A Grammar of God: Translation, Grammar and Memory in the Arte y reglas de la … · 2017-04-05 · A Grammar of God: Translation, Grammar and Memory in the Arte y reglas de la lengua

A Grammar of God: Translation, Grammar and Memory in the

Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala (1610)

Marlon James SALES BA Communication Research, magna cum laude, University of the Philippines Master in Teaching Spanish as a Foreign Language, University of Valladolid

A thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (Translation Studies)

at Monash University in 2017

Literary and Cultural Studies Program School of Languages, Literatures, Cultures and Linguistics

Faculty of Arts

ii Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

© Marlon James SALES (2017).

iii Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

ABSTRACT

This dissertation investigates the translationality of missionary linguistics through an

analysis of the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala and its role in the transcultural commemoration of

Christianity as a colonial religion in the early modern Philippines. Published in Castilian in

1610 by the Spanish Dominican friar Francisco Blancas de San José, the text is the primary

model for many subsequent colonial grammars of Tagalog, the basis of the modern-day

Philippine national language called Filipino. It is argued that beyond its contributions to a

linguistic analysis of Tagalog, the text should be read as a grammar of God because its

prescriptivist tendencies in formulating grammatical rules also provide modes with which the

colonial conceptualizations of divinity are to be articulated in the indigenous tongue. In both

the theoretical and practical components of this dissertation, translation is considered as a

process inherent in missionary grammatization that serves to commemorate the problematic

equivalences of the colonial encounter. It is through this process that Tagalog is endowed not

only with structures based on the categories of Latin, but also with historicizing themes that

constitute a hybridized pastoral discourse on colonial Christianity.

iv Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

DECLARATION

This thesis contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or

diploma at any university or equivalent institution and that, to the best of my knowledge and

belief, this thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person,

except where due reference is made in the text of the thesis.

(SIGNED) ………………………………

Marlon James SALES 4 April 2017

v Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express my gratitude to my mentors and colleagues at the School of

Languages, Literatures, Cultures and Linguistics of Monash University, particularly to Prof.

Rita Wilson, my main supervisor, Dr. Carlos Uxó, my associate supervisor, and Sally Riley, my

graduate research administrator. I extend my thanks to Emeritus Prof. John Crossley, Prof.

Robin Gerster, Prof. Harry Aveling, A/Prof. Kevin Foster, A/Prof. Franz-Josef Deiters,

A/Prof. Julian Millie, Dr. Simon Musgrave, Dr. Mridula Nath Chakraborty, and Dr. Stewart

King, who have given me useful theoretical inputs. I also thank Prof. María del Carmen África

Vidal of the University of Salamanca and A/Prof. Ronit Ricci of The Australian National

University for the suggestions they made for improving the final version of the dissertation.

I would also like to acknowledge my fellow scholars in the fields of missionary

linguistics, translation studies and Spanish who have been valuable resource persons in the

conduct of my research: Prof. Emilio Ridruejo of the University of Valladolid, Prof. Joaquín

Sueiro Justel and Dr. Miguel Cuevas Alonso of the University of Vigo, A/Prof. Otto Zwartjes

of the University of Amsterdam, and A/Prof. Mar Cruz Piñol of the University of Barcelona.

I am also grateful to María Ortega Aragón and Dr. Reagan Maiquez for taking time to read

and comment on some of the sections of my dissertation, and to Maria Luisa Young and

Patrick Capili of the Ateneo de Manila University for co-organizing with me the 9th

International Conference on Missionary Linguistics. I also thank linguists Christopher Sundita

and Christopher Ray Miller for the information they have kindly forwarded to me on classical

font types, and my teachers and colleagues at The Institute for World Literature at Harvard

University, particularly Prof. Paul F. Bandia and Prof. Reine Meylaerts, whose modules have

helped me refine my analysis.

My dissertation has a substantial archival component, and it is for this I reason that I

am very much indebted to Anne Melles of the Matheson Library of Monash University, Fr.

Cayetano Sánchez Fuertes of the Archivo Franciscano Ibero-Oriental in Madrid, and the staff

members of the Biblioteca Nacional de España, the Archivo General de Indias, the Biblioteca

de Santa Cruz in Valladolid, the State Library of Victoria, the Main Library of the University

vi Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

of the Philippines, the National Library of the Philippines, and the Widener and Houghton

Libraries at Harvard University.

My Ph.D. candidature has been financed through a Monash Graduate Scholarship and

a Monash International Postgraduate Research Scholarship, for which I am very thankful. I

am also grateful for the Monash University Postgraduate Publication Award that I was given

upon completion of my dissertation.

vii Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents vii

List of Figures ix

List of Tables ix

Spelling Conventions and Abbreviations x

INTRODUCTION 1

CHAPTER I. In the Beginning was the Word… A. Nostalgias of God 8 B. Rediscovering a Tagalog Grammar 13 C. Questions of Language as Matters of History 19 D. Methodological Considerations 23 E. Stylistic Questions in a Hybridized Text 28

CHAPTER II. An Empire of Letters A. There are no Letters Here 35 B. New Words, New Works, New Worlds 39 C. Colonial Life as a Translation 45 D. Language as Companion of Empire 51 E. Pearl of the Orient 55

CHAPTER III. Man, Mission and Message A. Subjectivity and Historicity of the Translator 62 B. Language and Mission 67 C. The Arte as a Publication 73 D. Authority of the Textual Palimpsest 77 E. From Babel to Pentecost 85

CHAPTER IV. Majesty of Divine Meanings A. Rules of (Dis)Order 92 B. Sense and Suppression 99 C. Colonially Eloquent 105 D. Memory and the Silences of Translation 113

viii Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

TRANSLATION

A. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language 122

B. Ecclesiastical Licenses and Approvals 123

C. To the Most Pure Virgin and True Mother of God, Mary, the Most Serene Queen of the Angels and the Most Merciful Advocate of Sinners

126

D. Prayer to Implore Our Lord God for His Mercy to Reach the Language Necessary for Preaching His Doctrine Fittingly

131

E. To the Father Ministers of the Gospel 133

F. Gloss A: Translation of Passages in the Prefatory Exhortation 141

G. Evangelii minister 143

H. Gloss B: Translation of Evangelii minister 144

I. Some Admonitions in Understanding the Contents of this Book 145

J. The Art of the Tagalog Language 149

K. Book of Rules 166

L. Glossary of Tagalog Roots 198

CONCLUSION 216

BIBLIOGRAPHY 224

ix Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

LIST OF FIGURES

Unless otherwise specified, all the figures included in this dissertation are reconstructions I

have created using photo editing tools that are freely available online. The maps are based on

the scholarly literature cited in the critical introduction.

FIG. 1. Map of the Major Languages of the Philippines

15

FIG. 2. Map of the Catholic Missions in Colonial Philippines 61

FIG. 3. Map of Blancas’s Spain 65

FIG. 4. Map of Blancas’s Ministry on the Island of Luzon 72

FIG. 5. Title Page of the Arte 75

FIG. 6. Endorsement from the Cathedral Chapter of Manila

80

FIG. 7. Evangelii minister

84

FIG. 8. A Wordlist in the Arte

115

LIST OF TABLES

TABLE 1. Spelling Conventions in the Untranslated Parts of the TT

32

TABLE 2. Subsections of the Arte 76

TABLE 3. Baybayin Characters according to the Doctrina christiana 102

x Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God

SPELLING CONVENTIONS AND ABBREVIATIONS

Philippine English is used in this dissertation. The spelling conventions in

Philippine English are similar to those in American English. All the translations of Spanish

and Tagalog passages into English are mine, unless otherwise indicated.

The font used for the words spelled in the ancient Philippine script was

downloaded for free from Paul Morrow’s website (http://paulmorrow.ca/fonts.htm).

Where applicable, the following abbreviations are used for referencing archival

sources:

AFIO Archivo Franciscano Ibero-Oriental

AGI Archivo General de Indias

BNE Biblioteca Nacional de España

NS Vocabulario de la lengua tagala by Fr. Juan de Noceda and Fr. Pedro de

Sanlúcar

SB Vocabulario de lengua tagala by Fr. Pedro de San Buenaventura

http://paulmorrow.ca/fonts.htm

1 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION

[S]ince our faith is so upright and not something that comes alone and detached from nature, but rather presupposes it and unites itself to it, it follows that it cannot consent to or agree with this blind and evil pagan governance; rather, it is necessary, as with an old building, to take it apart and burn it totally and change it, so that over good natural laws that long study and experience and philosophy and even the faith itself have established the faith may stand and everything be taught all together to these pagans who are so distant from the good and the just.

The Manila Synod of 1582

Translation by Paul A. Dumol (2014, 13)

The memory of the Christian God was evoked in the sixteenth century as the impetus

for colonizing the islands that would become known as the Philippines. Meeting in a cathedral

of wood, bamboo and nipa fronds amid an antiphony of sweltering tropical heat and generous

monsoon rains, Spanish religious and civil authorities numbering to about a hundred resolved

that it was this God who had led them to these islands many leagues away from Europe so

that they could reclaim them for the Catholic faith and for the kingdom that defended it. The

Synod of Manila of 1582, the first of its kind in this Southeast Asian archipelago, was charting

the future of Christianity in this part of the world.

Although the fire of 1583 that razed the first cathedral of Manila to the ground took

with it the complete proceedings of the Synod, its conclusions regarding the spiritual

administration of the Philippines can be reconstructed from other documentary sources. The

Synod fathers settled, first and foremost, the question of legitimacy of colonial rule. They

determined that the islands were inhabited by people who were living contrarily to nature and

were being governed by unjust rulers who subjected them to tyranny. As these conditions were

not propitious for the propagation of Christianity, they decided that the Spanish Crown, apart

from its spiritual mission of evangelizing the new territory, was likewise compelled to establish

a colonial government that would create a civilization where Christianity could thrive. The

belief that the temporal claims over these lands were sustained by an otherworldly power


framed Spain’s colonial project in the early modern period. For the Spaniards of this time,

these lands ought to become their colonies for the greater glory of the Christian God.

To this end, the Synod of Manila recommended that the Catholic doctrine be preached

to the indigenous peoples of the Philippines in their native tongues. This recommendation was

neither unprecedented nor revolutionary. Despite several royal decrees issued previously on

the matter to encourage the teaching of Castilian Spanish (cf. Solano 1991, 47-50 and passim),

the Synod fathers knew from the experience of proselytizing the Americas that the Christian

religion could be better preached in the local vernaculars. This marked the beginning of a

prolific period of researching and writing about Philippine languages. For the first time in

recorded history, Philippine languages were invested with the materiality of a written grammar.

They were dissected into the categories based on Latin and instantiated in a discourse that

sutured the anxieties of the colonial encounter with the recollections of a society transitioning

into an incipient form of modernity. It was through this suturing of language and memory,

which in this dissertation is referred to as the process of missionary grammatization, that the

missionaries were able to talk about the Christian God in the tongues of the colonized.

The main title of my dissertation, A Grammar of God, is a deliberate provocation that

owes much of its symbolic violence to how it places God at the heart of the study of the

languages of the Philippines. It presupposes firstly that God has a linguistic presence that can

be unravelled by analyzing a missionary grammar. It further assumes that God’s linguistic

presence can pass from text to text and congeal in a string of recollections that circumscribe

the religious, social and political praxis of those for whom such grammatization is produced.

In his book Real Presences: Is There Anything in What We Say? (2013 [1989]), the philosopher and

translation scholar George Steiner notes that “any coherent understanding of what language is

and how language performs […] is, in the final analysis, underwritten by the assumption of

God’s presence” (7). In many societies of the world, be they monotheistic or polytheistic,

language is often thought of as divinely originated and inspired. This is particularly true in the

Abrahamic religions of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, where, as Eco (1995) puts it, “God

spoke before all things (7). The violence of the main title also comes from the tentativeness

insinuated by the indefinite article. Here we speak of a grammar—and not the grammar—of

God to illustrate the peculiarities of grammatization in the Hispanic Philippines. A Grammar of

God implies that there are many possible reiterations of God in language despite the


homogenizing tendencies of proselytization. The provocation becomes even more apparent

upon reading the first part of the subtitle, Translation, Grammar and Memory. Threading these

three concepts together indicates how I have approached grammatization: I consider it as a

mode of translation, in which the passage of cultural representations from source to target

memorializes God as a key determiner of colonial life. His presence is described in this

dissertation as the colonial divine, a construct in which the theological attributes of divinity are

manifested in the regimented forms of colonial worship and membership in colonial life.

These ideas have been applied in researching and translating the Arte y reglas de la lengua

tagala [Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language], or Arte, by the Spanish Dominican friar

Francisco Blancas de San José. The Arte is the oldest extant grammar of Tagalog. It was

regarded throughout the Spanish colonial period as the model for grammatizing Tagalog, as

well as other Philippine languages. The existing scholarly research on Hispanic America by

scholars such as Durston (2007) and Ríos Castaño (2014), and on the Philippines by the likes

of Rafael (1993, 2015) and Blanco (2009a) tells us that the changes in the religious practices in

the Spanish colonies were carried out alongside exchanges of linguistics structures, literary

forms and themes, and even cultural memory. This is likewise true in other contexts in Asia

where conversion happens into a religion other than Christianity, such as Buddhism and Islam.

All these exchanges constitute what in this dissertation is referred to as ‘translationality.’

Inspired by the definition proposed by Stavans (Stavans and Dickstein 2003, 103) and

Koskinen (2014, 187), I define translationality as the quality of missionary grammatization as

a site of linguistic and cultural exchanges for articulating the colonial divine. The term

‘translation,’ on the other hand, is used to refer to the process and/or product of these

exchanges. That both these definitions are quite limited (and limiting) reminds us of Ricci’s

observation (2011) that in many cultures, the term ‘translation’ does not always have a ready

equivalent that possesses all the assumptions that the word has in English (31-32). By focusing

on this specific area of missionary grammatization in the Hispanic Philippines, I limit my

interrogation of translationality to the practices that Catholic missionaries employed in writing

the colonial grammars of Tagalog.

The main research questions I have sought to answer in this dissertation are the

following: How is missionary grammatization employed as a translational device in the Arte,

particularly in terms of transferring the notions of a colonial religion into the language of a


target readership, and memorializing the colonial divine within the prevailing motifs of colonial

authoring? How can the translationality of missionary grammatization be adopted as a strategy

in retranslating this text into another target language and for another target readership? In

synonymizing grammatization and translation in the context of missionary linguistics, I

challenge the conventional view that grammar and translation are discrete (albeit related)

procedures in the pedagogy of language (cf. Larsen-Freeman 2000, 17-20, Musumeci 2009, 43).

I am convinced that as far as the works of Spanish missionaries on the indigenous languages

of the Philippines are concerned, grammar and translation are procedurally indivisible. They

should not be thought of as distinct components of a didactic sequence, but rather as co-

occurring processes that sustain the efficacy of missionary grammatization.

The aforementioned research questions give us an idea of the structure of this

dissertation, which comprises two main blocks: (1) a critical introduction that delves into the

theoretical and historical aspects of the source text (ST), and (2) a practical component that

contains the target text (TT). The synonymy between grammar and translation in the ST is the

obligatory pre-reading that informs the decisions I have adopted in creating the TT. The TT,

on other hand, is a corroboration of the conceptual and methodological unease in displacing

the memories of the Christian God within the ST itself. It has to be emphasized early on that

the labels ST and TT are rather problematic in studying missionary grammatization. While they

have been used in this dissertation as conceptual pegs to reference the existing scholarly

literature, one of the key findings of my research is that translation is a feature found even in

what is traditionally referred to as the ST (i.e., a text that ‘precedes’ a translation). I therefore

use these labels to describe the sections of the dissertation, but I do so for want of a better

term that describes a text that is both a source and a target in this specific context of translation.

In short, Blancas’s Arte is regarded here both as a ST, on which my English translation is based,

and as a TT, where it was Blancas himself who fixed indigenous speech into a written

Christianized form.

The critical introduction is divided into four chapters:

Chapter I, In the Beginning was the Word, is an allusion to the Christian tradition that

places translation at the genesis of the universe. It introduces the problematics of grammar,

translation and memory by meditating on the biblical trope of the Word made flesh and its


relevance in missionary linguistics. The chapter then gives a brief overview on the Tagalog

language and an interdisciplinary justification for examining the colonial antecedents of the

linguistic politics in the Philippines from the perspective of translation. By re-imagining

grammar as a subjective representation of language, this translational approach avoids the usual

frames of grammatical analysis (cf. Steadman-Jones 2007, 24, Stolze 2010, 141-142) and the

restrictive linearity of traditional translation historiography (cf. Bandia 2006, 46, Mignolo 2000,

36-37, Niranjana 1990, 775). A discussion on the corpus selected for translation, the stylistic

considerations that inform my translation strategies, and my own positionality as a translator

concludes this chapter.

Chapter II, The Empire of Letters, is a mapping of the thematic (dis)continuities of

Hispanic literatures within the cartographic boundaries of the Spanish Empire. My purpose

for writing this chapter is to relate the Arte and the emerging missionary tradition in the

Philippine islands to the literary practices and products in Spain and Latin America, given that

the recurrent themes in colonial writing in the Hispanic world were grounded on Spain’s desire

to build a so-called res publica christiana, or Christian republic (cf. Binotti 2012, 140-141, 170,

Lodares 2007, 12-14, Valle 2014, 16). The chapter begins by contrasting the triumphalist

portrayals of Spanish peninsular literature of the seventeenth century with the social and

cultural conditions in Baroque Spain. It then connects these conditions to the utopic

witnessing of colonial newness in the writings on the New World and the often conflicting

representations of canonical antiquity embedded therein. The relation between language and

empire is then critiqued with a re-reading of Antonio de Nebrija’s famous prologue to his 1492

Castilian grammar and its contributions to language studies and the imperial imaginary. The

chapter ends with a summative account of Tagalog missionary linguistics and the colonial

ecology from which it draws much of its teleological importance.

Chapter III, Man, Mission and Message, is a description of the Arte and its author. The

Arte is in this chapter positioned at a subjective and historicized intersection of translational

agents, norms and text types. Particular attention is given to the biographical sketch of the

author, Fray Francisco Blancas de San José, based on the available archival documentation.

The physical features of the Arte are then analyzed as paratextual components of the

translation that show the exigencies of publishing in the colonial period. The metaphors of the

Tower of Babel and the Pentecost, both intimated in the foreword of the grammar, are


problematized as a thematic continuum that relates the human faculty of speech to the doctrine

of Christian salvation. The idea of an intertextual authority and its compositional

manifestations are considered in the concluding section of this chapter.

Chapter IV, Majesty of Divine Meanings, examines the translationality of grammar and its

utility in conveying the tenets of a colonial and Christian polity. It begins with a discussion of

the concept of grammar as it has been defined in the classical European tradition. It then

proceeds to argue that the developments in missionary linguistics have further shaped our

understanding of grammatization, particularly with regard to hybridity as a resource in the

production of meaning. An examination of the indigenous Tagalog script called the baybayin

and its place in the Arte is then offered as an addendum to the existing classifications of

postcolonial hybridity. Afterwards, the philological notions of eloquence and elegance are read

with respect to their implications in a politicized construction of colonial civility, and are

illustrated with concrete grammatical exemplars from the Arte. A reflection on translational

silences and cultural memory is given at the end.

The practical component of this dissertation, on the other hand, is a translational

composite purposively reconstructed based on the different textual typologies contained in the

ST. Annotations have been supplied to discuss the translation decisions undertaken in the TT

with particular regard to possible lexical and structural alternatives and the reasons for using

one alternative over the others. Whereas in the critical introduction I speak as a translation

scholar and historian, I assume the role of a translator in this practical component by explaining

the procedural considerations I have encountered in my translation of the Arte. This section is

designed to be an application of translation theory, specifically in connection to the

indivisibility of grammar and translation in missionary grammatization, and the ambivalences

of the Arte as a colonial text.

Finally, the concluding chapter summarizes the major points covered in both the

critical introduction and the practical component by reflecting on the relevance of memory as

an analytic parameter in the study of language. It outlines an emerging theme in researching

translation and cultural memory, and recommends that any research in the history of

translation in the Hispanic Philippines should be thought of as a study of translation (in/of/as)

history. This recommendation aims to draw attention to the overlapping functions of


translation as a concept, tool and mode in the study of history, and the many questions of

reliability and validity that can be derived from an interrogation of the limits that language

imposes to the historical analysis of Hispanism in the Philippines.

8 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. CHAPTER I. In the Beginning was the Word…

CHAPTER I

In the Beginning was the Word…

A chronicler who recites events without distinguishing between major and minor ones acts in accordance with the following truth: nothing that has ever happened should be regarded as lost for history. To be sure, only a redeemed mankind receives the fullness of its past—which is to say, only for a redeemed mankind has its past become citable in all its moments. […] For every image of the past that is not recognized by the present as one of its own concerns threatens to disappear irretrievably.

Walter Benjamin (1968, 254-255)

Theses on the Philosophy of History

Nostalgias of God

This story of God begins with a resurrection. Unlike the tales of old that situated the

afterlife as a postlude to a bodily death, a translational reading of the divine disrupts the familiar

progression of mankind’s revered narratives by presenting the hereafter not as an end but

rather as a beginning that links God to the remembrances of days gone by. For translation,

Benjamin (2012 [1923], 76) famously contends, is an afterlife. It is a perpetuation of memories

that would otherwise pass by unnoticed, a recovery of recollections that would otherwise

dissolve into the trivial unimportance of the commonplace. Here any text that faces its

imminent demise is resuscitated the moment it is taken to a different readership, to a different

place, and to a different time.

Such a resurrection unavoidably inhabits language. The itinerancy of bodies, texts and

memories is intimately connected to the problematics of language as a dwelling place (Bassnett

2011, 46, Wilson 2011, 244). The very errance of translation compels us to ask where meaning

resides (Sakellariou 2014, 37), and any bid to contain the grandeur of the divine requires that

it be nestled within the limits of the word. “Writing about the presence of gods and spirits in

the secular language of history or sociology,” Chakrabarty (2000) surmises, “would therefore


be like translating into a universal language that which belongs to a field of differences” (76).

Indeed, if one is to examine the evolution of languages across many cultures throughout the

world, the desire to encounter that which is capable of verbalizing the sacred will prove to be

recurrent (Ostler 2005, Simon et al. 1995). God is made manifest through language in many of

the world’s religions, and the faithful enter in communion with the divine usually through the

same medium (Sales 2015d, 154-155). God in these contexts engages in a perpetual process of

creation and recreation by engendering life through translation (Barnstone 1993, 131, Mignolo

1995, 69-70).

The image of God as the translated Word is especially relevant in the Christian story.

The Gospel of St. John opens with the declaration that the Word was with God and was God.

Christianity establishes that the Word, the Logos, is “the creative power of God, his agency,

his mind, and the expressive word of God through which everything came into being” (Hillar

2012, 125). The God that became man, the Word that became flesh—this was how the early

Christian writers positioned translation as the genesis of the salvific narrative. It was a story of

a transformation, one that allowed the Christian God to transplant Himself from divinity into

human frailty, and cohabit the mortality of the species that was said to have been birthed

through His word.

The importance of the translated word in the Christian tradition went far beyond the

frontiers of philosophizing God. Over the course of the centuries, Christianity found in

translation an effective tool for propagating its teachings and disseminating its sacred texts

(Kowalská 2007, 52, Simon et al. 1995, 166). Translation became a means of rhetoricizing God.

“As Christ ‘was’ the Word,” Cameron (1991) observes, “so Christianity was its discourse or

discourses” (32, emphasis in the original). Translation conjured ways in which God ought to

be worshipped, and devised measures with which obedience to Him was to be exteriorized. It

provided a template on the basis of which God ought to be remembered by enabling

Christianity to postulate a set of truths, sacralize these truths to the universality of dogma, and

operationalize them ultimately into patterns of devout behavior and practices of conversion

(Assmann 1996, 31, Rafael 2015, 84, Romano 2004, 260). Like the originary transformation of

the Godhead from Logos into flesh, the redemptive aspirations of religion took on a certain

materiality through translational iterations, so much so that as Mignolo and Schiwy (2003, 3-

5) observe, religious conversion has become inseparable from translation over time.


Insisting on the translationality of religion carries with it the implication of historicity,

or the recognition of the factuality of a past event. Any act of translation is a historicized

exercise, given that, as Antoine Berman (1995) observes,

[u]n traducteur sans conscience historique est un traducteur mutilé, prisonnier de sa représentation du traduire et celles que véhiculent les “discours sociaux” du moment (61).

[A translator without historical consciousness is a crippled translator, a prisoner of his representation of translation and of those carried by the social discourses of the moment (Berman 2009, 46)].

Reading the Christian God in translation requires that He be traced in a historical tradition

that carries with it the political and cultural baggage of authoring. The Benjaminian trope of

the afterlife foreshadows the challenges that translation poses to the often unquestioned

fictions of memory. On this the philosopher wrote:

Even in ages of the most prejudiced thinking, it has been presumed that life must not be attributed to organic corporeality alone. But there can be no question of extending its dominion under the feeble scepter of the soul, […] not to mention that life could be defined on the basis of still less relevant aspects of animal life such as sensitivity, which only occasionally characterizes life. Rather, it is only when life is attributed to everything that has a history, and is not merely the scene of history, that this concept comes into its own (Benjamin 2012 [1923], 76, my emphasis).

Was the acknowledgment of history not the very principle that St. Jerome (2004 [395 A.D.],

26) alluded to when he wrote that “[i]f it is not permitted to replace one word with another,

then certainly it is a sacrilege to conceal or to ignore a mystery of God” in order to defend his

choice of words in the Vulgate? Was this not the same argument offered by Martin Luther to

justify the insertion of the German word ‘allein’ in his translation of the epistle of St. Paul to

the Romans because “[t]hat is how German is” (Weissbort and Eysteinsson 2009, 60-61)? For

such is the violence of translation, which calls for

the reconstitution of the foreign text in accordance with values, beliefs and representations that preexist it in the target language, always configured in hierarchies of dominance and marginality, always determining the production, circulation, and reception of texts (Venuti 1995, 18).


The nostalgias of God—that is, one’s belief in the divine as an impetus of history1—

have neither been uniform nor unaltered in all these years. A believer’s memories of Him

emerged from a palimpsest of representations put together by the exigencies of remembrance

with all their concomitant discomforts and discontents. The intended unease evoked by the

word ‘nostalgias’ in the plural emanates expressly from this palimpsest. The word attests to the

multiplicities of retrospection and the mnemonic ambiguities inherent to our often conflicting

portrayals of the past (Walder 2011, 2). It speaks of tradition as an imbrication of memories

in such a way that “to understand a tradition, we must be interested in the history of

representations and in the mechanisms by which a memory of the past is created” (Inglebert

2011, 81).

This inevitably leads us to the realization that in order to interpret God in translation,

one should be able to tease out how He has been represented historically, and identify those

mechanisms through which such representations came into being. A recent article in the study

of religion affirms this, and undercores the tangency of language, history and translation in the

study of the divine:

Historical translation connects directly with the concept of tradition. In tradition, something is handed down across the temporal boundaries that stand between generations or even epochs. Christianity is a tradition in a descriptive sense because various practices and beliefs are handed down from generation to generation so that Christianity maintains approximately similar beliefs and practices throughout time […] Because Christianity is a tradition, it requires historical translation (DeJonge 2015, 32).2

Given that religion has always been “a site of language contact” (Spolsky 2003, 81), and even

of “interference” (Long 2005, 1), where the new depictions of the divine brought in through

translation may dispute existing formulations, God’s nostalgias are memories borne out of the

(in)commensurability of language. It is through language’s dissonances and conflicts, its

uncertainties and contradictions, that believers gain access to Him. It is through these

contradictions that He is experienced in ways that are so diverse and so incongruent that the

many appellatives created for God in Christianity have been deemed irreconcilable with those

1 This vision of God in history has resonances in Catholic teaching. In his first encyclical published in 2013, Pope Francis described faith as a “memoria futuri,” or a remembrance of the future, arguing that the efficacy of faith rests in its ability to move the course of history in accordance to a divine promise (11-12).

2 Other recent examples on the importance of translation in the study of religion, specifically Christianity, include Bräunlein (2012), Gerbner (2015) and López Parada (2013).


found in other religions (Bhabha 2004, 32-34, Stosch 2015). These differences have even

provoked “[r]eligious wars and the persecution of supposed heresies [that] arise inevitably from

the babel of tongues: men misconstrue and pervert each other’s meanings” (Steiner 1975, 62).

With these considerations in mind, I have ventured to reflect on God, memory and

language in this dissertation. Or more specifically, I have ventured to examine how God is

memorialized through translation in the Arte of Fray Francisco Blancas de San José. My

analysis of the Arte does not focus on its linguistic content, even if comments on the

grammatical schemata proposed therein are frequently unavoidable and are, in fact, expected.

Neither have I considered the Arte as a grammar that objectively describes an empirical

linguistic truth. Instead, I have read the Arte as a translation, and have interpreted its rules as

an effort to recast the perceived chaos of the colonial Other into the order of a Christian(ized)

discourse (cf. Bhabha 2004, 143, Gerbner 2015, 141, Rafael 2015, 83). My approach is in

response to Fountain’s observation (2015, 177-178) that research on missionary texts has paid

little attention to other components of the literary system outside the internal confines of the

publications themselves. Missionary grammars have been investigated generally for their

linguistic content, often neglecting the cultural and historical aspects of their production and

the identitarian politics of their authors. This dissertation moves away from the restrictive

frames of an analysis of a text (i.e., the printed output of authoring) to a more systemic

investigation of culture as a text and a unit of translation (Conway 2012, 265, Lafitte, Wall, and

Wittrock 2010). The Arte has been approached in this dissertation as a literary manifestation

of the social and cultural forces that saw its creation. This interconnectedness between the

material text and the larger texts outside it has been invariably referred to in translation studies

as a study of a (poly)system (Even-Zohar 2012 [1978/revised 1990]) and its predominant

poetics (Lefevere 1992).

Furthermore, this dissertation reframes what has mainly been a Eurocentric

understanding of the practice of translation (cf. Gentzler 2013, Hung and Wakabayashi 2005).

It does so not so much by debunking the existing paradigms (this would have been naïve and

counterintuitive to begin with), but rather by privileging an alternative and non-European

reading of a colonial work. Translation is relocated from its usual position in between texts,

and expanded to include processes other than the linear transfer of a unit of language from a

certain written text into another. It follows then that the translational afterlife of the Arte is


considered in this dissertation not only as a mechanical rendering of sentences across languages.

It is also as a rewriting of the text, a rereading of history, and a remembering—or better still,

a re-membering (Bhabha 2004, 63)—of memory, in which a text is disengaged from the

environment where it was first created and is re-constructed “for another time, in another

place, for another reader or audience” (Flotow 2011, 142).

Benjamin, in the epigraph to this chapter, is quoted as saying that only the redeemed

can receive the fullness of the past. While my intention is certainly more modest than

Benjamin’s vision of history and translation, I would like to think that writing this dissertation

does afford us an occasion to reflect on what Nandy (1998) refers to as “our relationship with

our past selves” (168).

Rediscovering a Tagalog Grammar

My dissertation links translation studies to language pedagogy, Hispanic-Filipino

studies, Philippine colonial history and literature, missionary linguistics, and cultural memory.

Tangentially, it also presents a historical description of Tagalog as it is recorded in the Arte.

Tagalog is the basis of the modern-day national language of the Philippines called Filipino,

whose definition and constitutive elements are, for all intents and purposes, still very much

debatable. To briefly illustrate the opposing views on Filipino as a language, we can compare

the opinion of Hidalgo (1998), who states that Filipino is “the non-existent, multi-language-

based national language to be developed… from the indigenous language” (24), to that of

Joaquin-Paz (2005, 27), who thinks that Filipino already exists and is, in fact, the amalgamation

of the many languages spoken in the archipelago (see also Agoncillo 1990, 552-553, Cruz 2003,

78-81, Manarpaac 2008, 88-89, Mendoza 2011, 46-48, Tinio 1990, 33).

It will be difficult to make sense of these polemics surrounding the national language

without resorting to a succinct preamble on the rich linguistic diversity of the Philippines.

There are more than a hundred languages spoken throughout this Southeast Asian nation of

7,107 islands, eight of which are considered major languages: (1) Tagalog, mainly in the capital

city of Manila and the central and southern plains of the island of Luzon; (2) Ilocano, primarily

in the northern region of Ilocos, Pangasinan, Tarlac and other nearby areas; (3) Pangasinense


or Pangasinan, mainly in the province of Pangasinan in Luzon; (4) Pampango or Kapampangan,

in the province of Pampanga in Luzon and other nearby areas; 5) Bikolano or Bikol, in the

Bicol region towards the south of Luzon; (6) Hiligaynon, in the provinces of Panay, Iloilo and

Negros in the islands of the Visayas and other nearby areas; (7) Cebuano, on the island of

Cebu and a number of provinces in the Visayas and Mindanao; and (8) Waray, in the provinces

of Leyte, Samar and other nearby areas (Constantino 1971, 116-117, McFarland 1994, 15-21,

2008, 132) [See Figure 1].

The term ‘Pilipino’ (spelled with a p) was first used in 1959. It was coined not through

legislation but rather through a memorandum signed by Jose E. Romero, the secretary of the

Department of Education at that time, to avoid using the long-winded phrase ‘Wikang

Pambansa’ [National Language] in reference to the language being developed by the then

National Language Institute (Manarpaac, 88, Sibayan 1986, 538). ‘Wikang Pambansa,’ on the

other hand, was used for the first time in 1939 by President Manuel Luis Quezon to refer to

Tagalog, which had been chosen as the national language much to the dismay of non-Tagalogs,

particularly those in the Visayan region (Garcia 1992, 124, Gonzalez 1998, 487). Voicing the

popular opinion, National Artist for Literature Rolando Tinio (1990) bemoans that “[t]he idea

of Tagalog as national language or basis for it has always been repugnant to non-Tagalogs”

(19). The difficulty of referring to the Philippines as a single and homogenous site is based on

such privileging of Tagalog over other ethnolinguistic groups in the country. Indeed, even in

this dissertation, my use of the Philippines to reference what may be a predominantly Tagalog

concern is a problematic synecdoche that should be disclosed at the outset.

The change from ‘Pilipino’ into ‘Filipino’ happened upon the promulgation of the 1973

Constitution during the Martial Law period, and was ratified anew in the 1987 Constitution

after the fall of the dictator Ferdinand Marcos (Tupas 2014, 593). It was claimed that the

orthographic shift from p to f is consistent with the newfound openness of Filipino to new

lexical items from both foreign and regional languages (Bernardo 2008, 81). The new Filipino

alphabet, consisting of all the letters of the English alphabet with the addition of the ñ from

Spanish and the ng from Tagalog, was introduced afterwards in keeping with the constitutional

mandate of further developing the language. ‘Filipino’ is the recommended spelling in the

Philippines today to refer to the national language, while ‘Pilipino’ is used, in Filipino, to refer

to the person.


FIGURE 1. Map of the Major Languages of the Philippines (Source: Webpage of Dr. Carl Rubino, http://iloko.tripod.com/Philmap.gif)

http://iloko.tripod.com/Philmap.gif


The linguistic situation in the Philippines, convoluted as it already is, would still be

incomplete if we failed to factor in the influence of foreign languages. Philippine local

languages co-exist and compete with the languages of the nation’s colonial past in the spaces

of everyday interactions, as well as in the privileged spaces of literary canonicity. English, a

product of the American occupation of the islands from 1898 to 1946, is legally acknowledged

as the co-official language in spite of a gradual language drift of the variety spoken locally from

the more recognizable international varieties (Malicsi 2010). English enjoys a very positive

reputation in the country, especially since it is regarded as the language of government,

commerce, education and the elite. It has an extensive body of literature that continues to

flourish in the writings of Filipino writers who are either based in the country or are in the

diaspora (Gonzalez 2008, 18).

Then there is Spanish. According to the 1990 national census, where data on the usage

of Spanish was last collected, only 2,657 people in a domestic population of around sixty

million knew the language (Galván Guijo 2007, 163). Yet despite the demographic

insignificance of Spanish and its invisibility in everyday discourses, Spanish-language materials

remain an important textual resource in the study of Philippine culture and society. As Lifshey

(2012) points out in his comparison of the Hispanic literatures of the Philippines and

Equatorial Guinea,

[i]t was an imperial tongue, Spanish, not a vernacular language, that ended up yielding the first novels in both places. These fictions suffered from the same fate of being alienated from a home audience, who could not be counted on to know Spanish (5).

Translation plays a significant gatekeeping role in providing Filipino readers access to these

materials (Testa-de Ocampo 2011). Other than the works of celebrated nationalist writers such

as José Rizal, Marcelo del Pilar and Graciano López Jaena, who wrote nationalist literature in

the late 19th century, or later Hispanists such as Manuel Bernabé, Jesús Balmori and Claro M.

Recto, who wrote during the American occupation, many works by Hispanic and Hispanic-

Filipino authors, particularly from the early years of colonization, remain largely ignored. Only

a handful of texts from this very limited list (notably those that are obligatory readings in

Philippine high schools) are filtered through the linguistic differences by way of translation.


The foregoing descriptive sketch of the linguistic situation in the Philippines shows

why writing this dissertation from a translational perspective is significant. This dissertation

interrogates the position of Tagalog in the development of a national language based on a

Spanish-language resource that is still not readily accessible to readers. It expands the existing

Filipino canon by establishing connections between forms of colonial literacy practiced during

the early stages of colonization and the hybridized literary traditions of the later periods. It

likewise relates Tagalog missionary linguistics as an authorial genre to other similar

manifestations of pastoral language (i.e., a language used for ecclesiastical purposes) in contexts

that share a common cultural memory with the Philippines.

Missionary linguistics is defined by Ridruejo (2007) as

[el] conjunto de estudios sobre lenguas no europeas redactados entre el final del siglo XV y la mitad del siglo XIX, realizados por clérigos cristianos y con el objetivo de facilitar mediante el acceso de tales lenguas la evangelización de los pueblos que las hablaban (435).

[The body of studies on non-European languages composed by Christian priests between the end of the fifteenth century and the middle of the nineteenth with the objective of facilitating the evangelization of peoples by means of accessing the languages they spoke.]

Ridruejo’s definition recognizes the pioneering work of Christian missionaries in systematically

and scientifically studying the indigenous languages of the colonies, and in ‘reducing’ them (a

term whose political implications we will discuss elsewhere) to morphological and syntactic

rules to help fellow missionaries learn non-Latinate languages for the purposes of

evangelization. Missionaries wrote grammars and rudimentary wordlists that became

precursors to modern-day glossaries and dictionaries, as well as doctrines, catechisms, and

other devotional texts in the vernaculars. Gathered and organized generally through the

impulse of the colonial enterprise (Zimmermann and Kellermeier-Rehbein 2015, v), the data

contained in these texts were the first written records of the linguistic repertoires, or the

indigenous practices of speaking and writing, for many of these languages (Ridruejo 2007, 437).

It is for this reason that although Stolz and Warnke (2015, 18) differentiate missionary

linguistics (i.e., produced during first wave of colonialism by Iberian nations from 1492 to

1821) from colonial linguistics (i.e., second wave of colonialism by other nations from 1884 to


1945), I have decided to use the terms ‘missionary,’ ‘colonial,’ and ‘missionary-colonial’

interchangeably throughout my dissertation.

