bronze powder: see 7): A metallic powder (usually brass, copper, or tin)
used in painting, printing, and the like. 1753 >
2 CHALK n
2. An opaque white soft earthy limestone, which exists in deposits of vast extent and
thickness in the south-east of England, and forms high cliffs along the sea-shore.
956 + c1400 >
3. a. Applied to other earths resembling chalk.
b. spec. Applied to various coloured preparations resembling chalk in texture, and
used like it in the form of crayons for drawing. 1481-90 + c1790 >
3 COPPER n
I. 1. a. One of the well-known metals, distinguished by its peculiar red colour; it is
malleable, ductile, and very tenacious, and is found native as well as in many ores.
c1000 – c1050 + c1386 >
2. a. Copper money; with a and pl. (colloq.), a copper coin; a penny or halfpenny; a
cent of the United States. Still used of the bronze which has superseded the copper
coinage. [1588] + 1712 >
b. U. S. In Faro, orig. a copper coin used to ‘copper’ with (COPPER v.1 2); hence, a
small disk, token or check, now used for the same purpose. 1892 >
3. a. A vessel made of copper, particularly a large boiler for cooking or laundry pur-
poses, originally made of copper, but now more often of iron; in pl., esp. the large
boilers or cooking vessels on board ship. 1667 >
b. A copper mug or vessel for liquor. 1749 – 1809-12
4. a. A plate of copper on which a design is engraved or etched. Cf. COPPER-PLATE.
1668 >
b. A ceremonial copper sheet like a shield made and used by N. Amer. Indians.
[1814] + 1888 >
5. A copper implement like a cotton reel or bobbin hollow and open at the ends, used by
gold and silver wire-drawers in annealing: it is also borne by the Company in their
armorial ensign. 1828 >
6. The copper sheathing of a vessel. rare. 1836
188 Kathryn Allan
4 GLASS n
I. As a substance. 1. A substance, in its ordinary forms transparent, lustrous, hard,
and brittle, produced by fusing sand (silica) with soda or potash (or both), usually
with the addition of one or more other ingredients, esp. lime, alumina, lead oxide.
c888 >
3. a. The substance considered as made into articles of use or ornament (for which see
II). Hence as collect. sing. = things made of glass: e. g. vessels or ornaments of glass,
window-panes or lights. 1625 + 1833 – 1855
b. esp. as used in horticulture for greenhouses, frames. etc. Hence, greenhouses, etc.,
collectively. 1838 >
II. Something made of glass. 4. a. A glass vessel or receptacle. Also, the contents of
the vessel. The specific application as in 5 is now so predominant that the word is
now commonly applied only to vessels more or less resembling a drinking glass; a
glass bottle or jar, for instance, is no longer called ‘a glass’. But the wider use sur-
vives in the collective pl. a1225 >
b. = musical glasses (see MUSICAL). 1762
5. spec. A drinking-vessel made of glass; hence, the liquor contained, and fig. drink.
1392-3 – 1847
6. a. A SAND-GLASS for the measurement of time; esp. an HOUR-GLASS, and Naut.
the half-hour glass, the half-minute and quarter-minute glasses. [1515] + 1557 >
7. A pane of glass, esp. the window of a coach, etc.; the plate of glass covering a picture;
a glazed frame or case (e. g. for the protection of plants). 1439 – 1833
8. a. A glass mirror, a LOOKING-GLASS. c1300 >
b. applied to a mirror of other material. 1530 – 1615 + 1861
e. A magic mirror, a crystal, etc., used in magic art. Also glass of skill. c1566 – 1605
9. a. A piece of glass shaped for a special purpose, e. g. one of the glasses of a pair of
spectacles, a lens, a watch-glass. 1545 >
b. A burning-glass. a1631 – 1670
10. An optical instrument used as an aid to sight.
a. gen. 1700 – 1847
b. A telescope or other instrument for distant vision. More explicitly SPY-GLASS,
FIELD-GLASS, OPERA-GLASS, etc. 1613-16 >
c. A microscope. More explicitly magnifying-glass. 1646 >
d. An EYE-GLASS; also in pl. spectacles. 1660 – 1866
12. a. A WEATHER-GLASS, a barometer. 1688 – 1867
b. A thermometer. 1775
5 HAIR n
I. 1. a. One of the numerous fine and generally cylindrical filaments that grow from
the skin or integument of animals, esp. of most mammals, of which they form the
characteristic coat; applied also to similar-looking filamentous outgrowths from the
body of insects and other invertebrates, although these are generally of different
structure. a800 – c1000 + a1225 >
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 189
2. collect. a. The aggregate of hairs growing on the skin of an animal: spec. that
growing naturally upon the human head; also, hairs collectively or in the mass, as
used for manufacturing purposes and the like. c1000 + c1200 >
7. A cloth, mat, or other fabric of hair used for various purposes in some trades, e. g.
in hop-drying, extraction of oils, etc.; a haircloth. [Historically, the same word as
HAIRE, which, in losing the final e, has become identical in form with this.] 1485
– 1594 + 1848 >
6 IRON n
1. a. A metal, the most abundant and useful of those used in the metallic state; very
variously employed for tools, implements, machinery, constructions, and in many
other applications. a700 >
[NB other quotations supplied for various spelling forms]
4. a. An instrument, appliance, tool, utensil, or particular part of one, made of the met-
al. (Often with defining word prefixed, as CURLING-IRON, GRAPPLING-IRON,
etc.: see these words.) a700 – c1000 + 1297 >
b. esp. An iron instrument used for branding or cauterizing; a brand-iron. c1380 –
1613 + 1856
c. pl. Dies used in striking coins. Obs. 1483 – 1848
d. Whaling, etc. A harpoon. (= HARPING-IRON.) 1674 – 1853
e. Golf. A golf-club having an iron head which is more or less laid back in order to
loft the ball: see quot. 1890. 1857 >
f. slang. A portable fire-arm; a pistol. 1836 >
g. slang. Money. Cf. IRON-MAN 1c and d. 1785 >
h. pl. Iron supports to correct bow-legs, etc. 1838 >
i. (Usu. in pl.) A stirrup. Cf. STIRRUP-IRON 1. 1894 >
j. pl. Eating utensils. dial. and slang. 1905 >
k. slang. An old motor vehicle. 1935 >
l. Used as a form of currency in Sierra Leone. 1936 >
m. slang. A jemmy used in housebreaking. 1941 >
5. esp. An implement of iron used when heated to smooth out linen, to press down the
seams of cloth, etc.; defined according to shape and structure, as BOX-IRON, FLAT-
IRON, ITALIAN-IRON, etc. In recent use: an electric iron (see ELECTRIC a. 2b).
1613 – 1840
6. a. An iron weapon; a sword. Obs. b. Used (without an and pl.) in various allusive
expressions referring to warfare or slaughter. Cf. F. fer. c1000 + 1300 – 1665 + 1871 >
7. a. An iron shackle or fetter; usually in pl. Most freq. in phr. in irons, said of a person
having the feet or hands fettered. Formerly also, less definitely, in iron, in bonds, in
captivity. Cf. F. fers. c825 – a1000 + 1340 >
7 LEAD n
I. 1. a. The heaviest of the base metals, of a dull pale bluish-gray colour, fusible at a
low temperature, and very useful from its softness and malleability. Chemical sym-
bol Pb. c900 + c1205 >
190 Kathryn Allan
3. Short for BLACK LEAD n., graphite, or plumbago. Only with reference to its use as
a material for pencils. Hence, a small stick of graphite for filling an ‘ever-pointed’
pencil. 1816 >
4. a. The metal regarded as fashioned into some object, e. g. a seal, the plummet of a
plumb-line, a pipe or conduit, a leaden coffin, a bullet, the leaden part of anything.
(cold) lead, bullets. 1340 – c1380 + 1596 >
b. A plate of lead. Obs. 1523
5. a. A large pot, cauldron, or kettle; a large open vessel used in brewing and various
other operations. (Originally, one made of lead, but early used without reference to
the material.) Now only dial .a1100 + c1250 – 1639 + 1869
b. dial. A leaden milk-pan. 1750 >
6. a. A ‘bob’ or lump of lead suspended by a string to ascertain the depth of water; a
sounding-lead. Also, the leaden sinker of a net. c1440 – 1860
7. pl. a. The sheets or strips of lead used to cover a roof; often collect. for a lead flat, a
lead roof, occas. construed as sing. 1578-9 >
b. The lead frames of the panes in lattice or stained glass windows. 1705 >
8. Printing. A thin strip of type-metal or brass, less than type-high, of varying thick-
ness and length, used in type-composition to separate lines; before 1800 known as
space-line. 1808 >
9. In the knitting-machine: The lead or tin socket holding the shanks of one or more
needles. 1839
8 LEATHER n
1. a. Skin prepared for use by tanning, or some similar process. a1225 >
2. a. An article or appliance made of leather, e. g. a strap, a thong; a piece of leather for
a plaster or to tighten a tap; the leathern portion of a bellows, or of a pump-sucker; a
stirrup-leather. upper leather: see UPPER. c1400 >
b. pl. Articles for wear made of leather, e. g. shoes, slippers, leggings, breeches. Also
sing., a leather jacket or coat. 1837 >
c. Cricket and Football. The ball. 1868 >
e. slang. Various articles made of, or clad in, leather, such as (a) a wallet or purse; (b)
a leather-shod foot; hence a kick; (c) a boxing-glove; hence a punch or boxing. 1883 >
9 MARBLE n
A. n. I. Senses relating to the stone. 1. a. Limestone that has been recrystallized
by metamorphism and is capable of taking a polish; esp. one that is pure white or
has a mottled surface, such as is often used in sculpture and architecture. Also more
generally: any stone that will take a polish and can be used for decorative purposes
in building or sculpture. c1150 >
2. a. A piece, block, or slab of marble; a marble monument, statue, or sculpture; a
marble vessel (obs.). c1300 >
b. In pl. Archaeol. A collection of sculptures made of marble. [1624 – 1676] + a1684 >
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 191
3. As a count noun: a tomb or tombstone made of marble. Also as a mass noun (poet.):
marble as being the material of which a tomb or tombstone is made. Obs. ?a1400 – 1850
6. Specialized uses. [Chiefly after spec. uses of French marbre (1642 of a marble slab
upon which paints are ground, although only 1765 of a slab on which blown glass is
shaped; 1522 of a printer’s imposing-stone).] a. A slab of marble on which some-
thing can be worked; esp. one on which paints are ground, or on which blown glass
is shaped (cf. MARVER n.). Obs. 1671 – 1745
b. A printer’s imposing-stone. Obs. 1875 >
III. A little ball. 11. a. A little ball made originally of marble and now usually of
glass, porcelain, baked clay, etc., used in a children’s game; (in pl.) the game itself.
Occas.: a similar ball (for example of glass) used in other games. Also (in extended
use): any object of similar size and shape. 1681 >
10 METAL n
A. n. I. Senses relating to metallic substances. 1. a. Usually as a mass noun. Hard,
shiny, malleable material of the kind originally represented by gold, silver, copper,
etc. (see sense 1b), esp. as used in the manufacture of objects, artefacts, and utensils.
c1230 >
2. An object made of metal. a. A weapon, arms, or armour made of metal. Obs. c1400
– c1450 + a1616 – 1663
b. A medal; a coin. Cf. metallic history s. v. METALLIC a. 7. Obs. 1485 – 1650
c. A metal mirror of an astronomical reflecting telescope. Obs. 1693 – 1777
d. In pl. The rails of a railway or tramway. 1841 >
e. Electr. A conducting part of an early electric lamp. Obs. 1881
4. Gunnery. a. The metal forming the barrel of a gun; line of metal, a gunner’s line
of sight (see quot. 1859). Obs. 1591 – 1859
b. The guns or firepower of a warship, etc. Chiefly in weight of metal. Also fig. heavy
metal: see HEAVY a.1 6. 1751 >
11 NYLON n
A. n. I. Simple uses. 1. Any of various synthetic thermoplastic polymers with a
straight-chain polyamide structure, many of which are tough, lightweight, and re-
sistant to heat and chemicals, may be produced as filaments, sheets, or moulded ob-
jects, and are widely used for textile fabrics and industrially; esp. (more fully nylon
66) that made from adipic acid and hexamethylenediamine (each of which contains
six carbon atoms). 1938 >
2. Fabric made from nylon yarn. 1940 >
3. In pl. Stockings or tights made of nylon. 1940 >
12 PAPER n
I. Senses relating to the material. 1. a. Material in the form of thin, flexible sheets
used for writing, printing, or drawing on, or for wrapping, covering, etc., usually
192 Kathryn Allan
made from wood pulp which is dried, pressed, and (generally) bleached. Formerly
(and still occasionally) also made from rags or other fibrous matter. 1341-2 >
3. a. A piece of paper serving as a wrapper or receptacle, often including the contents;
a paper container of some commodity; spec. a dose or measure of a drug, esp. a nar-
cotic, contained in a paper wrapper. 1488 >
b. A sheet or leaf of paper, esp. for writing on. Now chiefly in technical use. 1548 >
c. Entomol. A triangular envelope made of folded paper for storing an insect speci-
men, esp. a butterfly. 1894 >
4. In pl. Curl-papers (see CURL-PAPER n.). Now rare. 1685 >
5. Wallpaper; a sheet of wallpaper. [1665] + 1750 >
6. Short for cigarette paper n. at CIGARETTE n. Compounds. [1904] + a1911 >
II. Paper bearing writing, illustrations, etc. 7. a. A piece, sheet, or leaf of paper bear-
ing writing or printing; esp. a legal or official document written or printed on paper.
In pl.: written notes, memoranda, letters, official documents, etc. [1364-5] + 1389 >
b. Paper bearing writing; written documents collectively. In some uses, not easily
distinguished from sense A. 1a. c1390 – c1400 + 1728 >
8. A notice fastened on the back of a criminal undergoing punishment, specifying his
or her offence. Obs. a1529 – 1688
9. In pl. State papers. Freq. in the titles of officers or departments concerned with the
conservation of state papers, as Office of His (also Her) Majesty’s Papers, Clerk
(also Keeper, Register) of the Papers, etc. 1612 >
10. A newspaper or journal. Also in pl., with the: newspapers collectively; the press.
1642 >
12. In pl. a. The documents carried by a ship indicating ownership, nationality, des-
tination, etc. (more fully ship’s papers); (also) documents attesting the identity or
credentials of a person, esp. as required for travel or employment. 1685-8 >
b. The certificates which accompany a military officer’s application for permission
to resign. Chiefly in to send in one’s papers: to resign. 1872 >
c. Documents establishing the pedigree of an animal, esp. a dog or horse. 1940 >
13. a. Negotiable documents, bills of exchange, promissory notes, etc., collectively;
banknotes as opposed to coins. commercial paper: see COMMERCIAL adj. and n.
Compounds. 1704 >
b. slang (chiefly U. S.). A forged or worthless cheque; a forged document. 1850 >
14. Theatre slang. Free tickets or passes to a theatrical performance; the people admit-
ted by free tickets or passes. As a count noun: such a ticket or pass. Cf. PAPER v. 4.
1785 >
15. A printed set of questions to be answered at one sitting in an examination; a candi-
date’s collection of written answers to such questions. 1835 >
16. U. S. slang. a. As a count noun: a playing card. 1842 >
b. As a mass noun: marked playing cards. 1894 >
17. U. S. colloq. Posters or similar publicity material collectively. Now rare. 1896 >
13 PLASTIC n
3. a. A solid substance that is easily moulded or shaped. Also fig. 1803 >
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 193
b. Any of a large and varied class of materials used widely in manufacturing, which are
organic polymers of high molecular weight based on synthetic materials, and may
be moulded, extruded, or cast when they are soft or liquid, and then set into a rigid or
slightly elastic form. Also as a mass noun: material of this kind. 1909 >
4. colloq. a. The material of which records are made, vinyl; (hence) vinyl records col-
lectively. Cf. VINYL n. 2c. Originally and freq. in on plastic: in the form of a record,
as a recording. 1969 >
b. A credit card, debit card, or similar; such cards collectively. Cf. plastic money n.
1975 >
14 RUBBER n
III. Ellipt. for INDIA-RUBBER. 11. a. Caoutchouc. Now also applied to any of a
large range of synthetic organic polymers having properties of elasticity, etc., resem-
bling those of natural rubber. 1855 >
b. pl. (a) Overshoes or galoshes made of indiarubber (orig. U. S.); (b) plimsolls, esp.
plimsolls worn for climbing. 1842 >
c. A rubber tyre for a wheel. Also collect., the tyres of a vehicle… Chiefly U. S. 1882 >
d. A piece of rubber for erasing pencil or ink marks. Also used of erasers made of
other substances. 1788-9 >
e. U. S. Baseball. (a) The home plate; (b) the pitcher’s plate (now the usual sense).
1891 >
f. slang. A contraceptive sheath made of rubber; a condom. Cf. rubber goods, shop
below. 1947 >
15 SILK n
I. 1. a. The strong, soft, lustrous fibre produced by the larvæ of certain bombycine
moths which feed upon mulberry leaves, etc., and by certain spiders; silken thread or
filament. c888 – c1000 + c1300 >
2. a. The cloth or textile fabric woven or made from this. c1000 + c1275 >
c. As the material of a jockey’s jacket. Esp. in phr. to sport, don, or wear silk: to ride
(in a race). 1884 >
d. A parachute; chiefly in phr. to take to or hit the silk, to bale out of an aircraft by
parachute. U. S. Air Force slang. 1933 >
3. a. With a and pl. A particular make of silk cloth or fabric. 1538 >
b. pl. Garments made of silk; silk stockings; spec. a jockey’s cap and jacket carrying
the horse-owner’s colours. Cf. sense 2c above. 1508 >
c. A lady’s silk dress. 1793 >
e. A silk hat. 1906 >
16 STEEL n
I. 1. a. A general name for certain artificially produced varieties of iron, distin-
guished from those known as ‘iron’ by certain physical properties, esp. greater hard-
194 Kathryn Allan
ness and elasticity, which render them suitable as material for cutting instruments,
and for various other industrial purposes. c725 – c825 + c1205 >
3. a. Steel in the form of weapons or cutting tools (occas. spurs, a trap, etc.). Hence in
particularized use, a sword, lance, bayonet, or the like. a1000 + c1205 – c1250 +
1581 >
4. Steel as the material of defensive armour. c1320 – 1842
5. As a material for plates engraved with drawings or designs to be reproduced by print-
ing. Hence, as a trade term: A steel engraving. 1843 >
7. The steel part of anything. c1450 – 1561 + 1816 >
8. As the name of various instruments made of steel. a. A piece of steel shaped for the
purpose of striking fire with a flint. In a pistol or firelock, the piece of steel which
is struck by the ‘cock’ carrying the flint. c1220 + 1589 >
b. A rod of steel, fluted or plain, fitted with a handle, used for sharpening table or
butchers’ knives. 1541 >
c. A steel mirror. Obs. (? nonce-use.) a1643
d. A flat-iron. Obs. exc. dial. 1638 + 1873 >
e. A needle; a knitting-needle. dial. [1784] + 1839 >
f. A stylet, a stylus. Obs. 1799
g. the steels = skates. 1875 >
9. Dress. a. A strip of steel used to give stiffness or support, or to expand a dress.
1608 + 1885 >
b. A dress trimming made of steel beads or ornaments. 1899 >
17 STONE n
1. a. A piece of rock or hard mineral substance (other than metal) of a small or moder-
ate size. c888 + c1175 >
2. a. The hard compact material of which stones and rocks consist; hard mineral sub-
stance other than metal.__1154 >
f. A mirror. Obs. rare 1. Cf. specular stone, SPECULAR a. 1, 1b. 1605
5. A piece of stone of a definite form and size (usually artificially shaped), used for some
special purpose. (Often as the second element of a compound: cf. definitions below.)
a. for building, or as a part or element of a building. (See also COPING-STONE,
CORNER-STONE, FOUNDATION-stone, etc.) c825 + c1200 + c1400 – 1867
b. for paving. (See also HEARTHSTONE, PAVING-STONE, etc.) 1427-8 + 1612 >
c. A block, slab, or pillar of stone set up as a memorial, to impart information, or for
some ceremonial purpose: e. g. as an altar, a monument, a boundary-mark, etc. See
also HOAR-STONE 2, MILESTONE, SHIRE-stone, STANDING STONE. 847 +
c1205 – 1831
d. spec. = GRAVESTONE 2, TOMBSTONE. c1300 >
e. As an object of idolatrous worship; chiefly pl. in conjunction with stocks: see
STOCK n. 1d. c1400
f. A gun-flint. Obs. 1611
g. A rounded stone or pebble formerly used as a missile in war, being thrown with the
hand, discharged from a sling, or shot from a fire-arm (cf. GUNSTONE) c1205 >
Tracing metonymic polysemy through time 195
18 VINYL n
2. a. = POLYVINYL b. Freq. attrib. 1939 >
c. As the material of which gramophone records are made (so piece of vinyl). Also,
a record. colloq. 1976 >
19 WOOD n
I. 1. a. A tree. Obs. c725 – a1000 + c1220 + [1526]
b. transf. applied to objects made from trees or their branches, e. g. a ship (in OE.
freq.), a spear, the Cross. (Cf. TREE n. 3-6.) Obs. In mod.arch. use associated with
sense 7. a1000 + a1400-50 + 1866
II. 6. a. The substance of which the roots, trunks, and branches of trees or shrubs
consist; trunks or other parts of trees collectively (whether growing or cut down
ready for use). Also with qualification, as BRUSHWOOD 1, TALWOOD; small
wood, young wood. c897 – a1000 + c1205 + c1400 – 1855
b. as prepared for and used in arts and crafts. a1300 + 1551-2 – 1852
c. as used for fuel; FIREWOOD. Occas. collect. sing. faggots; locally, small coal
(quot. 1805). c888 + a1225 – 1639 + 1805 – 1808
e. As the material of an idol or image. (Biblical.) 1535 – 1682 + 1819
7. Something made of wood: spec. a. The wooden part of something, as the shaft of
a spear. 1683 – 1697
b. A block of wood used for engraving or printing, as distinguished from a metal
plate or type. 1839 – 1856
c. The cask or barrel as a receptacle for liquor, as distinguished from the bottle.
1822 >
d. slang. The pulpit. 1854 >
e. The wooden wind-instruments in an orchestra collectively (also called the wood-
wind: see 10 below). 1879 >
f. Each of the bowls in the game of bowls. 1884 >
g. A golf club with a wooden head; a shot made with such a club (more commonly
wood shot). 1915 >
h. The wooden frame or handle of a racquet, with reference to a shot in which these
parts are accidentally used instead of the strings. 1955 >
196 Kathryn Allan
20 WOOL n
1. a. The fine soft curly hair forming the fleecy coat of the domesticated sheep (and
similar animals), characterized by its property of felting (due to the imbricated sur-
face of the filaments) and used chiefly in a prepared state for making cloth; freq., the
material in a prepared state as a commodity. c725 >
b. The fleece or complete woolly covering of a sheep, etc.; out of the wool, shorn.
c1400 – 1572 + 1841
3. a. Woollen clothing or material; a woollen garment. Sc. phr. amang the woo’, in the
blankets. a1300 + 1534 – a1625 + 1818>
The roles of reader construal and lexicographic
authority in the interpretation of Middle English texts
Louise Sylvester
Abstract
The cognitive turn in linguistics suggests a need to address the ways in which mean-
ing in language is created and understood. This paper examines a vital aspect of this
question: the nature of the interaction between the semantic information offered in
dictionaries and individualistic construals of meaning made by readers of the literature
of early periods of the language.
Central to a cognitive paradigm of linguistic understanding is the assumption of a re-
lationship between meaning and encyclopaedic knowledge; in conceptual understand-
ing, entities are profiled against domain-based knowledge. A number of basic domains
have been posited (Langacker 1987), and the notion has recently been extended to
encompass cultural universals (Talmy 2000). These ideas of basic domains argue for a
collective experience that involves a shared conception of the ways in which experience
is conceptualized and encoded in language. It has been argued that this also applies to
our understanding of the language of literature (Gavins and Steen 2003). Writing on
cognitive poetics, Stockwell notes that the initial interpretations that form part of the
reading process can be simply wrong, consisting of mistakes, errors and miscues that
are demonstrably not supported by textual evidence. Fully-fledged readings, however,
are the result of arriving at a sense of the text that is personally acceptable, and they are
likely to combine individual factors as well as features that are common to the reader’s
interpretative community (2002: 7–8).