The concern for researching colonial linguistics has been recently brought to the fore

by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) through

its register called Memory of the World. The register, which arose as a result of the establishment

of a homonymous UNESCO program in 1992, maintains that

the world’s documentary heritage belongs to all, should be fully preserved and protected for all and, with due recognition of cultural mores and practicalities, should be permanently accessible to all without hindrance (Edmondson 2002, 6).

In 2015 UNESCO formally inscribed in this register a collection of twelve eighteenth-century

texts kept in the AGI in Seville, Spain. Under the heading Indigenous Language Vocabulary from

the New World Translated into Spanish, the collection covers thirty-five American and Asian

languages spoken in former Spanish colonies.

Of the languages in the list, Tagalog was the first one mentioned in the nomination

presented by the team of Spanish scholars. The Tagalog text in question came from an

attachment to a 1788 letter to Antonio Porlier, the secretary of the so-called ‘Ministerio de

Gracia y Justicia’ [Ministry of Grace and Justice], which oversaw the religious and judicial

affairs in Spain and its colonies. The letter, consisting of four leaves printed on both sides, was

sent by Félix Berenguer de Marquina, governor-general of the Philippine islands at that time,

in response to a request made by the Empress Catherine the Great of Russia, who wanted to

publish a universal list of words from the languages of the world (AGI MP-

ESCRITURA_CIFRA,35). The other Philippine languages represented in the collection were

Bikolano, Pangasinense, Zambal (spoken mainly in the province of Zambales), a language

called in the document as Cagayán, which was presumably one of the languages3 spoken in the

Cagayan Valley on the northeastern tip of the island of Luzon, and Bisaya.4 Even though the

3 In his 1878 geography book, the Spanish author Felipe María de Govantes noted that the people of Cagayan spoke Ibanag, Ilanes(?) and Ilocano (108). 4 The name ‘Bisaya’ encompasses a wide range of languages spoken in Central Philippines and many parts of the southern island of Mindanao (Hau and Tinio 2003, 342, Ruiz Rufino 2003, 33, Sueiro Justel 2007, 173-174). Along with Tagalog, Bisaya has been traditionally regarded as one of the two ‘mother languages’ of the Philippines (Mallat 1983 [1846], 358).


scope of the collection is limited and does not precisely coincide with the period and the text

type that I have studied for this dissertation, the inscription of these texts in the UNESCO

register draws attention to the place of colonial linguistics in the creation of cultural memory

and its value in heritage conservation. It highlights the problems and prospects of accessibility

as a vital heritage issue on a global scale, especially in the context of many postcolonial societies

such as the Philippines where the ability to refer to the past often depends on a complementary

ability of corroborating or contradicting historical accounts by means of documentation held

beyond their immediate geographic and linguistic borderlines.

Questions of Language as Matters of History

While empiricism had become almost dogmatic in linguistics following the

breakthroughs of the Chomskian paradigm (King-Farlow 1972, Sampson 1978), literary

theorist Derek Attridge (1988) maintains that “a neutral descriptive linguistics is impossible”

(119) because languages exist in environments in constant flux. This statement, made almost

three decades ago, surprisingly resonates with recent anthropological thought. In his work on

crosslinguistic comparisons, Haspelmath (2010) challenges the universality of grammatical

categories by stating that

I assume that grammatical categories are not crosslinguistic entities (either universally available or universally instantiated). Each language has its own categories, and to describe a language, a linguist must create a set of DESCRIPTIVE CATEGORIES for it, and speakers must create mental categories during language acquisition. These categories are often similar across languages, but the similarities and differences between languages cannot be captured by equating categories across languages (664, emphasis in the original).

The relativism of Haspelmath’s position, while met with opposition in some sectors of the

linguistics community (cf. Newmeyer 2010), has long achieved disciplinary salience in

translation studies. German philosopher Friedrich Schleiermacher (2004 [1813]), for example,

insists that

[h]ere more than anywhere is it the case that any language, despite the different concurrently and consecutively held views expressed in it, encompasses within itself a single system of ideas which, precisely because they are contiguous, linking and


complementing one another within this language, form a single whole—whole several parts, however, do not correspond to those to be found in comparable systems in other languages, and this is scarcely excluding “God” and “to be,” the noun of nouns and the verb of verbs. For even universals, which lie outside the realm of particularity, are illumined and colored by the particular (59-60, my emphasis).

The same can be said about missionary linguistics. The grammatical categorization proposed

by missionary-colonial authors “was not a rigid matrix, and was open to question and

reinterpretation” (Gilmour 2006, 62-63). The usage of certain words, categories and structures

was aimed at subsuming the grammatized language within the prevalent tropes of meaning-

making that made use of the colonial divine as a fundamental analytic construct.

Nevertheless, a stronger synonymy has yet to be established between grammar and

translation in the missionary-colonial context. In the available scholarly literature, it appears

that the closest association ever made with respect to colonial grammars came from Zwartjes

(2012), who explained the contributions of missionary linguistics to translation studies thusly:

In order to fill in the slots from Greco-Latin-based paradigms, missionaries ‘translated’ each Latin grammatical category, such as the infinitive, the supine, and the participle, into the indigenous languages, often through the Spanish ‘circunloquios’ or periphrastic translations into Spanish from Latin. Most metalinguistic terms in Spanish are derived from Latin, which often used calques from Greek (8).

Venuti (2012, 14) makes a related observation when he intimates that grammarians in the

Antiquity performed translational acts in writing their linguistic and textual analyses. He asserts

elsewhere that grammatization was one of the many tools of translation (Venuti 1999, 171). A

more general assessment about the connection between translating and writing contends

“every act of writing is already a translation” (Gentzler 2002, 198). Nobel laureate Octavio Paz

(1971) expresses the same idea with more flair:

Cada texto es único y, simultáneamente, es la traducción de otro texto. Ningún texto es enteramente original porque el lenguaje mismo, en su esencia, es ya una traducción: primero, del mundo no-verbal y, después, porque cada signo y cada frase es la traducción de otro signo y de otra frase (9).

[Each text is unique and, at the same time, it is the translation of another text. No text is entirely original because language itself, in its essence, is already a translation: firstly, of the nonverbal world and secondly, since every sign and every phrase is the translation of another sign and another phrase (Paz 1992 [1971], 154).]


I have attempted in this dissertation to fill in some of the interdisciplinary lacunae in

translation studies, missionary linguistics, and cultural memory. It has become imperative for

me to examine the Arte and its cultural entanglements, and to transpose any conventional

empiricist reading in the existing philological literature into the disciplinary parameters of

translation as a form of writing and re-membering. “For just as language is a historical entity,”

Schleiermacher writes, “so too is it impossible to appreciate it rightly without an appreciation

of its history” (51). In other words, while the lexical, orthographical and syntactic features of

the languages in the Arte have been scrutinized as components of grammar, these features have

been qualified throughout the critical introduction as creative and historicized responses to the

authorial demands of producing this specific genre of writing.

My exegesis is founded on the principle of interpretative immanence in missionary

linguistics, which views colonial grammars as cultural actions, outcomes and objects that take

into account the epistemological, social and cultural perspectives of the period when these

texts were produced (Cuevas Alonso 2011, 53). Such an approach, Cuevas Alonso further

explains (54), should point out the commonalities in the prevailing models of grammatical

production, the extent of contrastive activity, the establishment of reference languages, and

the linguistic, acculturating and moralizing value of the exemplars. This explanation calls to

mind the almost axiomatic view of language in translation studies as “only one of the aspects

that must be taken into consideration during the translating act” (Cavagnoli 2013, 331-332, my

emphasis). For this reason, many social, political, cultural and religious elements in Philippine

colonial society have been deictically referenced in the critical introduction. Given that the

author of the Arte came from a very specific background that was closely linked to the Spanish

colonial system (Agoncillo, 79, Díaz-Trechuelo 2001, 84), and since recent scholarship in both

missionary linguistics and translation theory highlights the importance of the originators of the

text as an area of inquiry (Wilson and Gerber 2012, Zimmermann 2003, 12), the profile of

Fray Francisco Blancas de San José as a Catholic missionary and as a grammarian has been

amply described.

Over and above these circumstantial concerns, however, any dissertation in translation

studies should be able to address the practice of translation itself. The accompanying

translation of the Arte is a commentary on language both as an object of study and as a meta-

analytic apparatus in the examination of the same, or what Klinger (2015) describes as the “the


relation between language as medium and language as object” (11). It gives a critique of the

interpretative propositions of its ST by highlighting the “erratic, eccentric strategy of authority

of colonial discourse” (Bhabha 2004, 129), and by underscoring the fundamental alterity of the

genre once it has been rendered in the TT. On an operational level, I have taken this as an

opportunity to apply the concepts of foreignization and domestication in translation studies

to researching missionary linguistics. If linguistic convergence is an intrinsic attribute of any

missionary text, the interrogation of the foreignness in and of the Arte (or its domesticity, as

the case may be) is indispensable in recognizing its translationality, and in historically

examining the external conditions under which it has been read (cf. Venuti 1995, 18).

The concepts of foreignization and domestication can be further stretched to cover the

idea of (in)commensurability. From an interdisciplinary standpoint, (in)commensurability

poses related challenges in the study of missionary linguistics (Dube 2004, Fernández

Rodríguez 2012), translation studies (Bandia 2012, Dizdar 2008, Hayes 2012), and history and

historiography (Chakrabarty 2000, Howland 2003, Lianeri 2014). It is also a core procedural

problem in reconciling the history of scientific inquiry with the history of translation (Olohan

2014). On a more localized scale, (in)commensurability can be considered as constitutive of

translation praxis itself. According to Gentzler (2002), translation is “finding the solution, a

signifier that best represents those signifying elements of […] a multifaceted and polyvalent

original” (200). This suggests that a translation solution is at best an approximation that

balances off the tensions between what is considered domestic and what is considered foreign

at any given time. The (in)commensurability of translation, in other words, depends on ever-

evolving schemata of allowable discourses, acceptable equivalences, and even controversial

loyalties, which seldom emerge from an exclusively empirical analysis of grammar.

My reading of the Arte as a translation subscribes to the idea that the displacement of

the ST from a source culture into a target culture—whether at the moment of its first

conception, or in a subsequent attempt to imbue it with an afterlife—requires certain

approaches to reflect the shifts in authorial purpose, heuristic modality, and intended

readership. While specifically focusing on the Arte, this dissertation has considered missionary

writings from other authors, areas and periods. I have written elsewhere (Sales 2015a) that in

order to analyze the translationality of missionary grammars, it is paramount to scrutinize how

intertextual practices of authoring collated different memories within the patchwork of the


text being studied. This is precisely what re-membering is, where the previously dismembered

elements of the past are put together to construct a historical version of the past for the present

(Bhabha 2004, 63, also cited by Niranjana 1992, 172-173), a piecing together of what Santoyo

(2006) terms as the “tesserae” (13) of history through translation.

Methodological Considerations

“Translation, like other forms of written production, is open to a scholarly analysis,”

Gouanvic (2002, 95) insists. To regard translation as a discipline worthy of scholarly analysis

is to subject it to the rigor of scientific inquiry. It has been suggested, however, that the

scientific method remains a pitfall in the field. Holmes (2000 [1972], 173) reports that there

was a confusion as to what procedures should be applied in investigating translation studies

during its early years as an academic discipline. Writing more than three decades later,

Tymoczko (2007) upholds Holmes’s view, noting that

[a] particular stumbling block for many scholars in the field is an adequate understanding of scientific concepts and methods and the ways in which they intersect with research on translation (141).

She stresses that the conclusions that any research in translation studies generates must rest

on observable data gathered from the world of experience (141-142).

At first glance, the rigor of the scientific method seems to go against the interpretative

grain of language, translation and history, and more so if we remember that this dissertation

has adopted a non-empiricist approach in studying the Arte. Subjectivity debilitates reasoning

(or so it seems), and pushes translation away from the perimeters of accepted research agendas.

Translation can never be objective anyway (Bandia 2006, 48-49, Bastin 2006, 123, Cheung

2012, 156, Nelson 2007, 362), and its objects ought to be seen as constructions devised by

translators and translation scholars for their specific purposes (Foz 2006, 142).

It is precisely these subjectivities that supplement the praxis and theory of translation

studies. As Tymozcko further clarifies,


[i]t is not so much that partialities or presuppositions are bad things in translating or translation research. They often lead to very interesting and original translations and to creative scholarly investigations of translational phenomena. Postpositivist views acknowledge that such frameworks, perspectives, and positionalities are impossible to avoid, and they are essential in translation and translation scholarship that has an engaged, activist, ideological, or ethical dimension (162-163).

In recognizing the translator’s subjective agency, we also recognize the humanist and

humanizing ends of the profession. Science is often simplistically differentiated from the

literature on the basis of the former’s supposed neutrality that evades the imagined and the

real, while the latter is characterized in terms of its inconformity with objective reality (Gómez-

Esteban 2011). Pym (1998), however, cautions us against this dehumanized view of the

scientific method, particularly in its application to translation. He writes that

[w]e are inescapably in the human sciences, the humanities, the part of business where the subjectivity of the researcher—or the intersubjectivity of the research community—is just as social and just as historical as the translators and translations we are looking at (26-27).

However, he conversely warns us against a desultory kind of research that disregards sound

reasoning in the selection and interpretation of data:

I am proposing a method that is activated right at the beginning of any research project, both in the selection of the important research question and in the concomitant engagement of the researcher’s subjectivity. We cannot simply draw a few translations out of the hat then apply the recommended method. One should have good reasons for working on this particular object in this particular way, and the reasons should in both cases minimally concern people, human values, not abstract results (27, emphasis in the original).

In other words, translation research must abide by the dictum that the act of translation is an

informed choice. The components that make up the translational whole, though inevitably

subjected to personal subjectivities, are not selected haphazardly, and are instead adopted

following certain decision-making processes (Mukherjee 2014, Munday 2013).

The research methodology I have implemented in this dissertation is in line with the

considerations outlined above. I am very much aware that my own take as a translator and a

translation scholar are modulated by my own positionality as a Filipino Hispanist from an

intensely Catholic background who has done much of his postgraduate research on missionary

linguistics outside the Philippines. This is reflected in my preference for establishing


meaningful connections between Hispanism and the scholarly literature on the Philippines

written largely from an Asian perspective. Admittedly, this is a difficult position to assume

because of the supposed anomaly of studying Asia from a Hispanic point of view (cf. Lifshey

2016, 7-8, Sales 2015b). But as a Hispanist, I consider this approach as a reclaiming of a Spanish

text—a repatriation, if you will—through an analysis of its associations with the

grammatization of Tagalog. It also underscores the ambiguities of the Philippines as a locus

that is profoundly Asian and yet, at the same time, profoundly Hispanic (cf. Ellis 2012, 129).

The ST for this project is the first edition of the Arte. I have consulted three formats

of this edition: (1) the printed copy filed as R/32904, to which I was granted a special two-day

access when I visited the BNE in Madrid in July 2014; (2) the complete facsimile of the work

included in the study of Spanish linguist Antonio Quilis (1997); and (3) the digitized version

of the same BNE copy of the Arte, which is publicly available through the online portal

Biblioteca digital hispánica [Hispanic Digital Library]. The digitized copy has proven to be a

convenient format in completing the translation component of my dissertation since the visual

properties of the file can be manipulated to allow for greater ease and clarity in deciphering

the letters in the ST. Regular cross-checks with the Quilis edition had to be performed as a

verificatory procedure. The BNE document, on the other hand, has been examined closely for

its paratextual components such as the physical quality of the paper and the extraneous

handwritten notations presumably added by a former owner of this copy. I have also consulted

two copies of the Arte’s third edition of 1832. The first one is located at the BNE, filed as

HA/15935 and its corresponding digitized version, and another at the Houghton Library of

Harvard University, filed as 2234.11.7*. Additionally, I have discovered a copy of the 1832

edition serendipitously at the State Library of Victoria (SLV) in Melbourne filed under call

number RARES 499.21 F84. This copy is not included in the bibliographies on Philippine

missionary linguistics by European and American scholars. Sueiro Justel (2007), in fact, has

not mentioned this Australian copy in his impressive and almost exhaustive list of missionary

grammars of Philippine languages. Save for some slight corrosion on pages 909 to 919, the

SLV copy is in a good condition overall. I have also tried to access the second edition of 1752,

whose two remaining copies, according to Quilis (31), were to be found in the Monastery of

Santo Tomás in Ávila, Spain, and the National Library of the Philippines in Manila. I went to

the National Library in October 2015, which at the time was in a period of refurbishment, and


found no trace of the second edition. Rather than view this as a setback, I consider it as a

potential research direction for future projects in archival archaeology and conservation.

Since it would be inconclusive to write a translation history based on an isolated

translation (Pym 1998, 39), I have referred to other archival documents as interpretative

references in writing my critical introduction to the Arte, which could potentially show traces

of translationality obscured over time (cf. Munday 2013, 126). I have used the digitized BNE

copies of other missionary grammars of Tagalog, as well as those of Philippine missionary

histories and related catechetical writings. I have likewise visited the AGI in Seville, the AFIO

in Madrid, and the Biblioteca de Santa Cruz in Valladolid to consult their respective

collections.5 Lastly, given that the Ministry of Culture of Spain has embarked on a wholescale

digitization of correspondences and other public records kept in various archives in the

country, I have consulted many of these documents online via the database Portal de Archivos

Españoles [Spanish Archives Portal], or PARES.

My critical introduction veers away from what Bastin (2006) calls as an “evenemential”

history of translation history (117), which is peopled with the great names and events of history

and is narrated unproblematically from the traditional archival sources. Even though the Arte

and Blancas have bracketed much of the exegetical content, I have consistently made

references to other institutional agents and networks and non-traditional translational products

and practices. I have adopted Larkosh’s stand (2002) that

[t]ranslation challenges the conventions of historiography by proposing a historical perspective that is never univocal, for in translation events often occur in a different order, not only chronologically but epistemologically as well (104, emphasis in the original).

I subscribe to the idea that a study of translation as a memory of the colonial divine should

not be timed in exact centurial periodizations, nor should a history of translation be

represented as a mere progression of successive translational events (cf. Foz 2006, O’Sullivan

2012). The knowledge that informs a text, whether as deictic references to culture-specific

items called ‘realia’ (Franco Aixelá 1996, Leppihalme 2010), or as stylistic and textual features,

is a refraction of the prevailing belief systems that do not neatly lend themselves to a

5 I also made arrangements to revisit the Archivo de Agustinos Filipinos, which I had visited several times when I was doing my Master’s degree at the University of Valladolid, but my research trip in July 2014 coincided with a general meeting that the Augustinian order was celebrating at that time.


chronological sequence (Sales 2015a). Therefore, for the purposes of analyzing the Arte as an

example of missionary-colonial writing, my analysis has covered events and agents that were

non-contemporaneous to the creation of the Arte. References to scriptural passages, patristic

texts, and other grammars have also been included as historicized thematic reiterations.

The Arte is a rather long ST. Because of logistical constraints, I have decided to limit

my translation to chapters that have been purposively pre-selected to answer my research

questions. The prefatory matter of the 1610 edition, which was omitted in the 1832 edition,

has been included in the translated corpus. With the exception of the list of errata, which is

ancillary to the production of the ST, and the marginalia, which has been expanded in the

footnotes and the annotation, the prefatory matter has been translated and discussed in its

entirety. This section is illustrative of the dynamics of colonial publishing in the Philippines,

which in turn had very strong links to the organization of the Catholic missions in the country

and the profile of its missionary author. As regards the grammatical content, I have elected to

translate the entire first section of the Arte because it contains the summary of the grammatical

rules of Tagalog. From the second section, which looks into the peculiarities of verbal

repertoires in specific contexts of speaking, I have selected all the subsections of the first

chapter on the active conjugations and the first six subsections of the second chapter on the

passive conjugations. My constructed ST is not an exhaustive grammatical corpus of Tagalog.

Nevertheless, given that what this dissertation investigates is the translationality of the Arte in

commemorating the Christian God, and not the structural equivalences of the grammatical

rules per se, I am convinced that the translated corpus is able to account for translationality

across registers and text types.

In translating the Arte, I have encountered several words that are no longer used in

modern-day Tagalog. I have opted to consult two Tagalog-Castilian dictionaries as lexical

resources. The first one, Vocabulario de lengua tagala [Vocabulary of the Tagalog Language] by

the Franciscan Pedro de San Buenaventura (SB), was published in 1613 in the town of Pila,

Laguna, about 83 kilometers south of Manila. The edition I have acquired is a 1994 facsimile

reconstructed from the SB copies at the AFIO and the British Library. It was published by

Librerías París-Valencia with a foreword by Fr. Cayetano Fuertes Sánchez, the same AFIO

archivist-librarian who hosted me during my research trip in Spain. The other dictionary I have

consulted was the similarly titled Vocabulario de la lengua tagala of the Jesuits Juan de Noceda


and Pedro de Sanlúcar (NS), generally regarded as the most authoritative missionary-colonial

dictionary of Tagalog (Retana 1895, 22). The NS originally started as a project of Blancas

himself before it was handed over to fellow Dominicans Fr. Tomás de los Reyes and Fr. Miguel

Ruiz, and finally to the Jesuits (Francisco 2011, 100-101). Using the SB as a lexical reference

was an important confirmatory step in studying the Arte. For one, that both texts were

published almost at the same time demonstrates that the variety of Tagalog explained in the

Arte was similar to the Tagalog of the SB. Since the Arte was published in the northern portion

of the Tagalog-speaking region of the Philippines while the SB was printed in the south, a

comparison between these two texts has helped determine which structural features of Tagalog

given in the Arte were dialectal and which ones were general. However, there is a certain

preference in the SB for defining Castilian terms in Tagalog, as can be gleaned from the detailed

entries in the first part of the dictionary. The reverse, on the other hand, is not true. The section

from Tagalog to Castilian in the SB is relatively scant, numbering to around ninety pages as

opposed to more than six hundred pages in the opposite direction. This is where the NS

became useful, as definitions of Tagalog words in Castilian are explained at length. The NS

also provides sample sentences that have been quite helpful in formulating several translation

solutions in the TT.

Stylistic Questions in a Hybridized Text

Texts authored under the colonial condition are cultural hybrids that contain the

anxieties, ambivalences and associations of the colonial encounter (Nelson 2007, Wolf 2000).

Cultural hybridization is a productive feature of great functional and symbolic significance in

the ontology of a colonial text. If culture is a text, as I have earlier suggested, it follows that

language is also a text. Objectifying language for the purposes of grammatical inquiry, as in the

case of the Arte and other missionary grammars, should thus be regarded as a translational

action that transfers the conceptualizations of language into the rational and replicable forms

of grammar and their accompanying instantiations in pragmatic usage (cf. Steadman-Jones

2007).


In order to underscore the hybridity of the Arte, this dissertation presents both the

critical introduction and the translation as deliberately foreignized TTs of an already

foreignized ST. Instead of taking the blocks of text in Tagalog, Castilian and Latin, the three

interspersed languages in the Arte, as three separate units of translational meaning, I have

considered their co-occurrence in a single translational space as a fundamental ST feature that

must be carried into the TT. My strategy has been to translate the Spanish parts of the Arte

into an archaized variety of English with the Latin and Tagalog parts retained as much as

possible in the manner they appear in the ST. The Latin parts have been retained because of

Latin’s symbolic role as a sacred language and as a marker of privilege. This will be discussed

in detail in the following chapters. The Tagalog parts, on the other hand, have been retained

because of their function as the subject of grammatization. The TT has not concealed the

hybridity of the ST, and has instead made it even more pronounced by eschewing fluent

structures in favor of unwieldy and even non-fluent constructions. The difficulty resulting

from these translation choices mirrors of the discomforts of cultural memory, and the decision

to transfer these discomforts into the TT has been a thoroughly interventionist and political

choice on my part. In choosing to translate in this manner, I have brought the Arte to a specific

sector of my target readership. My assumed readers are those that have disciplinary interests

in Philippine history, literature and language, but whose competence in reading this historical

variety of Spanish and this particular genre of writing does not allow them to fully engage with

the ST. They would have had the sufficient training to ground their reading of my translation,

and would, in fact, find it beneficial to see the ST transpire in the TT through an awkward and

non-natural translationese. While the objective of my translation is to make the Arte accessible

to these readers, this does not necessarily imply that my translation should be popularized. As

I will later on show, missionary-colonial grammars were typically created with an exclusivist

purpose, which was to convert an indigenous language into a functional instrument for

preaching what was regarded as the one true church. The grammar was addressed to the clerisy

of this early modern society, the members of the religious orders themselves, who studied

Tagalog to mediate between the colony and the colonial divine.

But why archaized? This again has been a conscious decision. An archaized text is not

necessarily an archaic text (Şerban 2005, 82-83). While a text is considered archaic when the

elements used in its first conception have become outmoded over time, an archaized text is an


textual afterlife that comes as a result of deliberately injecting, preserving or accentuating

archaizing elements in a recomposition so as to convey the “remoteness of time and place

through the use of a mock antique language” (Bassnett 2002, 77). Although I have taken certain

creative licenses to modernize parts of my translation in the interest of readability, my

translation on the whole is detached from the current linguistic and literary mise-en-page.

An archaized translation of the Arte recreates what Bhabha (2004) refers to as the Third

Space, that “contradictory and ambivalent space of enunciation” that dramatizes the difficult

relationship between the translator and the translated (36-37). The Third Space allows my

readers to gain access into the Arte, and to obtain some glimpses of the memory it contains,

while at the same time keeping them at a certain spectatorial and subjectified distance. In other

words, by using an archaizing approach, I am reminding my readers that the ST had been first

written with a different audience and purpose in mind. The access they have now gained

through translation is constricted by Blancas’s own reading of Tagalog and my own

interpretation of the Arte as a hybrid text. “To write the story of the nation,” Bhabha further

explains, “demands that we articulate that archaic ambivalence that informs the time of

modernity” (142, emphasis in the original). My translation, in my opinion, articulates such

archaic ambivalence. It shows my readers that the Arte is a co-optation of an indigenous

language through missionary grammatization, in which the resulting impenetrability in many

of its chapters is a political commentary that should be replicated in translation. Carbonell i

Cortés (2014) calls this as the “estranging effect” of translation (46). In my translation, the

readers are compelled to position themselves neither here nor there within the interstitial niche

of the postcolonial afterlife where, as Gaddis Rose (2006) puts it, “the colonial mentality, while

perhaps muted, can clearly be inferred” (176). They are constantly made aware that there is

another text that antedates the text they are reading, and that each of these texts confronts

distinct realities and ways of knowing. The ability of my intended readers to judge the TT as

an archaized rendition of the ST emphasizes the imperfections of re-membering, and the

rootedness of cultural memory to an often alienating and distanced past.

Nevertheless, the distance I have created in my translation needs to be accommodated

within the idiolectal confines of my own linguistic competence, or my so-called “universe of

discourse” (Zlateva 1990, 32). The choice is complicated in the case of English as a target

language since its status as an international language forces a translator to pick a variety out of


the many possibilities there are. Philippine English (Gonzalez 2008, Tupas 2008) is for me the

most obvious and logical choice, insofar as translators typically use their own pre-translational

competence to carry out their work (Buzelin 2005, 34). To this Mukherjee (2014) adds that

the translator would seek to unveil the linguistic, social, historical and cultural traces of her/his cultural world to be revealed to new readers embedded in different linguistic and cultural webs (133).

Simply put, I recognize as a translator that my intended readers and I most likely share this

particular variety of English, and this commonality allows me to convey the nuances of my

translation more strongly and convincingly.

While it would superfluous to give a complete description of Philippine English, we

can mention two distinguishing features that are of interest to this dissertation. Unlike in many

other countries whose English follows the British standard, the exonormative standard in

Philippine English is the American variety (Lim 2012, 279). The lexical and orthographic

similarities between Philippine and American Englishes are textual reminders of the complex

historical questions that have impinged on the development of a local variety of English and

its cultural significance to the Filipino identity. There is also a propensity in Philippine English

to code-switch and to source loanwords from both indigenous and foreign languages

(Baklanova 2004, Bautista and Gonzalez 2006). This creates a rich lexical inventory that can

be activated in particular registers and be associated with specific political and cultural

connotations (Rafael 2016, 1-5). The prime example of this in my dissertation is the Spanish

word ‘Indio,’ which I have decided to retain. Whereas the term is commonly rendered as

‘Indian’ or ‘indigene’ in most studies written in English on the Spanish colonial period, ‘Indio’

possesses a connotative potency in Philippine English that indexes the violence of colonial

representation and its legitimizing capacity of naming a colonial subject.

Another factor I have considered in translating the Arte was the linguistic features of

the language of the ST. Early modern Castilian orthography was particularly inconsistent

(Arzápalo Marín 2005, 100). Most spelling conventions in the ST have been retained in the TT

[See Table 1]. These conventions have also been applied to the citations from historical texts

cited in the critical introduction. This approach does not adhere to the transcription

conventions for historical linguistics, which tend to modernize the glyphs (cf. Barroso Castro


and Sánchez de Bustos 1990). It is instead consistent with the overall archaizing strategy of my

dissertation. In retaining these glyphs, I affirm their paratextual value as a source of

translational meaning in the TT.

TABLE 1. Spelling Conventions in the Untranslated Parts of the TT

1. The u, sometimes used to represent a v and vice versa, has been retained.

2. The archaic long s appears as ʃ, and is a variant of s.

3. The c cedilla (ç), which at present is written as a z or a c, is retained.

4. The e caudata (ę), which stands for ae, is likewise retained.

5. The grapheme Ʒ is a ue, as in the word qƷ ‘que’. This has not been spelled out in the TT.

6. The tilde over certain vowels signals the omission of the succeeding letter n in certain

constructions (e.g., sciẽtiam for scientiam, cõsuelo for consuelo). The missing n is not supplied in the TT.

7. The apostrophe (ʾ) in the final position represents the elision of –us (e.g., defectʾ for defectus, divinit’ for divinitus). The elided part is not supplied.

8. The symbol &c. in the ST means ‘and so forth,’ an equivalent to the modern etc. This has been retained in the TT.

Many Tagalog words in the exemplars have also been retained in their archaic spellings.

While it is preferred in modern Filipino that words such as ‘kapakanan’ [benefit] or ‘kami’ [we]

be spelled with the letter k, these words have been written in the TT in their archaic spelling

with the letter c (i.e., capacanan and cami). Another important difference was the use of the letter

r in those words that would have been spelled out with a d in modern Filipino (e.g., the obsolete

silir instead of silid). Note also that the grapheme g has been used with the letter n to represent

the /ŋ/ sound, and to distinguish it from /g/, represented with the grapheme g. There are

some Tagalog exemplars whose meanings would have been difficult to deduce because of the

archaic orthography. Modern-day spellings in these cases have been explicitated through a (≈),

although no further intervention has been carried out. Commas in the ST were sometimes

used to mark quotations (e.g., ,yo, instead of ‘yo’); these have been replaced with single

quotation marks in my translation. The Arte also made use of the following composite symbol

(.|.) as a separator. This has been simplified as a vertical bar (|) in the TT for convenience and

clarity. The pilcrow (¶) and the swung dash (∼) that marked paragraph and page breaks in the

ST have been omitted in the TT to facilitate reading, with the exception of the chapter entitled


Evangelii minister and the chapter titles, in which these symbols have been entirely retained to

give the readers a paratextual approximation of the ST. The star-shaped symbol () used as a

section divider in the ST has also been retained in the TT.

Since patristic and biblical passages have been kept in Latin in the TT to recreate the

compositional intricacies of the ST, a translation into English is appended as a gloss after each

section where these passages appear. The presentation style used is similar to that of Schroeder

(1937) in his study of Catholic documents in Latin. The glosses have been identified using the

name of the author, the title of the document (whenever available), and the Latin incipit of the

passage. The translations for these texts have been sourced from different translators and

works, and as such make up what is called in translation practice as ‘collaborative translation’

(Bistué 2013, Jiménez-Crespo 2015). Smaller units of language, such as isolated expressions in

Latin (e.g., vt itam dicam) or Castilian (e.g., q.d., ≈ ‘quiere decir’), have been explicitated in

footnotes or parenthetical addenda in the grammatical section of the TT.

Notwithstanding my archaizing approach, I have made an exception with the several

proper names. The spelling of the religious name of the grammarian, given as San Joseph or San

Iosef in various references, is rendered uniformly in the TT in the modern-day Spanish spelling

of San José. This also happens with other given names such as Ruyz, Ysabel, Baptista and the like,

which have been modernized as Ruiz, Isabel, Bautista, etc. These non-archaized forms make for

more efficient cross-referencing to other research papers on the missionary linguistics and

colonial history. I have also opted to translate the Tagalog poem written by the author himself,

even though the source language chosen for this dissertation is Spanish. This component of

the Arte is an important literary piece in the genealogy of Philippine poetics (Lumbera 1986,

Sales 2015a), and hence should be included.

To systematize the presentation of the exegetical matter in the translation, I have

placed topical concordances, cultural observations and lexical explanations as footnotes. The

more important commentaries relating to the translation process have been written in

comment boxes using the available formatting tools. Given that a number of Tagalog roots in

the ST that have been carried into the TT as untranslated signifiers, a glossary of Tagalog roots

has been constructed and placed at the end of the grammatical section.


By implementing these translation decisions to archaize the TT deliberately, I hope to

have successfully drawn attention to the complexities of hybridization in the ST, and to the

historicity of the languages it contained. These decisions also demonstrate that a translation

cannot be categorized, following the prevalent dichotomy, as an entirely foreignizing or an

entirely domesticating text. The archaized TT is the product of foreignizing strategies, such as

the retention of historical paratexts and the non-translation of Latin passages, as well as of

domesticating strategies, such as explicitated expressions, footnoted references and

modernized punctuations. Finally, I hope that the TT, as an afterlife of a missionary-colonial

grammar, will be able to illustrate to another readership the ways in which the development of

Tagalog as a pastoral tongue in colonial Philippines became a process for evoking the

nostalgias of the colonial divine.

35 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. CHAPTER II. An Empire of Letters

CHAPTER II

An Empire of Letters

All myths are morality tales. Mythologization is also moralization; it involves a refusal to separate the remembered past from its ethical meaning in the present. For this refusal, it is often important not to remember the past, objectively, clearly, or in its entirety. Mythic societies sense the power of myths and the nature of human frailties; they are more fearful than the modern ones—forgive the anthropomorphism—of the perils of mythic use of amoral certitudes about the past.

Ashis Nandy (1998, 162) History’s Forgotten Doubles

There are no Letters Here

The Latin phrase ‘Hic sunt leones’ is a summary of how cultural memory historically

confronted anything that the human imagination did not fully comprehend. The phrase, which

meant ‘Here be lions,’ was commonly associated with cartography, and was used to mark the

unknown or the unexplored. It originated from the practice of cartographers in the Middle

Ages of placing illustrations of lions, dragons and other mythological creatures in those regions

on the maps that the explorers of old had yet to discover (cf. Andrada Rafael 2007, 5, Jacob

2006, 153-159, Pagden 1986, 10-11, Rivera Ayala 2009, 39-46). These symbols represented to

the medieval consciousness the breadth of knowledge that mankind was thought to possess of

the world. Any map, after all, “is a way of looking at the world” (Vidal Claramonte 2012, 271,

emphasis in the original) that is conditioned by the available modes of knowing. However, in

a subsequent period called in Western historiography as the Age of Discovery, the iconicity of

fantastic beasts in charting the newness of an unfamiliar world gave way to a fascination for

the word. ‘Hic non sunt litterae,’ the explorers would have exclaimed. There are no letters here.

For the Europeans of this time, the darkness of lands unknown, the fabled terra incognita, was

often equated with the perceived inability of their inhabitants to speak and write adequately,

and, by extension, to be part of the enlightenment afforded to any civilization by the written


word (Krupat 2006 [1996], 176, Lamana 2007, 135, 144, Pagden 1993, 7, Pocock 2002, 57).

The production and reception of the written word in the ‘civilized’ regions of the map allowed

people to develop a consciousness of history by letting them refer to a fixed version of the

past (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin 2002, 80). The ability to commit memories to a more

enduring repository such as writing led mankind to compartmentalize nostalgias into segments

of time, and establish sequences of causalities, continuities and ruptures that cohered in the

linear progression of social history (Anderson 2006, 205, Estrada 2009, 34-37, Gies 2004, 14).

Literary history is no different from social history in this respect, even if to begin with, the

distinction between the literary and the social is at best a tautology. We therefore begin

mapping the story of the Arte as a translation not in what we now call as the Philippines and

in its immediate surroundings, but rather in Spain and Hispanic America, since the motivations

to produce missionary grammars were tied to the social, political and cultural changes in this

burgeoning empire of letters.

The Age of Discovery roughly coincided with the period in Spanish literature

traditionally known in some quarters as the Siglo de Oro, or the Golden Age. The name of this

period evokes a certain entitlement given to the body of literary texts written from the fifteenth

to the seventeenth centuries and consecrated as the foundation of the Spanish national canon

later on. It was during this time when, to paraphrase Pérez Bustamante (1979, 447), the written

word reached its peak through the flourishing of literature. So many were the canonical works

produced during this time that, Menéndez Pidal (1989, 42) alleges, the succeeding centuries

were mere progenies of this initial period of literary gestation. Poet and playwright Lope de

Vega was at this time singing to his muse with the immortal line “[d]esmayarse, atreverse, estar

furioso” [To faint, to dare, to be enraged] from his celebrated 1609 sonnet. Dramatist Pedro

Calderón de la Barca pondered on the meaning of life in his 1635 play La vida es sueño [Life is

a Dream]. Poets Luis de Góngora and Francisco de Quevedo were exchanging insults in poetry

while at the same time developing the Spanish verse. The travails of children were recounted

by the anonymous writer of Lazarillo de Tormes in this masterpiece of picaresque literature. And

the most famous text of the canon, that novel by Miguel de Cervantes about a man from a

village in La Mancha—“de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme” [whose name I do not wish to

remember]—came out in two parts in 1605 and 1615, respectively.


Axiological shifts in literary history, however, have increasingly questioned the

relevance of periodizations that exalted the Golden Age over other periods of Spanish

literature. National literatures are an invention (Ramos-Gascón 1988, 169), and whatever

prestige accorded to the Golden Age was largely based on a triumphalist depiction of its

literatures emerging from the ideological and aesthetic appraisal of later years (D’haen 2012,

629, Arias and Marrero-Fente 2014, 79 and passim). An alternative reading of the Spanish

Golden Age presents it as nothing more than an idealized nostalgia for a mythic Spain that was

supposedly sure of its imperial ambitions and united in its Catholic faith (Greer 2011, 217,

Kamen 2014a, 104).

The dissonances of remembrance are evident in these anxieties. What was so glorious

in the Spanish Golden Age anyway? Or, as Weber (2011) puts it, “[f]or whom was the Golden

Age an epoch of splendor, happiness, and justice?” (226). The grandiose portrayal of the

literatures of this period was starkly opposed to the gloom of a kingdom in downfall,

characterized by declining fortunes and weakening political clout. 6 The literary

accomplishments of the Golden Age were set against a backdrop of a widespread decay that

Spain was experiencing in all other fronts. There was a considerable drop in the population

following the plague of 1596 to 1602 (Abellán 1988, 33-37, Lynch 1992, 8), and the expulsion

of the Moriscos, or Muslims who converted to Christianity, from 1609 to 1614 (Gutiérrez

Nieto 1986, 763-765, Martín Acosta 1999, 602). The inclement weather experienced in Castile

from 1589 to 1614, in which a decade of rains was followed by a decade of drought (Darby

1994, 22), exacerbated the already struggling peninsular economy. The high taxes levied on the

peasant class left many farmers buried in debt (Kamen 2014b, 222-223). Violence and crimes

were common fare, and hundreds of thieves and paupers roamed the streets of Spain (Crow

1992, 217).

There was a general sense of pessimism with respect to disorder and change. The

contraposition between grandeur and poverty, between the real and the unreal would be typical

of the artistic production in the latter part of the Golden Age. The term Baroque, derived from

the name of an oddly shaped pearl (Suárez Miramón 2009, 225), was coined to describe the

6 To better appreciate Spain’s recession in the seventeenth century, it must be contrasted with the economic upturn of the previous century. See Kamen (2005, 40-42, 2014b, 211-220) for a detailed description.


aesthetics of the seventeenth century onwards, perhaps in a bid to encapsulate the many

irregularities of Spain’s social and cultural life. Spanish Baroque literature was “more sensual

in its imagery, more visceral in its descriptions, and more theatrical in its conception of the

self” (Robbins 2004, 143). It was replete with oxymorons, such as St. Teresa of Ávila’s famous

poem that begins with the line “[v]ivo sin vivir en mí […] que muero porque no muero” [I live

without living in me, for I die because I do not die], hinting at the nagging uncertainties of

one’s earthly existence.

In the face of such uncertainties, the people of the Baroque found comfort in the

constancy of their God. Religion was the moral compass with which the Spaniards of the

Golden Age navigated through their doubts. It provided them with the truths to understand

their condition. Spain projected to its neighbors in Europe the image of a strong kingdom

firmly unified under a homogenous model of Catholicism, even if in reality heterodox practices

subsisted in the Iberian Peninsula underneath the official visage of a unitary belief in the

Christian God (Bennassar 1979, 92, Kamen 2005, 60, Pérez 1981, 106, Rawlings 2002, 26).

The Inquisition, the ecclesiastical tribunal established in Castile in 1480 that would remain in

place for the next four centuries, became the instrument with which the Spanish Crown

defended religious orthodoxy. Changes in the pastoral approach of the Roman Catholic

Church, promoted as a result of the Counter-Reformation, placed emphasis on the instruction

of the Christian doctrine and on the need of the faithful to regularly avail of the sacraments,

such as the Eucharist and confession (Poska 2013, 317). Liturgical variations were abrogated

and priests were urged to preach a sermon at Mass (Kamen 2014a, 101-102). Lavish displays

of popular piety were becoming fashionable, and there was no shortage of artisans and

craftsmen who decorated churches with sumptuous masterpieces that vested the divine with

the plasticity of polychromed wooden images, embroidered brocades and gilded volutes.

The Baroque contradiction between misery and splendor was perhaps the reason why

the Spanish Golden Age is still remembered today as a literary pinnacle. In the midst of the

misgivings of the period many people found consolation in their letters. As Robbins asserts,

[t]he vibrancy and diversity of Golden Age literature is due in large part to Spaniards attempting to accommodate, advance, or reject the massive intellectual and political changes encountered by the country throughout the early modern period. There is thus a complex causal relationship between literature and intellectual and political


developments, a relationship not so much of external influences shaping literary creation as of literature being an integral part of a process of cultural negotiation and national self-definition (138).

The gloom of Spain’s social ills was translated into the brilliance of the written word in such a

way that in contemplating Don Quixote’s wild frenzy as he charged towards the windmills he

mistook for giants, or Lazarillo’s unscrupulousness whenever he stole food from the blind

beggar who served as his guardian, or the insults in verse that Quevedo and Góngora were

hurling at each other as they soared to the stylistic perfection of the poetic form, the readers—

or more commonly, the audience, as literacy was still very low at this time (Bouza 2013, 172,

Salomon and Chevalier 1983, 84)—were given the means to articulate their own frailties and

contradictions. These frailties and contradictions, though imagined from the point of view of

the seventeenth century, would echo the same disappointments of the years to come, and

would serve to placate mankind’s collective longing for a better world.

The ambivalences and allures of the unknown that a society in transition wanted to

commemorate in its artistic production urged many Baroque authors to devise ways of

explaining the confusion of their evolving realities. Many of these realities came from the new

worlds across the seas whose uncertainties had once been marked with the proverbial

cartographic lion.

New Words, New Works, New Worlds

The period spanning the last half of the sixteenth century to the first half of the

seventeenth saw the publication of a string of many literary and linguistic firsts. Within Europe,

the humanist impulse to study the structures of human languages led to the publication of the

first monolingual dictionary of English, Robert Cawdrey’s A Table Alphabeticall, printed in

London in 1604 (Cronin 2012, 473), and that of Castilian, Sebastián de Covarrubias’s Tesoro de

la lengua castellana, printed in Madrid in 1611 (Bistué 2013, 100), the same year that the King

James version of the Bible in Protestant England was completed (Croft 2011).

But it was in the colonies where the epistemological shift “from the universal to the

particular, from Language to languages” (Bossong 2007, 125) was most palpable. Many


languages previously unheard of in Europe were re-membered in print. This effort to harness

the technology of the printing press in the study of the languages still unknown to most

Europeans circulated the remembrances of these languages beyond their immediate

indigenous borders. Colonial grammars were often produced by authors who referred to these

languages from their geographical, chronological, affiliative and linguistic itinerancies. Some of

them were even published beyond the places where the grammatized languages were actually

spoken. For example, the first grammar of Tarascan, a language spoken by the Purépecha

people of Mesoamerica, was authored by a French Franciscan, Fray Maturino Gilberti (Poitiers,

1507–Michoacán, 1585). Published in Spanish in 1558, it became the first grammar of any

American language to be published (Breva-Claramonte 2008, 47, Fountain 2006, 60). The first

grammar and the first vocabulary of the Andean language called Aymara were written by an

Italian, the Jesuit Ludovico Bertonio (Ancona, 1552–Lima, 1625). The grammar came out in

Rome in 1603, while the vocabulary came out in Lima in 1612 (Calvo Pérez 2005, 137-138,

Zwartjes 2011b, 6). The first grammar of Nahuatl, the main language spoken in the central

area of present-day Mexico, was completed by the Spanish Franciscan Andrés de Olmos

(Burgos, c.1485–New Spain, 1571) in 1547, but was published for the first time in Paris in

1875 (Fountain 2006, 46, Lavrín 2008, 313).

The Arte is a product of a similar transcultural process happening in the Philippines,

although in a much smaller scale. The year of its publication, 1610, is an important link between

the grammatization of Philippine indigenous languages and the initial stages of development

of a Filipino literary canon. In this same year that a Spaniard grammatized Tagalog, a Tagalog

did the reverse and wrote a grammar of Castilian. The Librong pagaaralan nang mga Tagalog nang

uicang Castila [Book with which the Tagalogs Should Study the Castilian Language], or the

Librong pagaaralan henceforth, was written by Tomás Pinpin (b. Bataan, c.1580/1585), Fray

Francisco Blancas de San José’s Tagalog-Chinese protégé, who also happened to be the

typesetter of the Arte (Woods 2011, 6). It has been suggested by Retana (1911, 86) that Blancas

himself may have supplied the scientific analysis in the Librong pagaaralan (also cited by Sueiro

Justel 2007, 89). Woods has since shown evidence that, contrary to Retana’s opinion, it was

indeed Pinpin, an Indio, who wrote the manual (1-4).

The interconnections between these masterpieces from Europe, America and the

Philippines point to an underlying belief in a certain form of cultural universality that the


Spanish Empire was striving to concretize in its literary and linguistic production. Philip III of

the Habsburg dynasty was the king of Spain during the time of the Arte’s publication. The

successes of the maritime explorations undertaken during the reign of his forebears had

expanded Philip’s dominion to such an extent that the adage ‘el imperio en el que nunca se

pone el sol’—that is, the empire where the sun never sets7—became a tangible geographic and

political reality. The so-called ‘Monarquía Española’ at this time had a territory that stretched

across Europe and North Africa, lording over Portugal in the Iberian Peninsula, Milan, Naples

and Sicily in modern-day Italy, and Morocco in North Africa. Treaties were signed to forge

peace with rival European powers, however illusory such peace would prove to be.8 This

ushered in by 1610 a period of relative harmony that later historians would call as the ‘Pax

Hispánica,’ or the Spanish Peace (Darby 1994, 29-34, Jover Zamora and López-Cordón

Cortezo 1986, 410).

Philip III was, by all accounts, an incapable ruler. His father, Philip II, was said to have

quipped that “God who has given me so many kingdoms, has denied me a son capable of

ruling them” (Darby, 25, Lynch 1981, 14). It was a frustration that resonated in public opinion:

In his Grandes anales de quince días [Great Annals of Fifteen Days], the poet Quevedo harshly

portrayed Philip III as a monarch who ceased to be king even before he started his reign (Feros

2006, 17, Peraita 1992, 114). The affairs of state were mostly delegated to the Duke of Lerma,

Philip’s favored nobleman (Feros 2000), while the sovereign spent his days in leisure. All in all,

Philip III was quite simply “the laziest king in Spanish history” (Lynch 1992, 18).

Despite the king’s personal weaknesses, the debilitated status of the peninsular

economy, and the increasing differences between rich and poor, Spain remained a foremost

political power in Europe, largely because of its territorial possessions in America, or what the

7 This idea was further reinforced in a 1655 book written by Francisco Ugarte de Hermosa y Salcedo with the title Origen de los dos goviernos divino i humano i forma de su exercicio en lo temporal [Origin of Two Governments, Divine and Human, and the Form of their Exercise in Temporal Matters]. Kamen (2005) quotes him in English: “Since God created the world there has been no empire in it as extensive as that of Spain, for from its rising to its setting the sun never ceases to shine for one instant on its lands” (23).

8 As Parry (1971) narrates, “[t]he Basques of Vizcaya rose in the 1630s, and threatened to seek the help of the French. A far more serious revolt broke out in Catalonia in 1640—a civil war, in effect, which lasted twelve years and left the economic life of Catalonia in ruins. There were formidable risings also in Andalusia, Sicily and Naples; and in 1640 Portugal embarked on a successful war for independence of Spain” (231).


records loosely referred to as the Indies. The New World, another name by which these

possessions were known, was a utopia of new beginnings, so much so that it was seen in

Europe as the antithesis of the sufferings of the Old World (Duviols 1998, 641, González

Echevarría 2008, 3, 24, Kamen 2002a, 223, López-Baralt 1983, 452, Rivera Pagán 1989, 85-

86). Many Spaniards crossed the Atlantic in search of a better life. Migration was an ever-

present activity in the recorded history of the Americas, and was one of the most enduring

ways with which the Hispanic American world was constituted (Robinson 1990, 1). Although

it is difficult to give any exact figures on Spanish migration to the New World, estimates can

be reconstructed from the available archival data. By collating data on transatlantic migrations,

Shammas (2003, 30) estimates that there were around 157,000 people who migrated from

Spain to America from 1551 to 1600, and another 195,000 from 1601 to 1650. Martínez (1999,

76-77), on the other hand, maintains that from 118,000 in 1570, the white population in

Hispanic America went up to about 655,000 by 1650. These numbers were remarkable given

the distance between the two continents, the difficulty, length and cost of the voyage, and the

various travel restrictions imposed on the passengers (Mira Caballos 1995).9 Additionally, as

Casey (1999, 25) points out, considering the small peninsular population and the profile of the

migrants who journeyed from Spain, who were mostly young men, Spanish migration to

America had quite an impact on peninsular demography and labor.

The utopic fantasies of the New World drew on the depictions of the continent as an

abundant source of wealth. Even at the earliest stages of colonization, when Christopher

Columbus ‘discovered’ America in 1492, visions of a land teeming with gold were a common

imagery in the Europeans depictions of these colonies (Rabasa 1989, 279-284). The

allegorization of Spain in Elizabethan England as an avaricious European power, which fed

into what is now known as the Spanish Black Legend,10 had a moral dimension rebuking the

Spanish Crown for its alleged greed for American gold (Campos 2007, 260-262, Murry 2013,

9 On the other hand, Kamen (2002b, 130) challenges the significance of these figures, saying that “[t]he Spanish population of the chief cities of America was always small.” He does, however, acknowledge that “[t]he birth of an Atlantic world […] involved a gigantic international migration of people” in which “Spaniards occupied a primary place” (129). 10 Valdeón (2014, 4-7) offers a succinct explanation on the origins of the Black Legend with a particular regard to its etymological and stylistic development in the literary traditions of Europe. According to him, although the phrase itself was coined in the nineteenth century, its earliest articulations were rooted to the anti-Catholic sentiments in early modern England.


31-33). These fantasies were still recurrent in the seventeenth century: In 1610 a Valencian

chronicler named Escolano reportedly remarked that the New World appealed to “turbulent

persons without resources, who are attracted by the smell of gold; and we are well rid of them,

like an evil humour from the body” (Casey, 26).

The New World did become a vital source of income for the Spanish Crown. The first

two viceroyalties established to govern the Indies—New Spain in 1535, whose administrative

center was located in present-day Mexico City, and Peru in 1542—were strategically placed

near major areas of mining (Lynch 1992, 287, Penny 2002, 23, Sanz Tapia 1999, 485). Precious

metals, mainly silver, were sourced from these places, and were used to finance imperial

expenses, particularly the military (Keen and Haynes 2009, 88-90, Parry 1971, 242-244). Some

fifty thousand tons of silver were said to have been obtained in the New World from 1540 to

1700 (Kamen 2005, 42). In what Castillo Pintado (1989, 340) calls as the period of ‘diluvio’

[deluge] from 1591 to 1595, the silver coins minted and exported from the Indies were valued

at thirty-five million pesos. This figure does not include those coins that were circulating

fraudulently in many places. So great was the contribution of the precious metals industry in

the New World to the peninsular economy that it vastly shaped Spain’s foreign policy

(Hamilton 1965, 44). A major economic consequence of the precious metal industry was that

it paved the way for the use of a legal tender in international trade (Quijano and Ennis 2000,

537), and enabled the circulation of American silver between Europe and the colonies (Trusted

2013). With the circulation of money also came an increased traffic of persons both within the

New World and overseas, since along with the silver came the men who either had it or needed

it (Rueda Ramírez 2014, 68).

Despite these utopic accounts on the New World, the Spaniards who reached the

Indies would have found themselves in a society mired with the same social ills they witnessed

in the country they had left behind. As an example, life in the city of Potosí, located in present-

day Bolivia, is described in these very vivid details, which deserves to be quoted here at length:

Yet while the streets of Potosí practically flowed silver, the physical make-up of the city and the society which inhabited it were anything but refined. Armed soldiers, miners, and government officials roamed the streets ready to fight at the drop of a hat. Duels were of daily occurrence. Oftentimes the adversaries were dressed in robes of scarlet so that when the blood spurted they would not see it and be afraid, and the observers thus be cheated of a show. The narrow winding streets of the town were


always flooded with crowds “on foot, on horseback, in carriages, and in litters, as if going on a pilgrimage.” Every class and every color brushed shoulders, and women of loose life walked around at their leisure, exhibiting the finery of their apparel with the shrill gay cries of freedom unknown to the more respectable feminine class. Every time the town council met its members attended fully armed and wearing coats of mail, and the meetings more often than not ended in a free-for-all (Crow, 269).

While the colonies did offer possibilities to improve one’s lot in life, there were many Spaniards

who were not able to obtain substantial financial gains from the colonial enterprise. The

idealization of the New World as a utopia had to be tempered with the harsh realities on the

ground (Sánchez-Albornoz 2002, 43, Terraciano 2011, 130, Valdeón, 7). Even though the

Spanish settlers were a minority throughout the history of the colonization of the Indies, their

arrival in America contributed to a drop in the indigenous population. This was not so much

because of the wars they waged, but because of the epidemics they carried with them from

Europe (Kamen 2002b, 127, Martínez, 77-78). The decrease in the number of the Indios had

negative consequences. A fall in the local population became a burden for the colonial

economy, for as Parry puts it, the Spaniards “contributed little directly to production and were,

economically considered, so many mouths to be fed” (223).

Such social dissonances were articulated in the writings of the period. A sense of

disenchantment, another central theme in the peninsular literature of the Golden Age,

permeated the literary memories of Hispanic America (Bost 2008, 184 and passim, Canfield

2009, 204, Ramos 1999a, 692, Sainz de Medrano 1986, 492-494). For example, the Mexican

poetess and Hieronymite nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz personified her disenchantment in her

poem Consuelos seguros en el desengaño [Sure Consolations in Disillusion]:

Ya, desengaño mío,/ llegasteis al extremo/ que pudo en vuestro ser/ verificar el serlo

[“Disillusionment,/ this is the bitter end,/ this proves you’re rightly called/ the end of illusion” (Cruz 1988, 47).]

Other written records about the colonization of America talked about a similar sense of

disenchantment in an effort, perhaps, to reconcile what the Indies ought to be with what it

actually was. All in all, the Hispanic literatures of the New World conveyed a sense of

dislocation, with many authors feeling neither quite European nor quite indigenous, living in

the dystopic realities of an imaginary utopia (Jara 1989, 352-353). It was through negotiating

through these disonnances that the grammarians, lexicographers, chroniclers, poets and writers


of the early modern period were able to join the Old and the New Worlds together, explaining

thus their complexities and making sense of their many inconsistencies.

Colonial Life as a Translation

Exchanges between the colonial metropolis and its peripheries were depicted in early

modern texts as occasions of change. A colonial encounter was not merely a physical

displacement towards a specific geographic point. It was also a translation of the self, an

alteration within an individual who was coming to terms with the newness of the colonial

condition. In his 1772 book Noticias americanas [American News], Spanish general and

astronomer Antonio de Ulloa (Seville, 1716–Isla de León, 1795) depicted the journey from

Europe into the Americas as a passage into another world. He wrote:

[d]e aqui viene, que quanto se reconoce en ellas es Nuevo, causando tanta extrañeza, como si en realidad se hubiese pasado de un mundo á otro (4).

[From this it follows that when they recognize, that what is in them (the Indies) is new, it is as if, in reality they had passed over into another world (Pagden 1993, 3).]

There similarly was a magistrate in Hispaniola in the Antilles who in 1550 reported that all the

Spaniards who went to the Indies would “immediately become gentlemen” (Kamen 2002a,

45). The climate in the Americas, according to one 1771 report, allegedly transformed those

“wild men” living in the colder regions of the world, such as the English and the Danes, into

wiser and gentler beings (Pagden 1987, 83-84).

Such a translation, however, also transformed those who were on the other side of the

perceived divide (Adorno 1994, Fuchs 2001, Lucena Giraldo 2014). The Spaniards were

changed by the colonial encounter, and so too were the Indios. On this the Jesuit historian

José de Acosta (Medina del Campo, 1539–Salamanca, 1600) declared derisively in his 1589

book De procuranda indorum salute [On How to Provide Salvation to the Indios] that the Indios

were “scarcely men, or only half men [who] must be taught how to become men, and be

instructed as if they were children” (Acosta 1589, 122, Elliott 1989, 60). The translation of the

self, in other words, happened to both the colonizer and the colonized, thus producing a host

of intermediary categories that blurred the binarism of the colonial encounter.


Central to this rhetoric of transformation was the assumption that essentialized

differences between the colonizer and the colonized could be had, and that colonial actors

could somehow be neatly classified according to these differences. Those whose translated

condition endowed them with the capability of crossing this divide were thus met with

skepticism, and even rejection. Malinalli Tenépal was one such person. Some historical records

remember her as Doña Marina, while many others call her as La Malinche (present-day

Veracruz, Mexico, c.1500–Mexico City, c.1529). It is beyond the scope of this dissertation to

recall La Malinche’s story in its entirety, especially since her role as an interpreter between the

Spaniards and the Aztecs is often eclipsed by her more romantic portrayals as the concubine

of the conquistador Hernán Cortés, and hence a traitor to her people (cf. Bastin 2003, 195-

198, Carman 2006, 21-22, Valdeón, 37). But there is an important comment to be made about

these superimposed images of Doña Marina as an interpreter, lover and betrayer, and it is that

they all allude to translation as transgression (cf. Bassnett and Trivedi 1999, 4, Gargatagli 2007,

§9). The long-standing reputation of translation as a form of betrayal has been traditionally

substantiated in colonial histories through its association with the dubious loyalties of its agents

(Martinell Gifre 1988, 93). La Malinche and many other lenguas, intérpretes, lenguaraces and ladinos,

as these colonial translators and interpreters were called, were judged on the basis of their

faithfulness to their interlocutors from either side, or to the very message that they were tasked

to deliver. In a colonial society where fluid loyalties impinged on the essentialisms of its actors

and on the expectations on how these actors should conduct themselves in relation to other

component parts, it would have been easy to conceive the need to translate as an inducement

to treachery. The possibility to translate the self did not always mean that the self was translated

into an acceptable colonial reiteration.

It is now theorized that translation is the basic activity of any contact between cultures

(Álvarez and Vidal Claramonte 1996, 3, Gomille 2008, 3). Translation in colonial societies

would have also been an exercise of significant political and identitarian implications because

of the convergences of race and ethnicities. The hierarchization in the New World ranked the

Indios underneath the Europeans (Orquera 2007, 173, Pagden 1988, 27, Valle, 6-8). The status

of being born in Europe, as opposed to being a Criollo (i.e., a person born in the colonies to

European parents), a Mestizo (i.e., a child born to a European and an Indio), an Indio, and a

host of other ‘castes’ (Burns 2007, 191, Zavala, 336), was important in setting persons apart


from other members of the colonial society and positioning them on top of the social pyramid

(Pagden 1987, 56, 69, Robinson, 9).

When read as a text, the dynamics of this pyramid illustrates yet another translational

feature of colonial societies, and it is what I propose to call the tyranny of a perceived original.

The validity of colonial hierarchization was often premised on the supposed pre-eminence of

an original over a copy, a pure entity over a hybrid (Mignolo 1995, 43, Rojinsky 2010, 126,

Zimmermann 2005, 113). It dictated that the value of a text resided in its provenance, and any

subsequent copy thereof was valued based on how faithful it was able to imitate the text as

created by a primordial originator. We see this in the historical accounts of the period in the

many theories about the alternative processes of divine creation that were said to have birthed

the Indios and the non-Christians alike. It was conjectured in these accounts that there should

have been another Adam from whom the Indios descended, or that the Indios were fashioned

out of putrefaction instead of earth, a variation of the biblical creation story from the Book of

Genesis (Pagden 1986, 22-23, Sales 2014, 188-189).

Interestingly, the hierarchies in this pyramid were very fluid. The illusory borders

between social classes were said to be so porous that there was room for the translation of

people from one place into another within the established order (Pagden 1987, 58, 68-69). The

Criollos, in particular, were able to reinterpret themselves, especially towards the latter part of

the colonial period, as the legitimate owners of the land by claiming ownership of a pre-

Hispanic past (Anderson 2006, 154, González Stephan 1989, 309, Rivera Ayala, 127). This

happened even if at the same time the Criollos were setting themselves apart from the

indigenous traditions (Earle 2008, 20-21, Orquera, 177). Records show that by distinguishing

themselves from the Indios and the Europeans, the Criollos came to regard their translated

identity as in no way inferior to that of the Spaniards, even to the extent of subverting the

stereotypes imposed on them by the prevailing system (Lucena Giraldo, 177). Great Christian

churches that combined the exuberant designs of the Spanish Baroque with syncretic elements

of indigenous aesthetics rose in the new American metropolises (Lavrín, 295-300). Their

lavishness was once described by an English explorer as exceeding even the majesty of Rome

(Pagden 1987, 85). The language the Criollos spoke, while still Castilian in form, was already

inflected with the voices of the colonial encounter (Lucena Giraldo, 181, Nesvig 2012, 741,

Pagden 1987, 88-91).


In all these cases, the privileged social standing that Spaniards and Criollos alike

claimed for themselves was built on the tyranny of the perceived original. This original,

whether an iteration of the Christian order from the Europe or an extrapolation of an

indigenous identity, was fundamental in translating colonial bodies into the visions of the New

World. There were people who proceeded directly from a perceived originary stock, and there

were those who were either derived from this stock, or were from a different stock altogether.

One’s niche in the social hierarchy therefore depended on his or her proximity to a perceived

pure original (cf. Pagden 2002, 49). This tyranny of the perceived original for both Spaniards

and Criollos teetered between the assumed inferiority of the Indios and the admission that the

Indios, too, were deserving of Christian salvation. The ambivalence of colonial discourse, as

Bhabha (2004, 85 and passim) calls this vacillation, was operative in many historical accounts,

such as in Fray Juan de Silva’s second memorial. The Franciscan (c.1547–c.1634) assured that

all men were born equal and free, but qualified the statement afterwards by referring to the

two possible exceptions to this doctrine—one legal and another, natural—as propounded by

Aristotles and St. Thomas Aquinas:

La legal es cuando uno sirve a otro porque es su esclavo, en cuanto lo compró de legítimo dueño, o él mismo se vendió, o porque lo ganó en buena guerra; y esta esclavitud se ha de ordenar al bien del señor. La natural es cuando un hombre, por falta de razón natural o por no usar bien de ella, no puede gobernarse o no se gobierna a sí mismo, como sucede en el mentecato o desordenado (Céspedes del Castillo 1986, 234).

[Legal exception is applied whenever a man serves another because he is his slave, either because the latter bought the former from his legitimate owner, or because the former sold himself or was won in a just war. Such slavery is intended for the benefit of the master. Natural exception happens when a man, for lack of natural reason or for not using it properly, cannot or does not govern himself, as in the case of foolish or disorderly people.]

The tyranny of the perceived original forced the indigenous population to emulate patterns of

conduct known as ‘policía’ or ‘civilitas’ (Fossa 2005, 9, Mignolo 1995, 34-35). Colonial polity

and civility for the Indios meant that they must adopt certain practices as a requisite for social

membership. They should live in organized communities, behave in a certain manner, follow

the law, and adhere to the authority of the colonial government (Elliott 1989, 55, Lavrín, 288-

291, Rama 1996, 29-30, Ramos 1999b, 554, Restall 2003, 19). The Indios, in effect, were

performing a kind of self-translation that replicated a European narrative (cf. Kamen 2002a,


12-14). The Hieronymite Diego de Ocaña (Ocaña, Toledo, 1565–New Spain, 1608), for

example, memorialized an Indio in Potosí in 1600 by portraying him as ‘españolado’ in

reference to his attire and lifestyle (Céspedes del Castillo, 219). The terms ‘Europeanization,’

‘Hispanization,’ ‘acculturation’ and the like, all used and contested in current academic parlance,

pertain to this idea of an identitarian traversal (Valdeón, 5).

Colonial polity was also a matter of religion. Since the colonization of the New World

was, above all, a project of religious conversion, colonial records were fraught with references

to Spain’s mission to convert the Indios into Christianity. At its simplest formulation, the

Indios must convert into Christianity in order to be civilized (Deagan 2003, 5, Ramos 1999b,

554, Ross 2008, 126-128). The conquistador Hernán Cortés (Medellín, Castile, 1485–Castilleja

de la Cuesta, Seville, 1547) remarked in a 1519 letter he addressed to Queen Joanna of Castile

and her son, Emperor Charles V, that

[e]s de creer que no sin causa Dios Nuestro Señor ha sido servido que se descubriesen estas partes en nombre de vuestras reales altezas para que gran fruto y merecimiento de Dios alcanzasen vuestras majestades mandando informar y siendo por su mano traídas a la fe estas gentes bárbaras (Cortés 1519-1526 [1985], 67).

[we believe that it is not without cause that Our Lord God has been pleased that these parts be discovered in the name of Your Royal Highnesses so that Your Majesties may gain much merit and reward in the sight of God by commanding that these barbarous people be instructed and by Your hands be brought to the True Faith (Cortés, Elliott, and Pagden 2001, 36).]

Bernal Díaz del Castillo (Medina del Campo, c.1496–Antigua Guatemala, c.1584), Cortés’s

comrade, made a similar comment in his history that bound social polity to Christianity (Díaz

del Castillo 1635 [1984], 456-457). In contrast, the refusal of some Indios to convert into

Christianity was routinely memorialized in colonial nostalgias as a ‘ceguedad’ [blindness],

‘hechizo’ [curse], or ‘esclavitud’ [slavery], which had taken them away from their pure and ideal

selves (Bauer 2001, 292, Bost, 153, Castillo 2006, 23, Duviols, 708, Sales 2015c, 133-134). The

Franciscan chronicler Fray Toribio de Benavente (Benavente, Zamora, 1482–New Spain,

1568), more popularly known as Motolinía, even described the Indios in his history as men

created in God’s image but were turned into something worse than savage animals for not

adhering to the Christian faith (Benavente 1541 [1985], 75).


Because of the religious dimension of colonial polity, religious orders became

prominent fixtures in the Spanish colonies. The Roman Catholic Church was a very powerful

institution in the seventeenth century. It had long been a decisive player not only in the spiritual

welfare of Christendom, but also in the pressing political decisions of the age. The Valencian

Rodrigo Borgia, or Pope Alexander VI, issued the papal bulls Inter cætera, Eximiae devotionis and

Dudum siquidem in 1493 (collectively known as the Bulls of Donation) with which he marked

the line that divided the world in two. He then assigned each half to the kingdoms of Portugal

and Castile, and gave them the right to take possession of whatever lands that would be

‘discovered’ on the condition that the ‘infidels’ living in them be brought into the Christian

fold (Agoncillo, 71, Arcilla 1998, 87, Deagan, 5, Parry, 153, Rivera Pagán, 90). In 1508 Pope

Julius II granted the Spanish Crown the royal patronage over the Church in the Indies through

the bull Universalis ecclesiæ (Carreño 1999, 211, Cushner 1971, 74, Costa 1969, 69, Elliott 1965,

90, Blanco 2009b, 207). This stipulated that in exchange for the gains obtained in the New

World, the Spanish Crown would be responsible for building churches and spreading the

Christian doctrine. Missions for evangelizing the natives would be organized, the cost of which

would be shouldered by Spain.

An estimated 1,141,000 individuals held a religious office of some sort in the Spanish

Empire in the seventeenth century (Crow, 217). While there were those who donned the

clerical habit out of devotion, many others did so to escape the desolation of the material world

(Bennassar, 84). As Crow so dourly puts it,

[i]n all this drab picture there were only two havens, the one illusory or limited, the other unlimited and real. They were the Church and America. In order to find security, countless thousands sought entrance into the Church and thus decreased even further the rachitic productive power of the peninsular economy (217).

So many were the Spaniards who travelled to the New World as missionaries that the Spanish

cleric and economist Sancho de Moncada (Toledo, 1580–c.1638) wrote that

[s]i el salir tantos españoles a tantos Reinos a predicar la Fe católica ayuda a que se despueble España, dichosa ella y dichoso el Rey de tales obreros (Herrero García 1966, 45).

[If the departure of so many Spaniards to so many kingdoms to preach the Catholic faith contributes to the decline in the population of Spain, then blessed is she and blessed is her King for such workers.]


These priests, however, were not mere workers in the proverbial vineyard of the Lord. Given

the political union of the Catholic Church and the Spanish state, priests were partners in the

success of the colonial enterprise. They performed both religious and secular tasks, and played

an intimate role in almost every stage of human life. They required children to be baptized.

They monitored the observance of the fast. They married people and performed the last rites

for the dead. Their church registries were almost always the only record that any person would

have to prove his or her existence (Domínguez Ortiz 1989, 457). They were also prolific writers,

and it is through their writings that the New World is still commemorated today. Their

chronicles detailing the progress of the colonial enterprise and the evangelization of the Indies

contained numerous references to the colonized peoples and their way of life. Thus did these

priests become translators of the colonies, for as Burke (2007) contends, “[i]f the past is a

foreign country, it follows that even the most monoglot of historians is a translator” (7).

Language as Companion of Empire

To better understand the translationality of Hispanic missionary writing in the

sixteenth to the seventeenth centuries, we must go back to 1492, the year when Columbus first

reached the New World. This same year, a philologist at the University of Salamanca by the

name of Antonio de Nebrija (Lebrija, Seville, 1441–Alcalá de Henares, 1522) published a

grammar of the Castilian language. Its rather straightforward title—Gramática de la lengua

castellana [Grammar of the Castilian Language]—did not fully reveal its importance: It was the

first grammar of Castilian (Ríos Castaño 2014, 92), and indeed, of any vernacular Romance

(Wilkinson 2011, 90).

Curiously, much of the fame that Nebrija’s Gramática accumulated over the years did

not derive from its grammatical content, but rather from a few lines in its prologue (Rojinsky,

93). The story goes that in 1486, or some six years before the book was published, Queen

Isabella of Castile questioned Nebrija on the usefulness of publishing a Castilian grammar

(Pym 2000, 134). The belated response, which appeared as the opening paragraph in the

prologue of the Gramática itself, read thusly:


Cuando bien comigo pienso, mui esclarecida Reina, i pongo delante los ojos el

antigüedad de todas las cosas: que para nuestra recordacion ⁊ 11 memoria quedaron

escriptas: una cosa hállo ⁊ sáco por conclusión mui cierta: que siempre la lengua fue compañera del imperio (Nebrija 1980 [1492], 97).

[When I place before me and ponder, my most illustrious Queen, the antiquity of all the things that have been recorded for our memory and recollection, I find one thing and can conclude with certainty: that language was always the companion (…) of empire (Nebrija and Armillas-Tiseyra 2016, 202).]

Nebrija’s prologue had so much prophetic appeal to it that it had been interpreted by some

modern-day scholars as a foreboding of Columbus’s ‘discovery’ of America. But Nebrija could

not possibly have predicted Spain’s expansion in the Indies that began that same year (Asensio

1960, Rico 1981), and neither was there, formally, any ‘Spanish Empire’ (Kamen 2005, 23-25,

Pagden 1990, 3). ‘Imperio,’ it has been argued, was a reference to Spain’s power rather than to

the lands it would come to possess (Rojinsky, 95).

That the Castilian word ‘imperio’ could be interpreted as power traces its roots to

classical and medieval thought. The trope of translatio imperii, loosely translated into English as

‘transfer of power,’ held that imperium or power was passed down from generation to

generation in a series of successive transfers (Botella-Ordinas 2012, 584). The trope was very

current in the Iberian imagination during the reign of Isabella of Castile and her husband,

Ferdinand of Aragón, the Catholic Monarchs (Bartosik-Vélez 2009, 561, Boruchoff 2008, 7-9,

Rojinsky, 36-37). For power to be transferred, however, a transfer of knowledge should be

performed concurrently. This transfer, or the so-called translatio sapientiae or translatio studii,

(Bartosik-Vélez, 562, Stierle 1996, 56-57), was how the priestly class became a key contributor

in the preservation of colonial memories. Although there were many lay persons who served

as chroniclers, historians and linguists during the colonial period, the collected body of work

of the religious orders constituted the earliest systematic attempt to textualize indigenous

knowledge and memorialize them in writing. As European science in the early modern period

was transitioning into a modality that privileged the written word as an a more efficient means

of circulating knowledge, writing became identified more and more with the dominance of

colonial institutions such as the Church (Bouza 1999, 39, Echazú 2010, 191, González Sánchez

11 This is the ‘et’ (i.e., and) sign in Tironian notes, a system of writing invented in the Roman period and was still used in Medieval and Renaissance texts.


2011, 17). Writing built empires and was the hallmark of colonial authority (Jara and Spadaccini

1989, 12, Rama, 24).

Here lies the paradox, for it was through this privileging of alphabetic writing that

random recollections of pre-colonial practices of literacy were preserved in memory. Although

the European literacy system eventually supplanted pre-colonial practices, our ability to

commemorate these practices at present rests on the nostalgias of those who at one point tried

to discredit them. One of the most famous examples of this was the Historia general de las cosas

de la Nueva España [General History of the Things of New Spain] of the Franciscan friar

Bernardino de Sahagún (Sahagún, Castile, c.1499–New Spain, 1590), widely regarded as the

pioneering ethnographer in New Spain.12 Sahagún, like many other missionary authors in the

New World, preserved in his history copious pictographic records of the non-alphabetic

writing used by the Indios (Johansson 2012, Nicholson 1988, Oliver Carrión 2013, Peterson

1988, Quiñones Keber 1988a, b).

As the memories of non-European literacies seeped into the ecclesiastical texts of the

period, the preponderance of alphabetic writing antithetically defined what illiteracy should be.

Literacy (or the perceived lack thereof) was vital in establishing the very nature of the Indios

and in justifying their colonization (Errington 2008, 7). It was a means of segregating people

into categories that consigned orality and non-alphabetic practices to the realm of

backwardness and esotericism (Bandia 2010, 108-109). Even if practices of pre-colonial

literacies were generally viewed with astonishment, they were dismissed at the same time as

insufficient media for transmitting and receiving accepted forms of knowledge (Mignolo 1995,

Ríos Castaño 2014). The meta-referential frame that the comparison between alphabetic and

non-alphabetic literacies created was in itself a commentary on the otherness of the past and

its unsuitability in reining in what was about to come (Ilarregui 1996, 183). The alterity of non-

alphabetic writing carried with it the implication that “orality and doxa belong to the past, and

literacy and science to the present” (Suárez Krabbe 2008, 587). Stepping into modernity was

often pretexted in colonial histories on an imperative of standardization that held any linguistic

‘anomaly’ with suspicion (Klor de Alva 1992, 30, Maravall, 83-87, Ríos-Font 2004, 15). Writing

12 This comes with some reservations as to how valid Sahagún’s observations were. See Klor de Alva (1988a, 1988b).


thus became the most important epistemological tool under the colonial condition, given that

it was useful in regulating such asymmetries (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, 81, Ong 2013, 38).

That our reminiscences of the colonial experience are still always entangled in the questions of

literacy harks back to that linguistic substrate of racial and religious hierarchization that

colonialism had put in place.

Seen in this light, Nebrija’s proposition that language was the companion of empire

becomes a declaration of belief in language as power. It was not so much a power that maimed

or killed or drew blood—even though these actions would have to be carried out just the

same—, as it was a power that intruded in re-membering the past. A physical manifestation of

political might is unsustainable without its legitimization in discourse (Rojinsky, 94). As such,

the narrative of the past must always be predicated upon language, or more concisely, upon

the limits of the recollection that language permits us to narrate (Laborda 1992, 324). The

narrative of the past is always a narrative of a past. It is what Mignolo (1995, 127-135 and

passim) terms as the “colonization of memory.” Language colonized memories in the colonial

context by instituting practices of historical narration (cf. Bhabha 2006 [1985], 40). It pulled

discrete colonial realities together, and then inscribed them in the preferred genealogy, in which

the Christian God was the deus faber, the divine maker who crafted the world (Ellis 2012, 16).

The biblical account of the creation was taken as a universal explanation of the origins of

mankind, while the creation stories of pre-Hispanic societies were presented as simple myths

told by people who had yet to know the truth. Pre-Hispanic beliefs were not construed as a

religion sui generis, but rather as an aberration from the true faith that must be effaced or

corrected (Zimmermann 2005, 122).