Cognitive semantics is said to have rehabilitated the epistemological role of the in-
dividual subject against that of the linguistic code; because cognitive semantics can
demonstrate that linguistic meaning is experientially grounded, the construction of
meaningfulness seems to depend on individual factors rather than on the structure of
the language as an abstract, supraindividual entity (Geeraerts 1993: 73). It has been
argued, however, that one limitation of cognitive semantics is that it focuses on indi-
viduals’ meanings of words to the exclusion of social aspects of language that should
also be accounted for within a cognitive programme. This argument raises the question
of linguistic power: who decides on what is the “correct meaning” of an expression in
society. A dictatorial power structure is said to arise when the social meanings of words
are determined by a group of linguistic experts writing dictionaries, encyclopaedias,
etc. (Gårdenfors 1999).
These ideas illustrate a conflict in our understanding of how meaning is generated.
This paper examines these questions with reference to readers’ construals of texts in
Middle English, which may be said to be diachronic and dynamic, and the role played
198 Louise Sylvester
1. Introduction
In July 2004 a panel was convened at the New Chaucer Society congress to
celebrate the completion of the Middle English Dictionary and consider the
implications of this monumental lexicographical work for the study of Chau-
cer’s language. The relationship of author and dictionary implied by the panel’s
proposer elided the third participant in the activity of lexical and textual in-
terpretation: the reader. In this paper I explore the processes that take place
when the reader of a text in Middle English encounters a lexical item, the sense
of which is entirely or partially unknown, and begins to construct an idea of
the meaning of the term. This tentatively constructed meaning may then be
challenged by the discovery that it differs from the definitions encountered
in the dictionary. Consideration of this reading process led me to think about
the construction and interpretation of lexical meaning. Readers use dictionar-
ies ostensibly to discover the meaning of unfamiliar lexemes. More often, I
suspect, they are in fact checking the dictionary’s definition against a readerly
hunch about a word’s meaning.1 This process is an essential part of reading and
interpreting Middle English texts.
A number of approaches have been taken to the question of how individual
senses of lexemes are arrived at and how textual meanings are made out of
that understanding in a variety of disciplinary areas. These include lexicology,
theories of reading, cognitive linguistic investigations of the conceptual struc-
1 Frank Smith examines what happens when readers, especially beginners, encoun-
ter a word they do not recognize on sight. He observes that usually three alternative
courses of action are specified, with a very definite order of preference. The first
alternative is to skip over the puzzling word. The second alternative is to guess
what the unknown word might be. And the final, and least preferred, alternative is
to sound the word out. Smith notes that the identification of every word is not neces-
sary for comprehension to take place. On the contrary, stopping to try and figure out
every unfamiliar word the moment it is encountered serves only to produce tunnel
vision, overloading short-term memory. Comprehension is bound to be lost in such
circumstances and learning becomes impossible (1985: 64–65).
The roles of reader in the interpretation of Middle English texts 199
tures underlying the mental lexicon, and considerations of meaning at the level
of the text most usually found in literary criticism and literary theory. This
raises the question of whether it is possible to offer a principled investigation
relating to lexical meaning and the processes of reading; a question which is
haunted by the notion that individual construal of meaning is untrammelled
and unconstrained. Those arguing that readerly construal plays a part in the
construction of textual meaning are clear, however, that this is not the case.
They contend that constraints on individual interpretations are many; they vary
in strength; and they may reinforce one another or cancel one another out.
These constraints may be overcome by cognitive effort, but the stronger the
constraint, the greater the cognitive effort required to impose a construal that
defies the constraint (Croft and Cruse 2004: 101). William Croft and D. Alan
Cruse propose that words and sentences do not really have meanings: mean-
ings are something that we construe using the properties of linguistic elements
as partial clues, alongside non-linguistic knowledge, information available
from context, knowledge and conjectures regarding the state of mind of hearers
(Croft and Cruse 2004: 98). This approach encompasses the “soft” properties
of meaning. Construals of meaning are constrained by the “hard” properties
of meaning which include sense relations such as hyponymy, and the existence
of structured semantic fields. One of the main aims of the dynamic construal
approach to word meaning is to achieve a unified account of both hard and soft
aspects of word meaning, both flexibility and rigidity, and to locate the ori-
gins of what are, at first sight, contradictory properties (Croft and Cruse 2004:
105). This paper investigates the relationships between lexical meaning and
the processes of reading drawing on data from the Middle English romances
Sir Degrevant, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Troilus and Criseyde,
and from the Oxford English Dictionary and the Middle English Dictionary,
the historical dictionaries most likely to be used by a reader in quest of a full
understanding of a term in Middle English.
In seeking to determine how much (if any) weight should be given to individu-
alistic interpretations of lexical items encountered in Middle English texts, we
may turn first to cognitive linguistics since it is an approach to language that in-
cludes individual construal as a primary object of investigation. One difficulty
in trying to make use of research within this framework is that discussions
200 Louise Sylvester
2 For example, one study focused on how semantic relations are represented in the
memory investigates how quickly subjects are able to confirm that a robin is a bird
(Rips, Shoben and Smith 1973: 1).
The roles of reader in the interpretation of Middle English texts 201
consistent with the context but that were not explicitly mentioned. In the next
stage, information not explicitly mentioned is inferred as part of the process of
understanding even at the level of individual sentences. Finally, information
necessary to interrelate parts of the text is inferred (1986: 8). Since understand-
ing is the product of both the text and readers’ prior knowledge, readers with
different backgrounds understand texts differently.
It is a basic tenet of developmental psychology that in real-world under-
standing, people mentally group objects together, treating them as instances
of a category instead of as unique individuals (Markman 1981: 199). This is
the kind of prior knowledge and viewpoint that readers bring to texts which
enables them to understand the words they read. We are still left with ques-
tions about the relationship of that prior knowledge to the interpretation of
vocabulary and of texts. Presumably, we understand the vocabulary of a text
in relation to our understanding of the categories of the real world and of the
English language both now and at a specific period, and also in relation to a
specific and individual understanding of the usages of a particular writer. The
difficulty lies in evaluating the roles played by these different elements in read-
ers’ interpretations of texts. It is equally difficult to evaluate the role played
by the evidence of lexical meaning provided by dictionaries in the formation
of textual interpretations. It has been suggested that the dominant theoretical
perspectives on reading instruction and research, the different discourse com-
munities of reading theory and education, have not adequately re-theorized
the reader as a social subject and the text as a social production. Instead, they
have fallen back either on an objectivist model that privileges, or gives priority
to, the text by assuming that it is the sole source of meaning; or, at the other
extreme, have embraced a subjective or expressivist model which privileges the
reader’s personal response (McCormick 1994: 4). These twin poles offer a re-
flection of the question discussed here; that is, how far readers are free to make
interpretations out of the background knowledge, at all levels, that they bring
to their encounters with Middle English lexical items and texts and, even more
crucially, how much of that initial readerly interpretation remains, or interferes
with, second-stage interpretations which take into account information about
the sense(s) of lexical items that is gained from dictionaries.
suggests, is what readers do as soon as (perhaps even partly before) they begin
to move through a text. Stockwell concludes that in contrast to interpretations,
readings are the process of arriving at a sense of the text that is personally ac-
ceptable. He adds that readings are likely to combine individual factors with
features that are common to the reader’s interpretative community (2002: 7–8).
This suggestion argues for the inclusion of both readerly construal of indi-
vidual lexical items and scholarly accounts of word meaning derived from dic-
tionaries in the production of readings, although it does not attempt to mediate
between these elements in the event that they clash.
It should be noted, too, that even readings (in Stockwell’s sense) of lexical
items remain open to dispute, as is shown by the studies that Jane Roberts
and I collected for Middle English Word Studies: A Word and Author Index
(2000). Some readings are contested on the grounds that they are based on pa-
laeographical misunderstanding, others suggest that words in Middle English
translations or adaptations appear to have been used without reference to their
senses in the source languages. Sometimes it is argued that both issues are
present in contested interpretations. Earl R Anderson (1994–1995), for exam-
ple, dismisses various editors’ emendations and/or interpretations of the term
ostriys in Pearl, instead proposing that the term is a variant form of hostri(e)
s, from Middle Latin hosteria ‘chamber’. Anderson cites Malory’s use of the
word in a form close to that used in Pearl and suggests that this usage might
be influenced by the Anglo-Norman loanword estre pl. estres ‘inward parts of
a building; chambers; walks, passages in a garden’. Although Malory’s editor
Eugène Vinaver glosses esturys ‘fish-ponds’, Anderson argues that Malory
regards estury and chamber as synonymous and ostriys should be retained
in Pearl and understood as ‘chamber’. Sometimes, a contested reading arises
from a failure to take into account all of the real-world evidence about a term.
In a discussion of the place-name Cookham, AH (1954) argues that, although
the original meaning of ham is usually held to be ‘an enclosure’, it refers so
often to flat land on a river, or even in the bend of a river, that ‘water-meadow’
must be one of the chief meanings of the word. In other instances, a new
reading is advanced on the basis that a metaphorical understanding of the
term has been overlooked: Paul Acker (1982) discusses the various meanings
offered for the term Wades boot in Chaucer’s Merchant’s Tale, considers all
the traditions concerning Wade, and concludes that the phrase is likely to
constitute a metaphor for the male body, arguing that in Chaucer’s context
acquaintance with the male body is what distinguishes old widows from in-
experienced brides.
I suspect that we come across examples of clashing interpretations in our
own reading all the time. Here is one that I met with recently. At the begin-
The roles of reader in the interpretation of Middle English texts 203
ning of the romance Sir Degrevant, one of the things that we are told about the
eponymous hero is:
The first two lines of this quotation seem clear; the third, however, is less so.
Edith Rickert adds a note on this to her translation: “as true to himself as the
anchor to its nature when it drops among stones?” (1908: 187). The first sense
listed in the Oxford English Dictionary and current throughout the medieval
period (and beyond) includes the idea of ‘An appliance for holding a ship, etc.,
fixed in a particular place’, a sense echoed in the meanings listed under 1. in
Middle English Dictionary : (a) A ship’s anchor; (b) a weight; (c) a fastening
device, a mooring. The metaphorical underpinning is thus affirmed: Degrevant
is fixed (like a dropped anchor) and remains true to his solitary way of life. The
term appears to be used figuratively here (though we should note Geeraerts’s
observation that the definitional demarcation of metaphor is deceptively simple
as long as we do not have a theory of figurativity [1990: 198]). The figurative
sense, in use from 1382, is listed in Oxford English Dictionary as ‘That which
gives the feeling of stability or security’. There is, however, another possible
meaning for anker: ‘an anchorite’. If anker means ‘anchorite’ in this text, as
Casson’s glossary to the EETS parallel text edition suggests, in a ston must
mean something like ‘in a cell’, a meaning for which we have no evidence. The
meaning ‘anchorite’, listed in the Middle English Dictionary as ‘A recluse or
hermit’, fits the textual context which refers to Degrevant not wishing for a wife
or other (female) companion. A decision may be arrived at by taking notice of
the word as which appears to signal a metaphorical usage. As the sense his-
tory of the term shows, there is a long-established pattern of metaphorical use
in relation to anchor. To press the sense ‘anchorite’ into service here is to state
not that Degrevant lived like an anchorite but rather that he was one; that is, it
appears to make use of the denotation rather than any metaphorical extension.
Moreover, the development of the romance narrative and the ensuing love story
would vitiate the picture of Degrevant as an honourable man if this sense were
preferred.
Even this one action is not self-evidently a material process. It is possible that
Gawain accomplishes the rejection of the proffered ring by uttering a formula
of refusal; that is, he might have done it by means of a verbal rather than a
material process. Turning to the Middle English Dictionary, we find that the
verb reneien is defined as having two senses: the first has to do with forsaking,
renouncing, or recanting religious beliefs (orthodox or heretical), or refusing to
acknowledge one’s king or master. The second, for which this moment in Sir
Gawain and the Green Knight provides one of the citations, is ‘2(a) to refuse
(a gift); refuse an invitation from (sb.)’. Included within the definition are also
‘(b) to forsake (an activity, a state); abandon (a place), refuse a mission to; (c) to
retract (a pledge)’. There is also a figurative sense: ‘(d) to withdraw (one’s heart)
from (devotion to sb.)’. With the exception of the first two senses under (b),
all of these activities seem most likely to be accomplished by words or even,
in the case of (d), by thoughts. The idea that Lady Bertilak gives the ring to
Gawain rather than just offering it to him, however, is supported by the Middle
4 Jessie Weston translates “she reached him a ring” which seems to avoid the issue;
Simon Armitage’s recent translation of the poem has “She offers him a ring” (2007:
84).
The roles of reader in the interpretation of Middle English texts 205
English Dictionary’s citation of the relevant line from Sir Gawain and the
Green Knight in illustration of sense 4(a) of the verb rechen: ‘To hand (sth. to
sb.), give; grant (a kingdom or dwelling to sb.); also, give (sb. a kiss)’. Here the
evidence for the meaning of a lexical item in one part of the dictionary seems
to clash with the sense of another lexical item in a context in which they co-
occur. The relevant Oxford English Dictionary definition, of the verb reach,
however, is sense 3: ‘To hold out or offer (a thing) to a person; to give; to pass’.
The editors note that the sense is also used figuratively, which is suggestive, but
such usage seems unlikely to figure where the referent is a material object, such
as a ring. Despite the ambiguity of the Middle English Dictionary evidence, it
seems as if a readerly construal in which Lady Bertilak actually hands the ring
to Gawain (a highly effective material process), instead of just offering it to him
or suggesting that she would like him to have it (a less effective material pro-
cess), would suggest that Lady Bertilak is more powerful in this moment than
is indicated by the prototypical sense of reneien, if not, perhaps, of rechen.
If we accept the idea that lexical and textual interpretations which lead to read-
ings of texts depend in part on individual construal and in part on the consen-
sus of an interpretative community which is likely to be made up of scholars
and lexicographers, we will eventually wish to consider the question of how
much weight is given to each of these elements. In his essay “Some tenets of
cognitive semantics”, Peter Gårdenfors suggests that in emphasising the mean-
ing that words have for individuals, cognitive semantics has forgotten about
the social structure of language (1999: 20). Gårdenfors’s argument resembles
that made for readings by Stockwell in its suggestion that senses are deter-
mined by the meanings that expressions have for individuals, together with the
meanings determined by those who wield linguistic power in the community.
For Gårdenfors, however, the problem posed by the presence of these two ele-
ments is the balance of power between them; that is, the question of who gets
to determine what is the “correct meaning” of an expression. He posits two
types of power structure: oligarchic and democratic. An oligarchic (or dictato-
rial) power structure arises when the meanings of words are determined by a
group of linguistic experts writing dictionaries, encyclopaedias, handbooks,
etc. When in doubt about the meaning of a locution that falls under the realm
of the oligarchy, language users rely on the judgement of the experts. In con-
206 Louise Sylvester
The sense of this passage is not immediately accessible. The lines “In hert
trewly he hyeght” may be read ‘In his heart he promised faithfully’. The glos-
sary to Casson’s edition suggests ‘promise, assure’ for hyeght and so it looks
as if the lines are tracking Degrevant’s thought processes in the moment of his
falling in love, especially since love is mentioned in the following line. A literal
translation of lines 478–79 is ‘in his heart he promised faithfully that he would
love that sweet creature’.5 The difficulty comes with the last line of the stanza.
Casson glosses acheue ‘terminate, result’, citing C line 480, and so the stanza
seems to conclude Degrevant’s thought with something like ‘however it would
end’, referring to his fight with Melidor’s father. The Oxford English Diction-
ary cites line 480 of Sir Degrevant to illustrate the intransitive sense of the verb
achieve: ‘To come to a natural end or conclusion; to end, result, turn out’. The
dictionary also shows that senses of the transitive form of achieve (for example,
‘To bring to a successful issue, to carry out successfully (an enterprize); to ac-
complish, perform’, ‘To succeed in gaining, to acquire by effort, to gain, win (a)
an abstract property or possession (b) a material acquisition’) are in use from
1325 and 1393 respectively. It is possible that modern readers may experience
interference from these other senses so that the lines suggest that Degrevant is
promising himself (in line with Casson’s suggested gloss) that he will ‘make
love to’ Melidor, ‘however it may be achieved’.
5 Rickert translates “he promised his own heart that he would be her servant” (1908:
115).
208 Louise Sylvester
The first sense of the verb love in the Oxford English Dictionary concerns
the feelings of love: ‘1.a. To have or feel love towards (a person, a thing per-
sonified) (for a quality or attribute); to entertain a great affection, fondness,
or regard for; to hold dear’. Immediately following this, however, is ‘1. b. To
feel sexual love for (a person); to be in love with. In early use also: to fondle,
caress (obs.)’. This sense continues in use until the present day and so the idea
of sexual feelings appears to be a prototypical meaning for the verb love. The
physical expression of those feelings is represented as central to the meaning
of the term in the medieval period. The representation of the semantic space
occupied by the term given in the Middle English Dictionary is very different.
Senses 1–8 are concerned only with feelings of affection, with the possible
exception of the clause ‘behave lovingly towards’ which appears at sense 1 (a),
but the referents are a person or animal, and the clause forms part of a nexus of
ideas to do with friendship and affection. The senses continue this idea in rela-
tion to God or Christ (sense 2); a friend or Jesus (sense 3); wealth, the world, a
thing, place, soul, dead body, etc. or clothes, food, smells, musical instruments,
etc. (sense 4), and so on. It is not until the final sense (9) that we come to
(a) To love (sb. of the opposite sex), love (one’s husband, wife, mistress, etc.); also,
show affection for (sb.), behave lovingly toward; also, make love to (sb.), copulate
with (sb.), etc.; (b) to love (a living person); love (sb.) with sexual love; also, have
sexual relations with (sb.); also fig.; have sexual relations with (sb.); (c) used without
object: to be in love, make love; also, have intercourse; be mutually in love, make
love together, have intercourse; have a sexual relationship together; -- used fig.; (d)
to feel love; make love; (e) ppl. loving, amorous; ppl. loved, beloved; as noun: one
who is loved.
This variation in the presentation of the senses of love in the two historical
dictionaries offers two sharply contrasting views of how far the idea of sexual
feelings and sexual expression are prototypical for the verb love in the Middle
English period and therefore of how far a reading of the representation of Sir
Degrevant’s thoughts as he first sees Melidor which includes such feelings is
licensed.
which some of these glosses were collected together to produce longer lists of
lemmata with their explanations. This resulted in a loss of context sensitivity
and an increase in usability. The third prototype is the alphabetical glossary.
Although we sometimes find traces of source texts in the definitions even in
alphabetically arranged glosses, such dictionaries are no longer designed just
to explain the source texts: the definitions are designed to be applicable to any
reading process (Hüllen 1999: 103). David Burnley offers a point of view which
runs counter to that which is generally heard. He observes that the simplest
glossaries intended to help modern students to read medieval authors provide
a small range of possible meanings for each word, leaving it to the reader to
choose the most appropriate meaning for the context in which the word is puz-
zling. More ambitious glossaries give more meanings, perhaps with a short il-
lustrative context and line-references to the specific senses: readers using these
can be more certain that they are choosing the sense which is appropriate to
the context in which they have found the word. The use of such a sophisticated
glossary enables readers to choose the right sense from a range possible for a
word, but Burnley thinks that, paradoxically, the simple vocabulary, by its very
inadequacy, throws a heavier onus on readers, forcing them to think about the
context of occurrence of the word, to recall other encounters with it, and to ar-
rive at their own translations (1983: 201–202).
The Middle English Dictionary’s early editors were not unaware of these
two possibilities for their historical dictionary. Michael Adams observes that
the second editor, Thomas K. Knott, was never able to resolve in his own mind
(or anyone else’s) the question of whether the dictionary should serve as a re-
pository of information about the language as language, or if it would be a
fancy glossary of printed texts in Middle English (Adams 2002: 106). Hans
Kurath, who oversaw the first publication, appears to come down on the side of
the Middle English Dictionary being a storehouse of information about Middle
English as a language variety. He was evidently aware of the possibility of its
functioning as an inventory of glosses for lexical items in (presumably select-
ed) texts, but rejects this idea as being inappropriate to a large-scale dictionary.
Kurath also seems to suggest that including glosses of particular usages would
cause the dictionary to give inappropriate weight to individual construals of
lexical meaning which he distinguishes from separate senses:
It is the purpose of a dictionary […] to identify and to document types of meanings
rather than individual applications of words and phrases upon which the identifica-
tion of typical applications is based. The users of the MED will know enough about
the ways of language to realize that finer decimations can be made than it is profit-
able to introduce in a dictionary. Fine-spun distinctions, moreover, are apt to reflect
personal bias or fancy rather than distinct meanings. (Kurath 1954: 3)
210 Louise Sylvester
Robert E. Lewis, the final editor of the completed Middle English Dictionary,
is clear that the guiding editorial principle of the dictionary in the latter years
of the project was to try to “capture the generality”; that is, to present what
Kurath called “types of meanings”. He does not abandon the idea of the reader
attempting to interpret a text, however, since he adds that the intention was
that the dictionary should, at the same time, give the reader as much help as
possible with difficult quotations and with subtleties of meaning (Lewis 2002:
81). The difficulty is that while historical, citation-based dictionaries like the
Middle English Dictionary are made out of the interpretations of words in
texts, the meanings produced are frozen in their moment of reading. Liter-
ary texts continue to be reinterpreted in every age, and reinterpretations are
sometimes made in the light of new evidence about the writer or the cultural
context of a text’s production. The evidence provided by dictionaries begins as
an aid to understanding but may become a straitjacket that works to constrain
new interpretations of texts. As Paula Treichler observes in her examination of
the significations attached to the term dictionary, if a discourse is the text from
which a dictionary is constructed, a dictionary becomes the text that, in turn,
constructs discourse (1989: 51).
I should now like to return to the reading experience outlined at the out-
set in which a reader, encountering an unfamiliar or entirely unknown lexi-
cal item, begins to construct an idea of the meaning of the term only to find
this construction challenged by the definition offered in the dictionary. Rather
than relying solely on my recollections of past reading experiences, I decided
to examine this process again. I returned to the Incipit and the first 100 lines
of Book II of Troilus and Criseyde, with a dictionary to hand. Of course, ev-
ery textual encounter is different, and this one was more self-conscious than
most. It was not, however, difficult words that gave me pause. The rarer words
seem to be exclusive to the context: the meaning of a Latinism is clear, as is
the intimation that it is contributing more to the style than the meaning of the
text. Rather, it turned out that it was the more familiar words which caused me
to wonder about sense development, collocations, metaphorical extension, etc.
My queries and notes were as follows:
The roles of reader in the interpretation of Middle English texts 211
Line reference Glossing in the The queries that Information and answers provided
Riverside Chaucer occurred to me by the Middle English Dictionary
as I read
Lines 3–4 connyng: Gloss at foot of Other meanings The meanings are the expected ones: ‘1. Ability
“For in this see the page offers the for this word? or skill; competence (in a profession or other
boot hath swych definition ‘skill’ Other words with activity), mastery (of an art); 2. Knowledge,
travaylle,/Of my and the gloss to the this meaning? understanding, (esp. as required by observation
connyng, that un- line ‘boat of my or reasoning); information, learning, erudition;
neth I it steere.” skill’ also, discernment, awareness; 3a (a) A branch
of knowledge or learning, a science or art; also,
science as a whole; 3b a craft; 4a (a) Ability to
understand, intelligence; wisdom, prudence;
(b) a mental faculty or quality; 5 Cleverness,
shrewdness, cunning.’ I do not understand how
to construe the meaning of this line, however,
and the dictionary did not help me with this,
though it is very possible that I asked the wrong
question.