Thus did language bring into history those people who were thought to be living

outside it (cf. Nandy, 159). It was through language that these people were begotten in colonial

nostalgias (Sales 2014, 180). The civilizing ends of the colonial enterprise entailed that the

Indios be translated from the chaos of their pre-colonial selves, where “the past is not felt as

an itemized terrain, peppered with verifiable and disputed ‘fact’” (Ong, 97), into the rationality

of a hegemonic sequencing of memories that silenced dissonant voices and alternative

representations (Pastor 1989, 146). Christian salvation, in other words, entered the colonial

imagination alongside the historicization of the Indios in colonial memories. In the words of


Fray Bartolomé de las Casas (Seville, c.1484–Madrid, 1566), who was famous for his defense

of the Indios,

las ocultas naciones son descubiertas y son sabidas, cuando es ya llegado, cuando es ya cumplido y cuando á su ser perfecto […] llega el tiempo de las misericordias divinas (Las Casas 1875 [1561], 38).

[the hidden nations are discovered and known when the time of divine mercies has come, has been fulfilled and has reached their perfected selves].

Missionary writings explained the existence of the New World by subsuming it in the story of

Christian redemption.

What Nebrija wrote towards the end of his prologue resonates with the arguments of

this dissertation. He reminded Queen Isabella that

será necessaria una o dos cosas: o que la memoria de vuestras hazañas perezca con la lengua; o que ande peregrinando por las naciones estrangeras: pues que no tiene propia casa en que pueda morar (Nebrija, 101).

[so one of two things will necessarily follow: either the memory of your great deeds will perish with the language, or it will wander (…) through strange nations, for lack of a proper house in which to dwell (Nebrija and Armillas-Tiseyra, 204)].

Since memories were thought to perish with language, the prospect of locating other places in

which language could dwell ultimately contributed to the perpetuation of such memories. The

Spanish Empire’s search for a dwelling place for its memories first traversed the Atlantic, and

then continued through the Pacific until it reached the Pearl of the Orient.

Pearl of the Orient

Missionary-colonial accounts traditionally remember 1521 as the year the Philippines

was ‘discovered.’ It was in this year when the Spanish expedition led by the Portuguese explorer

Ferdinand Magellan landed on one of the islands of this archipelago on the Southeast Asian

side of the Pacific. In his history, the Augustinian writer Gaspar de San Agustín (Madrid, 1650–

Manila, 1724) narrated that


deʃcubriò el eʃpacioʃo Pielago, que por ʃu magnitud, y por aver llegado à el en Sabado

de la Dominica llamada de Paʃsion, llamo Archipielago de San Lazaro, nombre que ha

conʃervado haʃta aora (San Agustín 1698, 10).

[Magellan discovered the spacious archipelago, and for the reason of its immensity and for having reached it on the Saturday before what is called Passion Sunday, he named it the Archipelago of St. Lazarus,13 which is still in use to this day.]

Explorations of this sort were generally represented in Spanish missionary texts as acts of

discovery because it was held that the entire universe had been created through divine

providence at the beginning of time. Jesuit priest Juan José Delgado (Cádiz, 1697–Leyte,

Philippines, 1755) explained this in his chronicle:

[e]l origen de estas islas es de fe Divina, que fué el mismo de la creación del universo, sacándolas la omnipotencia del Criador, con la fuerza de su palabra, del no ser al ser, cuando en el principio crió el cielo y la tierra (Delgado 1892 [1751], 8).

[The origin of these islands is divine faith. It happened on the very day of the creation of the universe, when the omnipotence of the Creator, with the power of His word, took them from inexistence to existence at the beginning when He created heaven and earth.]

In other words, the Archipelago of St. Lazarus must have always been there, lost in what San

Agustín portrayed with characteristic verbosity as the oblivion of darkness under the power of

Satan (1). For his part, the Franciscan historian Juan Francisco de San Antonio (Madrid, 1682–

Manila, 1744) marked the creation of the archipelago from the time of the Great Flood (San

Antonio 1738, 6, col. 1). These descriptions of the divine origins of the archipelago were

further enhanced using the works of the scholars in the Antiquity. The Franciscan chronicler

Francisco de Santa Inés (Salamanca, 1650–Liliw, Philippines 1713) cited Pliny and Seneca to

validate the scriptural narrative of the Genesis (Santa Inés 1982 [1676], 8-9), while the Jesuit

Francisco Colín (Ripoll, Catalonia, 1592–Makati, Philippines, 1660) reasoned out that the

islands of Maniolas in Claudius Ptolemy’s Geographia were, in fact, the Philippines (Colín 1663,

2, col. 2).

It was in 1543 when the archipelago received the name with which it is now known.

The name ‘Islas Filipinas’ (or ‘Felipinas’ in an earlier form) was given to it by the explorer Ruy

13 In the Catholic liturgy, the prescribed gospel reading on Passion Sunday (i.e., the Sunday before Palm Sunday) is on the resurrection of Lazarus (cf. John 11).


López de Villalobos (Málaga, c.1500–Moluccas, 1544) in honor of Charles V’s newborn son

and heir to the throne, who would later reign as Philip II. Spanish settlements were established

from 1565 onwards following the expedition of Miguel López de Legazpi (Guipúzcoa, Basque

Country, c.1502–Manila, 1572), who became the first governor-general of the Philippines.

Cebu, on the central islands of the Visayas, was the first city to be founded by the Spaniards

in 1565. Manila was founded in 1571 on the island of Luzon, and was given the honorary title

of distinguished and ever-loyal city in 1574 (San Antonio, 254, col. 1). Pope Gregory XIII

made it into a diocese in 1578.14 It was elevated in 1595 to the dignity of an archdiocese and

metropolitan see by Pope Clement VIII, coinciding with the creation of the sees of the

Santísimo Nombre de Jesús (Cebu), Nueva Cáceres (present-day Naga), and Nueva Segovia

(Vigan) as Manila’s suffragans (San Antonio, 174-176).

The geographic location of the archipelago made it an ideal commercial hub between

the New World and continental East Asia. The galleons that plied the waters of the Pacific for

more than two hundred years linked Manila to the Mexican port of Acapulco. This trade route,

inaugurated in the sixteenth century, turned the capital city of the Philippines into an

commercial and cultural entrepôt, where Asian ivory, silk, porcelain and spices were exchanged

for precious metals from America (Alva Rodríguez 2000, Andaya 2010, Buschmann, Slack,

and Tueller 2014, Crewe 2015, Iaccarino 2008, Sales 2014, Trusted 2013). So great was the

confluence of people in colonial Manila that one friar in 1662 was reported to have said that

[t]he diversity of the peoples who are seen in Manila and its environs […] is the greatest in the world, for these include men from all kingdoms and nations—Spain, France, England, Italy, Flanders, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Poland, Muscovy; people from all the Indies, both east and west; and the Turks, Greeks, Persians, Tartars, Chinese, Japanese, Africans and other Asians (Kamen 2002b, 209).

The name ‘Perla del Oriente’ [Pearl of the Orient], used nowadays as a sobriquet for the entire

Philippines, was coined originally by Delgado in praise of Manila (17, 51, 219).

The secular government of the Philippines was headed by a captaincy general that

depended on the viceroyalty of New Spain (Kamen 2002b, 203), even though the governors

14 At present, however, the official year of the creation of the diocese of Manila is 1579. The discrepancy in the reckoning can be explained if we take into account the transition from the Julian calendar into the Gregorian calendar that this same pope mandated in 1582.


of the Philippines allegedly enjoyed more powers in comparison to those accorded to other

governors in the realm. On this San Antonio wrote that given the distance of the archipelago

from the American mainland from where it was officially governed, the governors of the

Philippines were authorized to send and receive diplomatic missions by themselves from the

kingdoms around the area (232, col. 2).

Like in America, the work of the secular government in the Philippines was

complemented by the labors of the religious orders. Although it was an intermediary point in

the galleon trade, the Philippines was an economically profitless venture for Spain (Kamen

2002b, 203), and was retained principally for the evangelization of Asia (Alva Rodríguez, 242,

Blanco 2009a, 31). The Augustinians were the first religious order to set foot on Philippine

soil. The Augustinian Andrés de Urdaneta (Guipúzcoa, 1498–New Spain, 1568) travelled to

the islands in the 1525 expedition led by García Jofre de Loaísa (Ciudad Real, Castile, 1490–

Pacific Ocean, 1526). Together with a handful of friars, Urdaneta returned to the Philippines

with Legazpi some forty years later to proselytize the Indios. After them came the Franciscans

in 1578, the Jesuits in 1581, the Dominicans in 1587, and the Augustinian Recollects in 1606

(Díaz-Trechuelo, 86, Phelan 1959, 32, Ridruejo 2007, 441, Salazar 2012, 3).

Missionary writings attest to the Spaniards’ awareness that the indigenous people they

were encountering for the first time at different places of the archipelago did not constitute

any single, homogenous population with a central form of government. According to the Jesuit

historian Pedro Chirino (Osuna, Seville, 1557–Manila, 1635),

[n]vnca los Filipinos tuvieron forma de pueblos con policía, i govierno politico de

manera que a lo menos una Iʃla o una cantidad de lugares, reconociendo por Señor a

uno, bivieʃʃen debaxo de ʃu amparo, i govierno: ʃino que el que mas podia vencia i

ʃeñoreava, i eʃle no era uno ʃolo, ʃino que todos caʃi podían, vencian, i ʃeñoreavan (Chirino 1604, 123).

[Never did the Fiipinos have any village with polity or any political government. For this reason, there were people on some islands or in a number of places who live under the protection and government of the person whom they had recognized as their lord. Anyone who had the most power could conquer and rule over them. There was never any single person who reigned. All those who had power conquered and ruled.]


The groups of people scattered across the islands belonged to small communities known as

barangay, the same name used to designate the primordial sea vessel these people took to reach

these islands (Colín, 69, col. 1).

Colonial expansion was commonly memorialized in missionary records as a reduction.

Communities where Spanish settlements were built were said to have been reduced to the

Crown. With respect to Manila, Colín wrote:

Llegan las armas Eʃpañolas, y eʃtandarte de Chriʃto a esʃta ciudad de Manila. Reduceʃe

ʃin ʃangre a la obediencia de nueʃtros Reyes (140, col. 1).

[Spanish arms and the banner of Christ arrived in this city of Manila. It was reduced to obeying our Monarchs without spilling any blood.]

These settled areas, or reducciones, were placed “bajo las campanas, that is, within the hearing of

the church bells” (Phelan, 49, emphasis in the original). Any person who chose to live outside

a settled area was considered an outcast (cf. Chirino, 174). Towards the nineteenth century

these outcasts became increasingly identified as ‘tulisanes’ (Agoncillo, 80), which in some

colonial histories were used interchangeably with the words ‘ladrones’ [robbers] or

‘malhechores’ [delinquents].15

The Spanish reducción was a requirement for the conversion of the Indios into

Catholicism (Gorriz 2001, 236, Shirley 2004, 15). In Chirino’s words, it was “neceʃʃaria para la

dõtrina” [necessary for the doctrine] (151). The religious orders divided the archipelago into

areas of mission. The Augustinians and Franciscans received the bulk of the Tagalog-speaking

provinces. In addition, the Augustinians also ministered in Pampanga and Ilocos towards the

north of the island of Luzon, while the Franciscans received the Bicol region towards its

southern tip. The Dominicans were assigned to minister to the Chinese community in Manila,

or the present-day Binondo district, where the Dominican parish of the Holy Rosary still

stands today. They were also tasked to evangelize the Cagayan Valley and Pangasinan in the

north. The Jesuits, on the other hand, did their missionary work in the Visayas, while the

Augustinian Recollects went to the provinces of Bataan, Zambales, Masbate, Mindoro, and

15 Missionary vocabularies from previous centuries do not seem to use the term ‘tulisanes’ to refer to these outcasts. Cano (2006, 112) observes that the association between the words for outcast, thief and bandit in Philippine historiography became normative only during the American occupation of the Philippines. See also Bankoff (1998).


portions of the predominantly Muslim island of Mindanao (Gowing 1967, 35, Sueiro Justel

2007, 51) [See Figure 2].

Like his brothers in the New World, the priest in the Philippines was vested with real

temporal powers. Since not too many Spaniards managed to take up residence in the islands,

the priest was oftentimes the closest (and in many cases, the only) contact the Indios ever had

with Spain (Ridruejo 2003, 181), thus making him a complete arsenal of both the Spanish

Empire and the Catholic Church. The priest for the Indios was Spain. This view was summed

up by a Spanish colonial officer with the words “en cada fraile tenía el rey en Filipinas un

capitán general y un ejército entero” [In every friar in the Philippines, the king had a captain

general and a entire army] (Deats 1967, 19, Agoncillo, 75). In this empire of letters, where

memories ebbed and flowed with every stroke of a quill, much of the influence of the religious

orders was reinforced by authoring the colonies. Fray Francisco Blancas de San José achieved

this in a humble printing press several miles away from Manila upon the publication of his

grammar of God.


FIGURE 2. Map of the Catholic Missions in Colonial Philippines

62 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. CHAPTER III. Man, Mission and Message

CHAPTER III

Man, Mission and Message

The craft of the translator is, as we shall see, deeply ambivalent: it is exercised in a radical tension between impulses to facsimile and impulses to appropriate recreation. In a very specific way, the translator ‘re-experiences’ the evolution of language itself, the ambivalence of the relations between language and world, between ‘languages’ and ‘worlds’. In every translation the creative, possibly fictive nature of these relations is tested. Thus translation is no specialized, secondary activity at the ‘interface’ between languages. It is the constant, necessary exemplification of the dialectical, at once welding and divisive nature of speech.

George Steiner (1975, 235)

After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation

Subjectivity and Historicity of the Translator

Translation happens not upon the consummation of the translational product, but

rather “in the very moment of its genesis, the instant of its emergence” (Gouanvic 2002, 95).

Even before the Arte became a material specimen, translation was already at work in the

grammarian as he tried to suture disparate linguistic knowledges 16 into the categories of

grammar. It is for this that the work of a translator, Gouanvic continues to theorize, is located

at the intersection of a subjectivity and a historicity (96). Conceptualizing translation as history

and grammar as memory brings us intuitively to a study of the translator-grammarian, whose

status of being himself a translation in between worlds serves as the locus for narrating the

past (Cheung 2012, 158, Steadman-Jones, 61-64, Wilson 2012a, 49). The study of translation

is oftentimes incomplete without studying the translator (Chesterman 2009, 13-14, Pym 2000,

2-3). The reputed historical singularity of the Arte derives in part from the personal

circumstances of its originator, the Dominican friar Francisco Blancas de San José, and the

16 My use of this word in the plural is a conscious choice. See Burke (2016, 7-9).


literary ecology of the colonial society in which his masterpiece was ideated and saw the light

of print. To study the translationality of Blancas’s grammar is thus an invitation to study

Blancas both as a translator and a translation.

The little that we know about the life of Blancas is mainly based on the ten pages

devoted to him in the second book of the first volume of Historia de la provincia del Sancto Rosario

de Filipinas, Iapon, y China de la sagrada Orden de Predicadores [History of the Province of the Holy

Rosary of the Philippines, Japan and China of the Holy Order of Preachers]. This book is an

account of the early years of the Order of Preachers (i.e., the Dominicans) in Asia written by

Fray Diego Francisco de Aduarte (Zaragoza, c.1570–Nueva Segovia, 1636), a Dominican

historian who later became bishop of Nueva Segovia. Nevertheless, Aduarte himself

acknowledged at the beginning of his narration that part of Blancas’s biography came from an

earlier chronicle by Fray Juan López (d. 1632), the Dominican bishop of Monopoli in the

Italian province of Bari. During my archival research in Madrid, I have found a transcription

of López’s work, De la vida y muerte del Padre Fray Francisco de Blancas [On the Life and Death of

Fr. Fray Francisco Blancas], in Artigas y Cuerva’s history of the printing press in the Philippines

(1910, 95-103). The biography, according to Artigas y Cuerva, originally appeared as the sixty-

ninth chapter of the fifth volume of López’s Historia general de la Orden de Predicadores [General

History of the Order of Preachers], published in 1621 in Valladolid, Spain by Juan de Rueda.

This transcription was based on a copy López had found in the library of the Royal and

Pontifical University of Santo Tomás in Manila.

The version I am citing here is the expanded 1693 edition of Aduarte’s history, which

contains material from Fray Domingo González, regent of the then Colegio de Santo Tomás.

This work has been digitized and made publicly accessible by the Spanish National Library. I

have chosen this version because it has references not only to Aduarte himself and to his

fraternal ties to Blancas, but also to Blancas’s family and youth, which López did not mention

in his history. Aduarte may have been party to such information precisely because the two

were part of the same mission that reached the Philippines in 1595 (Ocio 1895, 25-26, Pardo

de Tavera 1893, 11). References in this expanded edition described the high regard that

Aduarte and Blancas had for each other:


Querianʃe mucho el Padre Fr. Francisco Blancas, y el Padre Fr. Diego Aduarte, como

naturales del miʃmo Reyno de Aragon, y hijos de eʃte Convento de Alcalà, y caʃi de vna edad, y de vn ingenio… (Aduarte and González 1693, 724, col. 2).

[Fr. Francisco Blancas and Fr. Diego Aduarte loved each other very much for they were both born in the Kingdom of Aragón and were sons of the same convent in Alcalá, and were almost of the same age and intellect…]

There was additional information on Blancas in this account that came from two nuns, Sor

Gerónima Bautista and Sor Isabel de Santa Eufrasia, both nieces of Bishop Diego de Yepes,

who said they knew Francisco’s family quite well (407). Their testimony was verified through

an affidavit issued by Juan de Lorga, the nuns’ confessor.

Koerner (2008), a historian of linguistics, places the year of Blancas’s birth at 1560 (25).

This piece of information came most probably from the records of Pardo de Tavera (1903,

392).17 Francisco Blancas shared his name with his father, a merchant from Cascante in the

Navarre region. The boy’s mother, Ana Ángel, was from the nearby municipality of Tudela.

The older Francisco and Ana married and moved to Tarazona, a bishopric see in the province

of Zaragoza, where the boy was born and raised [See Figure 3]. The Aduarte account portrayed

Blancas’s parents as people of means who were very much involved in pious works. It was

claimed, almost in the style of a panegyric, that

[m]ayor cuydado tuvieron en criar bien ʃus hijos, que en procurar hacienda, que

dexarles, con lo cual, y con ʃu buen exemplo, los ʃacaron à todos mas ricos de virtudes que de bienes temporales (404, col. 1).

[they invested greater care in rearing their children well than in amassing fortunes that could be bequeathed to them. Because of this, and because of their good example, all of their children were raised with a wealth of virtues rather than of temporal goods.]

Francisco was the second child and the only boy in a brood of girls. His eldest sister Ana and

the sister born after him, Gerónima, married into good families and sired children, while the

rest, Ángela, María, Úrsula, Francisca and Beatriz, joined the Franciscan order and became

nuns. Francisco, being the only male child, was placed under the tutelage of the best teachers.

He was a very religious boy who had a great devotion to Our Lady of the Rosary, and it was

17 Filipino historian Wenceslao Retana wrote that Aduarte may have been born around 1570 (Morga 1909 [1609], 518). In Fr. Manuel Ferrero’s 1962 edition of Aduarte’s history, the year of Aduarte’s birth was given as 1569 (Aduarte and González 1962 [1693], XXIII, Vol. I). If we take Koerner’s estimate of Blancas’s year of birth to be correct, Blancas would be nine years older than Aduarte.


said that he would invite other children to join him in his Saturday prayers to the Virgin (404-

405).

When he was about thirteen years old, Francisco was sent to the University of Alcalá

de Henares to continue his studies. The interest to master a foreign language that he

demonstrated later on in life may have been first nurtured at this university, one of the seats

of Spanish humanism in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries with a long tradition of

philological studies (cf. Álvarez Aranguren 1990). That Francisco attended one of the most

prestigious centers of higher learning in Spain set him apart from the many nameless men who

also entered the priesthood. Mastery of Latin had long been on a decline in Europe by this

time (Abellán Giral 1995, 163, Álvarez Aranguren, 118, Santoyo 1995, 24, 2006, 18-19). In

Spain in particular, knowledge of foreign languages was generally low, even among the

educated elites (Kamen 2014a, 107). While Latin was (and still is) the official language of the

FIGURE 3. Map of Blancas’s Spain


Roman Catholic Church and therefore essential in the formation of the clergy, those whose

ecclesiastical aspirations were limited to obtaining a minor benefice or a small parish were

already content with learning a sort of Latin that, in the words of Domínguez Ortiz (463),

would have horrified Virgil. The instruction Francisco received at Alcalá not only would have

equipped him with a thorough understanding of Latin. It would also have trained him in the

medieval liberal arts tradition that was the basis of the European university curriculum (cf.

Mignolo 1995, 198, Musumeci 2009, 48, Zwartjes 2012, 5-6), as well as in the humanist

principles of the Renaissance (cf. Rico 1993, Ynduráin 1994). Francisco’s contribution to the

development of the first printing press in the Philippines, which he founded in 1593 (Ocio,

26-27, Sueiro Justel 2002, 19), may also be attributed to his formation at Alcalá, a leading

producer of typographic works during this period (Pardo de Tavera 1893, 12).

Beyond Francisco’s performance as a student at Alcalá, however, it was his personal

virtues that exalted him among his peers. He was said to lead a very austere life, often rejecting

the luxuries that he could have afforded. At age fifteen he joined the Order of Preachers while

he was in the second year of his arts degree (Medina 1896, 9, Pardo de Tavera 1893, 11), and

then transferred to the Dominican convent of Santa Cruz in Segovia. After some time, he was

sent to the convent of Piedrahita in Ávila to continue his studies in arts, where he excelled and

was made “Maeʃtro de Eʃtudiantes” [master of students] despite his young age (408).

Francisco’s vocation was in preaching. The personal virtues he possessed both as a

student and a friar reportedly made him an extraordinary preacher. The Aduarte account

referred to this thusly:

abundãcia de palabras muy propias, y ʃignificativas para quanto queria, linda

diʃpoʃicion, y orden de coʃas, gran memoria, accion, y repreʃentaciõ propriʃʃima, linda

voz, muy grande, muy clara y muy ʃonora, retorica natural nacida del grande

ʃentimiento… (Aduarte and González, 408, col. 1).

[an abundance of words both adequate and meaningful for whatever he wished to say, a pleasant disposition and good organization, a great memory, a highly decorous conduct and bearing, a beautiful voice, very loud, very clear and very deep, a natural rhetoric born of great fervor…]


His preaching was so well received that Fray Francisco was described as the “ʃeñor de los

coraçones” [lord of the hearts] of those who heard him preach (408). He obtained the

permission of the local bishop to preach even before he was ordained into the priesthood.

After his ordination, Blancas was sent to found the parish of San Antonino de Yepes

in Toledo. He was chosen to do so, according to Aduarte, because the rules of the Dominican

Order required that priests assigned to fledgling parishes be of unassailable virtue so that they

could firmly establish the Church in these places. Once the parish was founded, Fray Francisco

was summoned back to Alcalá de Henares when he was about thirty years old, and continued

preaching to doctors, professors and prelates. It was at Alcalá where he learned about a

missionary trip to the Philippines that the Dominicans were organizing.

Language and Mission

Blancas was not part of the first Dominican mission that reached the Philippine islands

in 1587. He instead joined the second one that sailed from Seville on 1 July 1594 and reached

New Spain “por la fieʃta de Nueʃtra Señora del Roʃario” [on the feast of Our Lady of the

Rosary, i.e., 7 October] (Aduarte and González, 137, col. 2). This mission to the Philippines

was, in reality, the fourth in a series of missions organized by the Order of Preachers. Two

other Dominican delegations were sent to the islands after the initial trip. These two

delegations, however, began their journey from Acapulco, Mexico.18 The first one sailed in

1588 on the ‘Día de Carnestolendas’ [Carnival Day], and arrived in the Philippines in May of

that same year, while the next one sailed in 1589 (Ocio, 18, 22).

A trip from Spain to the Philippines during this time typically lasted anywhere from

eight months to two years, and was accompanied with the usual uncertainties of seafaring and

longish delays in America in between connections (cf. Costa 1954, 198, Phelan, 43). It was also

an expensive affair: It is estimated that in the 1620s, or barely two decades after Blancas’s trip,

18 And there were many other Dominican missions sent to other destinations in the American continent in between these missions to the Philippines. In his book on the early years of the Dominican presence in Asia and America, Ariza (1971, 15-91) offers a compilation of these missions, from the very first one sent to the island of Santo Domingo in 1509, to the one sent to Cartagena de Indias in 1614.


the cost of the sending one missionary from Spain to the Philippines was about 125,000

maravedís19 in addition to a yearly subsidy of a hundred pesos and two hundred and fifty

bushels of rice (Costa 1954, 198). Blancas’s journey ran for almost a full year. Having started

in 1594, he, together with the friar who would one day become his biographer, left Mexico on

23 March 1595 and reached Manila on 12 June of that same year. Several Dominicans from

the group of fifteen who had originally set sail from Spain died in Puebla de los Ángeles

(present-day Puebla, Mexico) while awaiting for the connecting trip to the Philippines, and had

to be replaced with friars already based in New Spain (Aduarte and González, 139, col. 2).

In the Philippines, Blancas held the positions of definitor (i.e., member of the governing

council) and vicar (i.e., deputy of the head of the local assembly of the Order, called a provincial)

of the local Dominican province at various stages of his ministry (Ocio, 27). But it was the title

of preacher general that was usually appended to his name in the records. Blancas’s talent for

preaching was discovered by the Spaniards living in Manila. The Aduarte account, in keeping

with its hagiographic tone, gave a vivid description of how Blancas supposedly preached:

De ordinario bajava del Pulpito todo mojado, ò vañado en ʃudor, aʃsi por ʃer la tierra

caluroʃa, como por la vehemencia de eʃpiritu con que predicava, y por traer èl vna Tunica

de xerga muy baʃta […] Quãdo en el Pulpito avia de reprehender coʃas graves, y de peʃʃo,

ʃe tendia primero en el ʃuelo, y puesʃto en Cruz pedia à Dios con muchas lagrimas, y

ʃolloços ʃu eʃpiritu, y davaʃele tal, que las perʃonas de mas punto oyendele dezian, que

hablaba en èl el Eʃpiritu Santo (Aduarte and González, 410-411).

[He usually went down from the pulpit all wet and dripping with sweat because of the warm weather, the fervor of spirit with which he preached, and the tunic made of a very coarse fabric that he wore (…) Whenever he needed to rebuke grievous faults, he would first lie on the ground, and assuming the form of the cross, he would pray to God with tears and lament in his spirit. Those who heard him as he was doing this said that it was the Holy Spirit that was speaking in him.]

The archipelago that Blancas and his fellows Dominicans were trying to convert into

Christianity was described in the Aduarte account as a land savaged by neverending wars, and

whose people worshipped the Devil (140, col. 1). The Devil in the historical accounts of the

19 While it is difficult to give an estimate of the value of a maravedi in today’s currency, a good way to illustrate the expenses that a missionary trip to the Philippines entailed is by comparing it to the wages in Spain: In 1604, the annual wage of a laborer in Castile was raised to about 20,000 maravedís. This would mean that the cost of sending a missionary to the Philippines was six times bigger than what a worker would earn in a year of doing manual labor. In 1632, proposals were made to raise the wage to about 30,000 maravedís (Casey, 167).


Philippine missions was not a metaphysical entity that opposed the Christian virtue of good.

He was instead an active agent in the historicization of the colonies. Any failure in the missions

was attributed either entirely or in part to his machinations. Such an personification of the

Devil as a historical agent—a literary device already employed by Catholic missionaries in

writing the history of America (Courcelles 2009, 230, Eichmann 2009, 81, Mignolo 1989, 74,

Zavala, 331)—would indicate that the missionaries approached pre-colonial belief systems

with what Zimmermann (2005) terms as a “conocimiento de dominación” [knowledge of

domination] (121). It was as though the missionaries were looking at these beliefs from a

privileged external vantage point that made them insusceptible to evil, and thus more

discerning of truth.

This personification of evil functioned as a translational topos from which rules of

equivalence in missionary-colonial texts were sourced (cf. Fernández Rodríguez 2012). The

Christian conceptualization of the Devil as the opposite of good became the metaphysical

explanation of the foibles and follies of a society regarded as uncivilized (Frank 1989, 197,

Sales 2014, 187-189, Zavala, 331). The Christian notions of good and evil became equivalent

to the political notions of order and chaos (Gerbner, 141). The pre-Hispanic term ‘anito,’

which in Tagalog referred to the spirit of a dead ancestor or a spirit found in nature, was

commonly translated into Spanish as a localized avatar of the Devil in the form of a pagan idol.

In the SB, Fray Pedro de San Buenaventura (d. Pacific Ocean, 1627) proposed that an ‘anito’

was the Tagalog equivalent of the Castilian ‘idolatrar’ [to worship idols] when the root was

read as a verb (623). This equivalence was maintained in the NS of Juan de Noceda (Seville,

1681–?, 1747) and Pedro de Sanlúcar (Manila, 1707–?, post-1755), where ‘anito’ was given as

the denotative meaning of ‘ídolo’ [idol] (16, 544). These associations between the pre-Christian

concept ‘anito’ and the Christian notion of idolatry were found in the writings of Blancas. In

one of his sermons, he wrote that

ang lalong maraming maraming tauo sa sanlibotan ang di nacaaalam sa P. Dios, at sila,y, manga pala anito, at doon man sa manga tauong nacaquiquilala sa Dios na totoo, ay lubha din naming marami ang di gungmagaua nang cabanalan, ay caya naman sa Diablo din sila nagatotongcol (Blancas de San José 1994 [c.1614], 104-105).

[There are so many people in this world who know nothing of the Lord God, and they worship the anito, while many of those people who do know the true God do not perform acts of holiness and they, too, are meant for the Devil.]


From ‘anito’ came ‘anitera,’ a neologism used in the Aduarte account in reference to the

priestess who acted as medium between the anito and the people, (140, col. 2), and ‘anitería,’

another neologism, this time referring to the office she held (Aduarte and González, 141, col.

1). Both terms were formed by appending the Castilian suffixes ‘–era’ and ‘–ería’ to the Tagalog

root.20

Other Tagalog words warranted ecclesiastical suspicion since they were considered

insufficient in expressing Christian truths. Unlike in the Islamic traditions of neigboring

Southeast Asian countries, where terminological shifts allowed old and new words to blend

with each other in literature (Ricci 2011, 168-169), the perceived insufficiency of the words in

the indigenous languages of the Philippines provoked a pious hysteria among missionary-

colonial writers, who dissuaded their readers from using them. For instance, in his instruction

manual to priests, the Augustinian Tomás Ortiz (Palencia, 1668–Manila, 1742) warned against

the use of the Tagalog words ‘binyag’ and ‘simba’ as translations of the Castilian ‘bautizo’

[baptism] and ‘adoración’ or ‘misa’ [adoration, Mass], respectively. According to him, ‘binyag’

was already used to describe a pre-Christian ritual of dousing someone with water (cf. Aduarte

and González, 141, col. 1, Noceda and Sanlúcar, 61), while ‘simba’ referred to the worship

performed in pre-Christian temples and mosques (Ortiz 1731, 14). Similarly, describing an

Indio convert as a ‘tavong bininyagan’ [baptized man] instead of ‘tavong Christiano’ [Christian

man] was to be considered indecent (4).

Blancas interpreted his mission as a grammarian along similar translational lines. In his

Memorial de la vida christiana [Memorial of the Christian Life], published some five years before

the Arte, he wrote that

[a]ng tauo nganing di Cristiano, ay tauo nang tauo lamang na hamac, na ualang ano

ano mang camahalan […] Hayop nang hayop nga mandin pala siya, di nga lamang gungmagapang sa lupa (Blancas de San José 1832 [1605], 1-2).

20 Similar derivational techniques were employed by missionaries ministering outside the Tagalog-speaking region to coin similar neologisms. For instance, Augustinian historian Juan de Medina (d. Pacific Ocean, 1635) defined the term ‘manganiteros’ it in Castilian as ‘ministros de Satanás’ [ministers of Satan]. Delgado employed the same technique for the terms ‘paganitero/a’, derived from the verbalized noun of ‘anito’, and ‘divatero/a,’ from the word ‘divata’ [≈diwata, or spirit] (365). Other divinities were presented as modulations of the deities in the pagan religions of pre-Christian Europe (Sales 2014, 183).


[Anyone who is not a Christian is nothing but a lowly person without any worth (…) He is truly an animal, except that he does not crawl on the ground.]

The missionary component of the colonial project was regarded as an edification of the

colonized. The memorialization of a primeval Christian truth in the grammatized language was

an enabling force from which the ability to discriminate between good and evil emanated.

Anamnesis led to gnosis. Memory led to knowledge. And it is this knowledge that dignified its

possessor as a member of a community of shared meanings. An overt lexical manifestation of

this in the Tagalog language was the root ‘sakop,’ which meant either ‘to conquer’ or ‘to redeem’

(NS 334, SB 690). The available data from missionary grammars and dictionaries are still

inadequate to determine whether these acceptations of ‘sakop’ predated the grammatization

of Tagalog as a pastoral tongue.21 But it was certain that as far as missionary texts in Tagalog

were concerned, the overlapping conceptualization of conquest and redemption was prevalent

as an allegory for religious conversion.

Blancas was sent soon after to the Dominican vicariate in the Tagalog-speaking province

of Bataan to master Tagalog [See Figure 4]. The Aduarte account gave no detailed information

on how Blancas studied Tagalog there. It did emphasize, however, that he was so adept a

learner that he started preaching in the language after just three months of study, and was

already teaching the language to other missionaries another three months later (Aduarte and

González, 410, col. 1). Blancas also purportedly managed to learn Chinese, and even preached

in this language. Like in other parts of the Aduarte account, the hagiographic portrayal of

Blancas in terms of his linguistic acumen was evident in this section.

In the first few months of 1614, Blancas died on board the galleon that would have

taken him to Mexico as he was making his way back to Spain to recruit more friars for the

mission in Asia. There were passengers aboard the galleon who, in consideration of the

grammarian’s saintly life, suggested that his body be brought to land for a proper burial. But

the superstition against travelling with a corpse (and perhaps, more pragmatically, the

contamination that it could cause onboard) forced them to throw the body to the Pacific

21 The dictionary of Fray Domingo de los Santos (1794, 61, Part II), for example, did not include the notion of redemption in defining ‘sacop’. Was this an omission? Was this dialectal?


Ocean. A report on Blancas’s death was executed and signed by the cathedral chapter of the

Archdiocese of Manila on 12 May of that same year.

The friar was said to be so poor that he had his habit as his only possession. He did,

however, leave behind a trail of works on and in Tagalog that constituted an early written

corpus of the language. Aside from the Arte and the Memorial, Blancas wrote a treatise on the

sacraments in Tagalog and Latin called Tratado de los sacramentos, probably towards the end of

the sixteenth century or the beginning of the seventeenth, a 1604 or 1605 book on Tagalog

poetry entitled Libro de las cuatro postrimetrías del hombre en lengua tagala, y letra española [Book of

Man’s Four Last Things in the Tagalog Language and in Spanish Letters], and a 1608(?) book

of confession called Librong pinagpapalamnan yto nang aasalin nang tavong christiano sa pagconfesar, at

FIGURE 4. Map of Blancas’s Ministry on the Island of Luzon


sa pag-comulgar [Book Containing What the Christian Man Should Practice in Confession and

Communion] (Pardo de Tavera 1893, 13, Quilis, 21-23, Retana 1908, 9-14, Sueiro Justel 2007,

158-159). Thirty-two of his written homilies have also survived, thirteen of which have already

been transcribed and analyzed for a modern-day readership (Blancas de San José 1994 [c.1614]).

The Arte as a Publication

References in the missionary records allude to the existence of other Tagalog grammars

that had been produced or at least envisaged before the publication of the Arte (Ridruejo 2001,

531, Sueiro Justel 2007, 81-85, Zwartjes 2011a, 64). Santa Inés (211) and San Antonio (533,

col. 1), for example, reported on the recommendations of the 1580 chapter meeting among

the Franciscans for the completion of the translation of the Doctrina cristiana and the publication

of a Tagalog grammar and vocabulary, which was entrusted to Fray Juan de Plasencia

(Plasencia,?–Liliw, Philippines, 1590). A 1585 letter by Plasencia stated that

tengo escrito algunas cosas como es el arte dela lengua y declaración de toda la doctrina (AGI FILIPINAS,84,N.46).

[I have written some things such as the art of the language, and a declaration of the entire doctrine.]

In the early years of the American occupation of the Philippines, Retana (1908, 9) reported

that the Mexican bibliographer José Mariano Beristain y Souza wrote about a 1581 Tagalog

grammar by Fray Juan de Quiñones (Seville, c.1551–Manila, 1587). Retana, however, quickly

dismissed Beristain’s claim, saying that Quiñones’s grammar was a manuscript that never got

published.22 More recently, González de Pola (1992, 33) adduced to a 1605 draft of a Tagalog

grammar by Fray Juan de la Cruz,23 and a 1607 Arte de la lengua tagala by Fray Domingo de la

Nieva.24 In the interest of clarity, what we can assume with a certain amount of confidence is

22 Retana’s contemporary, the Chilean bibliographer José Toribio Medina (1896, XXVI-XXVII), also debunked Beristain’s claim by pointing out a misreading of the historical records. 23 The Aduarte account itself tells the story of how Blancas himself studied “los papeles, y trabajos” [papers and works] of Fray Juan de la Cruz to attain fluency in Tagalog (Aduarte and González, 293, col. 2). 24 Other pioneering grammarians of Tagalog include Juan de Oliver, Agustín de Albuquerque, Andrés de Verdugo, Francisco de Oliver and Jerónimo Montes Escamilla (Sueiro Justel 2007, 84). Oliver was mentioned in passing in


that the Arte is the first Tagalog grammar to be printed (Artigas y Cuerva, 3), and that it is the

oldest one still in existence (Quilis, 25).

The real value of Blancas’s masterpiece, however, is not set by its precedence over

other grammars in terms of its date of publication. It was instead its reputation as a complete

model of Tagalog that earned Blancas the respect of both his contemporaries and the

generations of authors who followed in his footsteps. Blancas was the Achilles of the language,

according to the Augustinian San Agustín (n.p.), and an ‘antesignano’ [frontliner] of Tagalog,

according to the Jesuit historian Delgado (333). The Franciscan Totanés portrayed him as the

Tagalog Cicero because his Arte “vale por muchos, o por todos” [is worth many grammars, if

not all] (n.p.). The Jesuit lexicographers Noceda and Sanlúcar hailed Blancas as the

Demosthenes of the language, and commented that no one among the later authors who

published their own grammars was able to add anything substantial to the Arte (n.p.).

The complete title of the Arte on the frontispiece is Arte y reglas de la lengva tagala/ por el

Padre F. Fray Franciʃco de S. Ioʃeph de la/ Ordē de S. Domingo Predicador General en la Provincia/ de N.

Señora del Roʃario de las Iʃlas Filipinas. The frontispiece bears the black and white cross of the

Dominican Order, and around it is written the Latin verse MIHI AVTEM ABSI

GLORIARINISI IN CRVCE DÑI NŘI IESUXPLAD GAL 6. This verse is the fourtheenth

of the sixth chapter of the epistle of St. Paul to the Galatians, which in English translates as

“it is out of the question that I should boast at all, except of the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ,

through whom the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.”25 The words “En el

Partido de Bataan/ ¶ Por Thomas Pinpin Tagalo, Año de 1610.∼” are printed underneath

the Dominican insignia to indicate the place and year of publication of the Arte and the name

of its typesetter, a habitual practice in many missionary texts [See Figure 5].