Line 14 sentement Gloss at the foot When does this MED helpfully offers the following definition:
of the page: ‘Emo- definition date ‘personal experience or involvement; personal
tion, personal from? feeling or emotion’ and cites this line from
feeling’ T&C. All the citations for this particular defini-
tion are 1425–1450 with possible composition
dates of 1385, 1386 and 1405.
Line 17 lame Riverside does not Like a cripple? Offers the quotation from T&C for sense ‘(e) of
gloss Weak? When language, verse, meter: halting, defective’. The
does the meta- quotations are all from Chaucer and Lydgate.
phorical use date No overarching sense is given, the definitions
from? In use by refer to persons being crippled or maimed and
contemporaries to persons or things being incapacitated; the
of Chaucer’s? wits may be enfeebled or the reputation dam-
aged. Sense (f) refers to a crooked or ill-cut
gore in a garment. The dictionary does not en-
gage with the notion of a more widely available
metaphorical usage.
212 Louise Sylvester
Line reference Glossing in the The queries that Information and answers provided
Riverside Chaucer occurred to me by the Middle English Dictionary
as I read
Line 24 nyce and No gloss at foot of Is this collocation The definitions of nice are: ‘1(a) Of persons:
straunge page. found elsewhere foolish, frivolous; ignorant; (b) of actions,
Nyce = ‘(1) fool- in Middle Eng- words, thoughts, faces, gestures, etc.: foolish,
ish; (2) scrupulous’ lish? absurd, senseless, mistaken; (c) ?wild, uncul-
Straunge = ‘(1) tivated; primitive.
foreign, strange, 2 (a) Sluggish, slothful; (b) faint-hearted,
unknown, dif- weak; cowardly, timid. 3 (a) Fastidious,
ferent, unusual, fussy; scrupulous; (b) dainty, delicate; (c)
surprising, exotic, strange, extraordinary, remarkable; (d) intri-
external, not of cate, ingenious; of persons: clever, cunning.
the family; (2) 4 (a) Of persons, their dress, habits, etc.:
distant, reserved, extravagant; self-indulgent; (b) of persons,
unfriendly’ actions, demeanor, etc.: wanton, dissolute,
dissipated, lascivious; also, inciting to lascivi-
ousness; (c) wicked, sinful, depraved.’
1(c) looks as if it is influenced by Chaucer’s
collocation. For (a) nyce is seen to collocate
with blynde in Chaucer (presumably it is the
other way round: Chaucer’s usage contributes
to the meaning, but how easy it is to slip into
thinking of the dictionary as the authority); in
fact, both quotations for (c) are from Trevisa
and refer to fig trees. This line from T&C
is not cited, and the collocation nyce and
straunge does not appear in any of the other
citations.
Line 38 game shent Shent = ‘ruined’ Which meaning MED very helpfully cites this line from
Game only glossed fits this context T&C. The definition offered: ‘Amorous play,
at back: ‘(1) joy, (no citation from love-making; esp. sexual intercourse’ does
happiness; (2) T&C II in Riv- not exactly match the gloss in the Riverside
amusement; (3) erside Chaucer Chaucer.
joke, jest’ glossary)
Line 58 shotes Not glossed at I am sure that The very full first definition in MED includes
keene foot of page or in I should know both ‘(a) A missile, such as an arrow, a dart,
glossary this, but shots? spear, cannon projectile, etc., also fig,’ and
Shoots? Arrows? ‘(d) a young branch, shoot, as well as (e) a
young weaned pig’. The line from T&C is
cited under 1 (a).
The roles of reader in the interpretation of Middle English texts 213
Line reference Glossing in the The queries that Information and answers provided
Riverside Chaucer occurred to me by the Middle English Dictionary
as I read
Line 129 faste Only glossed What is the sense Anticipating my difficulty, the MED appends
at back: ‘(1) development a note before the definitions: “The meaning
tightly, closely, of this word? of faste is largely contextual. In many pas-
firmly, strictly; Are any of these sages faste can be read as a modal adverb
(2) quickly; (3) senses just con- (i. e. with a specific meaning), as an adverb
close; (4) eagerly, textual glosses of degree, or as a mere intensive. MnE usage
heartily’ (check context of requires (or permits) the selection of many
citations; none in different adverbs for the various contexts.”
Riverside Chau- Only one citation from T&C and it is from
cer is T&C II) Bk III.
It is clear that with more time I would be able to discover a lot more about
Chaucer’s usage from the Middle English Dictionary than these brief notes
indicate. My guess was that the senses given for more unusual words would be
more closely tied to their immediate context of occurrence, presumably in the
same way that hapax legomena are glossed for Old English; in fact, many of
the lines that I had randomly selected were cited with the Middle English Dic-
tionary’s definitions. As readers progress through Chaucer’s texts, they acquire
a lot of collateral information about the style in which the texts are written.
This includes a growing familiarity with repetitions in Chaucer’s lexical choic-
es, some of which seem particularly prominent; for example, it does not require
extensive knowledge of the Chaucerian canon to spot that the phrase “pitee
renneth so[o]ne in gentil herte” appears in the Merchant’s Tale (line 1986), the
Squire’s Tale (line 479) and the Legend of Good Women (F line 503; G line
491). Greater familiarity with Chaucer’s writing is likely to cause readers to
become sensitized to the semantic associations suggested by recurring colloca-
tions and colligations in Chaucer’s texts and to the semantic prosody of seem-
ingly recurrent evaluations in his writing. As Hoey shows, lexical items may
be primed to co-occur with other lexical items, and they may also be primed to
occur in, or with, particular grammatical functions. Readers are likely to base
their guesses as to the meanings of lexical items on a sense of what is natural
for Middle English, perhaps specifically for Chaucer’s variety of Middle Eng-
lish, and that sense of naturalness arises from a sensitivity to lexical priming
likely to be unconscious but quite strong for experienced readers of the variety.
It seems that readers acquire knowledge of the prototypical structures of the
meanings of words, but less through the examination of dictionary entries, as
I have done here, than through repeated and frequent encounters with them in
214 Louise Sylvester
a variety of contexts within the work of a single author and within the wider
corpus of a particular language variety.
It is this kind of familiarity, I believe, which leads readers to feel as if they
understand the texts they are reading even when the exact meaning of a term,
in its sense provided by a dictionary, is not known. We may compare this pro-
cess and its effect to what we are able to witness of Chaucer’s own encounters
with unfamiliar lexemes in his reading of foreign texts in languages which
were known to him. Such encounters are evident in his translations, and Olga
Fischer draws attention to the ways in which Chaucer makes use of loanwords
in his translation of Boethius (an expedient not employed by Alfred in his
translation of the same text into Old English). Although it is likely that an
English adaptation of an already familiar Latin or French word may have been
more readily understood than a new word made up from the native word stock,
Chaucer “is not always very discriminate in his use of loanwords” and Fischer
suggests that they are often on-the-spot adaptations of the Latin or French term
(1979: 632–633). Chaucer is engaging in the same activity as his readers; he
is employing his idea of the sense of his source text and the connotations of
lexical items in both the language he is working from and his native tongue.
Burnley offers support for this idea in his observation that, like the construals
of lexical meanings made by his later readers, Chaucer’s lexical selections in
his translations are drawn from a vocabulary which is built up of collocations,
sense relations and associations (1983: 219).
4. Conclusion
area), only a few synchronic dictionaries and lexicological works have joined
cognitivist enterprises so far, while historical dictionaries have largely escaped
the influence of recent theoretical developments in cognitive linguistics (2008:
1). This means that in readings such as the ones proposed above, readers do
not have access to prototypically ordered dictionary definitions which would
enable the assessment of the semantic development of the terms within a cog-
nitivist framework. Discussing the ordering of senses, Robert E. Lewis notes
the traditional idea that the dominant sense of a word should come first in a
dictionary entry, that sense being the one which the majority of the speakers of
a language would think of first if presented with the word alone, without any
context. The Oxford English Dictionary originally used a logical ordering: its
main editor, James Murray, believed that if the historical record were complete,
the historical order and the natural or logical order would agree. If, based on
the available evidence, they did not, then the historical order had to be adjusted
to make it logical, that is, developmentally or derivationally logical. Murray’s
idea of logical ordering was of its time, however, in its embodiment of a set of
beliefs about the representation of sense development in dictionaries. These
included, for example, concrete precedes abstract; general precedes specific;
original precedes specific; concrete, general precedes abstract, metaphorical,
specific; literal precedes figurative or metaphorical; and simple verb precedes
phrasal verb (Lewis 2004: 152). In the Middle English Dictionary, the
major meanings [of a word] are presented in ‘logical’ rather than historical sequence
[…]. The inevitable unilinear presentation of the meanings obviously cannot reflect
their multilinear filiation and interrelationships. Since historical filiation of the mean-
ings usually remains obscure for want of sufficient documentation, such a presenta-
tion, even if feasible, would be highly conjectural in any event. (Kurath 1954: 3b)
The latest revision to the Oxford English Dictionary makes a much more rigor-
ous attempt to offer historical ordering:
The Oxford English Dictionary is based upon ‘historical principles’, and the mean-
ings of individual words entered in the Dictionary are therefore ordered chronologi-
cally, within a semantic framework resembling a family tree. Earlier meanings (or
related groups of meanings) of a word are placed before later ones, and it is typically
possible to track the semantic development of a word over time throughout an entry.
The First Edition of the Dictionary sometimes imposed a ‘logical’ ordering on the
documentary evidence, especially when it was felt that further information, if avail-
able, would confirm this interpretation. In the revised material, senses are ordered
systematically on the basis of the evidence now available. (Simpson 2009)
The historical dictionaries offer a breadth of scholarship about Middle English
that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for an individual reader to attain,
but senses in conventional dictionaries are fixed where textual interpretations
216 Louise Sylvester
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5. The Expression of Emotions over Time
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor
evolution: Diachronic variation in models of love
Richard Trim
Abstract
Based on empirical evidence of love metaphors in literary works, this paper suggests
that a large proportion of our figurative expressions evolve historically on the basis of a
process we shall term diachronic conceptual networking. The principle of this hypoth-
esis is that conceptual metaphors act as building blocks for different forms of metaphor
paths. Their existence depends on the potential conceptualisation of linguistic meta-
phors from base conceptual metaphors in a given cultural and historical environment.
A metaphor may come into existence and then become obsolete. However, the potential
to reconceptualise the metaphor may continue if the appropriate cultural environment
does not disappear, thereby producing latent and active phases in metaphor paths. This
variation is very common in linguistic metaphors but can also influence base concep-
tual structures which may either disappear or involve collocational switching in the
conceptual metaphor. As a result, networks may be of long or short term duration.
In addition, the factor of diachronic salience can vary considerably according to the
historical period concerned which, in turn, tends to make the nature of active phases
more complex.
The present study examines the historical origins of English love metaphors, most
of which appear to have followed a Latinate route from Antiquity to the Middle Eng-
lish period. The types of models found in different literary works reveal that many of
these are networked to today’s expressions with a considerable degree of regularity. A
common cultural heritage of love metaphors in European literature would thus support
the idea of a diachronic networking system. At the same time, the different historical
periods concerned have also had an effect on the degree of salience of certain mod-
els which raises such issues as time-specific paths and conceptual switching outlined
above. The two aspects of diachronic regularity and variation in metaphor evolution
will therefore form the focus of this analysis.
married (I demand it) to they must be married (I am sure of it). Likewise, similar
regular changes tend to be unidirectional as in the SPATIAL > TEMPORAL >
CONDITIONAL trend of syntactic units as in as long as. In Old English, the
equivalent expression swa lange swa only had the spatial element whereas the
Modern English version has also developed the temporal and conditional fea-
tures in this unidirectional trend (Traugott and Dasher 2002: 36–37).
Furthermore, it has been suggested that languages and cultures tend to select
metaphorisation processes that follow specific grooves. In the field of emotions,
fear in English is usually based on two mental models: the EMPTY CON-
TAINER model (There was a hollow feeling in Bill’s stomach) or a FREEZ-
ING COLD image (Fear froze Angela to the ground). However, Ancient Greek
phobos (fear) uses a FLIGHT model with the notion of ‘panic-stricken flight’,
suggesting that emotion may follow several possible physiological or behav-
ioural routes according to the path a particular language might select (Aitchi-
son 1992: 37).
Although diachronic metaphor cannot be predicted, there is a certain degree
of logic in the evolution of metaphor. In the same way that metaphor creation
is generally logical if it is to make sense in a given conceptual system, SKI =
SWALLOW might seem odd in the hypothetical expression ‘the wine skied
down his throat’, languages tend to select relatively logical paths in the time
dimension. In the same vein, according to our analysis below of conceptual
networking in base concepts, it would be strange if a conceptual metaphor
of FLAT = UNINTERESTING created meanings at a later historical period
such as ‘passionate’ or ‘exciting’. The general notion of flatness is linked to a
pejorative quality that lacks significant points of interest, as in a flat landscape
which might appear more monotonous than rugged or mountainous terrain. A
connotation of ‘exciting’ would therefore not fit in here and this encourages a
certain degree of conceptual regularity in the way a path evolves. It remains
limited to a conceptual range and does not develop completely different or op-
posite meanings unless irony or some other application is involved.
Within this framework of regularity, metaphor can always produce forms of
ambiguity or have ironical effects. A similar situation may arise from opposite
meanings. The same situation of a lack of money in the conventional meta-
phors tight/loose, based on an original conceptual metaphor TIGHT = CON-
STRAINT/CONTROL (Trim 2007a: 116–118), may be the result of different
circumstances. ‘He is very tight with his money’ can mean he has very little to
spend, as in ‘a tight situation’. ‘He is very loose with his money’ may mean he
spends a lot and consequently leads to a similar situation in which he has no
money. Despite the ambiguity of similar situations, this binary concept follows
restricted metaphorisation in which the creation of relevant linguistic items are
226 Richard Trim
On the other hand, there are clear variational patterns across languages and
cultures. Kövecses (2005: 88–113, 2006: 161–163) divides variation of meta-
phor conceptualisation into two types: cross-cultural and within-culture. The
first has a number of different forms. These could involve, among others,
roughly the same conceptual metaphors being shared between two languages
but that one culture/language shows a preference for some of those employed.
The example of symbolisation in figures described above may fit into this clas-
sification regarding the history of European languages.
The second type likewise has a number of variations. Kövecses (2005: 88–
113) suggests the categories of social, regional, stylistic, sub-cultural and indi-
vidual dimensions. It is clear from these labels that a number of variants may
be produced within one culture/language which are used by only a part of the
language community.
Kövecses defines the actual cultural context as “all the culturally unique and
salient concepts and values that characterize cultures, including, importantly,
the governing principles and the key concepts in a given culture or subculture”
(2006: 167). Historical variation would be the classical-medieval notion of the
“four humours”, as proposed by Geeraerts and Grondelaers (1995: 162–169), as
a key component in the European conception of anger as a fluid in a pressurised
container, and discussed below in the debate on long and short-term metaphor
paths. This example would therefore be an example of a cause of metaphor vari-
ation. Among the causes, Kövecses also cites various sources which include,
among others, the communicative situation, the role of history, personal con-
cerns and interests, and so on (for further details, see Kövecses 2005: 231–258).
2. Diachronic networking
The aim of this theory is to propose a way in which many metaphors evolve.
Obviously, it cannot predict metaphor evolution but, given a networking pro-
cess within a specific conceptual environment, an historical analysis is able
to show that there is a potential, as well as the actual existence, for regular
metaphor paths originating in core conceptual metaphors. The limits of this
potential are thus bound to the interpretative nature and salience of metaphors
in a given culture, unless metaphors are borrowed from other languages with-
out the same conceptual capacities, in which case their future productivity is
228 Richard Trim
likely to cease. We shall be discussing the issues of this theory here but first
it would be useful to look at other recent research which supports the idea of
diachronic conceptual networking. One significant feature is the role played by
semantic fields, a notion which goes back to Trier (1931), who first suggested
that semantic change affects semantic fields. Although his theory was founded
before the debate on fuzzy boundaries in semantic categories, and therefore did
not take into account overlapping or polysemy, it did introduce the role played
by semantic fields in historical linguistics particularly in the relationship be-
tween general and subordinate categories.
As far as networking is concerned, studies on diachronic chaining have es-
tablished, for example, that metaphoric items are created chronologically with-
in the same semantic field. Bird species such as goose, cuckoo, pigeon, coot
and turkey had a chain reaction in creating a common attribute of foolishness
in English from the 16th century onwards (Lehrer 1985: 289). According to dic-
tionary attestations in this study, the metaphoric meaning of the first item was
introduced into the English language in 1547, the second on the list in 1580, the
third in 1593 and the others at a later historical period around the beginning of
the 19th century. Other studies of related attributes in the same semantic field
have revealed similar findings. Primates have a brutish attribute as in the case
of baboons, gorillas and apes. In fact, a large proportion of the mammal/bird
semantic field has tended to portray pejorative meanings throughout the his-
tory of English such as SNAKES = TREACHERY, SCAVENGER BIRDS =
GREED and MULE/DONKEY = OBSTINACY.
The trend of diachronic chaining in pejorative meanings is supported by
findings carried out by Allan (2003: 4–5). A diachronic model of ANIMALS/
BIRDS = STUPIDITY becomes clear from the figure of 92 dictionary items
out of a total of 99 dating between the 14th and 20th centuries and having the
attribute of stupidity. The figurative meaning of cleverness could only be at-
tributed to the remaining seven. Hence, we have names such as ape, sheep-
ish, mule, ass-headed, cuckoo, long-eared, gubbins, etc. In general European
cultural history, this trend can also be seen in other languages such as French:
the bird images of linotte (linnet), butor (bittern), bécasse (woodcock), dinde
(turkey) and oie (goose) have all introduced pejorative metaphoric meanings in
this semantic field at different points in history.
We may deduce from the findings of this particular aspect of diachronic
chaining that metaphor evolution does appear to follow specific directions ac-
cording to the conceptual system of the cultural environment. Not all birds
may be included in the diachronic pattern resulting from the base conceptual
metaphor of BIRDS = STUPIDITY. In fact, some have the opposite image
such as the wise owl due to its physical appearance and almost studious way of
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor evolution 229
looking. However, a very large number of the bird category could also be added
to the list in future. There is therefore a potential metaphorisation process in
secondary groups developing from birds which could have the same image on
account of their behaviour or looks. The presence of a large number of items in
this semantic field would help reinforce future additions to the network.
How can we generalise this process of networking? One way is to look at
very general concepts in our environment and first think of all the possible
metaphoric attributes which are associated with the concept in question. A
starting-point would be to take very basic concepts which have always ex-
isted in our process of conceptualisation: flat, rough, smooth, dry, wet, tight,
loose, and so on. These would be the types of concepts Lakoff (1987: 271)
would refer to as the category of basic-level properties. Take the case of flat.
If we think of the possible figurative senses connected to this concept, includ-
ing conventional senses, expressions such as flat beer, a flat tone, and so on,
would probably come to mind. The first would signify a beer without any
flavour and the second a rather monotonous tone. In fact, an analysis of the
historical evolution of dictionary attestations allows us to deduce that there is
a basic conceptual metaphor FLAT = UNINTERESTING in all the metaphor
paths associated with the concept of flat. The semantic field of flatness has
chained a large number of metaphors with this notion to its core concept. The
actual origin of this mapping may stem from the fact that flat objects, such as
landscapes, may be of less interest than those with many shapes and forms, as
in mountainous terrain.
At this point it should be mentioned that in the following analysis, we shall
be using a standard source/target pattern in conceptual metaphors. Instead of
listing the basic concept flat first and equating all attributes in secondary po-
sition, the source > target orientation will be adopted according to the form
a) = FLAT, b) = FLAT, and so on. An attribute such as uninteresting thus
represents the source domain and is mapped on to the target domain of a basic
concept like flat. We shall see further down that a source domain such as love
may be metaphorised in a multiple variety of target domains.
In our formulation of a diachronic model of networking, we can say that
the core concept serves as a “building block” for metaphor paths. The path
referring to taste, for example, was attested in 1626 with the expression:
“Spirit of wine burned […] tasteth nothing so hot in the mouth […] but flat and
dead” (OED). The notion of monotony has been applied to both people and
physical objects in the past, although the former notion of flat people appears
somewhat archaic: “I look for nothing from empty, dull, flat people” (OED:
1878). If this collocation is no longer in current usage, its present obsolete sta-
tus nevertheless has the potential of being regenerated in the future. This pro-
230 Richard Trim
cess therefore adds another dimension to the model: the states of activity and
dormancy in metaphor paths.
At the outset, there may be a number of different reasons for the selection of
a path according to the cultural environment of the time but an examination
of basic concepts in our language does suggest that the existence of preceding
concepts often reinforces the creation of subsequent metaphors. In addition,
the same types of models keep recurring even if they remain absent in the
language for a considerable period of time. The aspect of dormancy implies,
in turn, that a number of scenarios are possible according to the historical pe-
riod. Long-term metaphor paths may begin early on in a language’s history and
continue until the modern period. Alternatively, shorter-term paths may begin
early on and become obsolete at a later date. A reverse situation may occur in
which metaphor paths are created in the modern period or have only a very
short life span. In other words, the period of “activity”, when the metaphor is
in actual language usage, varies enormously according to the metaphor path.
In applying this networking theory, we can also say that during the periods
when the metaphor path is not in usage, it is in a “dormant” phase, i. e. it has
the potential of being created, on the evidence supplied by its existence dur-
ing other historical periods (Trim 2007a: 109–112). This idea of regeneration
has been expressed before in other terms such as “metaphor retrieval” (Kit-
tay 1987: 20) or “semantic polygenesis” in literal and figurative meaning (see
Geeraerts 1997: 24 for a full explanation of this term).
If we divide up the evolution of the FLATNESS metaphor into three his-
torical periods: 1 (1200–1500AD), 2 (1500–1900AD) and 3 (1900AD–present-
day), the major paths cited above all begin during period 2. They are therefore
in a dormant phase in period 1, they become active in period 2 and then contin-
ue to the end of period 3. The exception is the flat people metaphor path which
has tended to die out before the end of period 3 and has therefore gone back
to a dormant phase in which it could potentially be regenerated later on. Each
pattern of activity and dormancy in metaphor paths evolving from conceptual
metaphors differs according to such historical periods.
Take the example of smoothness, whose figurative origins based on the same
procedure used for flatness, allow us to postulate a SMOOTH = ATTRAC-
TIVE/TRANQUIL conceptual metaphor. Smoothness has a much wider range
of interpretation and more diachronic variability. An analysis of the various
metaphoric derivations suggest categories of four primary clusters leading to
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor evolution 231
The notion of active and dormant phases also raises the question as to whether
metaphors are likely to last a long time or not. Metaphor paths may be very
short-lived or can go on indefinitely. We have seen that there is a considerable
degree of variation in their active and latent stages and the life of a conceptual
metaphor may also vary considerably in length.
The conceptual metaphor LIFE IS A JOURNEY has often been quoted as
not only being one which has had a long life, individual metaphor paths linked
to it can also last a long time as well. We can compare, for example, the follow-
ing metaphors between Antiquity and the Late Middle Ages:
(2) Spirits are assigned to less burdensome bodies on the journey of life
(Boethius, Consolatio Philosophiae, 3, 19)
Likewise, the journey metaphor has continued in specific areas such as friend-
ship:
It would appear that conceptual metaphors of this kind have almost universal
features; they fit into a large number of different languages and last for cen-
turies. Studies of the emotions by Fabiszak (1999: 133–146) reveal that the
semantic field of joy in English offers long-term paths which are similar to the
types of universal trends described by Lakoff & Johnson’s (1980: 14–17) orien-
tational schemas whereby the direction upwards embodies positive values, as
opposed to down which is negative. Old English words for ‘joy’ are represented
by terms such as bliss, gefea and wynsumnesse:
Literally, joy rises or ascends in the same way as the modern English expres-
sion his spirits lifted. The upward movement has lasted from Old to Modern
English. If we look back at the LIFE IS A JOURNEY conceptual metaphor,
it also has a directional feeling about it. It keeps going forward, similar to
Lakoff’s (1987: 285) orientational schema SOURCE-PATH-GOAL which em-
bodies a scenario of an initial state, a sequence of events and a final state,
similar to birth, life and death.
Long-term metaphor paths may therefore be linked to the kinds of universal-
physiological features suggested by Lakoff with regard to our physiological
sensory perception of the environment. This may be orientational but can also
cover other features such as basic-level properties relating to flat, smooth, etc.
resulting from visual or tactile perception. Their respective conceptual meta-
phors, as we have seen, can last a very long time.
However, the term universal in the diachronic sense of ‘infinite’ calls for
a word of caution since the findings of some linguists would dispute the fact
that certain physiologically-based metaphors last for ever. A case in point is
the Lakoffian HEAT = ANGER metaphor (1987: 380–415) which appears
to be fairly universal as it can be seen in widely different languages such as
Japanese (Matsuki 1995: 140–142) and Chinese (Yu 1995: 66–71). Lakoff
describes this metaphor with the HEAT OF FLUID IN A CONTAINER
image, such as she got all steamed up or his pent-up anger welled up in-
side him. Although the HEAT = ANGER metaphor can be traced back a
long time, Gevaert (2001, 2002) would claim that early periods of Old Eng-
lish had a SWELL = ANGER conceptual metaphor and that English has
therefore changed this universal-based construct. The main reason is due to
external influence. The Germanic origins of English supplied the SWELL
metaphor:
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor evolution 233
5. Diachronic salience
Not only do conceptual and linguistic metaphors vary in length, the nature of
their active paths can fluctuate considerably. Indeed, another important issue
in the diachronic networking model concerns metaphoric salience. Limitations
in usage may have different origins such as slang, regional variants or idio-
lects but both linguistic and conceptual metaphors can vary in their cognitive
weighting throughout the language community at given points in time. This
feature becomes apparent in how metaphoric expressions are translated in the
literary works. An analysis of such translations shows that a translator often
hesitates or avoids using the same metaphoric expressions found in the source
language (Trim 2007b: 45–56). For example, the expression on a day which
had a summer face and a winter constitution, referring to what was probably a
sunny day with a cold wind or low temperatures in Thomas Hardy’s Far from
the Madding Crowd [1874] (1974: 62), was left out in a standard French transla-
tion (Zeys: 1980)
Diachronic salience can take on different forms. The introduction of a con-
ceptual or linguistic metaphor may be highly salient on inception and then
slowly become less salient through time until obsolescence. The level of sa-
lience may be reduced to one which introduces a degree of uncertainty as to its
current usage. Would a member of a language community really use the meta-
phor in question? These strange-sounding metaphors, which are more flexible
234 Richard Trim
in literary works than in technical texts, may refer to both an individual lin-
guistic item or to a conceptual metaphor that does not necessarily correspond
to society’s way of thinking at the time. On the other hand, it may correspond
to a certain section of a society or a minority in the linguistic community, in
which case the latter would reduce its salience even further. On a longer time-
scale, the diachronic patterns of salience may fluctuate in the same way as ac-
tive and dormant phases of metaphor paths may go through cyclic patterns. The
fashion for a particular type of metaphor may come back into common usage,
thereby increasing its salience level.
The exact mechanisms which are responsible for shifts, salience and regen-
eration are a complex issue and are, at least in some forms, intricately bound
up with the types of within-culture variation discussed above. Kövecses (2006:
167–171) suggests two categories of causes in metaphor variation: differential
experience and differential cognitive preferences (or styles). The first includes
the actual cultural context in its wider sense, i. e. the governing principles and
key concepts in a given culture or subculture. Related to this aspect are the
histories of a country or the personal histories of ordinary people. The latter
aspect, for example, comes to the fore in literary works. The second category
includes, among others, the notion of experiential focus. Although human be-
ings share a great deal of bodily experience on which they build, or could build,
universal metaphors, it is not utilised in the same way or to the same extent in
different languages and varieties. As we have seen, the conceptualisation of
anger in terms of heat is used in English, Japanese and Chinese, but the lat-
ter actually tends to have a prevalence for pressure rather than heat (Yu 1995:
59–92). Furthermore, we have also seen that the conceptualisation of anger in
terms of heat has not always been the case in English.
From a diachronic point of view, the conclusion of Kövecses’ experiential
focus theory is that it should not be expected that any of the conceptualised
responses associated with anger or other emotions remain constant throughout
the ages (2006: 171). He sums up this view as follows: “I believe the answer is
that universal physiological features provide only a potential basis for meta-
phorical conceptualisation without constraining what the specific metaphors
will be […] We should not expect any of the conceptualised responses associ-
ated with anger to remain constant in conceptualising anger (and the emotions
in general) throughout the ages” (2005: 248). This approach is clarified further
in his claim that there are several distinct components in universal embodiment
associated with a target domain. The conceptual metaphors that are created
may be based on one component at a certain point of time and on another at
another point. Parallel to this pattern, conceptual metaphors may be based on
one component in one culture and on another component in another culture.
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor evolution 235
It is clear that the focus of a body part very often changes from one historical
period to another. The cause may be, for example, a particular cultural focus at
the time, as in the case of religion. Jager (1990: 845–859) points out that pec-
torality was an important focus of the body in Old English and that the chest,
rather than the mouth, was the centre of verbal activity. This extended to the
psychological domain. One of the main reasons, he claims, is that the chest is
not only “the source of speech and the repository of God’s word and inspira-
tion but also […] the location of knowledge, belief, love, the Holy Spirit, and
the spirit or soul itself”. In the late Middle Ages, the pectoral focus was also
found in the works of writers such as Chaucer, Dante and Boccaccio. It may be
deduced that the shift in the decrease in pectorality in literary works after the
Middle Ages was probably due to a decline in the influence of religion.
Indeed, diachronic trends of cultural focus can be seen in other writers such
as American authors of the 17th to 20th centuries (1675–1975). Smith, Pollio and
Pitts (1981: 911–935) analysed these trends and concluded that different cul-
tural domains do, in fact, correlate with varying degrees of metaphoric activity
along the time dimension. Religion went into a steady decline in American
literature from the seventeenth century onwards, whereas the domain of na-
ture gradually increased, reaching a peak in the twentieth century. The reason
for this was that the early writers such as Matthews, Bradstreet, Edwards and
Franklin who lived in settled parts of the New World such as Boston and Phila-
delphia, did not have to come to terms with nature to the extent of later writers
such as Cooper, Emerson and Twain. The former group were focused more on
the dominant religious issues of the time whereas the latter were influenced by
19th century westward expansion and the problems of dealing with the Ameri-
can wilderness.
The interesting point about diachronic shift in the focus of conceptual met-
aphor with regard to body parts is that matches may be seen between very
different cultures/languages but they often occur in different periods of his-
tory. Padel (1992: 12–18) illustrates the fact that the focus of feeling in Ancient
Greece was the belly, a fact that is also demonstrated by Matsuki (1995: 142–
145) with regard to the modern Japanese concept hara (belly). Does this mean
that there are particular trends in the shift of body parts? It is difficult to answer
this question at the present time without analysing a large number of cultural
histories. It might be the case that each language, or group of languages, have
individual cultural histories and this may give diachronic trends in conceptual
metaphor at a global level a rather random pattern as far as shifts in body parts
are concerned.
The role of the history of the country, as in the case of the American writers
discussed above, can be seen in the theory of macro and micro-shifts discussed
236 Richard Trim
(7) They are excedynge swyfte of foote by reason of theyr loose goinge
from theyr chyldes age (OED: 1555)
time immemorial and thereby offers a useful area of research into the history
of love metaphors in English.
We will propose here that present-day love metaphors have been networked
in literary works to patterns which can be traced back to the English literary
works of the Middle Ages and from there to primarily Latinate routes originat-
ing in Antiquity. These networks have, on the one hand, a remarkable degree
of regularity in diachronic models relating to common conceptual origins but,
on the other, quite clearly display the variational features discussed above of
activity/dormancy and diachronic salience.
A great deal of interest has been shown in recent years regarding emotions as
a basis for metaphor research. It is indeed a highly productive area for cogni-
tive research and metaphor creation. At the same time, it is not an easy field for
cognitive evaluation. Attempts have been made to set up a list of fundamental
emotions, as proposed by Izard and Buechler (1980: 165–187), which include
interest, joy, surprise, sadness, anger, disgust, contempt, fear, shame/shyness
and guilt. Critics of this approach suggest that emotions have many similar
sub-groups according to the culture in question. Wierzbicka claims that the
exact boundaries between related feelings are language-specific (1986: 590).
Another approach to defining emotions is the proposal that they are valenced
reactions to three particular phenomena: events, agents and objects. The first are
people’s construals about things to happen; the second are objects viewed in their
capacity as objects and the third are things considered in the light of their actual
or presumed instrumentality in causing such events (Ortony, Clore and Collins
1988: 18–19). These definitions lead to summaries of emotions as follows:
(1) Consequences of events. These split emotions into two dichotomies of
pleased/displeased referring to implications for oneself or others. The re-
sulting emotions are happy for others, resentment, gloating, pity, joy dis-
tress, satisfaction, fears-confirmed, relief, disappointment, gratification,
remorse, gratitude and anger.
(2) Actions of agents. The same pattern occurs with a split between approving/
disapproving for self and others. This results in: pride, shame, admiration
and reproach. In addition, there is an overlap with the first category in that
gratification, remorse, gratitude, and anger can also result from agents.
(3) Aspects of objects. It is in this category that the emotion of love appears.
Objects cause a split into a general dichotomy of liking/disliking which
results in love and hate.
240 Richard Trim
The suggestion arising from this kind of analysis is that a cognitive study of
the origin of love would involve the reactions to a particular object which,
presumably, could be either animate or inanimate. The latter category would
thereby give rise to a further differentiation in love. If we now narrow down
our definitions of the emotions to love itself, suggestions have also been made
regarding its possible classification. Tissari (2003: 2) proposes a classification
of six major types with the use of Latin/Greek labels:
In addition, there is a seventh type of love involving self-love and which there-
fore has only one participant. The study of love in this analysis will focus on
the love between two partners as in categories (2) and (3). Again, these types
of love, on a global scale, can be further sub-divided if non-Western cultures
are taken into account. Contemporary traditions do not necessarily include
marital love in marriage. Kövecses (1988: 11) describes how the Bemba tribe
of present-day Zimbabwe traditionally does not have the notion of love in their
marriages. This can also be seen, to a certain extent, in arranged marriages in
contemporary India.
De Rougemont (1972: 71–77) claims that there are fundamental differences
in the notion of love between two people which are related to religious groups
as, for example, in Western and Oriental religions. He suggests that a basic dif-
ference between these two groups concerns, first of all, category (5) above, or
the individual’s relationship to God. In Western religions, whose origins were
in the Middle East, there is not a complete union with God during the lifetime
of an individual except for communion in church. At this moment, the church
acts as a link between the two. In Oriental religions, whose origins were in
Asia, there is complete union with God, or in the case of Buddhism, a single
Universal Being.
The extent to which religious love has influenced marital love is not clear
but the two religious groups differentiate regarding the latter in that Christian-
ity developed the idea of passion which became predominant in twelfth-cen-
tury Europe. Oriental religions, as in China, have had the notion of fondness
in human relations rather than the idea of passion. This is supported by the
fact that pre-Christian Greece did not have this notion, as can be seen in the
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor evolution 241
concept of Platonic love (derived from Plato’s Symposium). Human love at that
time was generally conceived to be for pleasurable aims while passion, from
a tragic or painful point of view, was generally despised. This is a very dif-
ferent approach to the conceptualisation of love, for example, in the European
medieval period.
It can be seen, therefore, that notions of love can vary both cross-culturally
and diachronically. As far as metaphor models are concerned, some are logi-
cally influenced by variational changes in conceptualisation whereas others
seem, at least from a diachronic point of view within one particular cultural
history, to survive social changes. We shall now examine the origins of present-
day English metaphors of love and discuss how they have evolved diachronic-
ally according to the networking theories outlined above.
An historical analysis of the list above shows that the conceptual metaphors
involved are long-term and an analysis of literary works shows that they have
been linked through different languages and contacts between authors since
Antiquity. We therefore have ongoing links in the evolution of these models. As
a first step back in time, a study of Chaucer’s writings from the Middle English
period reveals a good many of the metaphoric patterns outlined above.
As would be expected, the first image of FIRE is also to be found in
medieval literature. The fire symbols in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (Hieatt
& Hieatt: 1976) appear to be mostly associated with physiological features
in which heat, as in Lakoff’s examples of Modern English, corresponds to
intense emotion. An example taken from the “Franklin’s Tale” refers to fyr
as passion:
A very common notion of love in Middle English was also the symbol of unity,
as in the second example in Kövecses’ list, and is often used by Chaucer. The
“Merchant’s Tale” has numerous examples of being united or bound together:
(10) Whan that the preest to yow my body bond (285: l. 948)
‘When the priest bound my body to you’
Related to the idea of treasure is also the concept of gifts which was considered
to come from God:
The three models of fire, unity and treasure thus appear to be common no-
tions of love in medieval literature. The fourth correspondence is the LOVE =
NUTRIENT/FOOD metaphor. Chaucer also used this kind of imagery in the
“Merchant’s Tale” when the main character, January, who was advanced in
years, told his friends that he was seeking a wife who had to be very young:
The idea of love being equated with food was therefore a clear image in Chau-
cer’s mind. Many expressions also occur with the image of sweetness in the
Canterbury Tales, mariage honey-swete (“The Merchant’s Tale”), in the same
way as modern-day expressions, honey, honey-pie, sugar, and so on. The oth-
er two correspondences on the list above are likewise found in Chaucer. A
LOVE = BLINDNESS model occurs in the “Merchant’s Tale”:
(14) for Love is blind al day and may nat see (258: l. 354)
‘for love is for ever blind and cannot see’
244 Richard Trim
The examples of fire, unity, treasure, food, blindness and madness thus show
that these images have probably remained in the conceptual systems of the
English language for a long period of time. In accordance with our theories on
diachronic networking, it could be argued that some of Kövecses’ examples
of love have been networked to the conceptual directions of former medieval
models. It should be pointed out at this stage that the existence of such meta-
phors in the modern period could also be due to two other factors in this theory.
The first is that pre-existing metaphors in a language’s history have reinforced
their multiple variations today. The second is that, even if these metaphors
had not existed before, they may very well have come into existence due to the
potential creativity of a given conceptual system mentioned above. There may
therefore be two influences at work: reinforcement of existing metaphors on the
one hand and, on the other, natural creation due to the universal nature of such
long-term metaphors regardless of their activated or latent states beforehand.
An analysis of comparative medieval literature does show that the different
contacts between writers of the time probably had a continuing influence in
notions of medieval courtly love, for instance. The origins of medieval love
metaphors in English point to a Latinate source.
the source of the “Franklin’s Tale” being associated with Boccaccio’s Filocolo.
Edwards (1996: 141–162) claims that the source is specifically linked to the
section known as the Love Questions of his work. He views the “Franklin’s
Tale” as a form of cultural translation of the Filocolo and the result is that so-
cial customs of love are thereby transferred.
Likewise, links have been made between the “Merchant’s Tale” and Boccac-
cio’s Decameron. Although scholars have often refuted such a correspondence,
Beidler (1973: 266–284) claims that the plots of specific parts of both stories
are almost identical. Many of the conceptual metaphors used in the range of
love categories nevertheless appear to be the same and incorporate the models
of the time.
Among the long-term metaphor paths, we can find the models of fire and
treasure in the Old French texts of the Roman:
The historical links between Chaucer, Boccaccio and Petrarch have been well
documented in the past (see, for example, Wilkins 1963). A number of Kövec-
ses’ long-term models can thus be found in Petrarch’s sonnets:
Some of Kövecses’ list can therefore be retraced to Petrarch’s poetry and an ex-
amination of Chaucer’s metaphors show similar trends due to his close contacts
246 Richard Trim
with French and Italian literature. If we go back further in time, we are able
to see that these models logically originate at the birthplace of our civilization
in Antiquity. Many Latin examples, which ultimately stem from the Ancient
Greek epics, may illustrate their early history but we shall restrict our discus-
sion of the classical period to the FIRE model.
(19) Servant in love and lord in mariage (“Franklin’s Tale”, 298: l. 65)
The notions of servants in love and amorous legal aspects are not a common
part of everyday language today but were certainly a part of courtly love of
the Middle Ages. All of these examples can be related to similar metaphors in
other medieval European literature, as in the French and Italian texts above,
but they probably do not go further back in time except for the association of
248 Richard Trim
pain in (13) which had another implication in Antiquity and has also continued
today in a different light.
It is difficult to ascertain the exact relationship between particular love meta-
phors and cultural models characteristic of the period in which the metaphors
are used. This would require a lot more literary analysis in the case of Chau-
cer’s metaphors as well as further research. However, several comments could
be made here.
The first is that the use of metaphors in literature represent a “within-do-
mains” variant, and that Chaucer may have used particular love metaphors for a
special effect. It is, of course, impossible to know how many of these metaphors
would have been used in ordinary spoken conversation at the time. We therefore
have the literary versus spoken language dichotomy to contend with and, since
we only have literary texts as evidence for metaphors during earlier historical
periods, we need to look at the relevant authors’ attitudes towards their writing.
With regard to Chaucer’s metaphors designated as “short-term” above, a start-
ing point would be to look at his attitudes towards love and marriage, an issue
which has been long debated in literary criticism of the medieval period. A useful
comparison would be to analyse the notions of subservience and law in the ser-
vant and statute metaphors. These are employed in two different types of genres
found in the Franklin’s and Wife of Bath’s narratives of the Canterbury Tales.
The first involves courtly love and its “high” ideals, although Chaucer seems to
hesitate about the inclusion of subservience in the following context on marriage:
The second appears to use irony and forms part of the bawdy, slapstick com-
edies which developed during the Middle Ages. A good example of this genre
is also used in Boccaccio’s Decameron. The reference of a “statute” in the
Wife’s tale is a spouse’s obligation to satisfy a partner in physical love as the
following context shows:
(23) Now, sirs, I’ll go on with my tale. – As ever I hope to drink wine or ale,
I’ll tell the truth; of those husbands that I had,
Conceptual networking theory in metaphor evolution 249
The “higher” ideals of courtly love originate from troubadours’ love lyrics.
The second variant can be traced back through different genres originating in
Cicero’s argumentum, a “fictitious event which nevertheless could have hap-
pened, as in the case of comedies” (Davenport 2004: 11), to the French fabliaux
of the late Middle Ages that were parodies of romance in their treatment of
love and sex. However, the different types of literary criticism on Chaucer’s
attitude to these topics have often made the issue unclear. As a result, his use
of metaphor may also cast a doubt on its interpretation and could thus reinforce
“within-culture” variation.
Literary critics often feel that Chaucer was trying to express his ideas on
love and marriage through his writings. However, he probably tried to please
both the aristocracy and the new social ideas of the bourgeoisie which were
developing in urban areas such as London during the 14th century. In reality, he
may have been hesitant to accept the type of perfection, such as chastity in love
and marriage, that the Church was teaching, raising the argument that he was
“ahead of his time” (Howard 1960: 232).
The definition of courtly love itself has also been a problematic one. It has
been suggested that the rejection of courtly ideals by invoking irony or humour
entails the notion of the medieval concept fine amor used in medieval liter-
ary works, although this is controversial and fine amor could also be simply
considered as a variant of courtly love (Burnley 1980: 129). Scholars also dif-
fer on the actual purpose of courtly love: “The questions of whether courtly
love served as an actual social code; whether adultery was necessary; whether
marriage was a goal of courtly service; indeed, whether the entire concept
was an ironic satire or parody – all of these are questions which are largely
unresolved” (Boardman 1977: 568–569). In a narrative as chivalrous as the
“Knight’s Tale”, for example, it is felt that there is a clear exploitation of the
social inadequacy of courtly ideals.
Whatever the definitions of courtly love may be, Clubb suggests scales of
medieval love from “low” to “high” with reference to the Decameron: a) simple
lust, b) love with a total lack of affection; c) courteous banter with elegant lyrics
and d) the highest level which adds virtue to desire, tenderness and self-denial
(1960: 188). We could therefore assume that the distinction between slapstick
250 Richard Trim
love comedy and traditional concepts of courtly love, according to his view,
join up or overlap somewhere along his scale of medieval love.
One major conclusion from this brief survey is that attitudes to love in the
Middle Ages, at least in literary works, appear to be very varied. Somewhere
along the line, a metaphor may either have had a serious intention or was iron-
ic in nature. Conceptual metaphors of love such as legality and subservience
clearly existed in the culture of the period. Poets and writers, however, were
probably coming to terms with specific frames of conceptualisation and seri-
ous treatment or parodies of love reflected authors’ views towards the subject.
At the same time, Chaucer would probably have handled material from con-
temporary thinking according to his own views with an eye on different sec-
tions of readership. This is evident in the role of prologues as in the “Miller’s
Tale”. By including both comic and bawdy material in the story, Chaucer dis-
tanced himself in the prologue from the relevant story-teller, in this case the
Miller, who is described rather pejoratively as a “churl”. The reader is invited to
go onto another tale if it is thought not to be suitable (whoever does not like it,
turn over the page and choose another tale): “and therefore, whoso list it nat y-
here, turne over the leef and chese another tale”, “Miller’s Prologue”, ll. 68–69,
(see Davenport 2004: 34).
With regard to general principles of synchronic “within-variation” concep-
tualisation, metaphor interpretation can vary even within one category such
as serious intent, in contrast to the effects of parody. The result is that it may
lead to ambiguity. Deignan (1997: 28–29) observes that words such as twinge
and stab, particularly in describing women’s desire in modern fiction, can also
represent pleasant sensations:
models such as LOVE = PAIN today are seen to be undesirable, whereas the
medieval model was regarded in high esteem.
The medieval courtly ideal was, for example, to suffer, as in the notion of
unrequited love, and a form of conceptualization which was closely related
to religious love. This is very different from the pre-Christian era in which
the pain of love was actually held in contempt. The trend of the conceptual
metaphor of pain has therefore gone through chronological phases of contempt,
esteem and undesirability. It has continued to exist as a physiological model but
in different forms.
This raises the question of active and latent stages dependent on social atti-
tudes of the historical period in question and their respective level of salience. A
certain section of the language community may still believe in courtly ideals in
which love does entail subservience and legal aspects, in which case the concep-
tual metaphor paths have not died out but the level of salience would be lower.
The comic side of this development can be seen in modern productions of mu-
sicals such as “The Simple Joys of Maidenhood” in the production “Camelot”:
the contents. However, it may have a high frequency ration in comparison with
other polysemes.
So far, we have been considering salience to mean how “common” or how
“strange-sounding” an item may appear in a language community. There are,
however, different approaches as to its definition. In the field of diachronic pro-
totype semantics, Geeraerts refers to salience as the prototypical weighting of
an item in a given category. We are therefore taking into account the language’s
internal semantics in this case. Semantic change can take place due to evolving
structures in semasiology (polysemy) or onomasiology (synonymy). The for-
mer, for example, can take place through interlocking and overlapping readings
of attributes and there are differences in structural weight as in the frequent
loss of peripheral meanings (Geeraerts 1997: 23–24). The result is that certain
meanings are likely to have a higher frequency compared to others in the same
category and that patterns of semasiological load, as a term given to this type
of feature, would indicate how definitions of words can evolve through time.
It has been claimed that this prototypical approach to meaning change would
provide dictionary users greater insight into the histories of words (Molina
2003: 1–22).
To provide some answers on the diachronic salience of love metaphors us-
ing this approach, a considerable amount of additional corpus research on data
frequency and meaning ratios would be needed. A number of possible patterns
may, however, occur.
The semasiological load of long-term metaphors would generally be expect-
ed to be high in order for metaphor paths to survive. A random search using
the Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse (CMEPV - University of Michi-
gan: www.hti.umich.edu/c/cme) comes up with a number of results concerning
some (but not all) of the items mentioned above. The term fyr (ex. 1) in the
Canterbury Tales has 32 occurrences, 11 of which are linked to love. These
statistics would need further verification with other corpora but, if it is correct,
it means that the semasiological load (S. L.) compared to other metaphoric or
non-metaphoric meanings in the category stands at approx. 33%. The term
bond (ex. 2) has 19 occurrences, 10 of which are linked to love, and therefore
an S. L. of approx. 50%. Tresor (ex. 3) has 16 occurrences with 4 linked to love
and an S. L. of 25%. Yifte (ex. 4) has 10 occurrences with 5 linked to love and
thus an S. L. of 50%.