The pages of the Arte measure 14 x 20 centimeters and are printed on papel de China,

or rice paper, which gives the book its almost translucent quality. There are three hundred and

twelve pages with page numbers, and sixteen without. There is a mispagination from page 257

Fray Pedro San Buenaventura’s dictionary, although no claim was made about him publishing the first Tagalog grammar (cf. Wolff 2011, 36). 25 The English translation of the biblical verses cited in this dissertation comes from the New Jerusalem Bible.


onwards, for which reason the final page is numbered 311 (Quilis, 29). At the foot of every

page appears either the first word of the succeeding page, or a part of it. This word, known as

a ‘catchword’ in English or ‘reclamo’ in Spanish, facilitates the arrangement of pages in binding

the leaves together. As an example, we can read the word ‘tierra’ at the foot of page 9, the

same first word that appears on page 10. The last element on page 44 is ¶REG, which

corresponds to the first word of page 45, REGLA.

Bataan is a Tagalog-speaking province situated some one hundred and twenty

kilometers northwest of the city of Manila. It is bounded to the north by the provinces of

Pampanga and Zambales, to the east by the Manila Bay, and to the west by the South China

FIGURE 5. Title Page of the Arte (Source: Digital version of the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala,

Biblioteca Nacional de España)


Sea. Although not clearly specified, the ‘partido de Bataan’ [division of Bataan] here mentioned

most probably referred to the town of Abucay. According to Pardo de Tavera (1893, 13-14),

there were only two towns in Bataan, Abucay and Samal, at the time of the printing of the Arte.

Given that the former was administratively more important than the latter because of the

Dominican vicariate founded there as early as 1588, Abucay must have been the location where

the Dominican press was established and where Blancas’s Arte must have been printed.

TABLE 2. Subsections of the Arte

Artecilla

Libro de reglas

1. Lección primera on the nature and function of Tagalog nouns (5-8)

2. Lección segunda, de los pronombre primitiuos ‘yo’ y los de mas, on personal pronouns (8-11)

3. Lección tercera, de los

pronombres demonʃtratiuos, on demonstratives, (11-13)

4. Lección cuarta, los Nombres

interrogatiuos ʃon eʃtos, on interrogatives, (13-14)

5. Lección quinta, del Verbo

ʃuʃtantiuo ʃum, es, fui, on the copulative verb and its substitutes in Tagalog, (14-17)

6. Lección sexta, de los verbos, on the general principles for conjugating the Tagalog verb (17-24)

1. De las activas [On the Active Particles] (25-45) 2. De las pasivas [On the Passive Particles (46-79) 3. Del facere facere [On Facere, Facere] (80-92)

4. De las rayzes que comiençã ẽ. P. [On the Roots that Begin in P] (93-102)

5. De eʃta particula Mag [On the Particle Mag-] (103-128)

6. De la particula An [On the Particle -An] (129-136) 7. De la particula In [On the Particle In-] (137-144) 8. De la Particula Ca [On the Particle Ca-] (145-160) 9. De la particula Paca [On the Particle Paca-] (161-170) 10. De la particula Ma, y Maca, De temor o yngat que dizen

[On the Particles Ma and Maca, and on the Expression of Fear or Yngat, which They Say] (171-181)

11. De la particula Ma [On the Particle Ma] (182-194) 12. De la particula Pa [On the Particle Pa] (195-214) 13. De la particula Pan [On the Particle Pan] (215-221) 14. De la particula Pagin [On the Particle Pagin] (222-

230) 15. De la particula Paki [On the Particle Paki] (231-240) 16. De la particula Mapag [On the Particle Mapag] (241-

250) 17. An untitled chapter on relational verbs (251-256)

18. De las Reduplicaciones de ʃylabas [On the Reduplication of Syllables] (256-263) [i.e. 257-264]

19. De los numerals [On Numerals] (264-288) [i.e., 265-289]

20. De varia dotrina [On Miscellaneous Doctrines] (289-311) [i.e., 290-312].


The 1610 edition of Blancas’s grammar is divided into three parts: (1) the introduction,

(2) the Arte tagala [Tagalog Art] or Artecilla [small art], and (3) the Libro de reglas [Book of Rules].

The 1832 edition has an additional glossary of Tagalog roots, which does not appear in the

first (Quilis, 33-34). The division between the Artecilla and the Libro de reglas is consistent with

the classical grammatical tradition in Latin and the Romance languages, in which idealized rules

and actual usage are different yet overlapping components of a grammar. In this tradition,

linguistic description should account for the natura [nature] or ratio [reason] of language, as

demonstrated in the formulation of a prescriptive linguistic doctrine, as well as for its anomalía

[anomaly], or specific constructions in language praxis, which is then further divisible into

consuetudo [usage] and auctoritas [authority of classical authors] (González Luis 1992, 107-108,

Ridruejo 2011, 15-16, Sánchez Salor 2002, 293). The Artecilla is divided into six lessons and

gives a general description about the functions of the parts of speech of Tagalog. The Libro de

reglas, on the other hand, shows the usage of Tagalog particles in the formation of words and

sentences. It is divided into twenty chapters [See Table 2]. The grammatical rules covered in

the entirety of the Arte are relayed in paragraphs. Except for the chapter header adorned with

cherubic designs and the decorated drop cap at the beginning of every chapter, there are no

tables or any other rubrical features apart from the aforementioned in-text glyphs that

systematically isolate the exemplars from the rules.

Authority of the Textual Palimpest

As a translated text, the Arte contains fragments of previous texts that are conflated

into a palimpsest. The palimpsestic qualities of the Arte, particularly in its introduction, situate

it intertextually in a constellation of other texts, and allow for the memorialization of what

Zabus (2006 [1991], 288) describes as “the earlier, imperfectly erased remnants of the source

language.” An intertextuality rooted to a palimpsest is crucial for assembling different

knowledges together, and for demonstrating the ascendancy of the Arte as a pedagogical and

doctrinal masterpiece. The Arte is held as an authoritative text because of the traceable

intertextual tradition it contains (cf. Carbonell i Cortés 2014, 51, Cummings 2003, Pagden 1986,

7, Sales 2015a, 34 and passim).


The first overt demonstration of the Arte’s ascendancy is the list of contemporaneous

and historical authorities who are cited to uphold the doctrinal orthodoxy of the grammar. The

Arte opens with two sets of licencias [permissions] and aprobaciones [approvals]. These

permissions and approvals pertain to an elaborate network of ecclesiastical agents and norms

involved in publishing a missionary text. On 9 May 1522, or almost a century before the Arte

was printed, Adrian VI issued the papal bull Exponi nobis, addressing it specifically to Charles

V of Spain. More popularly known as the Omnimoda, or all-embracing (Costa 1954, 208), the

bull conferred immense pastoral powers traditionally reserved for the diocesan bishop to the

so-called mendicant orders, such as the Dominicans, who would be sent to preach to those

places where there was a dearth of seculares, or priests who did not belong to any religious order

and were thus directly under diocesan jurisdiction (Tibesar 1989, 97-98). The mendicant orders,

or the regulares—thus named for having a special set of rules, or regula in Latin, applicable to

their own respective orders—, were hence given a direct hand in performing many tasks

associated with the propagation of the Catholic faith in the colonies.26

One of these tasks was inspecting printed materials to ensure that they contained

nothing contrary to the Christian doctrine. Books on catechesis, pastoral ministry,

administration of the sacraments and the like were subjected to a doctrinal purge as a

prerequisite for publication. Since a missionary grammar like the Arte was intended as a

pedagogical tool for priests who were learning an indigenous language in order to minister to

the Indios, it, too, had to go through the same ecclesiastical scrutiny. Books that passed

ecclesiastical scrutiny were given licencias and aprobaciones as badges of their suitability for a wider

reading public, a practice exclusively reserved nowadays in the form of the Nihil obstat and the

Imprimatur for Catholic reading materials dealing with ecclesiastical and doctrinal matters (Sales

2008, 80).

As historicized paratexts, the licencias and aprobaciones give us a clue as to how the

colonial church in the Philippines was structured. They are records of the accountability and

expectancy norms (cf. Chesterman 1997, 76) required in the production of a missionary-

26 There were many controversies that ensued between the regular and the secular clergies throughout the course of the Spanish colonization of the Philippines, particularly with regard to the administration of parishes that the regular priests had originally erected, and their reluctance to let the local bishop to exercise his right of visitation to these parishes (Costa 1954, 258).


colonial text. Before a friar could publish any work, he ought to seek the approval of both the

religious province to which he belonged and the officials of the diocese where he was

ministering (Selga 1940, 4-5). In the Arte, the permission and approval from the Dominicans

were given by Fray Miguel Ruiz (d. Manila, 1630) in the Binondo district of Manila in February

of 1609, and by Fray Baltasar Fort (Valencia,?–Manila, 1640), the then provincial of the order,

on 3 June 1609. Since the see of Manila was still vacant during this time, the archdiocesan

permission was issued on 24 July 1609 by Pablo Ruiz Talavera in his capacity as archdiocesan

censor. Four days later, the Dean and the members of the cathedral chapter of Manila also

granted their consent.

These censorial permissions are temporal indices that, when considered in relation to

other historical records, may help reconstruct the Arte’s publication timeline. Although they

cannot provide an exact date of publication, they are nevertheless valuable in narrowing down

the period within which the grammar would have been printed. These permissions suggest

that Diego Vásquez Mercado, the archbishop-elect of Manila, had yet to take possession of his

see around the time when the grammar was published. His predecessor, Miguel de Benavides,

died in 1606, according to a letter written by the cathedral chapter (AGI FILIPINAS,77,N.21).

Vásquez Mercado took possession of the see of Manila in June 1610 according to a report

made on 12 July of that same year by the Royal Audiencia of Manila, the highest civil tribunal

in the Philippines at that time (AGI FILIPINAS,20,R.4,N.32). An exact date of the

archbishop’s arrival was given in other archival documents: 4 June, the eve of the solemnity of

Corpus Christi of that year (San Antonio, 141, 179). In short, we can conjecture that the

manuscript of the Arte was completed before February of 1609, the month when the first

permission was issued by Fray Miguel Ruiz, and it would have been printed before June of

1610. Church records seem to confirm this: Blancas lived in Abucay, Bataan from 24 May 1598

to 27 April 1602, and from 26 April 1608 to 8 May 1610 (Artigas y Cuerva, 20).

Additionally, the identity of the other members of the cathedral chapter of the

Archdiocese of Manila can be cross-checked by triangulating references in the Arte with the

existing historical records. By comparing the chapter’s endorsement of the Arte to a letter they

issued on 10 July 1610 (AGI FILIPINAS,77,N.36), the paratextual ambiguities caused by the

confusing arrangement of the paragraphs in the ST can be resolved. For example, the phrase

‘El Dean de Manila’ is collocated with ‘El Arcediano Arellano’ to its immediate right, and ‘Don


Luis de Herrera Sandoval’ underneath [See Figure 6]. Is Arellano the Dean of Manila? Or is it

Herrera de Sandoval? Or are they three different persons altogether? Understanding this

paratextual element is vital in effecting a rigorous transposition of the factual content of the

ST into the TT. The AGI letter contains the names of the members of the chapter with their

corresponding signatures: The Dean of Manila is Juan de Vívero, the Archdeacon is Francisco

Gómez de Arellano, and Luis de Herrera Sandoval is the treasurer. Since both the Arte and the

letter were made in 1610, a sound translation solution has been devised on the basis of the

documentary evidence.

The Arte’s ascendancy as it is articulated in its licencias and aprobaciones is affirmed

even further in A los padres ministros del Evangelio [To the Father Ministers of the Gospel], an

exhortative foreword addressed to the presumed readers of the grammar. In it Blancas deftly

expounds on the theological rationale for studying foreign languages through an ensemble of

biblical and patristic teachings (Sales 2015a). He begins by reminding his missionary readers

that learning a language among the early Christians was the fulfillment of Christ’s promise as

recorded in the Gospel of St. Mark that whoever believes in Him will receive the grace of

speaking in tongues. But this grace, Blancas continues, has been taken away because of

mankind’s lack of enthusiasm and unwillingness. Citing a passage from St. Thomas Aquinas’s

reflection in the Summa theologica on St. Augustine’s treatise on the Gospel of St. John, Blancas

concludes that the gift of speaking another language is now an ability preserved among the

FIGURE 6. Endorsement from the Cathedral Chapter of Manila (Source: Digital version of the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala, Biblioteca Nacional de España)


ranks of ministers belonging to the plenitude of the Christian Church. He then quotes the

commentary of the fifteenth-century Dominican cardinal and theologian Thomas Gaetanus

on the Summa theologica, arguing that despite her many shortcomings, the Church should

persevere in her mission of evangelization, particularly among those people in the newly

‘discovered’ territories. Blancas proceeds to echo the desire of Clement V, articulated in the

papal decree in the ecumenical council of Vienne (France) of 1311 to 1312, for the Church to

train men to speak the languages of the ‘infidels’ so that these people could be instructed in

the Christian faith and be brought into the fold. There are also several passages cited from the

epistles of St. Jerome, the translator of the Vulgate, particularly with regard to the difficulties

one would encounter in learning and preaching in a language other than his own.

Although Blancas often names the authors of the passages he is citing, the exact

bibliographic sources from which these passages have been lifted are never supplied within

the body of the text. They are instead referred to in the marginalia, a common practice during

this period (Burke 2010, 30, Haddour 2008, 211, Sales 2008, 82). There is no ostensible effort

to translate any of these passages into Castilian, nor is there any intent to set them apart visually

in the paragraphs, except for the segregating effect collaterally brought about by the hybrid

composition of the ministerial exhortation. This manner of scholarly attribution underscores

the loci communes (cf. Pagden 1986, 7), or thematic commonplaces, that the Arte shared with its

intended readers. By interspersing long blocks of untranslated ecclesiastical texts in Latin in an

exegetical discussion predominantly written in Castilian, the Arte fuses together a chorus of

voices and discursively relocates the authors of the past into the textual space of the present.

This give credence to the theological groundwork involved in writing the grammar and justifies

the need for its publication (Sales 2015d, 160-164). No translation of the Latin passages into

Castilian is ever provided in a tacit acknowledgment of the presumed scholarly profile of the

Arte’s intended readers, who despite varying competencies in the language are counted on to

recognize the significance of these thematic reiterations in the palimpsest. By appealing to the

authority of ecclesiastical figures, the Arte presents itself as a doctrinally—and by extension,

philologically—sound document that affirms the magisterium that the Apostles and other

Church fathers have taught over the centuries (cf. Esparza Torres 2003, 75, Hokenson and

Munson 2007, 29, Pagden 1993, 52-55). The non-translation of these Latin passages also

delimits the Arte’s intended readership to the priestly class, for in order to participate in this


specific discourse, any reader should also have a certain level of familiarity with the languages,

authorial references and writing styles used by Blancas.

Such arbitrariness in authorial attribution is fertile ground for altering the referentiality

of memory. For instance, Blancas’s marginal notation of “In Epist. ad Furiam in med.”

mistakenly attributes the cited passage to St. Jerome’s epistle to Furia. A simple confirmatory

search in other available databases reveals that the letter is addressed instead to the monk

Rusticus, and is in fact a well-studied piece of Hieronymic literature with many available

translations and commentaries. Another example is what Blancas refers to in the marginalia as

“P.p. hyst. Ii. I. cap. 44,” and introduces in-text as an anecdote about St. Dominic of Guzmán,

the founder of the Order of Preachers. While the citation obviously adduces to a written

history of some sort, the Arte does not give any manifest sign to mark where the cited passage

begins and ends. It is only when we compare this part with its source, the Primera parte de la

Historia General de Santo Domingo y de su Orden de Predicadores [First Part of the General History

of St. Dominic and his Order of Preachers] by Fray Hernando del Castillo (2015 [1584]), that

we realize that the entire paragraph in the Arte narrating the journey of St. Dominic with Fray

Beltrán de Garriga from Toulouse to Paris, and the miracle that allowed the saint to

extemporaneously converse with a band of German pilgrims in their own tongue is lifted

verbatim from pages 93 to 94 of Castillo’s history.

Tempting though it may seem to dismiss these instances as a blatant disregard for

scholarly rigor on Blancas’s part, it has to be kept in mind that imitative modes of authorship

had a different symbolic value in early modern societies. Imitation was perceived during this

time as an essential component of the artistic process, guaranteeing the alignment of its

product with an orthodox and acceptable original (Darst 1985, 7-8, Grafton 1990, 5-6, Grafton,

Shelford, and Siraisi 1992, 24-25). Even today, authoring a text ordinarily compels a writer to

take part in “the great river of tradition” (Barnstone, 92) that locates other previous texts in

relation to a new masterpiece. By establishing continuities imitatively between a newly

produced text and an already existing corpus of writings that adhere to a tradition, Blancas is

performing a translational exercise to corroborate the reputation of his work. He is translating

textual authority by reproducing faithfully what distinguished writers in the past have said. It

is through this that the grammarian’s conception of a singular and uncontested past acquires

the weight of an all-encompassing truth (cf. Le Goff 1992, 12, Ross 2008, 129). Examples of


imitation as an approach to authorship are found in other Tagalog missionary grammars (Sales

2008, 82): The work of the Augustinian Manuel Buzeta is a faithful copy of that of the

Franciscan Sebastián de Totanés. The chapter on Tagalog poetics in the grammar of the

Franciscan Joaquín de Coria is an expanded version of the discussion on the Tagalog meter

written by the Augustinian Gaspar de San Agustín. The histories of Colín and Delgado have

historical content that can be traced Chirino’s chronicle. The mimesis of memory, as Neumann

(2008) calls this imitative mode of authorship, ironically surpasses the mimetic qualities of

copying. It becomes in itself a reconfiguration of the copied memories, combining “the real

and the imaginary, the remembered and the forgotten […] thus offering new perspectives on

the past” (334). What need is there to ensure that the passage from St. Jerome is indeed lifted

from his epistle to Rusticus and not from the one addressed to Furia? What need is there to

make the attribution to Castillo’s history textually explicit? Indeed, what need is there to

understand what the Latin passages are exactly saying? The evocative force of the passages

comes from their reputation as authoritative memories. Memories do not always have to be

factually verifiable or faithful to an external reality for as long as they remain credible (cf. Baker

2006, 17-18, Zamora 1987, 338).

Blancas’s seven-page exhortation to missionaries is capped off with a one-page

summary in Latin under the title Evangelii minister debet esse [The Ministers of the Gospel Ought

to Be]. Blancas names five virtues to complete the title: ‘charitatius’ [charitable], ‘patiens’

[patient], ‘benignus atqƷ humanus’ [kind and humane], ‘aʃʃiduus in doctrina’ [persistent in

doctrine], ‘non lucri cupidus’ [not desirous of wealth], and ‘suæ met animæ prouidens’

[generous of spirit]. Consistent with the palimpsestic features of the preceding exhortation,

several unstanslated Latin verses from the Bible are cited in this section in support of the five

virtues [See Figure 7]. There are, however, two biblical verses without any reference: the

second one under ‘patiens,’ which, as it turns out, is the twelfth verse of the second epistle of

St. Paul to the Corinthians, and the last verse on the page, which comes from the Gospel of

St. Matthew.

A century later, this section of the Arte will be reproduced in full without attribution

in the grammar of Totanés (cf. Cuevas Alonso, 169). And like Blancas, Totanés will retain all

the occluded elements in the section, save for the unreferenced final verse, which he will


identify. A text made up of embedded texts is re-embedded in another text, its erasures

combined with another erasure, with Blancas himself becoming the unnamed source author

in the new ensemble. The authority of the texts remains undiminished in these successive

palimpsestic assemblages. In enacting the contrary yet complementary processes of revealing

and occluding, the palimpsest ensconces the imperfections of nostalgias within a canonical

antiquity, which in the Arte extends to as far back as the Tower of Babel and the Pentecost.

FIGURE 7. Evangelii minister (Source: Digital version of the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala,

Biblioteca Nacional de España)


From Babel to Pentecost

Language in the Christian tradition is a divine prerogative given to the elect. From the

time God was said to have scattered mankind’s languages as a punishment for erecting a tower

that defied His divine supremacy, to the day when this same God sent down the Holy Spirit

to imbue the early Church with the gift of language, linguistic variation has been interpreted in

Christian writings as a testimony of the numinous qualities of human speech. The metaphors

of Babel and the Pentecost, as these two biblical tropes are known, informed the linguistic

production of missionary grammarians in the colonial period (Suárez Roca 1992, 287-289).

The missionaries’ persistence in learning the languages of the New World derived largely from

the belief that they were fulfilling a mission entrusted to the Church to gather the peoples of

every language strewn across the earth.

The stories of Babel and the Pentecost are woven into the introductory section of the

Arte. Although metonymic, their presence can be gathered from the devout symbolisms that

Blancas used to remind us of the mission he wants to achieve with his Tagalog grammar. In

his two-page opening prayer called Oracion en qve se pide a N.S. Dios fauor para alcançar la lengua

neceʃʃaria para predicar dignamente su dotrina [Prayer to Implore Our Lord God for His Mercy to

Reach the Language Necessary for Preaching His Doctrine Fittingly], Blancas invokes God as

the omniscient deity “who listens and has the power to dispense the gift of tongues to the

priest as He once did to His apostles” (Rafael 1993, 31). The grammarian will refer to Him

later on as “el Author de la lengua” [the Author of Language, the Spanish spelling is an

archaism] (40). The “muchedumbre de lenguas,” or multiplicity of tongues, which is referred

to in the second line of the prayer, is an allusion to Babel that saw mankind’s unitary linguistic

condition imploding into dispersed and fragmentary units of language.

Missionaries generally regarded Babel as the enduring proof of mankind’s arrogance.

It was at Babel where the human species was uprooted from its Edenic monolingualism and

was denied of the grace of a common speech (Errington 2001, 27, Pagden 1986, 181). Babel

was a convenient explanation for the purported barbaric chaos of the non-Christian world.27

27 The idiomatic expression ‘hablar in cristiano’ [literally, to speak in Christian], said to have originated from the medieval period when the three monotheistic faiths co-existed in the Iberian Peninsula, is used to this day to describe a speech that is clear and easily understood.


It was not uncommon for missionary writings to refer to linguistic diversity as a descriptor of

the degeneracy of pre-colonial civilizations. Colín (57, col. 1) explained that the lack of polity

and communication was caused by the multiplicity of tongues. Totanés, for his part,

condemned the Indios’ failure to talk in a Christian tongue as a form of ignorance:

Otra poderoʃa razón hay que eʃtimula grandemente á fecundarle lo poʃsible en eʃte

Idioma, y es la cortedad de los Indios, à quienes ʃe hà de adminiʃtrar con el. Son, por

lo general, estos Naturales toʃcos, zafios y de poca reflexión… (n.p.).

[There is another powerful reason that greatly compels the minister to enrich himself in this language as much as possible, and it is the callowness of the Indios, who must be governed through it. These Indios are generally crude, uncouth and of little reflection.]

Basilio de Santa Justa (Teruel, 1728–Manila, 1787), who reigned as archbishop of Manila from

1766 to 1787, similarly reminded the faithful in a 1775 pastoral letter that

[q]uan contraria sea á la vida civil y social de los hombres la variedad de lenguas, se vee claro en lo que sucedio con aquella gran muchedumbre de hombres que edificaban la sobervia torre de Babel… (142).

[One can see how contrary the multiplicity of tongues was to the civil and social life of mankind in what happened to that great multitude of men who were building the proud Tower of Babel.]

Vestiges of this same belief are found in Blancas’s prayer. The grammarian starts by describing

the members of the early Church as ‘hombres ydiotas’ [stupid men], who preached the

Christian doctrine only after receiving the grace of language. He then makes references to the

Indios and their ‘pobreza de los ingenios’ [poverty of intellect] and the ‘flaqueza de sus

coraçones’ [feebleness of their hearts], to whom the Church should preach the doctrine it

previously received.

Like other missionaries, Blancas endorses an ambivalent kind of benevolence towards

the Indios. He concedes that the salvation of which the Indios are denied because of their

language must be brought to them by means of the same heathen tongue (cf. Barnstone, 43).

The grammarian’s antagonism of Babel, in other words, is mitigated by the belief in the

promise of salvation embodied in the story of the Pentecost. In his prayer, Blancas exemplifies

the grace of language as a tongue of fire sent from the heavens, a clear reference to the descent


of the Holy Spirit in the biblical story of the Pentecost that gave the Apostles the gift of

preaching in Gentile tongues. The grammarian prays in this manner:

Lengua de fuego os pido con q abraʃado mi pecho, ʃe enciendan los oyentes con

vueʃtro amor.

[A tongue of fire I ask from You so that after burning my heart, it will then illumine my listeners with Your love.]

Blancas likewise asks that he be given the grace to carry out his mission of announcing the

Christian faith to the Indios:

Enriqueced al que les habla de eʃpiritu y eficacia fervoroʃa q los avive y deʃpierte, y de

palabras claras, concertadas y bien diʃpueʃtas que les declaren lo que ignoran.

[Enrich the man who talks to them with vigor and fervent resolve, so that he may enliven them and rouse them from their sleep, and announce to them what they do not know with clear, congruous and capable words.]

These passages depict Blancas’s authority as a grammarian with a supernatural tinge.

Grammatizing Tagalog is not merely an act of transferring grammatical units across the

linguistic divide. It is instead a commitment to propagate a universal religious truth. The gift

of language must first be given to the grammarian, who then should use it to bring salvation

to the Indios. As Rafael (1993) argues in his analysis,

[t]he humble minister who hears God’s words now assumes the position of a master teacher as he negotiates these words into his listeners’ ears. Speaking in a tongue that transparently conveys God’s doctrines and love, he makes the celestial gift heard (31).

Grammatizing Tagalog becomes an act of translating God for the colony. The missionary

grammarian positions himself as a mediator between the Christian heaven and the colonized

earth, and takes on the task of translating the colonial divine for the Indios.

This metaphysical vision of missionary grammatization as a translational action takes

on a more literary guise in Blancas’s dedicatory poem, entitled rather verbosely as A la Pvrissima

Virgen y verdadera Madre de Dios Maria Reyna Sereniʃʃima de los Angeles y miʃericordioʃiʃʃima abogada de

los pecadores [To the Most Pure Virgin and True Mother of God, Mary, the Most Serene Queen

of Angels and the Most Merciful Advocate of Sinners], which appears immediately after the

censorial permissions and approvals. The poem is the only component of the introductory


section of the 1610 edition that is retained in the third edition (3-11). Even though Tagalog

poetry is discussed more in-depth in other missionary grammars, it is generally quite unusual

for these texts to start with a lengthy piece of poetic discourse, much less a Tagalog poem

composed by the grammarians themselves. Other Tagalog grammars, such as those by

Magdalena, Oyanguren, Totanés, Buzeta, Hevia, and Minguella, do not have any literary

introduction. San Agustín’s grammar, on the other hand, does start with a short Tagalog poem,

but it is composed by a fellow Augustinian, Fray José del Valle, in praise of San Agustín.

Therefore, at its most superficial, Blancas’s achievement consists of composing a poem that

shows his competence as a user of Tagalog while at the same time complying with a devotional

purpose. Through it, he demonstrates to his readers that he knows Tagalog so well that he can

even write a religious paean in verse dedicated to the Virgin.

However, as I have argued elsewhere (Sales 2015a), the relevance of Blancas’s poem

goes beyond its poetic merits. For one, the grammarian certainly has not invented Tagalog

poetry. Missionary accounts indicate that the Tagalogs had a literature predating the arrival of

the Spaniards. This literature, described by Chirino (52) and Colín (63, col. 1) as ‘cantares’

[chants], accompanied the Indios in their daily travails. There were chants for planting and

harvesting rice. There were chants for fishing. There were chants for mourning the dead. Nor

is Blancas’s poem an exemplary text that revolutionizes what will later become the canonical

form of the Tagalog verse for the simple reason that his poem does not read fluently in Tagalog

(Lumbera 1986, 30). There are twenty-six Tagalog verses of seven lines each. All the verses are

marked with a ¶ sign, and most of them have an alternating measure of six and five syllables.

There is no consistent rhyme pattern, even though there are “moments of near-poetry”

(Lumbera, 29). These poetic features would have been extremely atypical in a traditional

Tagalog verse, which relies heavily on assonance and syllabic uniformity (Coria 1872, 536).

Therefore, for a Tagalog reader at that time, Blancas’s poem would not have had any

immediate poetic allure. It would have read like a stylized prayer in Tagalog that is spliced at

fortuitous junctures in order to create the verses formalistically.28

28 As in Hispanic America, our ability to refer to the pre-Hispanic literatures of the Philippines is closely linked to what missionary chroniclers have recorded in their works. Lumbera (1986) notes that it was in the works of Spanish missionaries where indigenous literary forms were first commited to writing (1). While recent archaeological research, such as the study of the Calatagan pot inscription by Guillermo and Paluga (2011), has given us alternative means of examining of pre-Hispanic literacy, missionary records remain as important and


The value of Blancas’s poem should instead be assessed in terms of its efficacy in giving

the core ideas of Christianity a literary appearance in the local language. Such a process, which

has been referred to recently in Hispanic Studies as a “traducción sin original textualizado”

[translation without a textualized original] (Pulido and Vega 2014, 573), is pivotal in the

evolution of literature in many postcolonial contexts. Not only does it introduce newness (in

the Bhabhian sense of the word) into the colonial landscape, but it is also an epistemological

repurposing of pre-existing cultural artefacts according to the new exigencies of the colonial

condition. There is no complete rupture between pre-Hispanic Tagalog poetry and Blancas’s

own creation, as evidenced by the Indios’ own valuation of the grammarian’s poetic production

as “magaling datapoua hindi tola” (San Agustín 1787 [1703], 183) [Good, but not poetry

(Lumbera 1968, 108)] in reference to the foreignness of his literary aesthetics. Blancas employs

the indigenous verse to render elements of the Christian pantheon as signifiers that withstand

translation. Whereas the Devil can be invested quite easily with a linguistic form in Tagalog, as

we have seen in the previous chapter, God is referred to in the language as a non-translation.

The supreme creator god in the Tagalog pantheon named ‘Bathala’ is never taken as a synonym

for the word ‘Dios’ [God] despite the conceptual similarities between them (cf. Paterno 1892,

XXIX). The Castilian word ‘Dios’ is deemed untranslatable, and is used exclusively to refer to

the Christian God (Rafael 1987, 323). Castilian words such as ‘Ángeles’ [angels] and ‘Santos’

[saints] are collocated with Tagalog signifiers such as ‘ʃugo’ [messenger] and ‘banal’ [holy], or

are rewritten according to the vernacular syntax, such as in the case of ‘ʃacral na virgen’ [holy

virgin], whose word order is the inverse of the normal sequence of adjectival phrases in

Castilian (i.e., virgen sacral) and is conjoined with the Tagalog ligature ‘na.’

But the traffic of signifiers does not proceed solely from Castilian into Tagalog. Blancas

also does the reverse by emplacing Tagalog signifiers into the Christian discourse. For example,

by using the word ‘alipin’ [slave] in the fourteenth and twenty-fourth verses, the grammarian

appropriates the indigenous conceptualization of slavery to describe Christian obedience.

Unlike the European interpretation, in which a slave is treated as chattel that is bought and

sold, being an ‘alipin’ in early Tagalog societies is marked by one’s indebtedness to a creditor

and is therefore negotiable (Francisco 1994, 372-373, Rafael 1993, 145). We may speculate that

enduring documentary sources for triangulating our findings. In fact, the very terminologies we still use to discuss pre-Hispanic literature, such as bugtong [riddle] and tula [poem], are all filtered to us through these sources.


in using ‘alipin’ as a translation strategy, Blancas modulates the relationship that the Philippine

colony should have with God. “[S]eeing God’s relation to the individual in terms of

indebtedness,” Francisco (2001) insists, “makes this bond one of patronage” (51). It is assumed

that a sinful race has been saved by its divine patron, who does so out of magnanimity and not

because of an inherent obligation (Francisco 2007, 75).

To this existing scholarly work on ‘alipin’ should be added the fact that Blancas does

not use the term to refer to the Indios’ relationship with the Mother of God. In the poem,

Blancas himself assumes the position of an ‘alipin,’ who in the eighteenth verse is making a

‘hayin’ [offering] of his Arte to the Virgin in exchange for her heavenly patronage of the

‘limbagan’ [printing press] that he had put up in Bataan. The characteristic humility of the

Christian discourse (Al-Mohannadi 2008, 537, Coldiron 2012, 191) finds a democratized

translational solution in the verse. Blancas’s positioning as a theological ‘alipin’ of the Virgin

gives credence to his mission as a translator of God for the Tagalogs because his message is

conveyed from the perspective of belongingness—an ‘alipin’ conversing with another

‘alipin’—, instead of a cultural outsider encroaching into an interdicted space.

The grammarian’s sense of relating his self with the Indios is also patent in the other

parts of the poem. The first ten verses are a string of anagogical vocatives enumerating the

virtues of the Virgin Mary through a composite of Christian and Tagalog allegories. In keeping

with the metaphors in the already existing Marian litany (Lumbera 1986, 29), the Virgin is

metaphorized as a ‘gintong daliʃay’ [pure gold], a ‘bitoyng mahayag’ [bright star], a ‘talang

maningas’ [shimmering star], and the ‘pinto ʃa langit’ [gate of heaven]. There are also

eschatological portrayals of her as the ‘bovang maʃinag’ [glowing moon] and the ‘arao na

masilang’ [rising sun], calling to mind the vision of a woman clothed with the sun and standing

on a moon in the twelfth chapter of the biblical Book of the Apocalypse. She is likewise

described as the ‘hagdan’ [ladder] and the ‘bucal’ [fountain] of mercies, both of which are

common portrayals of the Virgin in patristic theology. Lastly, she is compared to a ‘cotang

matibay’ [strong fortress], a ‘batong maquilap’ [precious stone], and a ‘langit na malinao’ [clear

sky]. These similes, while obliquely reminiscent of the other attributes of the Virgin in Christian

theology, are tinted with local color.


All the aforementioned examples operate within the narrative continuum between

Babel and the Pentecost. Linguistic multiplicity is a fall from grace that must be redressed

through the proselytization of the ‘barbarian’ nations in the local tongues. The knowledge of

these tongues originated from a divine language-giver and can only be received through a

divine bequest to the missionary grammarian. By learning the languages of the colonies, the

missionary grammarian appoints himself to the mission of a mediator and a remediator. He is

both the conduit of God’s message to the people he is seeking to convert into Christianity,

and the restorer of these people into a primeval state of sanctity. This mission, typified in the

Arte’s introduction, will be further developed in its grammatical exemplars.

92 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. CHAPTER IV. Majesty of Divine Meanings

CHAPTER IV

Majesty of Divine Meanings

I may be accused of a form of linguistic or theoretical formalism, of establishing a rule of metonymy or the supplement and laying down the oppressive, even universalist, law of difference or doubling. How does the poststructuralist attention to ècriture and textuality influence my experience of myself? Not directly, I would answer, but then, have our fables of identity ever been unmediated by another; have they ever been more (or less) than a detour through the word of God, or the writ of Law, or the Name of the Father; the totem, the fetish, the telephone, the superego, the voice of the analyst, the closed ritual of the weekly confessional or the ever open ear of the monthly coiffeuse?

Homi Bhabha (2004, 57)

The Location of Culture

Rules of (Dis)Order

Derived from the Greek word gramma, or letter, the term ‘grammar’ is often taken

nowadays to refer to the system of rules in the formation of the structures of a particular

language, or to the reference text that compiles such rules (cf. Breitenbach 2008, 75). This

conceptualization of grammar as a system and as a reference text can be traced back to the

classical Greco-Latin tradition, most notably to the works of the Greek grammarian Dionysus

Thrax and the Roman rhetorician Quintilian (Fromkin et al. 2012, 10, Sánchez Salor, 293).

Nevertheless, such a conceptualization is too simplistic in our analysis of the Arte as it may

lead us to gloss over the many peculiarities of a missionary-colonial text. When used in their

strictest sense, the terms ‘grammar’ and ‘grammarian’ dilute the complex intersections between

text, author and reader, and neutralize what is otherwise a politicized positioning of the text in

relation to its originator and its imagined audience. It also tends to reduce the grammatization

of Tagalog to a mere didactic prescription, instead of acknowledging its translationality, which

bears upon the creation of meaning across two different linguistic systems (cf. Zwartjes 2012).


The idea espoused in this dissertation—that is, that grammatization and translation are

procedurally indivisible in a missionary grammar—is not implausible. Some sixty years before

the publication of the Arte, the Spanish grammarian Cristóbal de Villalón (b. Valladolid, c.1505)

posited that Nebrija’s grammar of Castilian was a translation of his earlier masterpiece, the

Introductiones latinæ:

Nebrixa traduxo a la lengua Caʃtellana el arte que hizo dela lẽgua Latina. Y por tratar

allí muchas coʃas muy impertinẽtes dexa de ʃer arte para lengua Caʃtellana y tieneʃʃe por traduçiõ de la Latina (1558, n.p.).29

[Nebrija translated to the Castilian tongue the grammar that he did on the Latin language. And for discussing many impertinent matters there, it is no longer a grammar of the Castilian tongue and should instead be taken as a translation of the Latin.]

Villalon’s description suggests that a grammatical analysis of a language based on the categories

of another was already perceived during his time as a kind of translation. And as with any form

of translation, grammatization had to contend with transcultural and translingual incongruities,

or those so-called “cosas muy impertinentes” that Villalon mentioned in his commentary.

However, unlike Villalon’s comparison between Nebrija’s two grammars, a

postcolonial analysis of a missionary grammar must further take into consideration specific

epistemological and political dynamics that fostered the creation of the text. Whereas Nebrija’s

grammars were written in a largely Christian context and dealt with languages that shared many

similar structures and lexicon, missionary grammars were produced in societies on the cusp of

a religious conversion and covered languages from an entirely different linguistic stock. The

perceived absence of a linguistic tradition in these societies that could adequately express the

ideas of Christianity compelled the missionaries to impose the categories they already have in

their own linguistic tradition onto the languages of the colonized (Suárez Roca 1992, 28-30).

Latin, the language of the Roman Catholic Church, “the language of a spiritual, rather than a

territorial empire” (Binotti 2012, 140), was the template for missionary grammatization, while

Castilian oftentimes was the metalanguage that explains and typifies the connections between

the two (Errington 2008, 30, Esparza Torres 2007, 6-7, Koerner 1992, 19). Grammatization

consisted of reducing the vast array of colonial linguistic repertoires, hitherto unknown in

29 This passage is also cited in González Luis (106) and Nebrija (1980 [1492], 62).


Christian Europe, into a set of familiar grammatical rules that could be applied primarily to

pastoral discourses.

Although missionary grammarians generally assume that these grammatical texts are

able scrutinize the languages of the colonies in an orderly fashion, they frequently show

(perhaps unintentionally) the discursive entropy that linguistic contact generates under the

colonial condition. In the Arte, many grammatical descriptions are loquacious combinations

of the grammatized language, the language template and the metalanguage that create hybrid

structures known in translation studies as the heteroglossia, heterology and heterophony of

postcolonial texts (Bandia 2008, 209).

Heteroglossia, or the diversity of languages, is present throughout the Arte, and is

frequently expressed between Castilian and Tagalog. There are several instances, however,

where Latin is supplied to give a more thorough illustration of a rule, as the following

paragraph shows:

Eo accerʃitum Antonium . voy a llamar a Antonio: Acoy paroro’t tatavagin ko ʃi

Antonio. Eʃt res fęda auditu. es coʃa fea para ʃe oyr: mahalay dingin: maʃamáng

paquingan. Gerundio de genitiuo, tempus legendi &c. arao na ybabaʃa; arao na ycacaen, de comer (23).