The nature of time-specific metaphors in this respect is a little more com-
plex since they may be related to two different types of “within-culture” vari-
ation. On the one hand, they may be the result of the cultural context of the
time, such as in the case of the servant in love in courtly love, or of individual
innovation, as is possibly the case of statute. In the first item, the CMEPV
254 Richard Trim
12. Conclusions
was apparently wrongly translated into French épissure (used for the splicing
of ropes) rather than into montage, which would have conveyed the original
“splice” metaphor in English. The choice of the wrong concept in borrowing,
perhaps due to a lack of knowledge about the source culture, would therefore
prevent further metaphor creation taking place in the same direction.
Given a specific conceptual environment, paths may be of long or short du-
ration according to different social and cultural aspects. The fact that a path
exists at a given point in time would suggest that it could also be potentially
used at a time when it categorised as obsolete. We therefore have different
phases of activity and dormancy which vary according to conceptual and lin-
guistic metaphors. The former tend to change at a slower rate while the latter
are logically far more varied. There may be an infinite number of linguistic
paths linked to a conceptual metaphor.
A feature which can often occur in conceptual metaphors is that the mapping
procedure undergoes a change in collocations. We have seen that the notion of
swelling was originally used in the anger metaphor in Old English. Swelling in
the emotions has not disappeared but has tended to change to other emotions in
English such as in the swelling of pride.
Furthermore, an important factor in the two categories of conceptual and
linguistic metaphors is the notion of salience. This is a feature which is hard to
measure and appears to fluctuate with time. It is not always clear if a concep-
tual metaphor has completely died out or whether it would still form part of the
conceptualization of a section of the language community.
These models may be demonstrated by the networks of love metaphors
which have been part of European literature since time immemorial. Pres-
ent-day English metaphors, within the framework of long-term paths, can be
traced back to English literature of the Middle Ages. Literary studies show that
there have been links between English medieval literature and other European
works at the time, which form part of our cultural heritage since the Roman
and Greek epics of Antiquity. A comparison of metaphors between medieval
and ancient languages via a Latinate route reveals the links and diachronic net-
works. At the same time, certain conceptual metaphors, depending on social
and religious aspects of the time, tend to be more salient during one period
rather than another. Such is the case of medieval courtly love and the concep-
tual metaphors of subservience or law which produce linguistic metaphors in
Chaucer’s works that sound less salient today.
Conceptual networking thus represents one theoretical framework in which
the evolution of metaphor may be studied. It allows us to establish principles
of regularity which depend on the different parameters discussed in this study.
Although not all metaphor creation may be included in networking, this pro-
256 Richard Trim
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Cognitive historical approaches to emotions: Pride
Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
Abstract
Emotions are complex human experiences that have aroused much interdisciplinary
interest. They have been studied by psychologists, historians and linguists. Stearns and
Stearns (1988: 7) introduce a distinction between emotional experience and the socio-
psychological construal of emotions, and go on to say that “it becomes increasingly
obvious that emotional standards – what [we] the editors have urged be labelled ‘emo-
tionology’ – change more rapidly and completely than emotional experience does”.
Emotionology understood as a set of beliefs, scenarios or cognitive models for under-
standing and expressing emotions in socially transparent and acceptable ways is closely
linked to values and is shared by a given community. Investigations of these links
from a historical perspective are represented by several scholars: C. Stearns (1988)
on the onset of emotional control in the Enlightenment; Gillis (1988) on love in Early
Modern times and in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; P. Stearns (1988) on the
rise of sibling jealousy; and Demos (1996) on guilt and shame in Early New England.
Within cognitive linguistics (CL) the lead in the study of emotions goes to Kövecses
(1986, 1990, 1998), who in his numerous studies is setting trends in CL approaches to
emotionology.
Historical linguists have also shown steady interest in reconstructing emotional sce-
narios on the basis of the extant historical texts (notably Diller 1996, 2002a, 2002b). Some
historical linguists have employed CL tools to the study of past emotionologies (Tissari
2001, 2003; Fabiszak 2001, 2002). This kind of work shows the mutual benefits for both
disciplines that can result from conducting historical linguistic analyses within a cognitive
framework. On the one hand, the reconstructed scenarios may show how the emphasis on
different aspects of the construal of emotions changed over time as an effect of the change
in social values. This social dimension of emotions seems to have been so far neglected in
CL, as pointed out by Tissari (2006a). However, with the new stress on the socio-cultural
part of the experiential bases of human conceptualisation of the world (Bernárdez 2007;
Sinha 2005; Zlatev 2005) historical linguistic studies have much to contribute to CL.
The present paper will be bi-partite. The first part will offer a revision of the state-
of-the-art of cognitive historical approaches to emotions. The second part will pres-
ent a case study of pride in medieval English. Old English data will come from the
Toronto Corpus and Middle English data from the Helsinki Corpus. The analysis will
be genre-specific and will utilize the methodology developed in Fabiszak and Hebda
(2007) which is a cognitively informed lexico-grammatical analysis. We hope that the
investigation will show how the scenario for pride in medieval times differed from the
contemporary one and contribute to the better understanding of the metonymic sources
of metaphorical mappings.
262 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
1 Murphy (1997) criticizes conceptual metaphor theory analysts for not attempting
non-metaphorical explanation of polysemy.
2 Taylor (2002) also criticizes conceptual metaphor theory for its complete ahistori-
cism.
264 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
two aspects. The present paper will focus on emotions. First we will present
a short and necessarily selective review of diachronic linguistic approaches to
emotions and then present a case study of pride in Old English.
3 Zinken (2004) in his discussion of BartmiĔski (e. g. 1999) shows that what the eth-
nographers may consider symbolic representations of gods, for the participants of a
given culture may be quite literally gods themselves.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 265
frequently attributed to God. She also noticed that 70% of anger lexemes
used before 850 AD alliterated so that their choice could have been stylisti-
cally rather than purely semantically related. She also found out that in the
period 850–950 AD both type and token frequency of the conceptual domain
of heat and wrong emotion increased significantly, while fierceness and
affliction, common in the earlier period, decreased. She linked this develop-
ment to the influence of the translations from Latin begun by King Alfred and
continued by his followers (such translations constituted 84 % of the corpus).
Between 950–1050 Gevaert observed a reversal of the trend, which she called
a “redressing of the balance” (Gevaert 2002: 276), and related it to the decrease
in the number of translations from Latin and an increase in the number of
original vernacular texts.
The conclusions from Gevaert (2002) are further developed in Geeraerts
and Gevaert (2008). They analyse the compounds with Old English KHRUWH and
PǀG and various lexical realizations of the concept of anger. Their results
stress the importance of onomasiological studies, which are indispensible for
the understanding of the embodied nature of metaphors as well as their cultural
variants.
Tissari has conducted numerous conceptual-metaphor-informed historical
linguistic studies of emotions. For example, Tissari (2006a) investigated the
cognitive scenario of VKDPH in the period 1418–1991. She identified certain
physiological reactions which gave rise to metonymies, e. g. interference
with normal mental functioning (stress, forgetfulness) for shame, in-
creased heart rate for shame and redness in the face for shame. She
noted that metonymies facilitated the construction of metaphors, e. g. shame
is an illness/a physical injury and shame is in the front/face/heart.
She also emphasized that emotions should be treated both as a cognitive and a
social phenomenon.
In her study on pride, Tissari (2006b) analyzes the change in its conceptuali-
sation in the same period as she did for shame. She discovers a shift of mean-
ing from the moral domain to the emotion domain. In the earliest investigated
period the lexeme denotes a sin, later it is considered as either vice or virtue,
to become more clearly an emotion term in PDE. Tissari notes changes not
only in its status and evaluation, but also in the possible triggers of pride. One
interesting theme is that of military pride, present already in Shakespeare, and,
related to it, national pride, which seems to have become one of the three most
frequent types in the 19th century and today.
In the present study we will try to shed some light on the behaviour of the
words from the lexical field of SULGH in Old English. Before we do this, though,
we would like to summarise what methods historical linguists have used in
266 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
their study of emotions. First, all the semantic studies were based on historical
language corpora, as, for obvious reasons, they could not be intuition-guided
to the extent that studies concerning Present-Day English are. They are not
so much concept-based asking how a given emotion is expressed in language
or to paraphrase Kövecses (2000) “How do Americans conceptualise love?”,
but rather they concentrate on particular lexical items (e. g. onomasiological
studies of Tissari [2003, 2006a and 2006b] on love, shame, pride; Fabiszak
and Hebda [2007] on shame and guilt) or on lexical fields of words referring
to a particular “universal” emotion (e. g. more semasiologically oriented stud-
ies Diller [1996] on joy; Fabiszak [2001] on joy, Fabiszak [2002] on anger;
Gevaert [2002] on anger). All of these historical cognitive studies conducted
genre-sensitive collocational analysis to arrive at emotional scenarios and to
posit the metonymies and the metaphors structuring them. Finally, they all
attempted to link the observed changes with the socio-cultural background.
Some also indicated how the described conceptualisations might influence the
socialisation pattern of the period.
4 The wildcard * stands for all the potential endings of the given form. We have built
our analyses on all word categories: nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 267
pride, in part concerning the Old English (OE) period, shifted towards a lim-
ited semasiological study of selected lexemes denoting pride. Before, however,
we analyse the corpus data, we will turn to the Oxford English Dictionary
(henceforth OED) to see what it reveals about the etymology of the lexemes
pride < OE SUшG, yelp < OE gielp and wlonk < OE wlanc.
The earliest readings attested in OED of the term SUшG are clearly negative
and involve (i) ‘a high, esp. an excessively high, opinion of one’s own worth or
importance which gives rise to a feeling or attitude of superiority over others;
inordinate self-esteem’ (including “the first of the seven deadly sins”), (ii) ‘ar-
rogant, haughty, or overbearing behaviour, demeanour, or treatment of others,
esp. as exhibiting an inordinately high opinion of oneself’, as well as (iii) ‘mag-
nificence, splendour; pomp, ostentation, display’, as illustrated below:
Sense (ii) has been widely discussed in relation to the morality plays of the 14th
century, when it was considered an attempt to undermine the God-given social
hierarchy. This idea will be discussed in more detail in Section 7 of this paper.
The first attestation of a positive sense of the lexeme pride dates back to the 13th
century and reads (iv) ‘honour, glory’:
(iv) c1275 (?a1200) /$ڻ$021 Brut (Calig.) 4176 Scullen alle mine Bruttes
mid baldere prute liðen to Lundene.
This sense will be elaborated on later in a terms of military and national pride
(Sections 5, 6 and 7).
268 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
(v) c1325 (c1300) Chron. Robert of Gloucester (Calig. A. 11) 3393 9RUìH
EUXWRQVQROGHXRUSUXWHDIWHUìHHUOGR9RUKHQDVQRݤWNLQJ ìHUXRUH
ìHZRUVHKRPFRPWR.
(vi) c1330 (?a1300) Arthour & Merlin (Auch.) (1973) 641 þe deuels..fel out
of heuen Wiþ her pride, Lucifer.
(viii) c1350 How Good Wife taught her Daughter (Emmanuel) 108 Mikel
schame beo hem wourth..þat maket here lordes pouere with here mi-
chele pride.
(ix) a1393 GOWER Confessio Amantis (Fairf.) IV. 1313 The Sadles were of
such a Pride..So riche syh sche nevere non.
(x) a1300 in C. Brown Eng. Lyrics 13th Cent. (1932) 70 þeyh he were so
riche mon as henry vre kyng, And al so veyr as absalon..Al were sone
his prute a-gon, hit nere on ende wrþ on heryng.
(xi) c1330 (?c1300) Bevis of Hampton (Auch.) 2161 þat hors..wente in to þe
kourt wel kof And neide & made miche pride.
In the 14th century another (closely related and likewise obsolete) reading de-
velops, namely ‘an object of boasting’:
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 269
Beginning with the 16th century, the lexeme can be interpreted as ‘a cry char-
acteristic of dogs and some other animals, resembling a bark but distinguished
from it by being sharp and shrill’, that sense, however, being of no significance
for the purpose of the present paper. The last attestations of the relevant senses
of the term date back to the 15th century.
The OE wlanc, wlonc (related to OS. wlank) is ambiguous to a certain ex-
tent, for its negative (‘pride, proud, haughty’) as well as positive (‘rich, splendid,
fine, magnificent’) readings appear in English at approximately the same time:
In the 14th century the meaning of wlonc is extended to cover the sense ‘rich in
moisture, rank, lush’, as in:
(vi) ?a1400 Morte Arth. 3338, I went to that wlonke, and wynly hire gretis.
Now obsolete, the term dies out in the 16th century; however different senses
are lost gradually. In the sense ‘pride, proud, haughty’, wlonk is last attested in
the 14th century.
Let us now turn to the corpus analysis.
The corpus-based analysis presented below differs from that based on the
OED in that it attempts to show some genre sensitivity as postulated by Diller
(1996). Unlike a dictionary, which concentrates on individual words and treats
their senses separately from other words and their senses (which is due to the
270 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
(1050–1150)
(950–1050)
(850–950)
OE III
OE IV
(–850)
OE II
OE I
Genre Total
5 The division of the texts into genres here follows the one we used in Fabiszak and
Hebda (2007) and is based on our own analyses of the texts in terms of their liter-
ary classification as well as text type (compare Biber 1988; Diller 1996), so that a
sample of a text identified as Lives of Saints could either be categorized as history,
if the relevant excerpt related the life events of the Saint or it could be categorized
as religious, if it concerned religious deliberations.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 271
(1) Vs clipað þæt halige gewrit & þus cwyð to us, ælc þæra þe hine silfne
mid prytum up ahefð, he bið genyðrod & se þe hine sylfne geeaðmet,
he bið up ahafen & gewurðod. (Chrodegang of Metz, Regula Canonico-
rum, ChrodR 1)
‘The Holy Writ thus tells us that each of those who heave themselves
(up) with pride, [he] will be humbled; he who humbles himself, [he] will
be heaved up and praised.’
Often pride is regarded as a moral shortcoming and listed together with a num-
ber of sins, as in example (2):
(2) And scyld þe wið ofermettas and with ærætas and wið gitsunge and
wið oferdruncen and wið andan and wið galnysse and wið weamod-
nysse and wið tælnysse and wið lease gewitnysse and wið manaðas and
sleacnysse godes cyricean to secenne and wið ealle unþeawas þæs þe þu
mage wealdan. (Formulas and Directions for the Use of Confessors)
6 On the relationship between the up-down schema and Christian values see also
Section 4.
272 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
‘Guard yourself against pride and against too early meals and against
greediness and against excessive drinking and against envy and against
lust and against anger and against slander and against false testimony
and against perjuries and laziness in seeking God’s church and against
all sins, which you may commit.’
These two excerpts from the religious genre clearly illustrate the values of
the medieval society. The highly hierarchical social structure towards the late
Middle Ages became quite fossilized and the teaching of the Church empha-
sized the necessity of being content with one’s place in life, a place set by God.
Thus humility and meekness are the most important virtues, while pride (su-
perbia) is the major sin (LeGoff 1996), which may turn into a subversive power
undermining the social structure. The two emotions are often juxtaposed. For
example, in Aelfric’s Lives of Saints a significant contrast is established be-
tween the Christian humbleness of the martyr and the misguided pride of their
pagan persecutors (Sauer 2007).
The non-religious occurrences of wlenc*/wlanc*/wlonc* and gielp*/gelp*/
gylp*/gilp* behave in a different way than SUшW* and RIHUPƝW* in the religious
genre. They seem to be close in meaning to ‘courage’7 and carry positive valu-
ations related to the warrior’s agility in battle. The following examples from
Beowulf exemplify this:
(3) Ic eom on mode from þæt ic wið þone guðflogan gylp ofersitte.
(Beowulf)
‘I am bold in spirit that I against the war-flier forbear from boast.’
(http://alliteration.net/beoIndex.htm [date of access 23.06.2007])
(4) Wen ic þæt ge for wlenco, nalles for wræcsiðum, ac for [higeþrymmum]
Hroðgar sohton. Him þa ellenrof andswarode, wlanc Wedera leod, word
æfter spræc, heard under helme: We synt Higelaces beodgeneatas; Be-
owulf is min nama. (Beowulf)
‘I expect that you from valour, not from exile, but from greatness of
heart have sought out Hrothgar. Then him the renowned one answered –
that proud prince of the Wedera nation – spoke thereafter words, severe
beneath his helmet: We are Hygelac’s companions at table; Beowulf is
my name.’
(http://alliteration.net/beoIndex.htm [date of access 23.06.2007])
7 Gevaert (2002) notes that ‘anger’, ‘pride’ and ‘battle courage’ are often the related
senses of the same lexemes.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 273
(5) & gif reafes pryto synn nære, nateshwon Sanctus Petrus an his ærend-
gewyrte wifum ne styrde reafa wlences, þa he þus cwæð, Ne gescryde
ge eow mid deorwurðum reafe. (Chrodegang of Metz, Regula Canoni-
corum, ChrodR 1)
‘& if pride in [one’s] garment were not a sin, Saint Peter, in his first letter,
would by no means reprove women for taking pride in their robes, upon
which he said: “do not clothe yourselves in precious clothes”.’
(6) Ac sume men syndan, þe for heora prytan & eac for gebyrdan forho-
giað þæt hy hyran godcundan ealdran, swa swa hy sceoldan, gif hy
riht woldan, & agynnað oft hyrwan þæt hy scoldan herian, & taliað þe
wyrsan for heanan gebyrdan þa ðe heora yldran on worolde ne wurdan
274 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
(8) Ic seah wyhte wrætlice twa undearnunga ute plegan hæmedlaces; hwit-
loc anfeng wlanc under wædum, gif þæs weorces speow, fæmne fyllo.
(Riddles 42, Rid 42)8
‘I saw two elegant creatures openly playing outside in coitus; the fair-
haired [one] proud under the clothing, if [it] succeeded in this work, the
female received fullness.’
(9) & on wlence ic ferde þurh þæt idele wuldor & manna lyffetunge ic lu-
fode to swiðe & on menigfealdre glencge ic glencgde minne lichaman &
mid sweartum synnum mine sawle awlætte & wolde beon wið utan swa
þeah wurðlic ge þuht. (Forms of Confession and Absolution, Conf 9.3.2)
‘& in pride I fared through that vain splendour & I loved people’s flat-
tery too much & I adorned my body with numerous ornaments & I de-
filed my soul with evil sins & nevertheless wanted to be thought worthy.’
8 As has been suggested by Prof. Marcin Krygier (p. c.) riddles are a reservoir of the
Anglo-Saxon humor and can be treated as an insight into their pre-Christian values.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 275
SUшW*/SUnjW*/SUnjG* and on the Helsinki Corpus for the remaining 4 words with
the Antconc free concordancer are given below:
35*'ܡ/35ܡ7*
The concordancer is a software tool, which can, among other things, calculate
with what frequency the investigated word appears in the vicinity of any other
word, i. e. it produces a list of words, which were used within a distance of 5
words to the left and to the right of the search word.9 Obviously, the computer
program cannot determine if any grammatical or semantic relations obtain
between the search word and the words appearing in its vicinity. This is why
making claims about the contribution of the words from the frequency lists to
the meaning of the investigated item without analysing the broader context of
use can render infelicitous results. For example, the word GZϾVDQ ‘the foolish
ones’ appears on the list with a high frequency of 3. However, entering the
broader context of our Old English examples shows that there is no semantic-
grammatical relation between SUшG and GZϾVDQ. This is why a distinction is
made in corpus-based studies between a collocation, involving a semantic-
grammatical relation between the search word and the words appearing in its
vicinity, and a co-occurrence, which does not involve such a relation. (10) be-
low is an example of co-occurrence:
(10) And þurh þæt þe man swa deð þæt man eal hyrweð þæt man scolde
heregian & to forð laðet þæt man scolde lufian, þurh þæt man gebringeð
ealles to manege on yfelan geþance & on undæde, swa þæt hy ne scamað
na þeah hy syngian swyðe & wið God sylfne forwyrcan hy mid ealle,
ac for idelan onscytan hy scamað þæt hy betan heora misdæda, swa swa
bec tæcan, gelice þam dwæsan þe for heora prytan lewe nellað beorgan
ær hy na ne magan, þeah hy eal willan.
‘And because men do that, entirely abusing all that they should praise
and hating too much all that they ought to love, therefore they bring
entirely too many to evil intentions and to misdeeds, so that they are
never ashamed though they sin greatly and commit wrongs even against
God himself. But on account of idle attacks they are ashamed to repent
for their misdeeds, just as the books teach, like those foolish men who
on account of their pride will not protect themselves from injury before
they might no longer do so, although they all wish for it.’
There are also a number of related concepts, which do not really form colloca-
tions, but appear in larger units of discourse and influence the understanding
of pride. These are wiðerweardnes ‘arrogance’, unweorð ‘unworthy’, genyðrod
‘condemned, humbled’, njWDZ\USDQ ‘cast away, reject’, which emphasize the
negative evaluation of pride within the Christian ethic (see also section 4).
Below we present only the meaningful collocates of oferhygd*, RIHUPƝW*
and wlenc*.
2)(5+<*'*/2)(5+*'ܡ
in × 7
(a)hebban ‘lift up, exalt, raise’ × 3
æfest ‘hatred, malice, envy’ × 11 (co-occurrence)
The prepositional phrase in oferhygd ‘in pride’ is evidence for the underlying
metaphor emotion is a container. As has been shown in conceptual meta-
phor studies many times before (Lakoff and Johnson 1980 and later; Kövecses
1987 and later), emotions can be conceptualized as containers which the hu-
man experience enters and thus is engrossed by the emotion. The phrase ofer-
hygd ahefeþ ‘pride exalts’ is motivated by the conceptual metaphor pride is up.
It is used to account for the emotion, which makes a person feel they are above
others in the social hierarchy. There is also some evidence for this metaphor
in the derivation of RIHUK\JG*/RIHUKшG* and RIHUPƝW* as the first morpheme
of these words means ‘over’. The word æfest ‘hatred, malice, envy’ can be
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 277
2)(50Ɯ7*
RQ × 21 ‘in’
XSDKHEEDQ ‘exalt, lift up’ × 2
ƝDèPǀGQHV ‘meekness, humility’ × 2 (co-occurrence)
OϾUDQ ‘teach, instruct, guide’ × 3 (1 collocation, 2 co-occurrences)
DèLQGDQ ‘puff up, swell, inflate’ × 6
JHQLèHULDQ ‘put down, bring low, humiliate, subdue, condemn’ × 2
wlenc*/wlanc*/wlonc*
in × 1
on ‘in’ × 8
(11) & eow gebyrað þæt ge framion swiðor þonne ge wealdon mid pryton,
þæt ge magon gestreon & mede bringon of eowre mangunge. (Chrode-
gang of Metz, Regula Canonicorum, ChrodR 1)
10 We would like to thank our anonymous reviewer for warning us against seeing
conceptual metaphors in every conventional expression and for suggesting the
more general formulation an excess of something is an increase in size as an
alternative explanation of the data.
278 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
‘& it happens so that you [may] profit more from the control of pride,
that you may bring wealth and reward of your dealing’
The co-occurrence of the pride set with ƝDèPǀG ‘humble’, ƝDèPǀGQHVV ‘meek-
ness, humility’ and æfest ‘hatred’, which have been discussed above, consti-
tutes additional evidence for the conceptualisation of pride in terms of morality
and sin. It is also transparent from the collocations with OϾUDQ, as in (12):
(12) Diofol us lærað ofermetto (Sawl/ and ðus cweð, gehyrsta, hearda
lichoma?, HomM 14.2)
‘The devil teaches us pride.’
The present study has shown that the metonymically based conceptual meta-
phor an excess of something is increasing in size, which can be applied to
pride, finds linguistic support also in the Old English data testifying to the rela-
tive diachronic stability of such metaphors. Similarly, emotion is a contain-
er has also been identified in Old English texts. The value system transpiring
from the Anglo-Saxon writings appears to be undergoing a shift from the, at
least partially, positive evaluation of pride, as in examples (3) and (4) from
Beowulf, to aligning it with sinful character features in Christian texts. This
seems to be a case of semantic reorganization of the concept (see Geeraerts
1997) under the influence of a new ideology. The hypothesized sense – lexeme
relations are given in Table 2 below.
Table 2. Sense – lexeme relations for the concept of pride in Old English
11 Zinken et al. (2008) emphasise the difference between conceptual metaphors and
discourse metaphors. Conceptual metaphors are certain principles of human cog-
nitive structure, stable projection patterns between cognitive domains. Discourse
metaphors are recurrent linguistic patterns of organization at the level of text.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 279
All the five lexical items investigated for the Old English period continued in
Middle English. The data for this period come from the Helsinki Corpus, so
that the claims made below concern this particular set of data. Broader scope
analyses could refine our present findings.
The frequency of SUшG* in the Helsinki Corpus grew steadily throughout
Middle English, while that of RIHUK\JG*/RIHUKшG*, wlenc*/wlanc*/wlonc*,
RIHUPƝW* and gielp*/gelp*/gylp*/gilp* decreased dramatically so that concor-
dance searches after ME II (1250–1350) did not return any finds. Consequently,
at this point our study returns to the original design, i. e. to the (predominantly)
onomastic analysis of the lexeme SUшG*. The genre distribution of the items is
presented in Table 3 below:
280 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
Table 3. Genre distribution of SUƯG*, RIHUKƯG*, RIHUPƝW*, ZORQF*, JLOS* in the Helsinki
Corpus, Middle English
12 We only analyse three out of four sub-periods of Middle English in the Helsinki
Corpus, because the fourth sub-period ME IV overlaps with Tissari’s (2006b)
study which covers 1418–1991.
13 Numbers in brackets are the distribution of SUшG relative to the size of a particular
genre in the corpus. It has been calculated only for SUшW as the remaining three
lexemes are too rare for the discussion of their distribution to be meaningful.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 281
ME1
Legal documents & histories: 33.90%
Religious & philosophical: 66.10%
ME2
Legal documents & histories: 20.69%
Religious: 35.99%
Fiction and travelogue: 43.31%
ME3
Legal: 36.70%
Religious: 52.51%
Fiction: 10.77%
As for the remaining four lexical items, their frequencies were so low that
hypothesizing about the meaning of their genre distribution would be rather
dubious.
The qualitative analysis of all the 138 uses of SUшG* in the three subperiods
of Middle English testifies to a certain stability in the conceptualisation of
pride. Similarly to Old English, the prevalent element of the scenario was the
religious or moral dimension expressed by the up - down schema identified
by Tissari (2006b), as transpires from the excerpt below from the Helsinki
Corpus14:
(13) ‘þa þat heyes þam, þai sal be mekid; & þai þat mekes þam sal be heyed.’
Vre lord saide þat it es pride in þaim þat hyes þaim. (Benedictine Rule,
cmbenrul)
‘Those who exalt themselves shall be condemned and those who humble
themselves shall be exalted; our Lord said that there is pride in those
who exalt themselves.’
14 The abbreviations given after quotation references are the identifier codes used in
the Helsinki Corpus. A full list is available at http://khnt.hit.uib.no/icame/manu-
als/HC/INDEX.HTM.
282 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
ance (14) they will suffer pain in hell (15). They may be condemned or even
lose their souls (16). The excerpts below illustrate this:
(14) $KXìHQQHݤLIKZDLVVZDVXQIXODQGPLGGHRÀHELXRQìHWQXOOHIRUKLV
RXHUPRGRèHUIRUKLVSUXGHRèHUKLVIXOHKHRUWHZLOKLVVFULIWLKDOGHQ
ìHQQHVHJJHLFHRXWRVRèHìHWQLVKLWQDQìHUìHWPHKHURQìLVVHOLXH
IRUKLVVDXOHELGGHSDWHUQRVWHU (Lambeth Homilies, cmlambet)
‘How then, if a person is so sinful and guided by the devil that they do
not want to perform penance for their haughtiness or for their pride or
their foul hearts. To tell you the truth, there is no one in this life (world)
for whose soul I would say my prayer.’
(15) DKKHRQDOGHQHIUHQDQRèHUJRGGRQ(OPHVݤHRUQQHVKHRQHIUHDK
SUXGKHRZHVVZLèHDQGPRGLDQGOLݤHUHDQGVZLNHODQGZUHèIXODQG
RQWIXODQGIRUèLKHRELèZXQLHQGHLQQHìLVVHSLQH (Lambeth Homilies,
cmlambet)
‘But she has never done any good. She was never eager to give alms. But
she was very proud and haughty. And deceitful and false. And envious
and easily enraged. And for this reason she is dwelling in this torture/
torment/pain.’
(16) DQGìDݤHWìXPDKWXQGHUVWRQGHQìHQQHìXVWRQGHVWHWKLVEXULHQHVVH
ìHWKHZHVSUXGDQGZORQFVZDìXHUWQXDQGìXIRUZXUèHVWHFDVZD
KHLVQXDOWRQRKWHDQGìXQDVWQHXUHKZHQQH/HRIZHVKHRQOLXHDQG
ODèLVKHQXèHDQGìDZUHFFKHVDXOHIRUORUHQ […] (Lambeth Homilies,
cmlambet)
‘And yet you must understand, now that you are standing at his grave,
that he was proud and haughty. And so are you now. And you are con-
demned. So he has now become nothing. And you never know when;
When alive, he was respected, and at this moment he is hideous/foul.
And the wretched soul is lost […]’
The status of pride as sin and the related pejorative connotations are strength-
ened by the negatively loaded words with which it co-occurs, such as WXKDEEH
SUXGHRQGHRèHUZUHDèèH. ҊLVFHXQJHRèHUZDFZLOO (Hali Maidhad, cmhali)
‘you have pride, envy or wrath, avarice or weak will’, on þisse liue ne beo þu
þereuore prud ne wilde ne sterc ne wemod ne ouer modi (Lambeth Homilies,
cmlambet) ‘in this life, therefore, do not be proud or immoral/sinful or ar-
rogant or angry or haughty’, DKSUXGKHRZHVVZLèHDQGPRGLDQGOLҊHUH DQG
VZLNHODQGZUHèIXODQGRQWIXO (Lambeth Homilies, cmlambet) ‘But she was
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 283
very proud and haughty. And deceitful and false. And envious and easily en-
raged.’ Further lexical analysis shows that pride can also be classified as vice
(untheu), and be close in meaning to vanity and conceit (renk). It is antonymous
to bliss (blis[se]) and goodness (JǀG).
In her critical literary analysis of the 14th century morality play The Pride of
Life Sikorska (2001) stresses that pride is the most notorious sin of the Middle
Ages, which contradicts the Christian ideal of nobility and meekness. It is a re-
bellion against the authority and its hierarchical nature, and it threatens God’s
order. Humility is the utmost human virtue, while pride fools people into cov-
eting wealth, health or power, all of which are transitory. The sinners guilty of
pride are chastised when they lose their cherished possessions in the face of
death.
A similar moral value is present in the didactic romance of identity Robert
of Cisyle (Sikorska 2007). For medieval people pride was the root of all evil.
When combined with anger it could take the form of arrogance, haughtiness
and boasting, or even a disdain and defiance of one’s superiors. As princes
should be the moral models for the lower social strata they should practice
restraint and humility. Lack of these virtues in Robert of Cisyle brings about
his fall and humiliation. His pride does not allow him to accept God’s will but
breeds anger and wrath, which only intensifies his indignity and mortification.
The close reading of textual excerpts allowed us to identify the particular
causes of pride. As in Old English and in the following periods, it could be trig-
gered by social position, good looks, skills, intelligence and wealth. Splendid
clothes can both be considered the reason and the expression of pride. Other
forms of social display of pride found in the excerpts from the Helsinki Corpus
in Middle English were verbal manifestations, such as a particular manner of
speaking, chiding and mocking others, as well as boasting of one’s own deeds
and demanding excessive reverence in forms of address. Also, pride could lead
to mistreating others including appropriating their possessions, or even pro-
voking battles and wars. A passage illustrating the behaviour of the proud and
attempting to define the nature of pride is given in (17) below:
(17) Now been ther two maneres of Pride: that oon of hem is withinne the
herte of man, and that oother is withoute. Of whiche, soothly, thise fors-
eyde thynges, and mo than I have seyd, apertenen to Pride that is in the
herte of man; and that othere speces of Pride been withoute. But nathe-
les that oon of thise speces of Pride is signe of that oother, right as the
gaye leefsel atte taverne is signe of the wyn that is in the celer. And this
is in manye thynges: as in speche and contenaunce, and in outrageous
array of clothyng. (The Parson’s Tale, cmctpros)
284 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
‘There are two types of pride: one of them is in the heart of man and the
other – outside. The things I have already mentioned, and more, pertain
to the pride that is there in the heart of man; and other types of pride are
outside the heart. Nonetheless, one type of pride indicates the other, just
like the merry atmosphere at the tavern is a sign of the presence of wine
in the cellar. And this is in many things: speech, behavior and clothing.’
Clearly, in this simile, the merry atmosphere in the tavern stands for the exter-
nal manifestation of pride, which, like wine in the cellar, is hidden inside the
human heart.15
The most common experiencers of pride appearing in ME texts are people
of high social rank16, e. g. princes, earls (þe proude eorl of artoys), raiders (þe
prikyares prude), knights (knyhtes proude) or women (prud meiden). While for
the first group pride may lead to destruction and bloodshed that other people
may fall victim to, in the case of women, pride is related with the covetousness
and fleshly desires they may arouse in others and may bring about their own
disgrace.
Some of the excerpts featuring pride and warriors seem to present evidence
for the early attestations of the uses similar to what Tissari (2006b) calls the up-
surge in the frequency of items concerning national pride, which she places in
the 19th century. In ME II (1250–1350) we find the collocations of pride/proud
and nationality labels, e. g. Moni proud scot (The Execution of Sir Simon Fra-
ser, cmpoemh) ‘many proud Scots’, þis proude freinsshe eorles, huere knyhtes,
& huere sweynes (The Flemish Insurrection, cmpoem) ‘these proud French
earls, their knights & their soldiers’.17 Interestingly, it seems that the author
of The Execution of Sir Simon Fraser approves of the proud Scots, while the
author of The Flemish Insurrection (1302) disparages the French. While the
Scots seem to be proud and valiant, the French are presented as rather proud
and conceited.18 This juxtaposition clearly stems from the dichotomy between
the Self and the Other or the distinction between the in-group and out-group.
As shown by van Dijk (2002), the negative qualities are usually ascribed of the
other, their positive features being diminished, while the in-group is attributed
the positive qualities and its shortcomings are overlooked or played down.
The qualitative analysis, the results of which are presented above, has been
supplemented with an analysis of a frequency list of collocations performed on
the Helsinki Corpus with Antconc free concordancer. Some of the results ren-
dered further support to the findings from the qualitative analysis. The inves-
tigated lexemes tended to collocate with negatively loaded words, such as idel
gylp ‘vain boasting’ (3 times), ivel (oferhyd/ofermetto) ‘evil pride’ (2 times),
wratthe ‘anger’ (5 times), auvarice ‘greed’ (2 times), OǀWKHQ ‘to loath’ (2 times),
OǀWK, adj. (1 time). But the frequency list also shows a relatively high co-occur-
rence with bold ‘brave’ (4 times) which may be strengthening the claim, made
already for the Old English period, that pride in relation to warriors’ deeds was
not considered sinful, but close to well-deserved self-esteem.
The high co-occurrence with JǀVWOƯ ‘spiritual’ (8 times) and ERGƯOƯ ‘physical’
(9 times) testifies to the predominant religious conceptualisation of pride in
terms of the dichotomous opposition between the soul and the body, virtues
and vices.
The premodification of the pride words common in ME II and ME III and
exemplified with bodyly prude, gostly prude, wrangwis pride, foule pryde, fowl
pruyde may prompt an interpretation that perhaps pride in and by itself was
not necessarily inherently pejorative if it required premodification with nega-
tive modifiers. A re-analysis of the Old English data rendered similar phrases
in OE III and OE IV: yfel RIHUPƝWWR ‘evil/ill pride’, ƯGHO SUшG ‘vain pride’, ƯGHO
gielp ‘vain pride’, unnyt(t) gielp ‘vain pride’, egeslic gielp ‘horrible/awful/fear-
ful pride’, so this phenomenon was present throughout medieval times and is
not indicative of the onset of change between Old English and Middle English.
An alternative interpretation of these data is also possible. That is, the nega-
tive modifiers may be seen as intensifiers, the role of which is not to alter the
axiological value of pride but rather to reinforce it. Still, the data concerning
military pride seems to corroborate the first interpretation.
A combination of close reading and collocation searches facilitated the at-
tempt to reconstruct the metaphorical structure of pride in Middle English. As
has been shown elsewhere (e. g. Kövecses 1986, 2000), emotions, like other
states of mind, are often conceptualised as containers. The use of preposi-
tions, such as in (7 times), into (2 times), out of (3 times) with the word pride
confirms this claim. A glance at the verb phrases in which they appear is even
more interesting. These are: fallen into pride ‘fall into pride’, OƝSHQ into pride
‘leap into pride’. The first VP is similar to the one co-occurring with love and
emphasizes the lack of control on the part of the experiencer, while the second
VP underlies the dynamic nature of the experiencer’s involvement.
286 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
(18) :HDݤHQWRXQGHUVWRQGHQKZHWERèìHZHSQHìHWDGDPZHVPLGHIRU
ZXQGHGPLGìDLONHZHSQHZHERèIRUZXQGHGPLGVSHUHRISUXGHRI
ݤLWFXQJHRIݤLIHUQHVVHRIHRUUHRIKRUGRPHPLGRQGHPLGDVZRONH
QHVVH ìLV ERè ìD ZHSQH ìHW DGDP ZDV PLGH IRUZXQGHG. (Lambeth
Homilies, cmlambet)
‘We need to understand what the weapons with which Adam was
wounded are. It is with the same weapons that we are wounded. With the
spear of pride, of avarice, of gluttony, of anger, of whoredom, with envy,
with laziness. These are the weapons with which Adam was wounded.’
This passage clearly refers to the image of the world as a battlefield in a war
between God and the Devil, on which they fight for human souls. In this fight
the deadly sins, pride among them, are the weapons of the Devil.
Another elaborated religious metaphor presents Christ as the well of living,
and pride as venom poisoning the human soul, as in (19):
(19) $OOHZHDWWHUGUDJHQRIIXUHHOGHUHèHEURNHQGULJWLQQHVZRUGèXUJèH
QHGGUHèHUèXUJKDXHèPDQNLQERèHQQLèDQGZLQJROVLSHDQGJLVFLQJ
JLXHUQHVVHDQGZLVVLQJSULGHDQGRXHUZHQHVZLOFDWWHULPHQH2IWH
ZHEUHQQHQLQPRGDQGZXUèHQVRZHZHUHQZRGèDQQHZHèXVEUHQ
19 While we agree with our anonymous reviewer that two phrases are too few to posit
a conceptual metaphor understood as a stable representation in the mind of the
speakers, the reason why we do this is that, to the best of our knowledge, ÀƝQ and
WƝPHQ in ME were used in relation to animals. Also, slightly a-chronologically,
we assumed that if such a metaphor is well attested for the later periods of English
and we find two phrases supporting it in a limited set of 138 passages analysed, we
could tentatively propose the metaphor as well.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 287
QHQELKRXHèXVWRUHQQHQWRFULVWHVTXLNHZHOOHèDWZHQHJRQWRKHOOH
GULQNHQKLVZLVVLQJLWTXHQFKHWLOFVLQLJLQJ; […] (Bestiary, cmbestia)
‘We all draw poison from our elders, who broke the word given to the
Lord through the serpent; where-through mankind has both envy and
strife, lasciviousness and greediness, gluttony and lust, pride and ar-
rogance; such (kinds of) venom together. We often burn in rage, and
become as if we were mad; when we thus burn we should run to Christ’s
living well and drink his instruction so that we do not go to hell; it
quenches each sin […]’
It is difficult to ascertain to what extent we could claim that the above two
religious metaphors were stable cognitive patterns in the minds of the Middle
English native speakers. Thus, we make no claims concerning their status as
conceptual metaphors. They may have been, however, stable discourse patterns
in the religious writing of the time.
9. Conclusion
The qualitative analysis of the contexts of the use of SUшG* and its selected
synonyms showed that, unlike in the case of shame and guilt analysed in Fa-
biszak and Hebda (2007), the distinction between legal texts and fiction is here
irrelevant and that these two categories can be collapsed into a single category
of non-religious texts. The close reading of the examples demonstrates that
the causes and the manifestations of pride in religious and non-religious texts
largely overlap in both investigated periods. As there is more data from reli-
gious than from non-religious texts, the greater number of particular stimuli
has been identified in the religious genre. Still, because of the fragmentary
nature of our data we cannot make any far-fetched claims about the nature of
the conceptualization or its potentially more religious character. Moreover, the
specific causes can be subsumed under one of the seven categories identified
by Kövecses (1986: 44, 1990: 93–94, also quoted in Tissari 2006b: 19), such as
(1) achievements, (2) possessions, (3) belonging to a prestigious group, (4) good
appearance, (5) physical or mental capabilities, skills and properties, (6) moral
qualities, (7) good social status.
The difference between the genres does not reside in the divergent distri-
bution of sources of pride and its manifestations, but in the axiological value
attributed to pride. In particular, the military pride, including the boasting
contests as its manifestation, and the reputation won on the battlefield clearly
receives positive value in non-religious texts, especially in the Anglo-Saxon
heroic poetry and in both Old English and Middle English histories and chron-
icles. The unambiguously negative evaluation of pride in the religious writings
can also be seen in the last row of Table 5 above, which enumerates the dire
consequences that these texts predict for those who fall prey to pride. Namely,
the conceptual metaphor pride is up undergoes the Christian reversal of values
(see Section 3 and 4 for the discussion of Krzeszowski’s findings), which results
in the up-down schema for the religious perspective on pride.
Introduction of Christianity may be the language external cause for the cre-
ation of the bi-polar conceptualisation of pride. If this were indeed so, the con-
cept of pride would have two conflicting axiological values. Such ambivalent
axiology is by no means exceptional. An image schema of container (Krz-
eszowski 1997) can also be evaluated either positively, and then realized as for
example shelter, or negatively, and then realized as jail. Krzeszowski (1997:
42) explains this ambivalence as motivated by the experience of being born.
On the one hand it can be constructed as leaving the safe and warm shelter of
the mother’s womb and entering the dangerous, cold and unknown world or,
on the other hand, it can be viewed as freeing oneself from the confines of the
womb restricting the freedom of motion and breaking into the world as an act
of gaining independence.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 291
(20) $VWRWKH¿UVWV\QQHWKDWLVLQVXSHUÀXLWHHRIFORWK\QJHZKLFKWKDWPD
NHWKLWVRGHHUHWRKDUPRIWKHSHSOHQDWRRQO\WKHFRVWRIHPEURZG\QJH
WKH GHJLVH HQGHQW\QJH RU EDUU\QJH RZQG\QJH SDO\QJH Z\QG\QJH RU
EHQG\QJHDQGVHPEODEOHZDVWRIFORRWKLQYDQLWHHEXWWKHULVDOVRFRV
WOHZHIXUU\QJHLQKLUJRZQHVVRPXFKHSRZQVRQ\QJHRIFKLVHOVWRPDNHQ
KROHVVRPXFKHGDJJ\QJHRIVKHUHV; (The Parson’s Tale, cmctpros)
‘As to the first sin, it lies in the superfluity of clothing, which makes cloth
so dear, to the harm of the people; not only the cost of embroidering, the
elaborate notching or barring, the waved lines, the stripes, the twists,
the diagonal bars, and similar waste of cloth in vanity; but there is also
the costly furring of gowns, so much perforating with scissors to make
292 Małgorzata Fabiszak and Anna Hebda
The lexical field of pride is further complicated by the borrowing of the word
fame. A detailed analysis of the role of borrowings in the restructuring of the
semantic representation of pride in Middle English requires a comprehensive
analysis, which calls for a separate paper. Suffice it to say here that a similar in-
fluence of French borrowings into Middle English has been noticed by Molina
(2005) in the conceptualization of suffering. She discovered that the introduc-
tion of the borrowing pain has resulted in a discontinuation of the homonymic
merger of Old English VƗU and VRUJ. In the conceptualization of pride an analo-
gous discontinuation of the development observed in Old English has taken
place. That is a reconceptualization of pride as a negative concept has been
halted; the Old English lexemes were lost, while the French loanwords neces-
sitated a redefinition of pride.
When it comes to the conceptual metaphors identified in the data, i. e. emo-
tion is a fluid in the container, heart is a container for emotions,
emotion is a container, pride is increasing in size and pride is a dan-
gerous animal, no cross-genre differences have been detected in their use.
The present study demonstrates that cognitively-informed historical linguis-
tic (HL) analysis can contribute to conceptual metaphor analyses of emotions
in three ways:
• HL adds diachronic depth to the conceptualisations,
• HL demonstrates the shifts in meaning of particular lexemes now consid-
ered emotion words indicating the initial sources of these concepts which
may influence their semantic structure20,
• HL links the internal representations reconstructed on the basis of corpus-
based, i. e. reproducible, analyses with their social function in a historical
period of the language culture.
20 The present paper discusses the meaning of Anglo-Saxon pride/valour and Chris-
tian pride/arrogance, Tissari (2006b) starts with Early Modern English pride as
sin, and presents its development into Enlightenment pride categorised as either
vice or virtue to PDE’s justified and unjustified pride considered a peripheral in-
stance of emotions.
Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 293
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Cognitive historical approaches to emotions 295
Abstract
This article discusses a number of emotion words, or rather, lexical groups, compar-
ing these with each other, and attempting to find both commonalities and points of
divergence. The final aim is twofold: first, to illustrate in what ways English words
for emotions could potentially be seen in terms of various continua, and second, to
combine old and new ways in which to look at emotions in cognitive linguistics. The
article discusses several issues from a historical point of view, taking into account
potential differences between two varieties of English, Early Modern (ca. 1500–1700)
and Present-Day English (1991). The lexical groups include the following pairs: happi-
ness, sadness; love, hate; hope, fear; pride, shame; calmness, anxiety; excitement and
respect. The following, specific research questions are dealt with: (1) When does a word
name an emotion? (2) Which emotions are desirable and how to assess this? (3) Do
certain emotions prefer reification to personification or vice versa? (4) Do the emotions
tend to be located inside the human body? (5) What kind of movement or direction is
associated with emotions?
1. Introduction1
1.1. Background
1 Here and throughout the article, for pragmatic reasons, I will use the term ‘emo-
tion’, as well as ‘feeling’, somewhat loosely, without giving a strict definition for
each.
English words for emotions and their metaphors 299
lish, pioneering in the field (1986, 1988, 1990, 1991, 1995, 2000). Loos et al.’s
summary of emotion metaphors in English is also quite useful in its simplicity
(1999).
In 1990, Sweetser touched on emotions in her work on historical and cultural
aspects of semantic structure. Yu was among the first scholars who focused on
metaphors of emotions in a language other than English, i. e. Chinese (1995).
Athanasiadou and Tabakowska’s volume on the conceptualisation and expres-
sion of emotions included articles on emotion metaphors in various languages
and a historical article by Györi (1998). Geeraerts and Grondelaers were among
the first to pay attention not only to the historical aspects of emotion metaphors
but their potential grounding in components of earlier world views such as the
humoural theory (1995), and Gevaert has continued work along similar lines,
focusing on the concept of anger in medieval English (2001, 2005). Stefanow-
itsch has developed a corpus-based approach to studying conceptual metaphors
of emotion (2004, 2006).
Love, happiness and anger are probably the favourite among emotions
studied by cognitive linguists (e. g. Fabiszak 2001/2002; Kövecses 1988; Ste-
fanowitsch 2004; Yu 1995). The centrality of anger as a topic can be explained
by the fact that it is discussed in an influential book by Lakoff (1987: 380–415).