[Eo accerʃitum Antonium, ‘I am going to call Antonio,’ Acoy paroro’t tatavagin ko ʃi Antonio.

Eʃt res fęda auditu, ‘It is an ugly thing to hear,’ Mahalay dingin, Maʃamang paquingan.

Gerund of the genitive, tempus legendi &c. Arao na ybabaʃa, ‘time for reading,’ Arao na ycacaen, ‘for eating.’]

The Latin and Castilian exemplars in the aforementioned passage appear grammatically

disjointed at first glance. There is no immediate correlation between the sentences “Eo

accerʃitum Antonium” and “Eʃt res fęda auditu,” nor between “voy a llamar a Antonio” and

“es coʃa fea para ʃe oyr.” The first took a direct object (i.e., Antonium, a Antonio), and the

other was a description made with a copulative verb. It is only when the Tagalog translations

are considered in conjunction with these preceding sentences that a logical sequencing can be

had: Blancas is discussing what he refers to as the Tagalog gerund, which according to him

should be expressed in Latin and Castilian through these structural approximations.


There are also instances where varieties of Tagalog are included. This diversity of

dialects, or heterology, enables the grammarian to identify which structures are used in

restrictive dialectal contexts and which ones are said across all the varieties of the language.

Take this passage for instance:

Dixe en algunas tierras, por q en otras no dizẽ quita, ʃino cata: ʃuʃunduin cata, ʃeguir

te he: y eʃte es el que yo ʃiempre he oydo. Y por el contrario en otras tierras, cata es

plural de dos de la manera q agora acabamos de dezir de quita (9-10).

[It is said in some places, for in others, the word cata is said instead of quita. Susunduin cata, ‘Fetch you I shall,’ and this is what I have always heard. On the contrary, cata in some places is the plural of the two forms that we have just discussed about quita.]

The pronoun ‘quita’ (≈ ‘kita’) conveys the idea that the action is performed by a first-person

subject to a second-person object. A sentence in English such as ‘I will fetch you’ is generally

translated into Tagalog as ‘Susunduin kita,’ in which the pronouns ‘I’ and ‘you’ are collapsed

into that one Tagalog pronoun ‘kita.’ In the passage above, Blancas explains the usage of ‘cata’

(≈ ‘kata’), which according to him is the plural of ‘quita’ in certain Tagalog dialects, and notes

that speakers of Tagalog from other places have a different way of using this pronoun.

Finally, the Arte contains a diversity of voices, or heterophony. Blancas’s grammar is

written in such a way that sentences pertaining to acrolectal registers co-occur with more

basilectal exemplars. See this peculiar exemplar on what Blancas called as the present tense of

the Tagalog verb:

Que enfermedad tiene fulano? Suʃuca’t tatae: bomita y tiene cámaras. Lalacar ay

nangunguʃap: va andando y hablando. Suʃumpa mana aco ʃaiyo, magagalit mana aco

ʃaiyo ay yʃa man di ca matacot: maldigo te, y enojo me cõtigo y tu no temes. Aaral

mana acong aaral ʃaiño ay dile din cayo magcacabet (es aquel maná man y na, aunq ya,

como quando dizen namatay mana ang a. P. Ieʃu Chriʃto &c. (26).

[What ails so-and-so? Suca’t tatae ‘He vomits and has loose bowels’ Lalacar ay

nangungusap ‘He goes walking and talking.’ Suʃumpa mana aco ʃaiyo, magagalit mana aco

ʃaiyo ay yʃa man di ca matacot ‘Although I curse you and I become angry with you, you

have no fear.’ Aaral mana acong aaral ʃaiño ay dile din cayo magcacabaet (that mana is man and

na, which means ‘even though,’ like when they say Namatay mana ang a. P. Ieʃu Chriʃto &c.]

It appears that the Arte is trying to instruct its missionary readers on how to speak in an

assortment of voices that intimate the different concerns of colonial life that they will have to


mind. The contemplative aspect of the Tagalog verb is utilized in the aforementioned passage

in a crescendo of sentences describing a bodily ailment (that one has diarrhea), a psychological

state (that one is angry with somebody), and a doctrinal belief (that Jesus Christ died for

everyone’s sake). This suggests that there might have been inchoate attempts by Blancas to

analyze Tagalog grammar functionally as opposed to an exclusively rules-based strategy. The

grammarian has a crude awareness that teaching the structural features of Tagalog can be

further enhanced by explicitating them in specific, albeit artificial, contexts of language use.

The explicitation, however, is not always efficient, as the following exemplar with the

root ‘sulat’ [to write] and the infix –um– demonstrates:

Este es Imp. ʃumulat ca; eʃcrive. Eʃ Preʃ. de optativo cõ eʃta part. navá, ʃumulat nava

ʃi covan: ojala eʃcriva fulano. El mismo es Infinitivo generalmẽte ʃin faltar. Itẽ gerũdio

de genitiuo, hora eʃt comedendi, ya es hora de comer, ʃucat nãg cumaen (18-19).

[The imperative is ʃumulat ca ‘Write.’ The optative present with the particle navá is

ʃumulat nava ʃi covan ‘May so-and-so write.’ The infinitive is almost always of the same

form. The same goes with the gerund of the genitive, as in hora eʃt comedendi ‘Now is

the time for eating’; ʃucat nãg cumaen.]

Missionary grammarians were notorious for transposing the emphasis that Latinate grammars

have for the verb into their own analyses of colonial languages (Sales 2008, 84). In the Arte,

given that Tagalog does not have a tense system similar to that of Romance languages, Blancas

has to overcome such a translational constraint by collapsing the categories of the infinitive,

the imperative, the gerund and the present tense together, thus creating an artificial

circumstance where a string of sentences of this kind might be read as a meaningful

grammatical sequence.

All these co-occurrences of languages, dialects and voices in the Arte indicate that

translation does not only happen after a ST has been rendered as a TT. Translation is already

there in the ST even before a more overt act of interlingual translation, or what has been

referred to as “translation proper” (Dizdar 2008), is performed. As Meylaerts (2013) argues,

there are instances where “[t]ranslation is not taking place in between monolingual realities but

rather within multilingual realities” (519, emphasis in the original). Since translation is “a

necessary condition of writing” (Wilson 2012b, 108), its manifestation in missionary grammars

comes in the form of interdependent equivalencies between an extraneous linguistic tradition


and the realities of a grammatized language that it aims to analyze. For this reason, the

translationality of missionary linguistics should not be confined within that all too limited space

of conventional mediation between a ST and a TT.

The term exo-grammatization has been proposed to mark the incursions of an extraneous

linguistic tradition into the grammatical analysis of another language (Auroux 1992, 36), and

has proven to be a useful concept in interrogating the empiricist premises of grammar. It

impugns what is oftentimes assumed as a compulsory correlation between a codified set of

language rules and an observable linguistic fact, which under the colonial condition is largely a

contrivance anyway. The categories of classical grammar that we have grown so familiar with

do not always constitute a faithful catalogue of linguistic descriptors, as many missionary

writers have intimated repeatedly in their works. The enduring utility of these categories in

describing the grammatized languages comes from various traditions of authoring that

prescribe how a linguistic system ought to be represented. As Steadman-Jones observes with

respect to the colonial grammars of the Hindustani language,

[a] grammar is, after all, a representation of a language. And processes of representation take place in the political and technical realms simultaneously. They are political in the sense that they influence the way in which audiences view phenomena in the world around them. And they are technical in the sense that they exploit media and genres that have their own characteristics and qualities (23, emphasis in the original).

It follows that in questioning the empiricism of missionary grammatization, exo-

grammatization also bolsters a more translational reading of the missionaries’ linguistic

production as a postcolonial alternative. Languages are to be regarded as “emblematic of

communities, assimilable as individual conduct, and mappable onto colonial territory”

(Errington 2001, 25).

This approach is not without its critics. Scholars such as Breva Claramonte (2008),

López García (1992) and Schumacher (1989) have questioned what they consider as the

ahistorical and presentist lapses of interpreting missionary linguistics in the light of

postcolonial subjectivities. In synthesizing their critique, one gets the impression that the

reservations these scholars have are largely derived from the perils of reading a missionary

grammar outside the epistemological and ethical framework in which it has been originally

conceived. These reservations do have their merits, especially when the ideological foundations


of missionary grammatization are equated—unavoidably though unnecessarily at times—to

the moral accouterments of the act. The association is inevitable as the writers of these

grammars belong to a very specific sphere of colonial actors, and their textual production is

circumscribed within a specialized genre of writing.

Nevertheless, it is impossible to engage with a missionary grammar with a completely

apolitical stance, given that linguistic unity, an idea taken to be axiomatic in these kinds of texts,

is “fundamentally political” (Vidal Claramonte 2014b, 246). Many aspects of missionary

linguistics are “indivisible from their political and material ramifications” (Gilmour, 3), and

“are enmeshed with the micro- and macro-politics of colonial rule” (5). While this dissertation

does not intend to pass any moral judgment on the work of Spanish missionaries in the

Philippines (cf. Rafael 1990, 272), it does recognize that the translationality of the Arte is a

product of colonialism, and that it is through the biases of colonialism that the cultural memory

of early Filipino society is refracted to us in the grammar. Any history of Tagalog colonial

linguistics that is worthy of being revisited in one of its possible afterlives is unavoidably

interpreted as a text of the past in the present. As Carman (2006) argues in his analysis of the

colonial historiography of Latin America,

[w]e write about events and about accounts of events because we feel that we know enough about them to consider them important. To approach the historiography of the [Spanish] conquest with complete impartially would make no sense. For these writings to mean anything at all to us, we must apporach them with preconceptions, even with a little bit of enthusiasm and preferably with a healthy dose of outrage (34-35).

We engage with the Arte as a historical text precisely because its past can be juxtaposed to a

present that we can claim as ours (cf. Čapek 1971, 159-160). The motivation that leads one to

translate the Arte comes from the recognition that this text has remained a significant historical

resource for studying Tagalog.

Inasmuch as the linguistic knowledge passed through translation is never value-free

(Steiner 1975, 288), a translational reading of the Arte draws on the conviction that translation

inherently thrives in inequality (Venuti 1999, 160 and passim). Inequality is a precondition for

any translational act to be needed, practiced and studied. Knowledge is never really equal to

begin with (Burke 2016, 15). The epistemology that guides the creation of new knowledges


and their corresponding usages is fundamentally located within a place of asymmetries, where

certain interpretations are deemed more reliable and are thus favored over the rest. While

Spanish missionaries indeed operate within the limits of the available knowledge systems of

their age, their codification of a non-Latinate language using the categories of Latin cannot

simply be dismissed as a work exempt from political and religious implications. As we have

shown previously, territorial spaces are colonized similarly in memory, where the production

of knowledge becomes a site of political struggles. Translation is a key element in these

struggles because it “designated one particular epistemic/theological perspective as correct,

conceiving as deviant and insufficient other forms of knowledge” (Mignolo and Schiwy, 5).

Sense and Suppression

The propensity of the Arte to designate a preferred epistemic interpretation is shown

quite notably in the final part of its introduction, which bears the title of Algvunas advertencias

para intelligencia de lo contenido en este libro [Some Admonitions for Understanding the Contents

of this Book]. Blancas’s admonitions comprise the general instructions on how the symbols

and abbreviations he uses in his grammar should be read, as well as various definitions of terms

and specific observations on Tagalog orthography and pronunciation.

Of these admonitions, the second one is particularly illustrative of the tensions created

by the contact between two knowledge systems. In it Blancas describes the glottal stop, or/ʔ/,

by contrasting how it is represented in the ancient Tagalog script and how it should be read in

the Latin alphabet:

[E]ʃta palabra bigat, no ʃe ha de pronunciar de manera que hiera la ‘g’ a la ‘a’ y diga ‘gat’

sino ha ʃe ha allegar la ‘g’ a la ‘y’ pręcedente, y de manera q diga biga y cortada aʃʃi

breue y ʃultimente dezir luego at. Lo qual ʃe conoce por q en Tagalo no ʃe eʃcriue aʃʃi,

beg, ʃino aʃʃi beA (2).

[The word bigat should not be pronounced in a manner that pierces the g into the a, as in gat. Instead, the g ought to be brought closer to the preceding i and be said as big, then after pausing briefly and subtly, at is said. This we know because in Tagalog the word is not written as big, but rather as bia.]


Blancas then recommends that his missionary readers learn the script to help them pronounce

Tagalog words correctly, but warns them as an afterthought that it would be impossible to do

so even if they lived as long as did the biblical Adam. The hyperbolic irony of Blancas’s

statement is hard to miss. On the one hand, he argues that knowing the Tagalog script would

have made learning Tagalog words easier. And yet, on the other, he concludes that it would

have been an impossible affair from the outset.

At this point, an excursus on the translational correspondence established by the

missionaries between the characters of this ancient script and the letters of the Latin alphabet

will be useful. Baybayin, the name of this pre-Hispanic Tagalog syllabary, was first defined in

missionary dictionaries as the Tagalog native alphabet. Its name was derived from the Tagalog

verb ‘baybay’:

Baibayin […] de baybay, q es deletrear. […] maalam cang ʃumulat nang iniong baibayin?

ʃaues eʃcribir el A.b.c. buesʃtro? (SB 1).

[Baibayin (…) from baybay, which means ‘to spell’ (…) maalam cang ʃumulat nang iniong baibayin? Do you know how to write your ABC? ]

Santos repeated definition from the SB later on in his own dictionary, but added that the term

may have also proceeded from another Tagalog word:

Sale de ‘Baybay’ […] que es ir por la Orilla de mar, ò Rio, y tambien por la orilla de la calle (3).

[It comes from ‘baybay’ (…) which is to go along the shore of the sea or the river, and also along the pavement of the street.]

Finally, in the NS, the term was defined quite simply as the Tagalog ABC. The characters of

the baybayin were recorded in print much earlier. In the 1593 Spanish-Tagalog catechism called

the Doctrina christiana (2005 [1593]), the oldest extant book printed in the Philippines

(Hernandez 2001, 331, Palmer 2003, 254, Werlen 2011, 120), Catholic prayers were first written

in Castilian, then translated into Tagalog using the letters of the Latin alphabet, and finally

were rendered into the indigenous script.


The baybayin was an object of ambivalent fascination among the missionary writers.

Historical references to it were usually appended to descriptions of native literacies, and were

evoked with a mix of colonial fantasy and disbelief. In Chirino’s history, we are told that

[s]on tan dados todos eʃtos Iʃleños al eʃcrevir i leer; que no ai caʃi ombre, i mucho

menos muger; que no lea, i eʃcriva en letras propias de la Iʃla de Manila (39).

[All these islanders are so accustomed to writing and reading that there is almost no man, and much less no woman, who does not read nor write in the letters typical of the island of Manila.]

Even though early Tagalog societies had a largely oral culture, the missionaries observed that

they were capable of writing and reading their own script, and had, in fact, existing practices

of literacy associated with this script. With regard to this, San Antonio reported that

[a]ntes de que tubieʃʃen noticia del Papel en eʃtas Islas […] escribìan en las cortezas

liʃas de las Cañas, ô en las hojas de algunas de las muchas Palmas, que ay en eʃtas Islas,

ʃirviendo de Pluma la punta de algún Cuchillo, ô Hierro, ô otra materia […] Y ʃi era

alguna Carta miʃiva, la eʃcribian en hojas de Palmas, y las doblaban, como doblamos

nueʃtras Cartas; y aún ʃon muy amigos de eʃcribir en la Tierra de cuclillas… (144-145).

[Before there was ever any news about paper in these islands (…), they were already writing on the smooth outer layers of reeds, or on the leaves of any of the many palm trees found on these islands, making use of the tip of a knife or an iron or any other material as their plume (…) And if there was a missive to be written, they wrote it on palm leaves and fold it like we do with our letters. And they are very fond of writing on the earth while they squat…]

San Antonio added, however, that the baybayin was so laborious a system that even the early

Tagalogs found it difficult to write using its characters. On the whole, missionaries thought

that the baybayin was a defective medium of expression, particularly in preaching Christianity,

because of its arbitrariness (Colín, 54, col. 1). Blancas shares this view in the Arte:

[P]or experienciallo vera aun en ellos miʃmos, que los mas dieʃtros van attentãdo: por

que al cabo y a la poʃtre leer ʃu letra es medio adiuinar (2).

[Anyone who intends to do so (write in baybayin) will see for himself what the experts have been attempting to do, for when all is said and done, reading Tagalog letters involves a bit of guesswork.]

The grammarian’s observation likely stems from the way Tagalog words were spelled out in

the baybayin.


There were only three vowel sounds in early Tagalog. The open vowel, or /a/, was

written in the baybayin as A. Both the mid vowels /e/ and /i/, and the close vowels /o/ and

/u/ were not differentiated, and were written as I and U, respectively. The consonants, on

the other hand, were counted differently in missionary sources. The Doctrina christiana recorded

fourteen characters for Tagalog consonants [See Table 3]. Totanés (2) and Minguella de las

Mercedes (9) also said that there were fourteen, but the former wrote that the /v/ sound,

which he called “v de corazón” [heart-shaped v], was present in the system. Chirino recorded

only twelve, omitting those that stood for the velar nasal /ŋ/ and the approximant/w/. He

also had another symbol for the /d/ sound. Delgado would repeat this same set of characters

in his history some centuries later (332). Colín, for his part, said that there were only thirteen,

asserting further that the characters were originally written from bottom to top and from left

to right (53, col. 2).

TABLE 3. Baybayin Characters according to the Doctrina christiana

A I U Heo Peo Keo Seo Leo Teo neo Beo Meo Geo Deo Yeo Ne Weo

/a/ /i/

/e/

/o/

/u/

/h/ /p/ /k/ /s/ /l/ /t/ /n/ /b/ /m/ /g/ /d/ /j/ / ŋ / /w/

All these sources were in an agreement that the consonants in Tagalog were read as syllables

ending in /a/. Hence, as Chirino (40) explained, the Castilian word ‘cama’ [bed] would have

been written in baybayin as km, where k was read as /ca/ and m as /ma/. The only time

that the a may be used as a character was when the /a/ sound constituted a separate syllable

in Tagalog, as in am ‘ama’ [father] in the Pater Noster prayer, or ab ‘aba’ [hail] in the Ave

Maria. Both these exemplars came from the Doctrina christiana.

To modify the default /a/ sound appended to a consonant in the baybayin, the

Tagalogs would place a dot called ‘kudlit’ on top of the character to change it into /i/ or /e/,

or underneath it to change it into /o/ or /u/. In Chirino’s discussion, the km was changed

into kem ‘quema’ [it burns], where a kudlit was placed on the first character, and into komo

‘como’ [I eat], where both characters had a kudlit underneath. This process, which already

would have been quite confusing for the missionaries who were learning Tagalog, was further

complicated in those instances where a consonant should be added to the end of the syllable.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Open-mid_front_unrounded_vowel


In the baybayin, the final sound of a syllable was never indicated graphically. It was entirely up

to the reader to deduce the existence of that sound based on a particular context of reading.

The exemplars given by Chirino were the Castilian words ‘cantar’ [to sing] and ‘barba’ [beard].

These words would have been written in baybayin simply as kt (kata) and bb (baba). The

final consonant for the first syllable of each word (i.e., /n/and /r/), or the coda in the parlance

of modern-day linguistics, would not have any visual representation in the text. The baybayin,

as Rafael (1993) observes, tended to “suspend sense in favor of sensation” (53). It gave the

Tagalogs a degree of freedom to engage with their language and interpret for themselves how

any given word should be read.

This freedom would have been problematic for the missionary writers as they sought

to develop a practicable method for teaching Tagalog as a pastoral language to their confreres.

The arbitrariness of the compositional features of the syllabary would mean that any word

written in it was a tentative translation solution. The Castilian word ‘Dios’ [God] in the Doctrina

christiana was written in baybayin as Diyo (i.e., diyo), since the final /s/ of the second syllable

could not be represented graphically and should instead be deduced by the readers from the

context. ‘[S]ancta yglesia catholica’ [Holy Catholic Church], also from the Doctrina christiana,

was given as stILeSiYktolik (i.e., sata ilisiya katolika), again because of the restrictions

in the indigenous orthography.

In spite of this, many missionary writers took the tentativeness of the baybayin as an

opportunity for fixing translational equivalences between Castilian and Tagalog. The name of

the Virgin in Castilian, María, was rendered in the Doctrina christiana as mriy, or /madiya/,

given that the /r/ sound was inexistent in early Tagalog and was typically substituted with the

baybayin character for the /d/ sound, even in Castilian loanwords. Conversely, it was

prescribed that the /d/ sound of Tagalog be written using the grapheme r whenever it was

rendered in the Latin alphabet (Coria, 13, Minguella de las Mercedes, 10, Totanés, 2). Tagalog

words that would have been pronounced as /bukod/ or /sunod/ were written as ‘bocor’

[special] and ‘sonor’ [to follow] in the Doctrina christiana.

Similarly, the combination of the letters ‘g’ and ‘j’ with a mid vowel in words such as

‘Jesús,’ ‘Virgen’ [virgin] and ‘Arcángel’ [archangel] was written in the Doctrina christiana using

the /s/ sound. ‘Jesus’ in the baybayin became Sesu (i.e, sesu), ‘Virgen’ became bisi (i.e., bisi),


and ‘Arcángel’ became akse, (i.e., akase). These translation solutions were the result of

reconciling two different sound systems. Tagalog had two sounds for the letter ‘g’: one strong

/g/, and the other, nasal /ŋ/. Neither of these two approximated the pronunciation of the

Castilian g/j with a mid vowel, which at this time was transitioning from being a sibilant

fricative /ʃ/ into a velar /x/ (McPherson 1975, 157). The closest available character for the

missionaries was therefore the one representing the /s/ sound, or s of the baybayin.

Blancas uses the baybayin in the Arte very sparingly. As in the words he gives in his

second admonition, the grammarian references the ancient syllabary in the Libro de reglas to set

the pronunciation rules for specific words in Tagalog. Many of these words have a syllable-

initial glottal stop /ʔ/, which is inexistent in Castilian (Fountain 2006, 24) but is an

distinguishable feature in the languages of the Philippines and the New World (Ridruejo 2011,

28, Zwartjes 2011b, 16). While representing the /ʔ/ in the colonial grammars of indigenous

American languages is problematic among missionary authors (Smith-Stark 2005), Blancas

finds the rules of the baybayin to be quite helpful in determining where the glottal stop should

be placed. For instance, by writing the verbs ‘acac’ [to crow] and ‘tamys’ [to sweeten] as aa

and tE, respectively (30), he demonstrates how these words should be pronounced as

[ʔakʔak] and [tamʔis] instead of [akak] and [tamis] without resorting to any lengthy theoretical

explanation. The practice in the baybayin of eliding the visual representation for the final sound

of a syllable lets Blancas mark the /ʔ/ in the Arte. Since the /k/ in ‘acac’ and the /m/ in ‘tamys’

are the final sounds of the first syllable preceding a second syllable headed by a /ʔ/, there is

no need to mark them graphically. It is aa (i.e., aa), and not ak (i.e., aka). It is tE (i.e.,

tai) and not tmi (i.e., tami). Blancas refers to this process of grouping sounds together with

respect to the position of the glottal stop as an example of a sound not ‘wounding’ (i.e., herir)

the preceding syllable.

Exemplars such as these suggest that another form of postcolonial assemblage should

be added to our previous list. Aside from the heteroglossic, heterological and heterophonic

qualities of the text, translation in many postcolonial cultures also gathers a diversity of

scripts—a heterography—where a transfer across languages also becomes a transfer across the

plasticity of the available glyphs. Translation in these cases does not only involve a lexical and

grammatical schematization between the source and the target languages, but also an


organization of the graphical representations marking the equivalences between different

scriptworlds (cf. Damrosch 2007). That different worlds exist in relation to different scripts

converging in a single text further breaks down the binarism of the classical models of

translation. The heterography of a missionary grammar reveals that translation may involve

more than two visual varieties of the same language. In the Arte, Latin is compared through

Castilian with two different kinds of Tagalog: the more manifest Romanized Tagalog with a

script similar to that of the metalanguage, and the Tagalog of the baybayin, the source language

that speaks latently in the grammar.

There is a rather curious postscript to this story of the baybayin: In his 1621 catechesis

written in the Ilocano language, the Augustinian friar Francisco López (d. 1631) proposed the

symbol of the cross (+) as a device for suppressing the /a/ sound appended to the Tagalog

consonants (Errington 2008, 34-37, Scott 1999, 215). By putting a + below the characters of

the baybayin, López eliminated the vowel and extracted the consonant. We may never know

to what extent López’s modification was practiced in Tagalog. No Tagalog missionary

grammar published thereafter spoke of any symbol for suppressing the vowel. There may not

be a need to do so. As Totanés claimed a century after the first Tagalog grammar was printed,

it had already become quite rare for an Indio to read in the baybayin. It was so rare, in fact,

that the baybayin was nowhere to be found in the 1832 edition of Blancas’s Arte. The

suppression of the ancient syllabary, it seems, was completed in the Tagalog colonial

scriptworld.

Colonially Eloquent

The Tagalog of the Arte is a translation of indigenous speech. It is how Blancas thinks

the language should be normativized in grammar following the template of Latin. Whenever

Blancas commemorates the pre-Hispanic language by calling to mind how it would have been

spoken or written by the Indios—and he perhaps does so more often than did other missionary

grammarians of Tagalog—, his explanation tends to emphasize the efficacy of his own

reduction of the language into Latinity, as the following passage illustrates:


Por lo qual y por ʃer eʃto difficultoʃo, digo que no he puesto eʃto a fin de q vʃemos

dello los que no mamamos la lengua, ʃino por que allẽnde de ʃer gran confirmacion de

la regla pueʃta: ʃabido eʃto entenderemos mejor el lenguaje de los yndios… (35).

[For this reason, this being rather difficult, I have to say that I have not mentioned this (example) so that it could be used by those who of us who did not suckle the language, but rather so that it could serve as a remarkable confirmation of the aforementioned rule. Upon knowing this, we shall understand the language of the Indios better…]

Blancas’s reduction plays up the otherness of Tagalog linguistic repertoires through a

differentiation of ‘their’ language from ‘our’ language. In several instances, the grammarian

overtly marks those constructions he thinks are unacceptable for his missionary readers and

reminds them that Tagalog is the language of the other and that similar constructions are

expressed in Castilian through a different set of grammatical resources. For example, in

explaining the pronouns of Tagalog, Blancas writes that:

[e]n otro ʃentido es muy comun el, quita, en el qual no pretenden incluir a la perʃona

con quẽ hablan: ʃino es vn modillo como en Eʃpañol quãndo dezimos. El hombre va

ʃe por eʃa calle, haze el hombre lo q puede: no alcãça mas el hombre, y otras palabras tales (10).

[On the other hand, it is quite common to use quita without including the person being

addressed. It is like a manner of speaking in Spanish whenever we say El hombre va ʃe

por eʃa calle; Haze el hombre lo q puede; No alcāça más el hombre.]

The exemplars in Castilian in the aforementioned passage are not, strictly speaking, translations

of the Tagalog pronoun in question. Rather, they are interspersed in the text as functional

similes in Castilian representing the depersonalized construction of the sentences in Tagalog.

What Blancas translates here is not any specific linguistic unit, but rather the idea that divesting

sentences of their specific pronominal referents is a procedure present in both Tagalog and

Castilian and is carried out through different grammatical operations.

Other exemplars reveal that translation in the Arte does not proceed directly and

consistently from a readily identifiable ST into a readily identifiable TT. Although Tagalog is

in theory the language being grammatized and should therefore precede Castilian in the

sequence, there is no consistency in the order of exemplars in the Arte. Castilian sentences

precede Tagalog sentences in some exemplars, while Tagalog sentences precede Castilian

sentences in others. There are also instances when a Latin sentence is put either at the end or


at the beginning of a Castilian-Tagalog sequence as an explicatory device, and there are those

written in only one of the languages of the missionary grammar. Even if the objective of

grammatizing Tagalog is to give it some semblance of structural parity with Latin and Castilian,

the directionality and component parts traditionally associated with translation are oftentimes

destabilized, as these sentences expressing simulataneous actions show:

Como vuesʃtro padre os ama mucho; ʃiente mucho vueʃtra enfermedad: lubhang

yquinahahapis nang ama mo ang ʃaquét mo, at ang ycao,e, yniybig niyang maʃaquet: or

deʃta manera. Maʃaquet ang pagcaybig nang ama mo ʃaiyo: cayayata maʃaquet naman

ang hapis niya ʃa ʃaquet mo (22).

[‘Since your father loves all of you very much, he very much feels your pain,’ Lubhang

yquinahahapis nang ama mo ang ʃaquét mo, at ang ycao’e yniybig niyang maʃaquet, or alternatively,

‘Maʃaquet ang pagcaybig nang ama mo ʃaiyo: cayayata maʃaquet naman ang hapis niya ʃa ʃaquet mo.’]

Note that there are two Tagalog sentences (i.e., “Lubhang yquinahahapis…” and “Maʃaquet

ang pagcaybig…”) that supposedly match that one Castilian sentence, which I translate in this

dissertation as ‘Since your father loves all of you very much, he very much feels your pain.’

Note further that the paragraph begins with the Castilian sentence, and not with the two

Tagalog sentences. This happens even if the passage is intended to explain a syntactic feature

of Tagalog, and not of Castilian. Which part represents the ST? Is it the Tagalog sentences that

illustrate the rule? Or is it the Castilian sentence that precedes the Tagalog sentences in the

grammar and on which these sentences are based? Many other similar exemplars highlight the

ambivalent and erratic sequencing of Castilian and Tagalog exemplars in the Arte.

For Blancas, prescribing rules for the formation of phrases and sentences is not meant

to force the missionary readers to emulate the way the Indios spoke Tagalog. He admits that

it is an impossible feat to achieve, given the rather ‘peculiar’ way of constructing the linguistic

units in this language and the incommensurability of even the best translational solutions.

Instead, the exemplars Blancas gives co-opt Tagalog and create new modes of speaking (Rafael

1993, 38). The Tagalog of the Arte is not a faithful recording of how the early Tagalogs are

using their language, but rather an approximation of how the Spanish missionaries ought to

speak it in preaching Christianity to the Tagalogs. The Arte repurposes Tagalog into a pastoral

language and through it emplaces the Christian God into the local discourse (cf. Rodriguez

1994a, Rodriguez 1994b). Blancas concedes on several occasions that his translation solutions


sound rough and quite unnatural, and calls for an ad hoc compounding of categories, syntactic

sequences and other similar linguistic devices. The translationality of the Arte modifies the

grammars of both Tagalog and Castilian, often subverting their formative rules in light of the

intricacies of the other language.

The absence of a formal equivalent in Castilian that can neatly account for the nuances

of Tagalog and the tentative schematization of an alternative equivalence in its stead are

significant in studying the Arte as a translational text. Translation is not merely a process that

creates a message in another language. The process of translating is a message in itself (cf.

Larkosh 2002, 101). That the Arte relies on cyclical exchanges from Tagalog into Castilian and

Latin and vice versa implies that the foremost message the grammar is trying to convey in

translation is in fact its plausibility even in between texts that do not have any formal or full

equivalence (cf. Jakobson 2012 [1959], 127-128, Tymoczko 2000, 158, Wilson 2011, 245). Any

grammatical exemplar in the Arte—be it in Latin, Castilian or Tagalog—cannot be read on its

own as an original utterance, given that there is always another text, a perceived original that

is external to the exemplar, that is thought to have preceded it. A missionary reader would

have considered a grammatical exemplar always in the context of its translated-ness.

For instance, in explaining the lack of a copulative verb in Tagalog, represented in the

Arte as the declined Latin verb sum, es, fui, Blancas has the following advice:

Puesta aqui alguna pratica del vʃo del ʃum, es, fui, en differentes modos y tiempos,

recebira luz el que aprende para ʃaber ʃuplir el ʃum es fui. v.g. Pedro es diligente: ʃi

Pedro, ay, maʃipag. Diligẽte es Pedro: maʃipag ʃi Pedro. Alli no ha de aver, ay, ʃino es

q diga, el diligente es Pedro, que entonces dira: ang maʃipag, ay, ʃi Pedro (16).

[With some exercises here placed on the uses the ʃum, es, fui in various modes and

tenses, anyone who studies them will be enlightened in substituting the ʃum, es, fui: v.g.,

‘Pedro is diligent,’ ʃi Pedro ay maʃipag. ‘Diligent is Pedro,’ maʃipag si Pedro. There should not be any ay in the latter for it would otherwise read as the diligent one is Pedro and should

be instead said as Ang maʃipag ay ʃi Pedro.]

The co-occurrence of the two sentences in Castilian in a single paragraph—“Diligẽte es Pedro”

and “Pedro es diligente”—only makes sense if they are read as back-translations of two

Tagalog sentences, “ʃi Pedro ay maʃipag” and “Maʃipag si Pedro.” The belabored awkwardness

of the grammatical comparison is a message on its own, and is in effect an obligatory heurism


in making sense of the grammatical rule that Blancas is formulating. Without acknowledging

the translationality of the discourse, a missionary reader would have found the sentence

“Diligẽte es Pedro” as a rather unusual construction. Its discursive acceptability is thus

contingent upon the awareness that, when read as a translation, the inversion of the usual word

order in Castilian corresponds to a permissible word order in Tagalog.30 The reliance on

translation as a heuristic tool is further reinforced in the last sentence of the passage. Blancas

reminds his readers that the addition of the connector ‘ay’ to the predicate-initial sentence in

Tagalog would greatly affect how the sentence should be expressed in Castilian. ‘Ay,’ he

explains in a previous section, is a “ʃõʃonete y gracia” [graceful hum] that substitutes the

copulative verb, whose presence in Tagalog is commonly understood only “ʃubintelectamente”

[subconsciously] (15).

‘Gracia’ as a descriptor of language is rooted to the philological concept of eloquence

and elegance. Blancas alludes to this at the beginning of the Arte when he mentions the phrase

“diuinorum ʃenʃuum maieʃtatem” (n.p.), or the majesty of divine meanings. The phrase, taken

from St. Jerome’s epistle to Hedibia, is put in the Arte’s ministerial exhortation to call attention

to the use of translation in completing the task of evangelization in the early Christian church.

With references to the life of St. Paul, the Hieronymite epistle explains that even if this so-

called Apostle to the Gentiles knew Greek perfectly, he still needed St. Titus, one of his

collaborators, to be his interpreter in preaching God’s message with an eloquence befitting its

grandeur. To this Blancas adds that since preaching the Christian doctrine to the colony is

translational, there is a need that these tasks be accomplished elegantly. The grammarian writes:

Y aʃʃi no obʃtante q tenia el dicho Apoʃtol como tambien los de mas don de lenguas,

no quitaua eʃʃo que en ʃu propia lengua cada vno fueʃʃe mas elegante […] que mas ʃe

pude [sic] dezir de la curioʃidad ʃanta de los Santos en el interpretar las palabras de la

dotrina de Dios, pues contener el don ʃuyo para hablar quanto era neceʃʃario muy

competentemente, no ʃe contentauan cõ eʃʃo, ʃino que buʃcauan a quien en aquella

lengua fueʃʃe mas elegante (n.p.).

[And so, even though the said Apostle, as well as others like him, did have the gift of speaking different languages, this did not remove the fact that each one expressed himself more elegantly in his own language. (…) What more can be said about the holy

30 Later missionary grammarians of Tagalog would refine Blancas’s translation solution by noting that while the subject normally precedes the predicate in a Castilian sentence, the usual order of a Tagalog sentence would have the predicate first, followed by the subject.


curiosity of the Saints in translating the words of God’s doctrine? They were not content with having the gift to competently speak whatever language was necessary, and would rather look for whoever was more elegant in that language.]

Blancas’s use of the ideas of eloquence and elegance is historically and doctrinally informed.

Cicero considered elegance as the tool of the orator (Sánchez Salor, 21). St. Jerome was

concerned about the elegance of his translation of the Vulgate (Rebenich 2002, 101). St.

Thomas Aquinas referred to the stylistic grace and elegance in explaining St. Paul’s vocation

in his Summa theologica (Aquinas 1947 [1265-1274], 1920).

But what was meant by elegance and eloquence with regard to missionary linguistics?

And how were they achieved in the process of translating? For European humanists, elegance

was traditionally measured through a speaker’s ability to express himself with propriety and

correctness, which suggested an appeal to knowledge, while eloquence was seen in his

utilization of rhetorical adornments, or an appeal to beauty (Breva-Claramonte, 26, Sánchez

Salor, 23-27). In Tagalog missionary texts, however, it appears that the definitions for elegance

and eloquence were interchanged: ‘Elegante’ was defined as in the SB ‘maricqit’ [beautiful],

while ‘eloquente’ was ‘marunung’ [knowledgeable] (264, see also Santos 1794, 394). The

reversal of the definitions of these two concepts may well be the result of how closely identified

each other were and how they could oftentimes be used reciprocally in classical philology.

Elegance was the first step in attaining eloquence, which should then lead to acquiring other

forms of knowledge (Sánchez Salor, 293, 297-298, Ynduráin, 74, 202). Blancas echoes this

stance in his prologue; citing Aquinas, the grammarian writes that whatever knowledge a

missionary has of Latin for preaching matters of faith is not always enough to study other

disciplines like arithmetic and geometry. For the missionaries generally, language is not an end

on its own. Its usefulness depends on how it can be used in translating knowledge. The most

immediate utility of speaking a foreign language is the preaching of the Christian doctrine to

the colonies. Blancas says so himself in his Memorial, referring to the position of Tagalog with

respect to proselytization of the Philippines:

[L]a lengua Tagala por lo que en si es ella, es negocio de poca importancia, y que vá poco en errar, ó en acertar á hablarla; pero en cuanto por medio de ella predicamos la verdad de Dios á Gentes que no le conocían, cierto que es ya como otra en el valor (Blancas de San José 1832 [1605], 457).


[The Tagalog language in itself is an endeavor of little importance, and it does not matter so much if one errs or does well in speaking it. Once through it we preach God’s truth to people who did not know Him, it is then that its value becomes rightfully different.]

Tagalog, Blancas claims, only becomes important insofar as it permits the missionary to preach

God’s truth.

Elegance and eloquence in missionary writing were not limited to the proper usage of

linguistic structures. The linguistic contact fostered by the colonial enterprise infringes not

only on the idea of how languages should interact, but also on how such an interaction should

be enacted in specific cultural ecologies. In the context of the Spanish colonization of the New

World, the expectation was that apart from the changes in their linguistic repertoires, the

colonized people should also “live, speak, dress, and eat like [the Spaniards], in order to better

absorb Catholic dogma” (Fossa, 29). Christianity as a proselytizing discourse fed into the

performance of exteriorized practices of piety and polity that served as evidence of the Indios’

conversion. Although it is still difficult to establish any definitive causal relation between

patterns of social behavior in a colonial society and the linguistic repertoires used for their

articulation, it should be pointed out that the grammatical exemplars in missionary grammars

tended to have a very acculturating and moralizing slant (Cuevas Alonso, 54). In the Arte, this

acculturating and moralizing tendency is textualized through a variety of strategies:

First, there is a systematic effort to establish deixis to Christian motifs through frequent

references to Jesus Christ and the saints. Grammatical structures that may be useful in narrating

their stories are highlighted, as this passage on the usage of the imperfect aspect of the Tagalog

verb in narrating past actions illustrates:

ʃi hablamos de alguna yda en particular de Nueʃtro Señor Ieʃu Chriʃto a Iheruʃalem q

le ʃucedio eʃto o aquello, ʃe deue dezir, nang. V.g. nang.|.niong ʃiya, e, naparoroon ʃa

Iheruʃalẽ, ay, may naquita ʃiya doon ʃa daan yʃang tavong bulang &c (20).