To give a few more examples, Barcelona’s article on depression is an early
study on a slightly different topic (1986), and Peters has studied the vocabulary
of pain in a historical perspective (2004). This volume includes an article co-
authored by Fabiszak, who has written several historical linguistic studies on
emotions (e. g. 1999, 2000, 2001/2002). Diller (2007b) has recently referred to
Lakoff and Johnson’s early work on conceptual metaphors (1980) in his article
on the phrases with a mood and in a mood.
In general, cognitive linguistic research on conceptual metaphors of emo-
tions is nested in research on conceptual metaphors for various kinds of con-
cepts, on the one hand, and in a surge of interest in emotions and their lin-
guistic, cultural and anthropological aspects since the 1980s, on the other. To
give some examples, emotions have been included in but are not the focus of
Lakoff and Johnson’s early work (1980). Kövecses’s interest in metaphors of
emotions has led to research on many other concepts as well, and comparisons
between various concepts (e. g. 1995, 2005). Not only Kövecses (1986, 1990)
has expressed interest in prototypes for emotion words and concepts, for they
have also been studied by psychologists (Fehr & Russell 1984). Wierzbicka
has also been interested in emotions across languages and cultures (e. g. 1992,
1995, 1999). Russell, Fernández-Dols, Manstead and Wellenkamp’s volume
on psychological, anthropological and linguistic aspects of emotions includes
articles both by Kövecses and by Wierzbicka (1995). To conclude, we may note
300 Heli Tissari
that the Handbook of Emotions includes an article with metaphors in its title
(White 2004 [2000]).
Tissari’s work on emotion words and concepts began with studies of the word
love in English, in a dissertation consisting of several research articles combined
through an introduction and discussion (Tissari 2003). Other work also includes
research on the emotion pairs of fear and hope (2004b, 2007), shame (2006a) and
pride (2006b), happiness (Heikkinen & Tissari 2002, Tissari, Pessi & Salmela
2008) and sadness (2008a), and on respect (2008b). Tissari has also conducted
research on the word like, as opposed to love (2004a), and published joint research
on the concepts of emotion versus reason (Koivisto-Alanko & Tissari 2006),
and on the concept of politeness (Nevalainen & Tissari 2006, 2010).
The aim of this article is to combine insights concerning single emotions into
a more holistic view; the positive versus negative evaluation of emotions is one
of their most basic and universal characteristics, as suggested, for example by
Ekman (2003) and Wierzbicka (1999).2 The article will return to and re-use old
data, and add some new data to complement it. However, as the discussion is
necessarily limited by space, what follows is an overview, rather than an in-
depth treatment, of issues that may be considered interesting and worth further
investigation. Although some of the insights that are presented may seem in-
stinctive in nature, they are built on over a dozen years of research in this field,
and may therefore have real value as regards evaluating the potential of research
in this area. If this article inspires someone else to develop and perhaps even cor-
rect any of my views, it has served its purpose.
2 Lee’s cognitive linguistic report on ‘feelings of the mind’ includes the piece of
information that her informants made a clear distinction between pleasurable and
displeasurable feelings, and even physically turned away from slips with words
which they considered “nasty” (2003: 244).
English words for emotions and their metaphors 301
but in contrast to his work, I have looked not only at Present-Day English, but
also at Early Modern (ca. 1500–1700) and, in some cases, Late Middle (15th
century) and Late Modern English (ca. 1700–1900). This article is no excep-
tion, but also focuses on two historical periods, the Early Modern period, and
late 20th century English. The former is represented by the (Early Modern peri-
od) of the Helsinki Corpus of English Texts (HCE, Kytö 1996), and the Corpus
of Early English Correspondence Sampler (CEECS, Nurmi 1998). The latter
is represented by the Freiburg-Brown Corpus of American English (FROWN,
Hundt, Sand & Siemund 1998), and the Freiburg-LOB Corpus of British Eng-
lish (FLOB, Hundt, Sand & Skandera 1999), both dating to 1991. All of these
corpora are relatively small, the largest of them containing a million words
each (FROWN and FLOB). This means that some of the word searches re-
ported here only produced very few hits, allowing no significant conclusions
pertaining to single emotions. The main emphasis thus falls on bringing many
emotions together and sketching the kind of tendencies that (may) emerge from
looking at them collectively. For the sake of comparison, section 3.1 also deals
with entries for nouns for emotions in the new electronic version of the Oxford
English Dictionary (henceforth OED).
The basic method is relatively simple. The following emotion pairs were cho-
sen for investigation: happiness, sadness; love, hate; hope, fear; pride,
shame; calmness, anxiety; excitement and respect.3 Searches were made
not only for the respective nouns in each corpus, but for all the relevant nouns,
verbs, adjectives and adverbs (e. g. sad [adj], sadden [v], sadly [adv], and sad-
ness [n]), apart from the category happiness, which here only includes the
adjective happy and the noun happiness. Each of the occurrences was then
printed and read in their immediate contexts, and a wider context checked if
necessary. The aim was to find answers to the following questions:
3 I use small caps to highlight a concept, and single quotation marks for a sense (of
a word) and double quotation marks for a lexical group, reserving italics for words
studied.
302 Heli Tissari
There are of course many ways to answer these questions. This article is simply
a particular attempt, first, to define what each of these questions involves, and,
second, to give an answer relating to such a definition. The claim is that this
highlights issues which have not yet been thoroughly discussed in cognitive
linguistic research.
The intention behind looking at the OED first is to provide a relatively fixed
point of reference for the nouns we are interested in. A look at an entry shows
that the OED may contain both senses relating to an emotion (“emotional”
senses), and other senses. The entry for sadness, for example, consists of two
distinct parts titled “I. Satiety, fullness; seriousness, steadfastness” (other) and
“II. Senses relating to sorrow” (emotional). The other senses include ‘satiety,
weariness’, ‘gravity of mind or demeanour; seriousness, soberness, staidness’,
‘steadfastness, constancy; firmness of faith’, ‘firmness, hardness, solidity’,
‘dignity, importance’, and ‘gloomy appearance, dark or sombre hue’. These
senses may come very close to a person’s emotional experience of sadness, but
the choice here is to rely on the classification of the OED as much as possible,
rather than to interpret it, e. g. in terms of metonymy.
The only criterion in distinguishing between emotional and other senses
was if (an) emotion, feel(ing) (verb or noun) or affection was mentioned as a
superordinate category or synonym (e. g. ‘senses relating to sorrow’; hate: ‘an
emotion of extreme dislike or aversion’). References to the mind or desire did
not suffice (e. g. anxiety: ‘uneasiness or trouble of mind about some uncertain
event’, ‘sexual desire or lust’). The mind/desire criterion is problematic, be-
cause it completely excludes not only anxiety but also happiness (as ‘the state
of pleasurable content of mind’) from the category of emotions, but including
all references to mind is problematic as well. Mind is so close to thought(s),
intention(s) etc., while desire would bring in the element of volition. (If lust
is treated as an emotion, all mentions of [dis]pleasure need to be included as
indicating emotion.)
Table 1 is based on the entries of the nouns.4 A relevant entry is an entry
which presents what we may consider the basic emotional sense(s) of each type,
for example ‘feeling’ and ‘expectation’ senses of hope, rather than senses con-
cerning ‘enclosure’.5 This tends to be the first entry for each type. For the sake
of simplicity, the table only refers to senses marked with distinct numbers (1, 2,
3, 4 …), excluding their variants (a, b, c, d …). The only exception is calmness,
because it only involves a, b, and c.
Seen this way, the “nouns for emotions” have more non-emotional than emo-
tional senses. They are in fact not “nouns for emotions”, but rather, “nouns
which may name emotions, among other things”. This view is of course too
simplified: a discussion of the elements of (dis)pleasure, mind and volition on
the one hand, and of metonymy and metaphor on the other, would fill in the gap
that now seems to remain between one group of senses and the other.6
5 The OED also gives the noun hope the sense of ‘a piece of enclosed land’, where to
enclose means ‘marking off (land) with a fence or boundary’ (OED enclosure n.).
6 Another factor that contributes to the number of “other” senses is that the OED sec-
tions on compounds tend to involve relatively little information concerning mean-
ing, and thus seldom fulfill the criteria for “emotional senses”.
304 Heli Tissari
the description of large sets of data which have been read and annotated for
previous studies, these notes remain subject to correction through detailed fur-
ther analyses. They nevertheless introduce issues which need to be taken into
account in explicating the meaning of emotion words. What characterizes all
these uses is that it is difficult to discern a “pure” emotional meaning. The
meaning of emotion words tends to be tied either to the description and evalua-
tion of circumstances, or to moral and ethical considerations, or both.
In the Early Modern English data, “happiness” tends to involve good for-
tune, health, safety, and virtue, and often occurs in wishes in letters, while in
the Present-Day English data, it is a more general sign of positive evaluation.
Like “happiness” in wishes, “hope” appears in more or less formulaic uses in
the Early Modern English letters.7 In the Early Modern English data more gen-
erally, it often relates to people’s goals, plans, and requests. In the Present-Day
English data, the element of intention somewhat fades into the background,
and “hope” becomes more of a marker of good predictions, rather as “fear”
indicates estimation of risks (examples 1 and 2).
(1) Hang on in there with Wylie, he’s a great British songwriter currently
treading water and nothing more, hopefully. (FLOB: Cambridge Eve-
ning News [C15: 50])
(2) Also, these scientists fear that taking calcium with other foods may in-
terfere with the body’s absorption of certain minerals such as phosphate
and iron. (FROWN: Harper’s Magazine [G03: 32])
In the Early Modern English data, “fear of God” is positive rather than neg-
ative, and “pride” is associated with sin and vice, while in the Present-Day
English data, “pride” approaches “self-esteem” in meaning. “Shame” develops
from a strong marker of censure towards a marker of regret (example 3).
(3) I was busted smuggling cocaine and heroin into England. Shame really.
(FLOB: Cooper, Polo [R09: 41])
The Early Modern English data on “love” emphasizes the aspects of duty and
virtue more than the Present-Day English data, where “love” is rather seen as
a human need, and which more often refers to ‘sex’.
The question is how to capture such tendencies and developments in a cogni-
tive linguistic description. Table 2 provides a starting-point by presenting an
educated estimation of the corpus data used for this article. It divides the lexi-
cal groups into four basic categories in order to answer the question “does this
lexical group name an emotion?”. These categories are: (1) The lexical group
always names an emotion (ca. 100% of the occurrences name an emotion).
(2) It usually names an emotion (in more than 50% of the occurrences). (3) It
sometimes names an emotion (in less than 50% of the occurrences). (4) Lastly
it may never name an emotion (the result is [close to] 0%).
Table 2 does not specify the percentages further, because the issue is in fact
rather complicated. This is indicated by the characterizations “potentially”,
and of the kinds of uses which appear, e. g. “positive evaluation”, “sin”. It re-
mains a matter of further interpretation to what extent specific instances of
pride used in lists of vices also involve emotion, or when happiness as ‘good
fortune’ also causes a positive emotion, and so on.
Table 2. Does this lexical group name an emotion? Always: ca. 100 %, usually: > 50 %,
sometimes: ≤ 50%, never: ca. 0 %. The numbers in brackets are raw numbers
of occurrences.
(4) … ther was never any of them proud, covetouse, nor a traitor …
(Forman, Autobiography and Personal Diary [BIA FORMAN 3])
(c) In the third set, the status of the lexical groups as “labels for emotions” is
different in Early Modern English and Present-Day English. This set includes
“sadness”, “calmness”, “anxiety”, and “excitement”, the last three of which are
quite rare in the Early Modern English data, if they occur at all. In the Early
Modern English data, “excitement” is only understood in a physical sense (ex-
ample 5).8 “Sadness” always stands for an emotion in Present-Day English, but
some of the Early Modern English examples call for other interpretations; the
OED helps us to find relevant senses.
(5) We have found by Experiment, That a vigorous and well excited piece of
Amber will draw, not onely the powder of Amber, but less minute frag-
ments of it. (HCE: Boyle, Electricity & Magnetism [SCIO BOYLE 17])
(d) In the fourth set we have “respect” which maintains its status as sometimes
naming an emotion, sometimes not. It should be noted, however, that some of
its Early Modern English senses are no longer current in Present-Day English.
8 ‘To set in motion, stir up’, ‘to induce electric or magnetic activity in (a substance)’
(OED to excite v.).
English words for emotions and their metaphors 307
(6) Some oil companies would be happy to run the product through their
refineries, although ethanol producers, undoubtedly, would object.
(FROWN: Chicago Tribune [B07: 23])
Similarly, “fear” or “hope” may be employed to talk about the future without
any (strong) presence of the corresponding emotion. Although “hope” is a posi-
tive, and “fear” a negative emotion, an accurate prediction can be much more
valuable than a faked positive emotion (cf. example 2).
“Pride” and “shame” can receive both “positive” and “negative” readings,
depending on whether they are understood to refer to something “healthy”
(‘proper self-esteem’, ‘sense of right and wrong’), or something that is “bad”
(sin-related readings are common for both in the Early Modern English data).
However, it may be desirable to condemn what is bad (cf. example 4, Tissari
2006a & b).
In this set of data, “love” mainly appears desirable, because people expect it
from themselves and others and even search for it. Consider examples (7) and
(8), respectively. Example (7) also involves (sadness,) “hope” and “happiness”
in what one may term an outburst of emotions: the author is balancing between
expressing sadness at the parting, and predicting good things for the departer,
both being tied to the suggestion that the author loves the departer. Emotions
occur not only on their own, but in (partly predictable) 9 clusters as well.
(7) I must bewail my one [= own] misfortune in parting with one that I soe
dearly love as I doe her but I doe much hope she will be very happy in
a good husband. (HCE: Elizabeth Oxinden’s letter [CORP EOXINDEN
333])
(8) Then three girls competed for the man and another couple, Pauline and
Glen, reported back from Spain. At first madly in love, she’d gone off
him since the last series. (FLOB: Daily Express [C04:82])
9 It would be interesting to develop such predictions, but I will not attempt it in this
article. Tomkins (1963: 184–260) has an interesting discussion of how shame com-
bines with what he calls other “affects”.
308 Heli Tissari
Table 3. Estimation on a scale from 1 to 3 (Is this emotion desirable? 1 = yes, 2 = some-
times, 3 = no). Conditions of desirability: religious = R: X is (un)desirable
depending on religious judgment; social = S: X is (un)desirable depending on
social judgement; emotional = E: X is (un)desirable depending on how good/
bad it feels to its experiencer.
It is useful at this point to discuss a few examples in order to illustrate the con-
ditions of desirability. Firstly, note that Table 3 is closely connected to Table 2
and several of the examples above. The claim that the desirability of “happi-
ness” is above all social is based on it being used in contexts such as examples
(6) and (7), to indicate a positive attitude towards someone or something, either
by suggesting that one wishes them to be happy, is happy for or about them, or
that it makes the writer happy to do something for them.
That “sadness” in turn is more emotional is suggested by it being used to
describe how people feel about something, e. g. death in example (9), or hearing
something in example (10):
(9) Here dined with me also Mrs. Batters, poor woman, now left a sad wid-
ow by the drowning of her husband the other day. (HCE: Samuel Pepys,
The Diary [DIARY PEPYS VII, 417])
(10) I’m sad to hear that, Tim. (FLOB: Curtin, The Plastic Tomato Cutter
[K19: 53])
Although example (10) comes from a context which discusses religious issues,
the usage of “sadness” in the data does not indicate that it would have reli-
gious senses clearly separate from its other senses. The OED suggests one such
sense, ‘firmness of faith’, existed until the 16th century, but this sense does not
noticeably intermingle with the sense of ‘feeling sorrowful’ in the data.10
In contrast, the Early Modern English data on “pride” and “shame” con-
stantly discusses sin and vice alongside any potential emotional experience,
which is why these are characterized as (un)desirable depending on religious
judgment. More surprisingly, the usage of “hate” in the Early Modern English
data appears to be conditioned by religion. It suggests a set of religious guide-
lines as regards whom or what to hate. Consider examples (11) and (12).
(11) I defie the deuill, worship him? fie vpon him, I hate him with all my
hart. (HCE: Gifford, A Handbook on Witches and Witchcraft [HANDO
GIFFORD B2R])
(12) And if thou verely beleeuve it, thou mayest thereby thynke and learne
howe muche our sauyour and hys father both doeth hate sinne. (HCE:
Fisher, Sermons [SERM FISHER 1,398])
10 Interestingly, the speaker in example (10) is sad to hear that someone no longer
goes to Mass, which may suggest more ‘firmness of faith’ on his side. However,
I doubt whether any native speaker of English would give ‘firmness of faith’ as a
sense of sad(ness).
310 Heli Tissari
The reason why “love” is categorized as socially desirable in the Early Modern
English data is that it suggests a strong sense of duty alongside any emotion.
“Anxiety” is very tentatively marked as religiously conditioned in the Early
Modern English data, where it is only attested twice, once in a philosophical
work, and on another occasion in a religious context with the adjective calm
(example 13):
(13) [He] spoke of his conversion to God as a thing now grown up in him
to a setled and calm serenity. He was very anxious to known [sic] my
Opinion of a Death-Bed Repentance. (HCE: Burnet, Some Passages of
the Life and Death of … John, Earl of Rochester [BIO BURNETROC
140])
(14) There had been frequent rows about this issue before their marriage,
but Veronica had been hoping that their new status as husband and wife
would alleviate tensions and either make John a calmer and more con-
siderate person or give her the poise she needed to put up with his be-
haviour in a more gracious manner. (FLOB: Pfeiffer, How to Cope with
Splitting Up [F07: 14])
(15) So then thou seest how many things that Man wanteth. For often he must
stand in need of Necessaries, he must be subject to great Anxieties …
(HCE: Preston’s Boethius [PHILO BOETHPR 126])
(16) He carried a suitcase and seemed anxious to catch the train for Kansas
City. (FROWN: Trust West [N26: 13])
As for “hate”, the Early Modern English data is in fact ambiguous: while “hate”
is a bad thing as such, it is nevertheless acceptable, even desirable, to hate that
312 Heli Tissari
which is bad, in a religious sense. In other words, an ideal world would exclude
bad things, which makes “hate” a bad signal, in that it is a signal for a non-ideal
world. However, assuming that we know this world is not ideal, it is good for
us to hate where the world is particularly bad. In doing so, we in fact identify
with God, who hates sin. To code both “anxiety” and “hate” as undesirable
emotions in Early Modern English underlines their conceptualization as results
of the Fall.
(e) Fifthly, Table 3 proposes a separate category for “love”, which tends to be
desirable and which, in spite of religious elements, appears to be a social mat-
ter in Early Modern English, because its expectancy regulates social conduct.
In other words, while it was morally and religiously wrong not to love one’s
family and friends in the Early Modern English period, the assessment of each
person’s behaviour had social consequences (cf. Tissari forthcoming).
The weakness of this claim is that the same could be said to apply to Early
Modern English “pride” and “shame”. However, “love” as a social bond ap-
pears to be more fundamental than “pride” and “shame”. In brief, if everyone
is assumed to have “fallen”, then to be accused in terms of either “pride” or
“shame” does not constitute a criterion for excluding someone from the com-
munity, unless their transgression is considered particularly grave. In contrast,
the answer to the question “whom should I love” is also an answer to the ques-
tion “to whom am I responsible”, which is also quite practical on an everyday
basis (example 17 below). It involves the idea that if I fail my responsibilities, I
should be ashamed. The reason may then be that I have been too self-centred,
i. e., proud.
(17) [Formulaic at the end of a letter:] My best love and service tendred to
your Lordship, I rest / Your very loving brother and servant, Rich. Ebor.
(CEECS: 1666 Richard Sterne [Cosin] [RSTERNE II, 157])
As for Present-Day English “love”, while it is still very much social as well as
emotional, there is more emphasis on its emotion-like qualities.
(f) Sixthly and lastly, “excitement”, which appears desirable, for example, be-
cause it occurs together with such words as happy and to enjoy (with pleased
in example 18). It is a different category, because in the present Early Modern
English data, it is not an emotion at all. The OED nevertheless records emo-
tional occurrences of “excitement” in Early Modern English.
(18) He looked pleased and excited to see them. (FROWN: McMillan, Wait-
ing to Exhale [K13: 34])
English words for emotions and their metaphors 313
Table 4. Are the concepts expressed by these words reified or personified? R = reified
in at least 10% of the cases (entity, substance and container metaphors),
P = personified in at least 10% of the cases.
To discuss Table 4 in more detail, the lexical groups are again divided into
different categories. In the following, I will use the verb reify to refer to an R
in the table (“reified in at least 10% of the cases”), and the verb personify to
refer to a P in the table (“personified in at least 10% of the cases”), not in an
absolute sense.
(a–b) “Fear”, “love”, “shame”, and “respect” are reified in all the corpora,
“respect” particularly heavily in CEECS which reifies it in six cases out of
ten. This finding for “respect” results from the noun respect occurring in set
phrases where it does not refer to an emotion (in all respects), and can be con-
tested by restricting the metaphoricity of the preposition in. “Fear” is different,
because it is more clearly an emotion. It is often conceptualized in terms of
quantity (great fears) or containment (in fear). Thus in fact these are two dif-
ferent categories: (a) reification may be very typical of an emotion word, or (b)
it may result from polysemy. “Love” and “shame” are closer to “fear” than to
“respect”.
The HC data provides some potential for adding a P for “shame”, because it
contains a sermon which repeats the phrase
(c) “Happiness”, “hate”, and “hope” are each reified in three corpora, which
suggests that these emotions are characterized by reification, but less so than
“fear” and “shame”, in particular in Early Modern English. In two cases out of
three, the corpus which contains no instances of reification is HC. Consider-
ing the text types included in the corpora one could say that informal Early
Modern English, such as contained in private letters, is closer to Present-Day
English in this regard. However, the matter is not as simple as that. “Hate” is
not reified in HC, because the verb to hate is more frequently found there than
the noun hate/hatred. “Hope” is not reified in HC because it tends to occur in
letters in this corpus (to hope), but the CEECS letters include such expressions
as in great hope (container + quantification).
(d) “Pride” and “anxiety” behave similarly in that they are both reified and
personified, but not in all the corpora. They also behave similarly in that the
findings concerning Early Modern English are different from those concerning
Present-Day English. “Pride” is “heavily metaphorized” in the Early Modern
English data, but less so in the Present-Day English data, which has more words,
which means that we could expect there to be more metaphors. Whether “anxi-
ety” is indeed personified in the very small Early Modern English data never-
theless depends on the interpretation of a single clause (repeated from [15]):
(f) “Sadness” is not reified or personified, because people tend to use the ad-
jective sad rather than the noun sadness. This is a further illustration of con-
ceptual differences between emotions resulting from differences between the
word classes used to talk about them.
To conclude, grammatical considerations are quite important as regards
reification, while personification is more typical of the Early Modern English
than the Present-Day English data.
316 Heli Tissari
Table 5. Does the data indicate that the emotion is metaphorically located inside the
body? YY = Yes, more than 5 times, Y = Yes, but less than 5 times, N= no. The
brackets indicate a result which requires the inclusion of adjectives of the type
emotion-ful (e. g. respectful), while the asterisks indicate a result which re-
quires the inclusion of spirit as part of the body.
Lastly, let us look at which kinds of movement are associated with the emo-
tions. An answer to this question will help us to arrive at a fuller understanding
of question 4 (“Does the data indicate that the emotion is metaphorically lo-
cated inside or outside the human body?”), because the movement may concern
the body of the person who is the experiencer of the emotion. However, rather
than presenting a fully-fledged comparison between Early Modern English and
Present-Day English, I will simply sketch potential kinds of movement.
The movement associated with the emotion may be expressed by a single
preposition or it can be of a more general conceptual nature. The following
lists are not exhaustive, but will help us to see in what ways movement can be
associated with emotion.
318 Heli Tissari
Beyond: This preposition may indicate a bad result regardless of the amount
of positive emotion and effort. Metaphorically speaking, one might talk of a
projection beyond the area contained by this emotion and effort. Example: be-
yond hope.
Behind: The Early Modern English data uses this preposition to conceptual-
ize hope as an entity which people may leave to others in a particular loca-
tion after they have left the location.
In: This preposition suggests movement into a container, in particular as
regards the phrase to fall in love.
Out of: This prepositional phrase suggests movement away from a con-
tainer, for example out of love. Note that the phrase is ambiguous: it can be
used either to suggest the end of love (a person who has fallen out of love is no
longer in love), or love as a cause (source) of something. The causal reading
also applies to out of fear.
Through: This preposition suggests movement into, along, and out of a con-
tainer. It is disputable whether such movement and the instrumental uses
of the preposition fit together. As regards through love, one might imagine a
“plunge” into a positive emotion which would result in a desire and a conse-
quent accomplishment.
(20) Through love neither God nor our fellow man/woman is a mere object to
us … (FLOB: The Heythrop Journal: A Quarterly Review of Philosophy
and Theology [D09: 6])
Note that the names suggested for each of these categories do not imply a con-
sequent use of the corresponding preposition or adverb in any actual context
of occurrence of a lexical item. They simply name the direction of movement.
The idea is to characterize different ways in which, for example, movement
away (from something or somebody) relates to the use of emotion words.12
Away: It may be decrease of an emotion (cf. out of love), the opposite of in-
crease (cf. below), or loss of something. It may be movement away from the
cause(r) of the emotion. A desire to avoid the cause(r) of the emotion applies to
“fear” in particular, but also to “hate”. Furthermore, it may be movement away
from the person who would like to experience the emotion (cf. forwards), or
giving something away (cf. exchange).
Between: People may be conceptualized as oscillating between two emo-
tions such as “fear” and “hope”.
Downwards: Downwards movement applies in particular to negative experi-
ences such as “sadness”. It may metonymically reflect body movement, and it
may entail a moral or religious judgment, for example, predicting that a proud
person will fall.
Exchange: In a prototypical exchange, a person gives an entity to another
person. Positive emotions such as “love” and “respect” tend to be conceptual-
ized in terms of giving and receiving.
Forwards: When an emotion is personified or conceptualized as something
that a person strives after, it may be discussed in terms of forward motion. For
example, love and happiness may be “chased” in this manner.
Increase: People talk about increase of both positive and negative emotions.
A good example of a positive emotion is wishing increased happiness to the
recipient of a letter. For some reason, the HCE data on “sadness” tends to em-
phasize the increase of sadness. The verb sadden in itself comprehends the idea
of increased “sadness”. An emphasis on the increase of “fear” often indicates
that a situation is getting more and more dangerous or risky.
Outwards: Sometimes emotions are conceptualized as emanating from their
experiencers. This may apply to a positive emotion such as “happiness” or
“love” as well as to a negative emotion such as “hate” and “shame”, and it may
imply that the emotion is contagious. Emotions may also be conceptualized as
spreading without naming a source. Furthermore, emotions may be conceptu-
alized as emanating from a source other than a human being (e. g. God), or they
may themselves be conceptualized as sources (e. g. love being conceptualized
as a source of something good, cf. through).
Towards: This may be movement towards the object or cause(r) of the emo-
tion, e. g., a beloved person, or movement towards an emotion, e. g., the pursuit
of happiness (cf. forwards).
Upwards: This is, roughly, the mirror image of downwards movement. Meta-
phorically speaking, while sadness is down, happiness is up. Proud people aspire
upwards, but may fall downwards in shame, especially in Early Modern English.
320 Heli Tissari
This section considers each question in turn, summarising the findings and ask-
ing what they suggest in terms of future research. Finally, we will arrive at eval-
uating the initial suggestion that we are dealing with various continua which
combine old and new ways of looking at emotions in cognitive linguistics.
A look at the Oxford English Dictionary revealed that words which we asso-
ciate with emotions have many non-emotional senses as well. An analysis of
their occurrences in corpora verified this, suggesting furthermore that there
are various kinds of uses for emotion words. The main purpose in using an
emotion word may not be the naming of an emotion, but rather, the fulfilling
of a social expectation, or conveying some idea associated with an emotion
(e. g. an idea of a negative or positive future prospect in terms of “fear” and
“hope”). This is not an entirely surprising or novel finding, but it is good to
take it into account in further studies of emotion words and concepts within the
framework of cognitive linguistics. There is still plenty of room for developing
such analyses, beginning from terminology for distinguishing between vari-
ous aspects of word uses, especially if one adheres to the claim that meaning
cannot be divided into semantic and pragmatic meaning:14 how, then, does one
account for these kinds of phenomena?
The same question becomes relevant when we look at the desirability of emo-
tions, as attested by usage of emotion words. The topic of desirability can be
divided into several sub-topics, beginning from distinguishing between the de-
sirability of the emotion itself and of mentioning it in particular contexts. This
article also discusses the idea that the desirability of each emotion depends
not only on how it feels, but on religious and social conditions, reflected in the
co-text. The Early Modern English data conveys religious values in particular,
while the Present-Day English data balances between feeling and the society.
In terms of future research, one might address the question of how this re-
lates to the encyclopaedic nature of meaning, as advanced by cognitive linguists
(e. g. Geeraerts 1997): To what extent should linguists venture into discussing
such conditioning? What kind of terminology ought they to use? How much
contextual information do they need for statements concerning such issues to
be reliable? Indeed, it seems that research questions such as (1) and (2) are at
least as relevant to our understanding of emotion concepts as question (3) (I am
referring to the research questions introduced in section 2.2).
14 I am referring to such claims as Evans and Green’s (2006: 211): “Cognitive seman-
ticists argue that the division of linguistic meaning into semantics (context-indepen-
dent meaning) and pragmatics (context-dependent meaning) is … problematic.”
322 Heli Tissari
The findings suggest a general hypothesis that the number of concepts which
(native) speakers of English consider as emotions occurring inside the body has
increased since Early Modern English. However, this claim will certainly need
to be modified if one takes into account the fundamental changes in the whole
conceptualization of emotions and of the body and of their functions between
medieval and our times. The key question is what are emotions and what do they
do to us. Even the very concept of “emotion” hardly existed in the 16th century.15
Considering this, the rest of the questions, e. g. question (1) about the naming
of emotions will be seen in a new light: Can we talk of naming an “emotion”
before the concept of “emotion” exists? The claim here is that such a question
may be relevant from our point of view when we wish to compare a number of
concepts. However, it must be noted that while it allows for simple diachronic
comparison, it is strictly speaking anachronistic.
15 For relevant research, see Diller (2007a). Dirk Geeraerts, Michele Goyens and
Annelies Bloem have conducted research on the birth of the word emotion, focus-
ing on the history of the French language. Furthermore, Diller and Tissari gave
papers on the English word and concept of emotion at the ISLE 2008 conference
in Freiburg.
English words for emotions and their metaphors 323
Finally, we would like to suggest two things. Firstly, the kinds of questions
presented here, while potentially still too simple, allow us to glimpse emotion
words on several kinds of diachronic and synchronic axes and continua. De-
pending on context, the following may hold both diachronically and synchron-
ically: (1) the status of a word may oscillate between referring and not referring
to an emotion; (2) it may be associated with various kinds of things calling for
positive and negative associations; (3 & 4) partly depending on such associa-
tions, it may be accompanied by a changing set of metaphors; and (5) there may
also be changes as regards movement associated with the emotion word. This
study suggests that the clearest diachronic changes occur with respect to ques-
tions (1) and (2), and that question (5) in particular deserves further study. A
fully-fledged study of all these aspects could even include diagrams position-
ing the emotions on various scales, both separately and in combination.
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Abstract
inherently historical, because the conditions for its replication – language us-
age – embody the causes of its possible transformation.
Given the intrinsic historicity of the conception of language fostered by
cognitive linguistics, could we summarize what the contributions of cognitive
linguistics to diachronic semantics have so far been? Admittedly (and perhaps
surprisingly), historical studies do not occupy a central position within cogni-
tive linguistics, but even so, it may be instructive to identify the points on which
specific progress has been made.
But progress with regard to what? As pointed out in Geeraerts (1988), cog-
nitive semantics shares a number of crucial features with the prestructuralist
tradition of historical semantics: the general interest in the flexibility and the
contextualized conception of meaning, and the more specific focus on seman-
tic phenomena like metaphor and polysemy, make clear that cognitive seman-
tics has closer links with the earliest tradition of semantic research in modern
linguistics than with any of the chronologically intervening theoretical frame-
works, be they structuralist, generativist, or neostructuralist. (For more details
on these stages in the history of semantics, see Geeraerts 2010.)
After twenty years, and after the explosive development of cognitive linguis-
tics, we may now have another look at the theoretical affinity between cogni-
tive semantics and the prestructuralist tradition. If we take the programme of
prestructuralist diachronic semantics as a point of departure, what has cogni-
tive linguistics contributed to the study of linguistic change, and particularly
(given the central role of semantics in the cognitive framework) to the study of
semantic change? This paper (which roughly covers the same ground as section
5.4 of Geeraerts 2010) will try to provide a synthetic answer to that question.
We will first briefly recall the essentials of the prestructuralist, “historical-phil-
ological” outlook. Then follows an overview of the innovations and extensions
brought by cognitive semantics, starting from the assumption that it implicitly
tries to emulate the research programme defined by the older tradition. Finally,
a number of open questions are identified: these are the areas where future im-
provements of our semantic study of the past may most profitably be situated.
The historical-philological tradition (as we will now continue to call it) consists
of two conceptual building-blocks: on the one hand, a psychological concep-
tion of individual acts of meaning change as being based on specific cognitive
mechanisms, and on the other hand, a pragmatic conception of how such indi-
vidual acts contribute to global changes. We will illustrate the first aspect with
Prospects for the past 335
a reference to the work of Michel Bréal, and the second with a reference to the
views of Hermann Paul. Two points need to be clarified first, though. To begin
with, this nutshell presentation glosses over important differences within the
historical-philological tradition. Not all scholars working in that period share
the psychological view of mechanisms of change, and when they do share the
psychological perspective, the actual classification of mechanisms of change
differs considerably from author to author (see Nerlich 1992). Classifications of
semantic change are in fact the main empirical output of historical-philological
semantics, and an in-depth study of the historical-philological era would pri-
marily take the form of a classification of such classifications. This point in-
troduces the second caveat: the conceptual mechanisms of semantic extension
receive proportionately much more attention from the historical-philological
scholars than the relationship between individual and collective changes.
guages change because people try to express their thoughts as accurately and
satisfactorily as possible (1897: 8).
The psychological conception of meaning that is expressed by Bréal consti-
tutes the mainstream view of historical-philological semantics: by and large, it
is the view of writers like Wegener (1885), Hecht (1888), Hey (1892), Stöcklein
(1898), Thomas (1894, 1896), Waag (1908), Erdmann (1910) in Germany, Paris
(1887), Roudet (1921) and Esnault (1925) in France, Wellander (1917, 1921) in
Sweden, Nyrop (1901–1934, 1913) in Denmark, Van Helten (1912–1913) in The
Netherlands, Whitney (1875) and Oertel (1902) in the United States. As already
mentioned, the main product of their activity consists of classifications of se-
mantic change, varying in scope and specificity, and culminating in the clas-
sificatory systems of Carnoy (1927) and Stern (1931). These two works, which
close off the historical-philological period, present catalogues of remarkable
taxonomical depth: basic categories are divided into subclasses, which may
then be divided into further subclasses, and so on, almost ad infinitum.
If you focus on the individual creative acts that innovatively change the lan-
guage, what exactly is the relationship with “the language”, given that language
is indeed something more than a purely individual phenomenon? How does
innovative individual behaviour relate to language as a shared institution? Her-
mann Paul’s specification of a pragmatic conception of semantics, to which
we now turn, provides an answer to precisely that problem. (His views are
formulated in his influential introduction to historical linguistics, Prinzipien
der Sprachgeschichte, first published in 1880. The quotes below are from the
5th edition of 1920.)
The first pillar of Paul’s approach involves the distinction between the “usu-
al” and the “occasional” meaning of an expression. The usual meaning (usuelle
Bedeutung) is the established meaning as shared by the members of a language
community. The occasional meaning (okkasionelle Bedeutung) involves the
modulations that the usual meaning can undergo in actual speech (1920: 75).
Wir verstehen also unter usueller Bedeutung den gesamten Vorstellungsinhalt, der
sich für den Angehörigen einer Sprachgenossenschaft mit einem Worte verbindet,
unter okkasioneller Bedeutung denjenigen Vorstellungsinhalt, welchen der Reden-
de, indem er das Wort ausspricht, damit verbindet, und von welchem er erwartet,
dass ihn auch der Hörende damit verbinde.
[By “usual meaning”, we understand the total representational content that is as-
sociated with a word for any member of a speech community. By “occasional mean-
338 Dirk Geeraerts
(a) temporal: I have done quite a bit of writing since we last met
(b) temporal and causal: Since you lost your favourite fountain pen, you seem
to have been suffering from writer’s block
(c) causal: Since he didn’t want me to sign with a pencil, he lent me his pen
Although this example involves a metonymy, the model is a general one. Novel
metaphors too, for instance, may be seen as emerging in the form of invited
342 Dirk Geeraerts
inferences: a lover who addresses his beloved as squirrel triggers the implica-
tion that he sees her as lively and dynamic. Nevertheless, in the actual applica-
tions of the invited inferencing theory of semantic change, the emphasis is on
metonymic relations, and there may be a tendency to see invited inferences as
a particular type of metonymy only. To avoid terminological confusion, it may
be useful to distinguish between two levels that play a role here. On the level
of speech acts, an inference is by definition metonymic: the utterance Squir-
rel, I love you triggers the thought “He cannot mean that I am a rodent, so he
must mean that I am agile, industrious, and inquisitive”. That is a process that
is easily recognized as an example of a cause/effect metonymy. On the level of
the propositional meaning of the predicates, however, the relation between the
‘rodent’ reading and the figurative reading cannot be classified as metonymic.
mon with the prototypical centre. A first layer of extensions, for instance, might
consist of referents exhibiting features abcd, bcde, or acde. A further growth
of the peripheral area could then involve feature sets abc, bcd, cde, or acd, to
name just a few.
In Geeraerts (1997), this hypothesis is supported by a case study involving
a close inspection of the development of the clothing term legging in Dutch
over the years 1988 to 1991. The term was introduced as a neologism in 1988,
as a name for close-fitting, long, elastic women’s trousers. Over the five years
studied, when the term was getting more and more popular, this initial type
remains the core of the concept, measured in terms of its frequency within the
category. At the same time, modulations of the core application make their ap-
pearance: leggings that are slightly less tight-fitting, or made of other materials
than the basic stretch fabric, or which are are shorter than the original type. As
predicted by the prototype model, these modulations on the prototype appear
gradually: over the years, the new types that are introduced are farther and
farther removed from the centre.
The prototype structure of semantic change in its various aspects is ac-
knowledged and illustrated in one form or another in many studies, among
them Dirven (1985), Lewandowska-Tomaszczyk (1985), Casad (1992), Goos-
sens (1992), Nerlich and Clarke (1992), Dekeyser (1990), Soares da Silva (1999,
2003), Koivisto-Alanko (2000), De Mulder and Vanderheyden (2001), Tissari
(2003), Molina (2005).
Cognitive semantics has given rise to a renewed interest in the possible regular-
ity of semantic change. Are there any constraints or tendencies on the evolution
of word meanings? Specifically, is there any directionality in semantic change,
in the sense that certain kinds of meaning would naturally evolve towards an-
other kind, but not the other way round? Two related lines of research illustrate
this approach.
gained a wide acceptance, and historical studies such as the ones mentioned
above are still a minority in the context of conceptual metaphor theory.
The search for regular patterns of polysemy and semantic change may be ap-
proached from a typological perspective, by looking at regularities – possibly
even universals – in the historical relationship between (metaphorical) source
and target domains in as many languages as possible. If the pattern is dominant
in the languages of the world, occurring in many unrelated languages, it is a
good candidate for a universal mechanism. At that point, the question arises
what experiential factors might explain the salience of the association. This
kind of perspective lies at the basis of the grammaticalization theory developed
by Bernd Heine and his associates; important publications are Heine, Claudi
and Hünnemeyer (1991), Heine (1997), Heine and Kuteva (2002). The central
question of the paradigm involves the motivation behind the creation of gram-
matical categories: can we understand why particular ways of forming gram-
matical categories are crosslinguistically more common than others?
An example, taken from Heine (2004), may illustrate the perspective. Look-
ing at cardinal numbers in a wide variety of languages, Heine makes a number
of observations. First, numeral systems having “5”, “10” or “20” as the basis
of their system are statistically predominant in the languages of the world,
with systems based on “10” being most widespread. Second, the numerals for
“5” and “10” often have nominal characteristics, while numerals from “6” to
“9” often have a propositional, clause-like structure (like a phrase meaning
“add the big finger”, or “jump from one hand to the other”). Third, expressions
used for the mathematical operation of addition frequently find their source
in function words with the meaning ‘with’ or ‘on, upon’. These observations
find a plausible explanation in human experience. The hands provide an obvi-
ous model for structuring a counting system, and so, the most common struc-
ture in the world’s languages is one in which the expression for “5” is derived
from that for ‘hand’, the expression for “10” from that for ‘two hands’, and
the expression for “20” from that for ‘hands and feet’ or ‘whole person’. Even
when these numerals no longer have a nominal meaning but have become pure
numerals, they may still have morphological and grammatical properties that
show that they are relics from nouns. In a similar way, it seems plausible that
the expression of an abstract mental operation like arithmetical addition finds
its source in more concrete acts, like putting things together (‘with’) or on top
of each other (‘on, upon’).
But the search for regularity does not necessarily yield universal patterns
that occur in unrelated languages. It could just as well be the case that a giv-
en pattern is specific to a language family, or a language type, or a culture
(Wilkins 1996). An example of the latter situation is Vanhove’s typological
346 Dirk Geeraerts
study of the sources of verbs of mental perception (2008). She makes a distinc-
tion between the source domain of vision (I can see what you mean), hearing
as a source domain (will you listen to me, i. e. obey), and prehension verbs as a
source domain (he didn’t grasp her meaning). She notes that, contrary to the
suggestion in among others Sweetser (1990), the connection between vision
and knowledge is not dominant crossculturally.
The typological search for regularity also exists in a broader lexicogenetic
form. “Lexicogenesis” involves the mechanisms for introducing new pairs
of word forms and word meanings – all the traditional mechanisms, in other
words, like word formation, word creation, borrowing, blending, truncation,
ellipsis, folk etymology and others, that introduce new items into the onoma-
siological inventory of a language. Crucially, semasiological change is a ma-
jor mechanism of lexicogenesis, i. e. of introducing new pairings of forms and
meanings. Within the set of lexicogenetic mechanisms, some could be more
salient (i. e. might be used more often) than others. Superficially, this could
involve, for instance, an overall preference for borrowing rather than mor-
phological productivity as mechanisms for introducing new words, but from
a cognitive semantic perspective, there are other, more subtle questions to ask:
do the ways in which novel words and expressions are being coined, reveal
specific (and possibly preferred) ways of conceptualizing the onomasiological
targets? The etymological research project started by Andreas Blank and Peter
Koch (Koch 1997; Blank and Koch 1999, 2003; Gévaudan 2007), intends to
systematically explore motivational preferences in the etymological inventory
of the Romance languages. In comparison with much of the metaphor-oriented
research, the approach put forward by Blank and Koch takes into account all
possible pathways of lexicalization (and not just metaphor).
4.2. Subjectification
through which words acquire more subjective senses. In the words of Traugott
(1999: 179),
If the meaning of a lexical item or construction is grounded in the socio-physical
world of reference, it is likely that over time, speakers will develop polysemies
grounded in the speakers’ world, whether reasoning, belief, or meta-textual atti-
tudes to the discourse. Subjectification, then, is the semasiological development of
meanings associated with a form such that it comes to mark subjectivity explicitly.
The previous pages have made clear that cognitive semantics contributes sub-
stantially to the research programme originally defined by historical-philolog-
ical semantics. But, taking this perspective for granted, where are the major
lacunae, and how could the programme be further developed? Critical gaps
seem to lie rather on the side of the interplay between system and usage than on
the side of the conceptual mechanisms of change. This is not to say that there
348 Dirk Geeraerts
is no room for further development in the field of metaphor and metonymy and
the other pathways of change, but rather that the fundamental issues are fairly
well identified in that area, and already guide the development of the research
efforts: what exactly are the dominant conceptual mechanisms of change, and
how universal are they? A rich spectrum of more specific topics for research
follows from this overall question, and if diachronic studies in cognitive se-
mantics gain momentum, we can look forward to an abundance of descriptions
and analyses in this field.
The papers collected in this volume amply testify to the fruitfulness of the
cognitive perspective (a feature that is put into a historical perspective in Mar-
garet Winters’s introductory chapter): the chapters by Małgorzata Fabiszak and
Anna Hebda, by Heli Tissari, by Richard Trim and by Andreas Musolff il-
lustrate the impact of cognitive linguistics on the historical study of metaphor,
while the chapter by Kathryn Allan advances our knowledge of metonymical
changes. The article contributed by Liesbet Heyvaert and Hubert Cuyckens,
and that by Silvia Luraghi, achieve a further extension of the perspective (and
one that received little attention in the overview presented in the pages above),
viz. towards the study of diachronic syntax – or more precisely, towards the
diachronic semantics of syntactic phenomena.
The other main perspective, relating to the interplay of system and usage,
is not absent from the present collection either. The paper by Louise Sylvester
shows how the attention for the conceptual mechanisms of change (the system
level) is directly relevant for the interpretation of older texts (the usage level).
While Sylvester’s paper is geared towards the practice of philological inter-
pretation, the paper by Roslyn Frank and Nathalie Gontier takes a theoretical
stance: it proposes a conceptual dynamic system view of language as an ap-
propriate model to deal with the interaction of structure and use.
Now, precisely with regard to these dialectics of system and usage, it is pos-
sible to point to two fundamental factors that will need to receive more atten-
tion to complete the picture: the importance of an onomasiological perspective,
and the importance of a social perspective.
Paying attention to the social mechanisms of language change is crucial
because the theoretical picture that we have at the moment still focuses pre-
dominantly on individual processes. Specifically, we need to be aware that the
invited inferencing theory of semantic change, is a refined model of the contex-
tual specification of meaning, but does not entirely explain the process of con-
ventionalization. If new meanings arise through the conventionalization of im-
plicatures, then the recognition of the implicature by the hearer/speaker is only
a first step: numerous language users have to do the same for the new reading to
become conventional. Rudi Keller (1994) has introduced a revealing terminol-
Prospects for the past 349
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Index
categorization 9, 16–18, 39, 182, 200– dative case 103–105, 112–115, 119–120
201, 228–229, 253, 335–336, 350 decategorialization 151, 156
– color see color categories description and evaluation of circum-
chaining 228–229 stances 304
Chaucer 211–214, 242–245, 247–254 dictionaries and dictionary data 165,
cognitive semantics 5–14, 200, 205, 169–170, 198, 201, 205–216, 338
224, 333–334, 339–340, 343–348 Dictionary of Old English Corpus 266,
cognitive sociolinguistics 14, 45 274, 293
see also social cognitive linguistics directionality of change 7–9, 224–225,
color categories 9, 237–238 254–255, 343
complements/complementation 133–135 discourse history/tradition 71–73, 83–85
complex adaptive systems (CAS) 36–45, distributed and situated cognition 45–
51–52, 54–55 52, 54–56, 85, 262
computational linguistics 38–39, 52 domains 166, 229, 234–237, 345
conceptual change 3, 20–21, 241, 265, 317 – domain matrix 166
conceptual history 70–71, 73, 84–85
conceptual metaphor 71–72, 226–235, Early Modern English 134, 138, 140,
255–256, 262–263, 298–299, 322, 304–306, 309–312, 315, 317, 321–322
344–345 emotion/ emotions 153–155, 225,
– long/short term 231–233, 242– 239–242, 263–266, 276–278, 298–
248, 253–255 304, 313–323
358 Index