[If we talk about a certain journey of Our Lord Jesus Christ to Jerusalem in which this

or that thing happened to Him, we have to say nang: v.g., Nang | niong ʃiya e naparoroon

ʃa Iheruʃalẽ ay may naquita ʃiya doon ʃa daan yʃang tavong bulag &c.]


This strategy is also used in articulating the teachings of the Church, such as the omnipotence

of God as the sole creator of men, angels and the heavens (7), and the promise of redemption

in exchange for one’s repentance from his or her sins (16, 49).

Christian virtues are similarly brought into the fore through a reiteration of the proper

conduct expected of people who have converted into Christianity. The readers are reminded

that children should refrain from talking excessively (16), that the faithful should fast and be

merciful (21), and that they should not curse another person (49). There are references to acts

of violence, such as hitting someone with a whip or cutting his head off, which the converts

must strive to avoid (34). The Catholic sacraments of baptism, or ‘biñag’ (36, 43-44),

confirmation, or ‘compilma’ (40), and oblique references to penance (10, 49), extreme unction

(53), and the rosary (40) are given at different points of the Arte.

The exemplification of the Christian doctrine becomes so persistent at times that the

grammatical variations of Castilian exemplars are incomplete in the Tagalog, as can be gleaned

from the following passage on conditional sentences:

[s]i fueres bueno, contetaras a Dios: cun ycao ay magaling na loob ay mayybig ca nang

P. Dios. A nadie perdona, aunque ʃea ʃu hermano. A nadie perdonâva, aun que fuera

ʃu hermano. A nadie perdonarà, aun que ʃea &c. todos ʃe dizen de vna manera quanto

al ʃum es fui: por que en ninguno ʃe pone, ʃino ʃino ʃe dize cahimat capatir niya:… (16).

[If you are good, you shall please God: Cun ycao ay magaling na loob ay mayybig ca nang P. Dios. He does not forgive anyone, even if it is his brother. He did not forgive anyone, even if it was his brother. He would not forgive anyone, even if &c. All these are said

in a different manner in relation to ʃum, es, fui, which is never used in any of these sentences in Tagalog. What is instead said is cahimat capatir niya, etc.]

The translation solution “cahimat capatir niya” only matches the independent clause with the

verb expressed in the different tenses of the indicative. No translation is provided for the

dependent clause headed by the concessive conjunction ‘aunque’ [although]. Whether

Blancas’s decision to not translate this clause is done deliberately or not, the impression that

the aforementioned passage would have caused draws more attention to the moral aspects it

is articulating. There appears to be this malleable, moralizing core that though conveyed

incompletely in an array of tenses, modes and syntactic combinations, remains conceptually

intact in the grammar.


These different strategies for textualizing elegance and eloquence in the Arte may be

read as representations of an exterior colonial condition where linguistic repertoires of this

sort are ensconced. It is in this exterior condition that the conceptualization of eloquence

transcends the realm of language and manifests itself in the civilizing desires of the colonial

enterprise (Ashcroft 2014, 18, Cronin 2005, 230, Sales 2015c, 141-142). Missionary grammars

are generally thought to dignify the grammatized languages by elevating them to the status of

languages of culture capable of being replicated in proselytic speech (Suárez Roca 2000, 76-

77). The Arte provides forms of addressing the Christian God, of knowing His nature and of

understanding His redemptive plan. It operationalizes this God by identifying the modes with

which the converted people should approach Him worshipfully as interlocutors mediated by

the pastoral language of the Church. The Arte’s insistence on the elegance and eloquence of a

colonized language serves as a point of entry into this recognized sphere of colonial

signification. Language is made into a textual instrument for policing the colonial condition.

To be eloquent in the colonial condition is thus to partake in the traffic of meanings within

the mediated space of a colonial religion. To be eloquent in the colonial condition is to be

heard in translation.

Memory and the Silences of Translation

But the Arte’s promise of a translational utopia, where the Christian God and the

colony enter in communion with each other through the contrivance of a mediated language,

depends on its concealments of other gods. To be heard in translation also requires that certain

voices be silenced, or that they be diminished by the glorious truth of a proselytizing religion

into the almost inaudible murmurs of pagan untruth. In her landmark essay Can the Subaltern

Speak? (1994 [1988]), Gayatri Spivak surmises that “the notion of what the work cannot say

becomes important” (82, emphasis in the original) whenever we talk about the subaltern, or

those groups of people marginalized by a hegemonic power. Spivak’s claim is quite relevant in

analyzing the Arte. By referring to missionary grammatization as translational and to God as

the colonial divine, we must be prepared to recognize the entanglements of the grammar in a

continuous cycle of gains and losses, in a so-called “aporia of translation” (Lianeri 2014, 473,

Rafael 2016, 1, 13), where every translation solution is inflected with the assumed sufficiency


of elided meanings. Translation looks into both words and spaces, both the expressed and the

unexpressed (Bassnett 2011, 102). It is concerned with what Chesterman (1997) terms as the

significance threshold that “marks the point above which something is felt to be worth saying”

(114). It is not so much about how one says things in another language as it is about what

things one does or does not talk about in it (Becker and Ricci 2008, 22, Ricci 2006, 100-101,

2010, 289).

Blancas alerts the readers of the Arte to the silences in his grammatization of the

Tagalog language, lamenting that

con todo eʃʃo ellos ʃabẽ dar en ʃus occaʃiones vnas ʃignificaciones tan a punto, que el

q no es de ellos no las imaginâra, y reconoce q al fin es en ellos naturaleza, y en noʃotros arte y fuerça de braços (38).

[despite this, they are still able to give significantly nuanced meanings at certain points, which can never be imagined by anyone who does not belong to them. In the end it has to be recognized that among them it is nature, and among us, it is art and strength of arms.]

The silences in the grammar are associated with an outsider’s incapability to devise operative

sequences between meaning and imagination. A missionary who desires to learn the language

should therefore exert a lot of effort in understanding Tagalog, given that its nuances can be

grasped entirely only by those who belong to the community of speakers whose linguistic

competence have been determined supposedly by nature.

In spite of the difficulties, missionary grammatization is possible because, according to

Blancas, whatever he has been able to reduce into rules is all that is needed for preaching

Christianity in Tagalog. As he explaines in this passage from the Arte’s introduction,

lo mucho que ay que ʃaber en vna lengua no ʃufre mas breuedad: y ninguna coʃa va

aqui eʃcrita que no hiziera falta no eʃcrita, ʃino va errada (n.p.).

[The extent that should be known in this language does not lend itself to greater brevity than this. And there is nothing here that is written that should not have been written.]

What is being suggested here is that while there are indeed things that have not not find their

way onto the pages of the Arte, these things are ultimately unimportant in the development of

Tagalog as a pastoral tongue. There are silences in the grammar because they occupy the spaces


where what is perceived to be irrelevant should have been articulated. Surprisingly however,

silencing these elements has a contrary effect. In making these comments about silences

between the languages he is working with, Blancas is also signalling the voids from which

translational meaning can be derived equally.

In terms of structuring the text, a certain kind of silence is created in the Arte with the

repeated enumerations of untranslated lexical items in Tagalog. Whenever a grammatical rule

is formulated using a Tagalog root as an exemplar, Blancas identifies other roots to which the

same rule may be applied. These roots are mostly undefined in Castilian and are left in the text

as unexplicitated signifiers. The silence must have been so proverbially deafening at times that

the unidentified reader of the BNE copy of the Arte scribbled down his own translations of

the Tagalog roots into Castilian in an effort to unmute them in the text [See Figure 8].

Blancas did explicitate some roots in the Arte by transcribing them in the baybayin, as

we have seen previously. As graphic reminders of how the words would have been conveyed

in the indigenous syllabary, the transcriptions in the baybayin appear at first glance to have

unsilenced some features of the Tagalog language. For example, when Blancas transcribes

‘bigvas’ [to hit] as biW and ‘binuit’ [to fish] as biWi in the aforementioned passage, he is

essentially retrieving the /ʔ/ sound from inaudibility. He is saying that these two specific roots

ought to be pronounced with the glottal stop unlike the other ones included in this list. These

sporadic moments of unsilencing of the Tagalog of the baybayin augment the Arte’s other

FIGURE 8. A Wordlist in the Arte (Source: Digital version of the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala, Biblioteca Nacional de España)


silences, especially since the indigenous writing system is never fully explained anywhere in the

grammar. Unlike other Tagalog missionary grammars, Blancas’s Arte does not begin with a

detailed discussion of the baybayin. Therefore, while unsilencing the visual aspect of some of

the baybayin characters, the Arte amplifies its silences on the syllabary as a pedagogical resource.

The baybayin is put there to establish syllabication patterns or to mark the glottal stop, but it

is never completely regarded as an adequate system for expressing Tagalog.

But an even more remarkable form of silence in the Arte is its disengagement from

pre-colonial belief. Despite the purported role of the grammar in the proselytization of the

Indios, there is hardly ever a mention of the faith from which they should turn away. While

other contemporary missionary texts have made frequent observations about the Tagalogs’

pre-colonial gods, the Arte mutes them in the grammatized discourse. These gods are not

transposed from the baybayin into the alphabet, nor are they semanticized in the grammatical

exemplars, surprisingly even in those linguistic structures enunciating a prohibition. The only

mention of a pre-colonial deity in the Arte happens in passing: Blancas refers to him as “el

Dios fulano” [this so-and-so God], in opposition to “el Dios verdadero” [the true God] (76).

By naming this god with the Castilian signifier, the grammarian is ascribing to him some

attributes of divinity in the Christian sense while at the same time emphasizing his theological

unimportance. ‘El Dios fulano’ is invoked in the discourse not as a literary reiteration of a real

and divine entity but rather of an absence, an empty space of truth that only ‘el Dios verdadero’

of Christianity can fill.

This disengagement is similarly applied whenever the Arte speaks about the subjectified

Tagalogs. In those times when a Tagalog man is actually named, he is referred to with the

Castilian (and, by extension, Christian) name of Pedro or Juan. More frequently, he is reduced

to a mere ‘Tagalog’ or ‘Natural’ or ‘[I]ndio’ (35) or ‘tauo’ [man] or ‘covan,’ an indefinite

pronoun in Tagalog, marking his secondariness in the translated discourse. At times he is also

benevolently referred to as ‘hermano’ [brother]. A Tagalog woman, on the other hand, is

merely a ‘babayi’ [woman]. It would appear therefore that the Tagalogs’ pre-colonial selves are

silenced in the grammar in favor of their Christianized personas. The Arte effaces the tensions

of religious conversion and presents it as an unproblematic mode of contact with the colonial

divine. Conversion is approached not as a process of becoming, of converting from god to

god, but rather primarily as a polity among ‘hermanos,’ a utopic state of being among the


already converted. Religious terms such as ‘Dios’ and ‘Angeles,’ and even racial terms such as

‘Tagalog’ and ‘[I]ndio’ are enunciated in the grammar as empirical categories designating what

is thought of as external and verifiable facts, instead of categories emerging from the intricacies

of the colonial discourse. It is as if these words had always been in the indigenous language,

muffled in the silence of pre-colonial discourse, and were made audible in grammatization by

subduing the discordant voices that have been blocking them off.

It stands to reason then that the translationality of missionary grammatization should

similarly be reckoned as a passage of a signifier from conceptual inexistence to existence (Sales

2014, 180-182). In many ways, missionary grammars did in linguistics what missionary

chronicles did in history: They let a past be. By silencing references to the Tagalogs’ pre-

colonial selves, the Arte enables their grammatized language to speak of new realities while

simultaneously erasing whatever else is deemed untrue. This existence, though concocted after

the fact, is held to be precursory. Since it is believed that the Christian God precedes all, He

must have always been everywhere, even in a language where His presence supposedly lay

forgotten. The grammarian’s mission is thus to recover a space in the indigenous memories

where God can dwell again, from where He can be evoked in discourse, and in which He can

become a meaningful signifier. In translating God into a conceptual existence, the Arte is

likewise inscribing Him into the terrain of remembrance. Translational silence is always a

function of cultural memory (Burke 2016, 88-89, Niranjana, 82). Whatever an act of translation

cannot name or refuses to name is lost in the oblivion of the word with only a trail of silences

left behind as the only clue to its existence.

According to Becker (1995), there is ‘language’ and there is ‘languaging.’ While the

former is a collection of formative rules, the latter is “a kind of attunement between a person

and a context,” which entails “taking old texts from memory and reshaping them into present

contexts” (9). Tagalog is the language and the Arte is its languaging. In translating the

indigenous language into the prescriptivism of a Latinate grammar, the Arte concomitantly

infuses it with the memories from where ‘correct’ utterances are derived. However, unlike

Becker’s example, where it is the learners who borrow memories from native speakers to

inform the former’s own linguistic repertoire, the passage of memories in missionary linguistics

follows an inverse route. It is the learner, the missionary himself, who endows Tagalog with

his own memories. When Blancas references the Virgin Mary’s town where Jesus was born, or


Pontius Pilate’s house where Jesus was whipped, or Rome where St. Paul was martyred as

exemplars illustrating the usage of the passive infixes of Tagalog (67), he is also committing

this feature of the grammatized language to the memories of a Christian past. When he

discusses the usage of the Tagalog connectors ‘sa’ and ‘nang’ by saying that both may be used

to say that it is only God who can create angels (23), he is activating a memory sourced from

Christian theology where such a construction makes sense. When he explains the usage of the

Tagalog infinitive in a comparative sentence by saying that God prefers men to be merciful

rather than to have them fast (21), he is evoking the memories of Christian morality that holds

both compassion and self-denial as virtuous. When Blancas clarifies that the Tagalog language

has two forms of the first person plural—‘tayo,’ which included the second person (i.e., we

with you), and ‘kami,’ which excluded it (i.e., we without you)—, he adds emphatically that the

learner can never address God with the phrase ‘Caavan mo tayo,’ since this would mean that

God should take pity both on us and on Himself, and would thus be contradictory to His

divine nature (8). More exemplars can be gathered from the Arte beyond the limits initially set

for this dissertation. Two of the more striking ones are the following: In contrasting the

prefixes ‘nagpa–’ (i.e., a passive action done deliberately) and ‘napa–’ (i.e., a passive action done

unintentionally), Blancas insists that with reference to Jesus, the verb ‘naparaquep’ and

‘napahampas’ should be used instead of ‘nagparaquep’ and ‘nagpahampas,’ because Jesus did

not cause his arrest and flogging (199). Blancas also talks about how the Tagalog prefix ‘naqui–,’

denoting the shared execution of an action, should never be placed with the verb ‘maghari’ [to

reign] when referring to the Virgin, given that the idea that Mary is co-reigning with Jesus is

blasphemous (233).

But no matter how systematic the disengagement of the Arte is from pre-colonial belief,

fragments of the erased indigenous self as it is embodied in Tagalog are still able to thread their

way through the grammar. Since translation and memory are imperfect (Bassnett 2003, 208-

209), the silences they create are not always hermetic. By interpreting what is left unsaid or

unexplained or unemphasized, we are able to use the Arte to peer, however fleetingly, into the

world of the early Tagalogs. The epiphany may be as mundane as the following:

Pero ʃungmaʃaan, |. ʃungmaʃaang bahay, es donde eʃta de aʃiento, donde ʃe apoʃenta,

o donde reʃide. Y aʃʃi tambien, na ʃa bahay ni Pedro, eʃta en caʃa de Pedro: aunque


no aya mas de ʃubido allí de paʃo. Pero ʃungmaʃabahay ni Pedro: es dezir q alli viue &c. (17, my emphasis).

[But ʃungmaʃaan|ʃungmaʃaang bahay is where one remains, where he is lodged, where he

resides. Therefore, na ʃa bahay ni Pedro, ‘He is in Pedro’s house,’ even though he has

only gone up there in passing, while ʃungmaʃabahay ni Pedro means ‘he lives there… &c.’]

A close reading of this passage on the difference between two Tagalog sentences describing

the location of one’s residence reveals an effaced piece of information regarding pre-colonial

architecture. To visit a Tagalog house is to go up into it and not merely to enter it, as the

peculiar choice of verb in Castilian shows. For this particular exemplar to be true, it has to be

assumed that a typical Tagalog house is built on wooden stilts. Comparing this interpretation

with historical records demonstrates that such is indeed the case (cf. Ruiz Gutiérrez 2005, 994-

995).

Other exemplars described the organization of the indigenous society. In one passage,

the reader of the Arte is taught how to command someone to deliver food to a ‘maginoo’:

Ytacbo mo ytong canin ʃa maginoo: lleua corriendo eʃta comida a &c. […] Tacbohin

mo ang canin doon ʃa maginoo.|. doon ʃa bahay nang maginoo.q.d. q eʃta en ʃu caʃa o la tiene el (52).

[Ytacbo mo ytong canin sa maginoo, ‘Take this food by running to… &c’ […] Tacbohin mo ang canin doon sa maginoo|doon sa bahay nang maginoo, ‘Go get food by running towards a maginoo and taking some from him.’]

A ‘maginoo’ is, for lack of a better word, a member of the local gentry and is at the top of the

social stratification. References to his privileged position, such as his entitlement to be served

(6, 43, 230) and his solicited patronage towards people of a lower station (90, 92), are alluded

to in the Arte. There are also references to other social practices among the Tagalogs, such as

herding goats (7), trading with the Malays and the Chinese (14), purchasing servants and

spearfishing (36), gathering snails (41), stevedoring, bloodletting, cupping and ear piercing (42),

and the reverential crowning of an individual as a sign of deference (43).

We have been told by Blancas that the task of the translator is to interpret the majesty

of divine meanings through grammar and to use this grammar to enact practices that make

these meanings operative in understanding God. But as we have seen in the foregoing


discussion, an understanding of God in the colonial condition is also shaped by readings that

resist the homogenizing tendencies of missionary grammatization. In attempting to translate

the grandeur of the colonial divine into the rules of a grammatized language, the Arte has

formulated a hybrid discourse that is awkward, complicated, and even catachrestic. Its

discursive tensions are important in representing the mysteries of the Christian God and the

complex contradictions of rendering Him into human speech. For in order to be doctrinally

absolute, the idea of God also needs to be linguistically and culturally contextual. A

translational reading of God presents His universality as a composite of particulars.

All these foregoing observations about the Arte and its author have been used in the

practical translation component of this dissertation. I have approached the Arte in this section

with the objective of expressing the complexities of a textual hybrid as a central message that

should be evoked in the translated text. Since Blancas’s Arte, the ST, is in itself a TT in the

sense that it contains translation as a necessary procedure for grammatizing Tagalog, this same

translationality should be conveyed in my version of the Arte in English. As I have specified

at the beginning of this dissertation, I have elected to translate the Spanish parts of the

grammar into English while retaining the Latin and Tagalog passages. This strategy replicates

the foreignness of these two languages in the colonial context: Tagalog was included in

Blancas’s Arte as the subject of missionary grammatization. As such, it has been transposed

into my translation with very minimal modifications. With respect to Latin, we have seen in

the discussion that many people in the early modern period, even among the religious

themselves, did not have a full grasp of the language. The connotations Latin evoked among

its missionary readers would have derived not from their command of the language per se, but

rather from their familiarity with its status as the sacred language of the Catholic Church and

their understanding of its functions as a language template in classical philology. This, in my

opinion, should be preserved in the translation.

The resulting text, an obscure combination of English, Tagalog and Latin, underscores

these erratic equivalences in a missionary grammar, where a language was made to talk about

another language using the structures of yet another language. I believe that the density of my

translation illustrates the points I am trying to make about the procedural indivisibility of

grammar and translation in missionary grammatization, and the complications brought about

by the issues of language to the translation and memory. A translation rendered entirely in


English would have neutralized the Arte, and would have reduced it to a mere philological

examination of Tagalog.

I likewise believe that the Arte has a strong religious tone that complements its

grammatical composition, and this should not be changed. Although there is a noticeable

academic feel to my translation because of the in-text commentary I have supplied therein, I

have also made an effort to replicate the religious tone that Blancas used in writing his grammar.

This should not be thought of as excessive. The Arte, after all, is not just a grammar of Tagalog.

It is also a grammar of God.

122 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language

Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language

by Fr. Fray1 Francisco de San José of the Order of St

Dominic. Preacher General in the Province of Our Lady of the Rosary of the Philippine Islands.

In the Province of Bataan Printed by Tomás Pinpin, a Tagalog, in the Year 1610.

1 The titles of ‘Father’ and ‘Fray’ are used in missionary-colonial grammars to emphasize that the writer is both a priest and a friar.


y order of Fr. Fray Baltasar Fort, Provincial of the Province of Our Lady of the

Rosary of the Order of Preachers, I have examined the book entitled Art and Rules

of the Tagalog Language that Fr. Fray Francisco de San José, Preacher General of the

same order, has zealously written so that the Holy Gospel may be delivered to

these natives as is appropriate. There is no matter herein that is an abomination to our Holy

Faith or to good customs. The book is deserving of the reputation of its author, and in it any

minister of the Holy Gospel will find explained with singular clarity and admirable order

what otherwise he would not understand on his own without tedious work and ample

experience. It will be to God’s great service that this book be printed for the consolation and

comfort of the Father Ministers, and for the gains that it will accord the natives. Given in

Binondoc2 on the 6th of February, 1609.

Fray Miguel Ruiz3

ray Baltasar Fort, Provincial of the Province of Our Lady of the Rosary of the

Order of St Dominic.

I hereby grant permission to Fr. Fray Francisco de San José, Preacher General of

the same order, to print a book entitled Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language. The

book will be useful in learning Tagalog with ease and truth according to what has been

attested to me by those religious who are proficient in the aforesaid language and have done

2 Binondoc (formerly Minondoc) is the old name of the district now called Binondo, the enclave built in 1594 outside of the walled city of Intramuros in Manila to house those Chinese who had converted into Catholicism. The name came from the Tagalog word ‘bundok’ [mountain], owing to the hilly terrain of the area. The Tagalogs and the Chinese had already been trading for thousands of years even before the first Europeans reached the islands. The Chinese in the Philippines, called ‘Sangleyes,’ had a long history of ambivalent relations with the Spaniards. While the Sangleyes were not allowed to live within Intramuros, they were nevertheless allowed to practice trade and provide for the needs of the Spaniards living within. 3 Fr. Miguel Ruiz came from the Convento de Santa Cruz la Real of Segovia. He held the posts of parish vicar, vicar general, definitor, provincial vicar, and eventually provincial of the Dominican Province of the Holy Rosary. At the time of his death on 7 June 1630, Ruiz was ministering at the parish of San Gabriel in Binondoc (Ocio, 57).

B F

124 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language the examination on my behalf. Given in our convent of Santo Domingo4 of Manila on the

3rd of June, 1609.

Fray Baltasar Fort5

Father Provincial

y command and commission of the Dean and the Cathedral Chapter of the Holy

Metropolitan Church of Manila, at present in vacant see, I have examined the

book entitled Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language, written by Fr. Fray Francisco de

San José, a religious of the order of St. Dominic and its Preacher General, and in it

I find no word that is either ill-sounding or contrary to good customs. It will be greatly

beneficial for anyone who wishes to profit from it, and it is worthy to be printed because of

the care, rigor and scrutiny that the Author has placed in it for the satisfaction of others.

Given in the district of Quiapo6 on the 24th of July, 1609.

Pablo Ruiz Talavera7

4 The original Santo Domingo convent used to stand within Intramuros. After it was bombed by Japanese forces during World War II, it was rebuilt at its present location in Quezon City, outside the city of Manila but well within the region that shares the same name. 5 Fr. Baltasar Fort was elected provincial in April of 1608 (Aduarte and González, 320). He was ministering in Pangasinan, a Dominican mission area, prior to his election. Born in Valencia, Fort resided in the Dominican convent of San Esteban in Salamanca before sailing to the Philippines. He was part of the seventh Dominican mission that sailed from Spain in 1601 and reached the islands a year later (Ocio, 47-48). 6 Quiapo, a district in the city of Manila outside the Intramuros, got its name from ‘qiapo’ or ‘qiyapo,’ a type of aquatic plant (NS 325, 333). Its parish is among the richest and most prominent in the archipelago because of the popular devotion to an icon of the Black Nazarene, an image of Christ carrying the cross is venerated in the church. This image, sculpted by an unknown Mexican craftsman, was brought to Manila in 1606 (Buzeta and Bravo 1850, 229-230). 7 Pablo Ruiz Talavera was the parish priest of Quiapo during the time of the Arte’s publication (Chirino, 110). It could be gleaned from his writings that he maintained a very close relationship with the Indios, so much so that he even wrote a letter on 12 July 1601 to the King of Spain to denounce the unjust appropriation of native lands by the Spaniards (AGI, FILIPINAS,84,N.97).

B


pon reading the dispatch from the Order of St. Dominic of this city about a

religious of their community who have written a book entitled Art and Rules of the

Tagalog Language and after having been asked to give our consent for its printing,

we, the Dean and the Cathedral Chapter8 of the Archdiocese of Manila in vacant see, have

entrusted the inquiry and examination of the same to canon Pablo Ruiz de Talavera, the

parish priest of the natives of this city, who in the report he signed with his name, assures us

that the book is free of any word that is ill-sounding or contrary to good customs and is

greatly beneficial for those people who wish to profit from it. We do hereby grant the

ecclesiastical license for the printing of this book on the condition that the censorship report

furnished by Pablo Ruiz de Talavera be placed at its beginning together with our permission.

Given in Manila on the 28th day of July, 1609.

The Dean of Manila

The Archdeacon Arellano

Don9 Luis de Herrera Sandoval

Diego de León

Francisco Cervantes

Francisco de Carranza Miguel Garcetas

By order of the Dean and the Cathedral Chapter.

Pedro de Rojas

8 In the Catholic hierarchy, a chapter, or ‘cabildo’ in Spanish, is the curia that assists the bishop in governing the diocese. This curia is headed by the dean, or ‘deán’ in Spanish (not to be mistaken for the ‘decano,’ which also translates into ‘dean’ in English). In the case of a vacant see (i.e., when the local bishop, or ‘ordinary’ in canonical parlance, ceases his governance of a particular church for whatever reason), the cathedral chapter oversees the temporal and spiritual governance of the diocese. 9 Luis de Herrera Sandoval was the archdiocesan treasurer and purveyor (Aduarte and González, 297, AGI, FILIPINAS,85,N.10). Having finished a ‘bachillerato,’ he was often referred to in the historical records with the title of ‘Don,’ as was customary during the period.

U

126 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language To the Most Pure Virgin and True Mother of God, Mary, the Most Serene Queen of

the Angels and the Most Merciful Advocate of Sinners,

The Author dedicates this hymn, and with it his lowly work:

(1) O Lord of all men,

O true King of all Angels:

O beloved Mother of God,

The Creator of the universe!

(2) O blessed among all men,

O exalted among all Angels,

Unequalled and unparalleled

In the company of Saints!

(3) O daughter beloved by the Father!

O daughter so beautiful to behold!

Never will His eyes cease

To gaze upon you with affection!

(4) O patroness and intercessor

Of words from this mortal mouth,

Ever gracious and faithful

To all those men who err!

(5) Sweet mother, happy mother,

Kind and caring mother,

Prudent mother and comforter

To every son and daughter!

(6) Strong fortress and haven

Of those who have enemies to fear

Comment [MJS1]: Although the poem in the ST consists of twenty-six unrhymed sextets, I have chosen to render these verses as unrhymed quatrains. The features of the source language, such as its agglutinating morphology and its predicate-initial sentence pattern, allow for a longer versification. Retaining the original verse form and translating it line by line would have yielded one- or two-word TT solutions, which would not have the appearance of a poem in the target language. To facilitate reading, each verse in the TT is marked by a number in lieu of the pilcrow (¶) used in the ST.

127 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language And of those who seek refuge

In the Church in their despair!

(7) O splendid love and delight

Ever so merciful to hapless plight!

O tender compassion

For whom my heart pines!

(8) O holiest of Saints,

Most saintly and faultless!

O exemplar of virtue

In the company of Saints!

(9) O chosen handmaid, blessed Virgin,

Purest and most perfect gold,

No one can ever compare

To you among all creation!

(10) O precious stone and bright star!

O shimmering star and clear sky!

O glowing moon and rising sun!

You are all light!

(11) To you a messenger

Was sent by the Lord

To create in you His work,

Unique and inimitable.

(12) You are the gate of heaven,

The ladder through which descends

And the fount from where springs

All measure of mercy.

Comment [MJS2]: In the ST, Blancas uses the word ‘loob,’ which literally means ‘interior.’ The decision to translate this word as ‘heart’ in the TT underscores the figurative use of the word in the ST to refer to the self metonymically. The term ‘heart’ has the same effect in English.

Comment [MJS3]: I have inserted the word ‘messenger’ in this verse in the TT even though none appears in the ST. Such a translation procedure, called rationalization by Berman (Munday 2008, 147), extracts a noun form from the verb in order to account for a syntactical feature. Tagalog is notorious for its verbalization processes, where virtually all nominatives can be made into verbs through the addition of affixes. Most of these verbs have to be rationalized in English by separating the idea of the action and the idea of the person or object involved in it into distinct words. In the ST, Blancas uses the verb ‘pinasugoan,’ derived from the noun ‘sugo’ [messenger]. The verb ‘to send’ in English would not have reflected the idea of a messenger in the TT.


(13) Turn therefore your ear

To those you choose to be your kin,

The same ear you used to listen

To the salutation of the Angel.

(14) Turn therefore your bright eyes,

Gaze upon this lowly person,

And see this humble offering

Of your servant and slave.

(15) Although my offering is modest—

Indeed, an insignificant trifle—,

Be pleased to accept it,

For you are very wise.

(16) What use would there be in creating this

If you would not look upon it and accept it?

Is there another whom you favor,

Whose protection matters more to you?

(17) My heart yearns for you and only you,

And to you I make this offering,

You and only you shall I love

Forever and ever!

(18) Why would the printing press10 fail

10 The reference to the printing press suggests a strong etiological connection between printing press and the production of the Arte. Blancas is a pioneer in both missionary linguistics and printing, and mentioning his press in his most famous poem of his most famous work highlights his overlapping roles in the genealogy of the printed word in the early modern Philippines. A similar poetic reference to the printing press is employed by the ladino poet Fernando Bagongbanta in his Salamat nang ualang hanggang / gracias se den sempiternas, a bilingual Tagalog-Castilian poem that appears in the preface of the Blancas’s 1605 Memorial.

Comment [MJS4]: The words ‘Angel,’ ‘Saint,’ ‘Apostle,’ ‘Doctor,’ and the pronouns referring to God are written in uppercase in both ST and TT as a deliberate device for emphasizing the religious tenor of the text.

129 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language If it is you who has enriched it,

If it is you who has restored and rescued

That which once has sunk?

(19) And so it is you whom we should thank

Whenever we utter our prayers.

It is you whom we extol without end

Whenever we say our praise.

(20) Take this free-willed offering

And hold it in your revered hands,

So that with you it will be better,

And with you will it be loved.

(21) Vanquish the flaws of this work

And the shortcomings of the heart.

Despise not this work and this heart

That have been found wanting.

(22) Look earnestly at him who implores you.

Have pity on such a woeful man,

For he who would be left with nothing

If it were not for your reward.

(23) Our Mother, bestow more mercy

To this wretched one.

Heed his prayers

And make him useful to other men.

(24) Intercede with wisdom

Before your Son for this sinful slave

So that he may be forgiven

130 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language Of his many debts and sins.

(25) And once the most doleful moment

Of losing his life comes near,

Be there to receive his soul

And be its succor.

(26) Grant that I go there to you

And allow that my eyes never cease

To contemplate your holy face

Forever and ever.


Prayer to Implore Our Lord God for His Mercy to Reach the Language Necessary for Preaching His Doctrine Fittingly

all-knowing God, whose wisdom among Your creation dazzles in the multitude

of tongues, in the harmony of their diversity, and the wondrous difference in

sound that is particular to each; our Lord God, most zealous lover of souls, You

who in order to pull them out of the errors of idolatry and imbue them with an

awareness of You, their true Provider and Father, suddenly filled the hearts of foolish men

with celestial knowledge, and gave them the gift of tongue with which they could speak all

the languages they did not know, and in doing so could preach Your heavenly doctrine to

everyone, and with it receive Your love and grace so that afterwards they could also be given

Your bliss:

I beseech You, my Lord, with all the humility I have, to be pleased to succor Your

poor and ignorant minister, and grant that he be able to help the souls of these impoverished

little ones so that they may know and love You. You willed for Your nourishing doctrine to

enter through our ears and redeem us. How then will it enter through theirs if there is no

teacher who would speak to them and teach them? And how could speak and teach if he did

not know the language with which to preach? I do not ask You, my God, for the gift of

tongues You had given Your Apostles and Saints. I am not worthy to receive so great a gift.

It is true that if You deign to look at my merits, You shall not give me what I am praying for,

for I deserve nothing.

But look, o Lord, upon the many people You have chosen and predestined in these

lands. For the love You have for them I pray for this gift as a means by which You shall

make Yourself known. Look upon the excellence and loftiness of doctrine revealed and

preached through language and the honor and reverence it deserves, and grant that I be able

to preach it with competence and righteousness. Look upon the poverty of intellect among

the listeners and the feebleness of their hearts. Enrich the man who talks to them with vigor

and fervent resolve, so that he may enliven them and rouse them from their sleep, and

announce to them what they do not know with clear, congruous and capable words. Grant

me, o Lord, the enthusiasm and valor with which I may strive to understand the needs of the

O Comment [MJS5]: This prayer, previously translated into English almost in its entirety by Rafael (1993, 30-31), is a summary of the key points of Blancas’s ideas on language, translation and grammar. The title is quite revealing: In the ST, Blancas uses the verb ‘alcançar’ [to reach], the same verb I have used in my own translation. This suggests that the language to be used in the preaching to the Indios is located in a discursive space different from the grammarian’s and it is through God’s mercy that the grammarian will reach that space. Notice how Blancas equates linguistic knowledge to divine wisdom. He describes those who do not know foreign languages as foolish men who need heavenly grace to speak in tongu0es. In keeping with this imagery, the priest subsequently employs the adjectives ‘ignorant’ and ‘impoverished,’ and the phrases ‘poverty of intellect’ and ‘feebleness of heart’ to illustrate this lack. The prayer also contains many references that implore God as a memory. He is invoked with reminders of His gift of language to the early Church. This invocation has a reflectional effect. In directing these memories to God in the form of a prayer, Blancas also establishes a memory for his readers on which his entire project of grammatizing Tagalog is predicated.

132 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language souls of my fellowmen without resentment, so that through this I may make myself available

to the wealth You so graciously and amply provide.

I desire to put much care and diligence to this endeavor out of the love I profess to

You. For this reason, it will be better for me to learn the language myself instead of You

imbuing me with this grace all of a sudden. For I would be undeserving of its merit and

consequent recompense if ever this were to happen to me as it did to the Apostles, who had

received it themselves though they were similarly unworthy. I therefore pray in the same way

they did, and implore You often and in earnest. And I shall have what they did not have, for

with Your mercy I shall work on learning this language with care and fervor without allowing

the displeasure of my many small, worthless and insubstantial concerns to force me to

abandon my study. For this is thus ordained for the most valuable and important thing there

is, which is the salvation of souls and Your glorification.

Would it burden You, o Lord, to bestow me this gift? What difficulty would it have

for You, o omnipotent God? David says that You make the tongues of infants eloquent and

elegant so that they may utter Your divine praises.11 You have made Your servants speak the

truths of Your Faith not once but many times. Even after Your enemies had cut off their

tongues, You made Your servants speak with clarity, prominence and ease as when they still

had them intact. Such is Your might, o Lord. Such is the honor that Your doctrine deserves.

For it is through it that You shall be praised and be revealed. What else should I desire with

what I ask of You, o Lord, if not the same cause? You who are the judge of hearts know it.

And if in my heart You find something other than this, I ask that You undo it as a gift

greater than that of languages and whatever other miracles.

Strengthen my resolve in You and in You alone, and fill me with charity, for without

it languages are just vanities that oftentimes lead to Hell. A tongue of fire I ask from You so

that after burning my heart, it will illumine my listeners with Your love, so that both they and

I can love you. For it is in loving that we become worthy of You in this life, and thus shall

we reach You and see You in the next. Amen.

11 King David is believed to have composed the Book of Psalms. However, the metaphor of God granting eloquence to the tongue of infants for the purposes of preaching is actually a conflation of two verses, one from the Psalms 67:12, and another from the Book of Wisdom 10:21, which according to tradition, has been written by Solomon, David’s son.


To the Father Ministers of the Gospel

s He was nearing his departure, our Redeemer and Teacher Jesus Christ

made a promise—which St. Mark records in the last chapter of his

gospel12—, giving His word that whoever believes in Him and receives

His doctrine will be able speak in different languages. We know that such a promise has been

verily fulfilled in the early Church, for this gift was possessed not only by the holy Apostles

themselves, but also by other believers. Like in the Sacrament of Confirmation, they were

given the grace to speak the languages they had not studied, praising God in them and

instructing others in the same faith they had received. This alone gave witness to the

fulfillment of that widely understood promise. Gifts like this are hardly ever pledged and

handed over to anyone, except to certain people and only when the Holy Spirit deems it right

that they should communicate with one another for the good of the Church to which they

commit themselves. As what that great light of the Church, St. Augustine, once said: “Cum et

modo Spiritus Sanctus accipiatur, nemo loquitur linguis omnium genti : quia iam ip a Eccle ia linguis

omnium gentium loquitur: in qua qui non e t, non accipit Spiritum Sanctum.”13

The Most Reverend Cajetan indeed took issue with these words, not because they

sounded false to him, but instead because he wanted to proclaim them radically and attest to

their truth, saying in this manner: “Dubium e t, quare hodie Eccle ia non habet donum linguarum.

Nam Augu tini ratio in litera allata ufficere non videtur, cilicet, quia iam ip a Eccle iam linguis omnium

genti loquitur. Experimento enim apparet Eccle iam lingua, vel linguis carere multarum gentium temporibus

i tis repertarum: quibus oportet per interpretes fidem declarari, et prædicatores di cere ab illis linguam. Ad

hoc dicitur, quod cum Dominus, Marci vlt. promi erit donum linguarum icut et gratiam miraculorum,

dicendo, igna autem eos qui crediderint, hæc equ tur &c. et huiu modi dona inter gratias gratis datas

computentur: & ex diuina actione fiant quæ nullam prœ exigit di po itionem naturalem, aut moralem: nulla

videtur efficax ratio ad quientandum intellectum, quare, cum oportet, icut hodie, nõ e t in Eccle ia donum

linguarum: ni i quia h c omnia operatur Spiritus Sanctus, diuidens icut vult et quando vult. Nõ modica

12 cf. Mark 16: 17. 13 The passage actually comes from St. Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica (Quaestio 176, Articulus 1), where the Angelic Doctor discusses St. Augustine’s Tractate XXXIII on the Gospel of St. John from his In Ioannis Evangelium tractatus.

A

Comment [MJS6]: The foreignness of Latin evokes a sensation of textual consistency and dogmatic authority. By interfusing long blocks of Latin quotations in the original Castilian text, the grammarian appeals to the immutable weight of the language and transfers the authority of the Latin authors to the Arte. The retention of this linguistic assemblage in the TT follows the recommendation of translation theorists such as Berman and Spivak, who prefer a heterogenizing approach in the translation instead of reducing these differences into a homogeneous translatese.

134 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language tamen per ua io e t tepor eu defect no ter ad implendum illud Dñi mandatum, Rogate Dominum me is vt

mittat operarios in me em uam. Defectus quoque no tr bonitatis, & pr cipue in pr latis, multum cooperari

videtur. Quoniam bonitas qu tolleret impedimenta grati huiu modi, abe t. Gratiam enim con tat regulariter

non dari apponentibus impedimenta, quamuis nõ detur ex meritis. Vnde & propheti donum prophetis ip is

tempore coiugalis act impedientis negatur. Diui aut Aug. ratio ex uppo itione procedit.” This is the

sentiment of this very wise theologian and pious cardinal, who in searching for the reason

why we lack this blessing and grace, found it, or at least suspected to have found it, in our

lack of enthusiasm and our unavailability to receive such gifts.

Whatever the reason for this lack may be, it is imperative that a remedy be sought. It

is by now a common and familiar answer for the entire Church what the wisdom of the

Supreme Pontiff Clement V declared through these words filled with authority and spirit,

and are worthy to be reread with consideration: “Inter olicitudines no tris humeris incumbentes

perpeti cura reuoluimus vt errantes in viam veritatis inducere, ip os que lucrifacere Deo ( ua nobis cooperante

gratia) valeamus. Hoc e t, quod profecto desiderãntes exquirimus, ad id no mentis sedulo de tinamus

affectum: ac circa illud diligenti tudio et tudio a diligentia vigilamus. Non ambigimus autem quin ad

huiu modi no trum de iderium a equendum diuinorum eloquior it expo itio congrua, ip orum què fidelis

pr dicatio ad modum opportuna. Sed nec ignoramus, quin et hæc promi no cantur inaniter vacua q redire: i

auribus linguam loquentis ignorantium proferantur. Ideo q illius, cuius vicem in terris (licet immeriti)

gerimus, imitantes exemplum, qui ituros per univer um mundum ad euangelizandum Apo tolos, in omni

linguarum genere fore voluit eruditos: viris catholicis notitiam linguarum habentibus, quib utuntur infideles

precipue, abundare Sanctam affectamus Eccle iam, qui infideles ip os ciant et valeant acris in titutis

in tituere: Chri ticolarum q collegio per doctrinam Christian fidei usceptionem acri bapti matis

aggregare.” And from there he proceeds to decide and command where and how public

lectures of language and distinguished professorial chairs should be established.14 He did this

so that through them the Catholic doctrine may be preached to peoples of different nations

and languages. This is the same spirit in all those who from Him have received the calling to

save souls. With very admirable reason, let the best witness to this be that vessel of election,15

14 Through this decree, Clement V mandated the creation of the professorial chairs of Hebrew, Arabic and Chaldean at the Universities of Bologna, Oxford, Salamanca and Paris. 15 cf. Acts of the Apostles 9: 15.

135 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language St. Paul, of whom St. Jerome says these words, which ought to impress anyone: “Cumq

haberet sci tiam anctarum cripturarum, et ermonis diuersarum q linguarum gratiam po ideret; vnde ip e

gloriatur in Domino et dicit, gratias ago Deo, quòd omnium ve trum linguis magis loquor: diuinorum

en uum maie tatem digno non poterat gr ci eloquii explicare ermone. Habebat ergo Titum interpretem, icut

et B. Petrus Marcum &c.” 16 And afterwards he says, “Ergo et Paulus Apo tolus cõtristatur, quia

predicationis u in pr entiar fi tulam organum q per quod Chri to caneret non inuenerat.” 17 ‘His

mouth,’ this is how St. Paul calls St. Titus. He says that he went to Macedonia to look for

him. No one should find it improbable to assert that St. Paul had the gift of tongues, and this

being the Holy Spirit’s blessing and handiwork, he must have possessed it to perfection. On

this St. Thomas Aquinas says the following, sicut dicitur I. AD COR. 12:18 “Manife tatio Spiritus

datur ad vtilitatem. Et ideo ufficienter & Paulus et alii Apo toli fuerunt in tructi divinit in linguis omnium

gentium, quantum requirebatur ad fidei doctrinam. Sed quãtum ad qu dam qu superadduntur humana arte

ad ornatum et elegantiam locutionis, Apostolus in tructus erat in propia lingua, non autem in aliena. Sicut

etiam in apientia et cientia fuerunt ufficienter in tructi, quantum requirebat doctrina fidei: non autem

quant ad omnia qu per cientiam acqui itam cogno cuntur; putá de conclusionibus Arithmetic vel

Geometri .” And so, even though the said Apostle, as well as others like him, did have the gift

of speaking different languages, this did not remove the fact that each one expressed himself

more elegantly in his own language. And the gloss AD HEBRÆOS says, “non e e mirandum quod

epi tola ad Hebr. maiore elucet facundia quam ali : cum naturale it vnicuiq plus in ua quam in aliena

teras enim epi tolas Apo tolus peregrino id e t Gr co ermone compo uit: hanc autem crip it

Hebraica lingua.” What more can be added to this? What more can be said about the holy

curiosity of the Saints in translating the words of God’s doctrine? They were not content

with having the gift to competently speak whatever language was necessary, and would rather

look for whoever was more elegant in that language. It is for this reason that those who

considered the Holy Spirit as their master did not hesitate to become disciples of a man who

16 This is taken from the 120th epistle that St. Jerome, then residing in Bethlehem, addressed to Hedibia, a noblewoman in Gaul, in what is now known as Bordeaux (Cain, 181-182). The letter is a commentary on the Gospels and the Pauline epistles, and is divided into twelve questions. Blancas is well aware of this, as can be seen in his marginal notation q. II. da Hedibia, or Question 11 from [the letter to] Hedibia. 17 cf. 2 Corinthians 2: 12-13, Acts of the Apostles 16: 6. 18 cf. 1 Corinthians 12: 1-7.

Comment [MJS7]: This is a case of explicitation. The phrase ‘his mouth’ is supplied in the TT to make sense of the statement describing how St. Titus is referred to by St. Paul. In the ST, Blancas shifts from Latin into Spanish without any hesitation. The long Latin passage that he cites is immediately explained as ‘y llama a i a S. Tito’ without any obvious referent. A close reading of the Latin passage gives us ‘fi tulam’ [mouth] as the referent of the statement.

136 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language was of a lesser stature, dignity and merits, and to search for him with sadness for he was

nowhere to be found. But in the end they came to learn about the divinorum sensuum

maiestatem, words that St. Jerome himself uttered. This is so great an example that it should be

imitated. Let this be a great reprimand to those who do not exert due diligence and

competence in speaking the truths of God and His doctrine, and instead do so with disdain

and scorn towards their listeners. They do not mind what others have to say to them.

Neither do they put much thought to it, nor do they reflect on it. It is as if the Gospel ceased

to be what it is because of how the people who listened to it were. Or since those who have

to be taught were slow-witted, it is as if the teacher were not required to make up for their

frailty through his own hard work, expediting for them what may seem difficult and obscure

with his well-mannered speech and clear and able words. Would it be good for a mother to

give whole and sinewy mouthfuls to her toothless child, and then neglect him because he is

unknowledgeable or incapable of eating them? This is unreasonable, and it is preposterous

for anyone to act in this manner. I am not inclined to inquire or to speculate on the precepts

and causes that have given rise to such a behavior. I will rather forward the examples the

Saints had left us against whatever wicked precepts there may be. The glorious doctor St.

Jerome said in reference to himself that, “Dum e em iuvenis, et solitudinis me de erta vallarent;

incentiua vitiorum, ardorem q natur ferre non poteram: quem cum crebris ieiuniis frangerem, mens tamen

cogitationibus tuabat. Ad quam edomandam, cuidam fratri, qui ex Hebr is crediderat, me in di ciplinam

dedi; vt po t Quintiliani acumina, Ciceronis fluuios, gravitatem q Frontonis, et lenitatem Plinii,

alphabetum di cerem, et tridentia anhelantia q verba meditarer. Quid ibi laboris in ump erim, quid

u tinuerim difficultatis, quoties de peraverim, quotie q ce averim, et contentione di cendi rur us inceperim;

testis e t con ciencia tam mea qui pa us um, quam eorum, qui mecum duxerunt vitam.” And without

breaking this thread or inserting my own words herein, I shall put the example Our Father,

St. Dominic, has left us. The Saint and one of his companions left Toulouse in France for

Paris, arriving at a small village on the first day. They left the place at the break of dawn the

next day. On their way, they ran into some German horsemen who were doing some sort of

pilgrimage. These Germans, who upon seeing a new kind of people and a new form of

journeying (because the two were chanting hymns and psalms along the way, stopping every

now and then to pray, and teaching and talking about things about heaven), grew fond of

them and went with them that day although they did not understand their language. They

Comment [MJS8]: This is the text that Blancas wrongly identifies in the marginalia as a passage from St. Jerome’s letter to Furia (i.e., In Epist. ad Furiam in med.).

137 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language then invited the two friars to eat, and gifted them with whatever they could put on the table.

Afterwards, the friars continued the journey with them for three days more. They were well

treated and provided for at the expense of the German pilgrims. On the fourth day, St.

Dominic took his companion Fray Beltrán to one side and told him: Brother, my conscience

indeed weighs heavily on me, for we have been walking for four days, eating and drinking out of the graces of

these good people, but without them receiving any recompense, gratitude or remuneration from our end. Since

they have given us something from their earthly riches, it is but fitting that we give them something spiritual in

return. I do not know how to do it because they do not understand our language, and neither do we

understand theirs. Let us both kneel therefore and implore the Lord to grant us the mercy that they may

understand us, and as such we shall be able to speak with them and tell them about their blessings and about

things that matter to the soul. They then removed themselves from the road, with St. Dominic

heading to one end and Fray Beltrán to another. And with insistence they implored Our

Lord to give them the language to announce His Holy Name to those wanderers. And they

were granted what they were praying for at that very instant. Once they stood up after their

reciting their prayer, they went to see their companions, greeted them in their own German

tongue, and left them speechless at the sight of such a miracle. And thus they walked

together for four more days, speaking about God with the greatest of ease and spiritual

consolation in a kind of conversation that wearies no one, but instead enlivens people and

makes them content.

This is what happened to our Patriarch. There are similarly other powerful accounts

from the Saints that should motivate the uninspired in learning a foreign language, and help

them surpass the difficulties by way of a continuous and tedious study, as in the example of

St. Jerome, and obtain so much more than what human diligence can give through insistence

and prayerful fervor, as in the story of St. Dominic. Indeed, I do not know what lofty aims

those who learned foreign languages had from the time God created man, or what questions

of honor and importance encouraged them in so arduous a task that were not found in the

study of the languages of these lowly and forsaken people. St. Paul found no worth in the

language of the Angels, and whoever had it and spoke it is nothing if he does not have

charity.19 For out of charity proceeds the true worth of languages and the value of their

study, and the interest among those who work with them.

19 cf. 1 Corinthians 13.

Comment [MJS9]: The italicization of these quoted passage, written in Castilian in the ST, is a compensatory translation strategy using the paratextual resources available in the TT to isolate the palimpsestic component of the ST. Although it is acknowledged in the marginalia of the ST that this passage comes from Castillo’s history of the Dominicans, there is no visual indication that determines where the passage begins and ends. The italicization of this passage in the TT substitutes the marginalia in this regard. It reminds the reader that although the passage is a translation from Spanish into English, it comes from an earlier textual source.


Could there ever be a poorer form of charity in the study of language aimed at

bringing these unfortunate ones into heaven than in studying only those languages that are

important and well-known? Let it be said instead that a greater form of charity is found

among these poor ones who find themselves disfavored by those who have no objective

aside from scrounging for human affection. And with this comes greater security as it carries

fewer reasons for vanity and pride. The three most universal languages, Hebrew, Greek and

Latin, are recognized for being the most famous and chief among the rest. But anything that

does not have charity in its purpose is bereft of value and worth. And should its purpose be

grounded on any other motivation, whatever language I shall find and hold in high regard

and study, will only be infused with vanity while remaining empty of any true interest. As

such, our study of the Moorish language20 is as honorable as the study of the most reputable

tongue, since ours is a study of the Gospel learned in the schools of charity. And those who

go out and preach using this language as expertly as did those Doctors21 in the heavenly

theater, as do the rest who preach in other languages, will be rewarded with their tassels—

nay, their haloes—in the university of mankind,22 so much more honorable and glorious than

the recognition given to the learned men in the universities on earth.

Many servants of God are so convinced of these things that they exert a daily effort

to learn what they do not know, or are unsatisfied with what they know (although they

already do know a lot). Having ventured out to the high seas, they see the vast expanse of the

ocean and learn about its depths, and they recognize how much they still need to sail.

Consider if many things are still unknown in the native language. What will become of him

who learns it word for word, and each one laboriously? If we descend to some particularities

with what we have at hand (for as they say, a whole ball of yarn is unraveled by pulling a

single thread), you shall see that to say ‘Our Lady took her son, Our Lord, to the temple,’ the

sentence Dinala si Santa Maria sa…, &c. is said. If the word ‘dinala’ is said slowly, this tells the

listeners that Our Lady fished out his son from the water by casting him a net. Additionally, 20 For a discussion on the translation activities in Castile during this period, particularly with respect to the so-called Moorish language, please see Pym (2000, 13-55). 21 Certain Catholic saints hold the rank of ‘Doctor of the Church.’ These saints are venerated for their teachings that have become essential in the development Church dogma. Blancas has cited three in the Arte: St. Jerome, St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas. To date, there are only thirty-six saints who have been given this distinction. 22 cf. Memorial, 458.

Comment [MJS10]: By employing this metaphor of descent, Blancas reinforces the notion of hierarchy among the languages in question. The metaphor situates Tagalog at a more inferior tier in comparison to the higher plane occupied by Latin and Castilian. It is also interesting how Blancas reaffirms his mediating role by changing his discourse from the first person plural in ‘descendemos’ to the second person in (Vds.) ‘ven,’ as if saying that both grammarian and his missionary readers will embark on the same linguistic journey, but it is only the readers who will see how Tagalog works, for the grammarian has already gained prior knowledge about it. Like Virgil leading Dante into the depths of Hell, Blancas leads his readers into the depths of Tagalog.

Comment [MJS11]: It should be remembered that the use of &c. (i.e., ‘et cetera’ ) in the ST and the TT marks a translational omission. Blancas uses this sign whenever an ellipsis is introduced into his own translation solutions. In this particular instance, the exemplar in Tagalog is an incomplete clause that elides references to ‘Our Lord’ and ‘to the temple’ from the previous Castilian exemplar. The presence of the elided elements can only be deduced if the Tagalog clause is read as a translation in relation to other component parts of the paragraph.

139 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language the word cannot be pronounced with an accent on the last syllable.23 And if in praising a

Saint, which is good, their common term ‘banal’ should be used. But if in saying it one uses

an accent other than what ought to be used, he says something ridiculous once again.

Moving from this extreme, neither will it be proper for one to pronounce the word in the

same way a Spaniard would pronounce the word ‘varón,’ with the stress clearly falling on the

last syllable. There are some other examples of this matter towards the end of the Memorial,24

where this lesson is discussed, as there are so many words that this language consigns to this

form.

Consider this, therefore, diligent and reverend ministers who honor the Gospel: The

more you discover the exquisiteness of tying words together, of accentuating them and

defining them with respect to their differences in sound, which, though minor, produces an

immense change in meaning, and other similar minutiae (which in this language are

substantial as they constitute the very language itself), and the more you know about them,

the more you shall realize how much you have erred when you still did not know them. And

this precisely spurs you to move forward and exert due diligence daily, each of you becoming

another St. Jerome as you try to learn meaning, ascertain pronunciation, and familiarize

yourselves with the style, order and consecution of words. And in so doing you shall gain

what the aforesaid Saint says about himself after so tedious a task: “Et gratias ago Domino, quod

de amaro emine literarum dulces fructus carpo.” Sweet fruits indeed do such ministers gather from

this life, seeing how they have become the light that dissipates the darkness of idolatry, the

salt that impedes the corruption of traditions derived from it,25 and the cities to which many

destitute people seek to provide themselves with nourishment to sustain life, medicines to

cure their affliction, and with weapons to defend themselves from their enemies. And the

sweeter will the fruits be for those who help, shelter and comfort others even during their

own hour of bitterness, masterfully using the talents entrusted to them. The Lord for whose

love they do everything will fill their hearts with consolation, peace, light and unfaltering

23 Tagalog has four accents. They are known traditionally as: (1) malumay (e.g., a, unaccented final syllable), (2) mabilis (e.g., á, accented final syllable), (3) malumì (e.g., à, unaccented syllable with a final glottal stop), and (4) maragsa (e.g., â, accented syllable with a final glottal stop). 24 cf. Memorial, 456. Blancas discusses the pronunciation of the Tagalog word ‘paa,’ which he gave in yet another one of his books, the Postrimerias. 25 cf. Matthew 5: 13-16.

140 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language hope. He shall welcome them with happiness in His face, and place them in the possession

of His joy and glory, which they shall enjoy among the great laborers and teachers in heaven

forever.

And so, my Fathers, as regards this humble work, I can only offer my heart and my

desire of having written it correctly, despite the suspicion that anyone scrutinizes its edges

will soon find something to reject. Language is an intricate field of study, and this language is

in no way different from the rest, since within the bounds of Tagalog are Comentan, Laguna

and Tagalog, 26 and I have not been able to cover them all. In these places to where I

regularly return from my other pursuits, only this little has been made in all those fourteen

years of study. I reckon that this work is even less than what ought to be expected since it

should have contained all that can be learned in a language. Nevertheless, the extent that

should be known in this language does not lend itself to any greater brevity than this. And

there is nothing in what has been written here that should not have been written in the first

place. Otherwise, it was done so out of mistake. Of this I am afraid, and so I take the blame

for whatever errors there may be, errors which I of course reprove. And if there is any sound

judgment that can be profitably made here, I pray that I learn how to desire with all my heart

that its glory and praise be naturally given back to Our Lord forever and ever.

26 Comentan is the ancient name of the modern-day province of Batangas, while Laguna is, as the name suggests, the province by the Lake Bai, the location of the town of Pila, where the SB dictionary was printed. Given that both Batangas and Laguna are on the southern part of the Tagalog-speaking region, the term Tagalog in this particular instance may refer to the provinces north of Manila. One of these provinces is Bataan, where the Arte was published.

141 Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God GLOSS A. Translation of Passages in the Prefatory Exhortation

GLOSS A

Translation of Passages in the Prefatory Exhortation

St. Thomas Aquinas quoting St. Augustine, Summa Theologica (“Cum et modo Spiritus Sanctus”): Whereas even now the Holy Ghost is received, yet no one speaks in the tongues of all nations, because the Church herself already speaks the languages of all nations: since whoever is not in the Church, receives not the Holy Ghost (Aquinas, 1920).

Cardinal Tommaso de Vio Cajetan, Summa Theologica cum commentariis Thomæ de Vio Card. Cajetani (“Dubium est”): It is uncertain why the Church today does not have the gift of tongues, since Augustine’s reasoning contained in his letters—that is, that the Church herself already speaks the languages of all nations (cf. In Ioannis Evangelium tractatus)—does not seem sufficient. Experience demonstrates that the Church does not know the language or the languages of many peoples discovered during these times, to whom it is important to announce the Faith. It is likewise important that preachers learn their language from translators. On this matter it is said that since the Lord promised the gift of tongues as well as the grace of miracles in the last chapter of St. Mark, saying, “These signs will accompany those who believe, etc.” (cf. Mark 16:17), for which reason these gifts are counted among the graces that are freely given and have sprung out from divine action that requires no natural or moral disposition, no reason seems effective in appeasing the intellect to explain why the Church does not have the gift of tongues when it is necessary, except that it is the Holy Spirit who performs all these works, bequeathing them at the time and in the manner that it so wills. It is, however, sufficiently explained by our lack of enthusiasm and imperfection in fulfilling the commandment of the Lord, “Pray to the Lord of the harvest to send workers to His fields” (cf. Matthew 9:38). The absence of our goodness, especially among the prelates, also seems helpful in explaining the matter, for goodness is lacking in such a way that it becomes an obstacle to grace. It is known that even though it not granted out of merit, grace is oftentimes denied to those who create impediments, for which reason the gift of prophecy is denied even to prophets who engage in the conjugal act. The argument of the divine Augustine proceeds from a misleading supposition (My own translation. I wish to thank Latinist María Ortega Aragón and the Latin Reading Group of Monash University for all the help with this translation).

Pope Clement V, Inter sollicitudines: Among the cares that weigh heavily upon us, not the least is our solicitude to lead the erring into the way of truth and with the help of God to win them for Him. This is what we ardently desire, to it we zealously direct the energies of our mind, and about it we are concerned diligenti studio et studiosa diligentia. We realize, however, that for the attainment of our purpose an exposition of the Holy Scriptures is particularly appropriate and a faithful preaching thereof very opportune. Nor are we ignorant that even these will prove of no avail if directed to the ears of one speaking an unknown tongue. Therefore, following the example of Him whose representative we are on earth, who wished that the Apostles, about to go forth to evangelize the world, should have a knowledge of every language, we earnestly desire that the Church abound with Catholic men possessing a knowledge of the languages used by the infidels, who will be able to instruct them in Catholic

142 Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God GLOSS A. Translation of Passages in the Prefatory Exhortation

doctrine and by holy baptism form them into a body of Christians (Schroeder, 395-396, emphasis in the original).

St. Jerome, Letter to Hedibia (“CumqƷ haberet sciētiam”): Now, Saint Paul had a perfect knowledge of the holy Scriptures, he was naturally eloquent, and he possessed the gift of speaking in tongues, as he prides himself in the Lord, saying, ‘I praise my God that I speak through the gift of tongues more than all of you.’ Nevertheless he could not speak Greek in a manner worthy of the majesty and grandeur of our mysteries. Therefore Titus served as an interpreter, as Saint Mark used to serve Saint Peter. Saint Paul, therefore, sorry that he had not met at Troas the one by whose mouth he was to preach the gospel… (Snapp 2009).

St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica (“Sicut dicitur I. AB COR. 12”): As it is written, ‘the manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man unto profit’; and consequently both Paul and the other apostles were divinely instructed in the languages of all nations sufficiently for the requirements of the teaching of the faith. But as regards the grace and elegance of style which human art adds to a language, the Apostle was instructed in his own, but not in a foreign tongue. Even so they were sufficiently instructed in wisdom and scientific knowledge, as required for teaching the faith, but not as to all things known by acquired science, for instance the conclusions of arithmetic and geometry (Aquinas, 1920).

St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica (“Non esse mirandum”): … it is not surprising that the epistle to the Hebrews is more graceful in style than the other epistles, since it is natural for a man to have more command over his own than over a strange language. For the Apostle wrote the other epistles in a foreign, namely the Greek, idiom; whereas he wrote this in the Hebrew tongue (Aquinas, 1920).

St. Jerome, Letter to Rusticus (“Dum essem iuvenis”): When I was a young man and the deserted haunts of the wilderness imprisoned me, I was not able to handle the allurements of vice and the heat of my passions. Although I tried to break the force of both with frequent fasts, my mind still welled up with unclean thoughts. To bring my wayward mind under control

I committed myself to a certain brother, an ex‐Jew, to teach me Hebrew, so that after the pointedness of Quintilian, the rivulets of Ciceronian eloquence, the weightiness of Fronto, and the mildness of Pliny, I learned the alphabet all over again and mulled over words that were

both harsh‐sounding and guttural. What effort I expended on this, what hardship I went through, how often I lost all hope, and how often I threw my hands up in the air and then went back to it out of an eagerness to learn—I who suffered through all of this and those who lived with me can attest to what I say... (Cain, 153).


EVANGELII MINISTER DEBET ESSE

¶ Charitatiuus. ¶ Volebamus tradere vobis, non ed etiam animas no tras: quoaniam

chari imi nobis facti e tis .I. Thesal .2.

Patiens ¶ IN Patientia ve tra po idebitis animas ve tras. Luc. 21.

Signa Apo tolatus mei facta unt up vos in omni patientia.27

¶ Benignus atq humanus. ¶ Facti umus paruuli in medio ve trum, tamquam i nutrix foveat filios uos .I. Thesal .2.

A iduus in doctrina. ¶ Pr dica verbum; in ta opportune, importune. Argue, ob ecra, increpa, in omni patientia et

doctrina. 2 Tim. 4.

¶ Non lucri cupidus. ¶ Gratis accepi tis: gratis date. Mat. 10. Non enim quæro quæ ve tra unt, ed vos .2.

Cor.12.

Suæ met animae prouidens. ¶ Recupera proximum ecundum virtutem tuam : et attende

tibi ne incidas. Ecclci. 29. 28 Attende tibi et doctrine .2. Tim .4. 29

Quid prode t homini, i mundum vniuver um lucretur, anim uero su detrimentum patiatur? Mat. 16.

¶ QVI autem fecerit et docuerit, hic magnus vocabitur in regno c lorum 30

27 cf. 2 Corinthians 12: 12. 28 The Vulgate marks this verse at Ecclesiastes 29:27. However, some other Catholic and Protestant translations of this apocryphal book, the verse appears as Ecclesiastes 29:20. 29 This is actually from the first epistle of St. Paul to Timothy, but is mistakenly referenced by Blancas here in the Arte as a verse from the second epistle. 30 cf. Matthew 5: 19.

Comment [MJS12]: The paratextual elements of the ST in this section are retained in the TT together with the passages in Latin. As with the previous examples, the non-translation of these sentences into English is vital in evoking the otherness of the text and in typifying the modes of authorship practiced in the Arte.

144 Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God APPENDIX III. Glossary of Words from the Arte

GLOSS B

Translation of Evangelii minister

The minister of the Gospel

must be

Charitable “[W]e would have been happy to share with you not only the gospel of God, but also our

own lives, so dear had you become” (1 Thessalonians 2:8).

Patient “Your perseverance will win you your lives.” (Luke 21:19).

“All the marks characteristic of a true apostle have been at work among you: complete perseverance...”

Kind and humane

“[W]e lived unassumingly among you. Like a mother feeding and looking after her children” (1 Thessalonians 2:7).

Persistent in doctrine

“Proclaim the message and, welcome or unwelcome, insist on it. Refute falsehood, correct error, give encouragement—but do all with patience and with care to instruct”

(2 Timothy 4:2).

Not desirous of wealth “You received without charge, give without charge” (Matthew 10:8).

“[I]t is not your possessions that I want, but yourselves” (2 Corinthians 12:14).

Generous in spirit “'Go away, stranger, make room for someone important; my brother is coming to stay, I

need the house.'” [Lit. Help your neighbor according to your power: and take heed to yourself that you fall not] (Sirach 29:27).

“Be conscientious about what you do and what you teach.” (1 Timothy 4:16). “What, then, will anyone gain by winning the whole world and forfeiting his life?”

(Matthew 16:26). “The person who keeps them and teaches them will be considered great in

the kingdom of Heaven.”


Some Admonitions for Understanding the Contents of this Book

First Admonition

Firstly, as regards the abbreviations used in the book, let it be said that the two letters

‘v.g.’ mean ‘verbi gratia’ in Latin, or es decir, ‘to wit,’ or pongamos ejemplo, ‘let us take for

example’ in the Romance, for it is where an example is supplied and discussed with reference

to the given doctrine.

Cap means chapter, while Reg, rule. The symbol marks the division and

distribution of the rule so as to promptly find what is being searched for. Whenever .2.

appears, one only has to go to the cited rule and search for the symbol that has the same

number. ‘Nom’ means nominative, ‘Accu,’ accusative, ‘Abla,’ ablative, ‘Imp,’ imperative,

‘Pret,’ preterite, ‘Pres,’ present, ‘Fut,’ future, ‘Part,’ particle, ‘Prim,’ first, ‘2,’ second, and so

on. The two bound ‘ff’ means ‘facere facere,’ which will be explained in the second chapter.

‘Pen prod’ means ‘penúltima producta,’31 where the syllable preceding the last should be long

and spacious in the word where the stress falls. ‘Pen corr’ means ‘penúltima correpta,’ 32

where the stress should be placed not on the penultimate syllable but rather on the one

preceding it, such as in the word Spiritu, where we do not linger on the syllable ri, but rather

on the pi.

Second Admonition

There are times when alongside a Tagalog word written in Spanish letters are placed

the Tagalog characters with which the same word would have been written, so that through

them anyone who can read such characters will know how to pronounce the word correctly:

v.g., the word bigat should not be pronounced in a manner that wounds the g into the a, as in 31 In modern Spanish linguistics, this is referred to as the ‘paroxítona’ or ‘grave,’ where the stress is placed on the penultimate syllable. 32 Or ‘penúltima corrupta’ in other texts. This is also known as ‘proparoxítona’ or ‘esdrújula’ in modern Spanish linguistics. Given the four accents of Tagalog, the penúltima correpta also stands for when the stress falls on the last syllable, with or without the glottal stop (Coria, 430).

Comment [MJS13]: Blancas’s use of the word ‘advertencias’ in the title is consistent with how a missionary grammar is ideated as a set of prescriptivist rules. Prescriptivism is evident not only in how grammatical patterns are formulated but also in how these patterns are presented. The choice to translate this as ‘admonition’ in the TT is admittedly a form of ennoblement, following the list by Berman (Munday 2008, 147). It is necessary to do this to avoid using a longer and more direct translation solution, such as ‘word of caution,’ which would not fit the other sentences where ‘advertencias’ is used. ‘Admonition’ likewise has a distinct religious tone to it that is consistent with the tenor of the text.

Comment [MJS14]: The translationality of the Arte is seen in the many overt references Blancas makes to both Latin and Spanish. In these instances, he cites specific words and phrases as metalinguistic commentaries and tells his readers that this is how these things are said in these languages. Translating these elements into English would have distorted the deixis in the ST, while retaining them as non-translated signifiers would have limited our understanding of the TT. Both these strategies would have been contrary to the objective the ST author of clarifying these elements in his discussion. For this reason, in sentences where there is a specific though unexplicitated metalinguistic reference to phrases in Latin or Spanish, which I have written in italics, I have added a translation into English enclosed in single quotation marks.

146 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language gát. Instead, the g ought to be brought closer to the preceding i and be said as bíg, then after

pausing briefly and subtly, the at should be said. This we know because in Tagalog the word

is not written as big, but rather as bia. For this reason, those who wish to speak the

language at least averagely must learn how to read Tagalog characters, for it is quite an easy

affair that may be learned in an hour. However, any Spaniard will never be able to have an

expert reading of the Tagalog language through its characters, even if he lived as long as

Adam did. Whoever dares to study even a single lesson will understand why. Anyone who

intends to do so will see for himself what the experts have been attempting to do, for when

all is said and done, reading Tagalog letters involves a bit of guesswork. Despite this, I

beseech the curious learner to study reading the characters, and he shall see how it will help

him perfect his pronunciation. Whoever studies this form of writing may begin practicing

with the following words: boto, digas, ragan, bigat, tamys, bagang, ragys, panayam, gayon, ngayon,

a aoyn, tagyn, laiyn, capapacanan, cavalan, paca amyn, gaby, alityn, olol, osos, otot, pagong, angal, agang,

agvan, tanao, pigy, bangal, lagoc, tongol, ligang, igang, bogong, balon, pangus, bolo, pagytan, and the like,

all of which are neither written nor pronounced the way they appear at first glance, since the

last vowel in some and the penultimate vowel in the others should not be wounded by the

preceding consonant and instead be cut in the manner previously described.

Third Admonition

Whenever the word ‘root’ is mentioned and repeated in this book, it refers to any

word in its simplicity without any additional element whatsoever. It is either a word that has

a meaning on its own, v.g., sulat, or one that does not mean anything at all. We call it a root

because no other element has been added to it, and there are as many words that can branch

from it as the elements that can be added to it, as we shall later on see. Nevertheless, when it

is kept on its own, the root means nothing more than how it is written. A word such as tipon

is a root from which many active and passive verbs are derived, but neither is it used nor

does it have any meaning on its own. We therefore say that it means ‘to gather’ because once

particles are attached, it transforms into verbs that have such a meaning.

Comment [MJS15]: It is quite amusing that Blancas teaches Tagalog by enumerating a list of words where the glottal stop appears but without indicating the position of the sound or efining any of these words. The idea, it seems, is that the missionary reader should have access to other resources that may help him practice his pronunciation. For the meanings of these words, kindly refer to the glossary at the very end of section.

Comment [MJS16]: Imagery of the branch, or ‘rama’ in the ST, is consistent with the usage of the root, or ‘raiz,’ to describe what we call at present as a morpheme.


Fourth Admonition

In forming verbs, we first form the imperative, not because other tenses are derived

from it—such as in the case of Latin where we first speak of the present and the other tenses

derived from it—but rather because its composition is easier and simpler, and is done by

joining the root with a particle, which will be discussed later. Once this is done, the preterit

and the present can be formed easily by adding other elements in such a way that it leads to

other verb forms. The same thing has been done by the first Fathers who discussed the

grammar of this language, and it is worthy that they should all be followed as much as

possible.

Fifth Admonition

This language has two g sounds: One is strong and clear like the Spanish g, as in the

word manga, Domingo, &c., and the other is nasal, for whose pronunciation (which should be

heard at times) I refer to the natives themselves. 33 With respect to writing, in order to

differentiate the strong from the nasal, the letter n is always placed immediately before the g

to represent the latter because the pronunciation requires that it be put. But since the other g

can also admit the n at times, a symbol is placed on top of the nasal g, which in the book shall

appear in this manner, g., v.g., banga is very different from banga, and tinga from tinga, &c.

Many of us Spaniards fail to differentiate between the two in our pronunciation, and this

makes for a lot of unpleasantness. With regard to writing the first g, even though it should be

followed with a liquid u in Spanish, I have not placed such a letter here in keeping with their

manner of writing. Whoever thinks that it should have been put will find it easier to evoke it

instead in memory whenever he reads.

Whenever this letter v is seen in Tagalog words, know that this should not be read as

a consonant wounding the following vowel, but rather as a liquid similar to its

pronounciation in Spanish, since there is neither v nor u that wounds in Tagalog, and it is the

33 The first g sound corresponds to the /g/ of the IPA, while the second is the voiced velar nasal, represented as / ‘sing.’ In Tagalog, this sound appears even at the initial and medial positions, as in ngipin / [tooth], or sanga [branch]. The phoneme can also be reduplicated, as in the case of nganga a / [betel nut].

Comment [MJS17]: Notice how Blancas distinguishes between the Tagalog of the Indios, characterized by its orality that can only be approximated in a missionary grammar, and the Tagalog of the Arte, which is bound by strict rules that codify the variations in sounds into definite graphemic representations. In the next parts of the Arte, Blancas uses the otherness of the Indios to explain certain linguistic processes that are deemed peculiar in Castilian. For these exemplars, Blancas will simply state that such a construction is possible because ‘it is there language.’

148 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language b that functions as such, and the v, which is written as w, must be pronounced in the manner

that we have just explained, v.g., tavo. We never write it with u, but instead with v.

With these admonitions now considered, here begins the Art of the Tagalog

Language. Comment [MJS18]: Tagalog does not have a /v/ sound, as Blancas himself notes. He then proceeds to clarify that whenever the grapheme v is seen in Tagalog, it should be pronounced as a liquid. Who then decided to use this Roman letter to represent a Tagalog phoneme in the first place? After all, in the ancient Tagalog syllabary, there is a character, b, which represents the /b/ sound and usually substitutes the /v/, and there is a distinct one for the liquid, represented as w. This roundabout explanation of the Romanized orthography of Tagalog is filtered through the own inconsistencies of Castilian during this period, where the letter u and v have varying equivalences in the sound system. It also underscores the contrivance of the translational equivalences proposed in the Arte.


The Art of the Tagalog Language

First Lesson

.1. All nouns are generally unchangeable, and the same word is taken as the

singular and the plural forms in all cases. However, they may be changed in certain cases by

adding prepositions before them, which for the proper nouns are the following: Nom. si

Pedro, ‘Pedro.’ Gen. ni Pedro, ‘of Pedro.’ Dat. cay Pedro, ‘for Pedro.’ Acc. cay Pedro, ‘to Pedro.’

Voc. ay Pedro, ‘o Pedro.’ Abl. cay Pedro, ‘from Pedro.’

Nevertheless, if by mentioning Pedro, one means that he is not alone and is instead in

the company of others of whom he is the head, such as in the examples Pedro and his household

or Pedro and those who are with him, in which cases his companions remain unnamed, other

particles should be used, to wit: sina instead of si, and nina instead of ni. And instead of cay,

cana, v.g., sina Pedro, ‘Pedro and his companions,’ or his household. This is used similarly with

nina, cana.

.2. Meanwhile, the following prepositions change the cases of the appellatives:

Nom. ang tavo, ‘the man.’ Gen. nang tavo, ‘of the man.’ Dat. sa tavo, ‘for the man.’ Acc. nang

OR sa tavo, ‘to the man.’ Voc. ay tao, ‘hey, man.’ Abl. sa tavo, ‘from the man.’ In fact,

whenever the appellatives designate a relationship, these prepositions for appellative nouns

are not added, and those pertaining to proper nouns are instead placed. When family

members themselves refer to each other, they say: si bapa, ‘my father,’ si ali, ‘my aunt,’ &c., a

manner that is both familiar and affectionate. And even when they do not talk about family

members, for as long as they do so with affection as is common to them, they say: si señora

doña, &c. si Ginoong Santa Maria,34 in which cases the prepositions sina, nina, cana also fit, v.g.,

sina ali, cana caca, cana bapa, ‘in the house of my father,’ when the son no longer lives with his

father.

34 For a more detailed discussion on the uses of the Tagalog honorific guinoo, which at present means ‘mister,’ please see Sales (2016).

150 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language The change in number is done with the particle manga, which forms the plural of the

appellatives whenever it is placed before them, be they nouns or adjectives of any sort, v.g.,

tavo, ‘man,’ manga tavo, ‘men.’ Cagalingan, ‘act of kindness,’ manga cagalingan, ‘acts of kindness.’

The same thing is done with any participle, v.g., Ang ysusulat, ‘that which must be written.’

Ang manga ysusulat, ‘those things that must be written.’ This also happens with the active or

the passive particles, which will be discussed later on, be it with a proper noun or with an

appellative. It is known that proper nouns do not have a plural form. But if in Spanish it is

said, however erroneously, los Pedros, or todos los Pedros, they can also be said in Tagalog as ang

manga Pedro, and yaong dalavang Juan. The following forms, however, are perfectly fine in

Tagalog: Ang manga pinangangalanang Pedro, ‘those who are called Pedro’; Yaong magcalagyo na si

Iuan ang ngalan, ‘those whose name is… &c.’

There are two accusative prepositions for the appellatives. These are sa and nang, and

between them exists this difference: Every time we ought to name something that is either a

place, or functions like one, be it a person or any other such thing, the first particle sa must

be put before it. And that thing that has to be put into, removed from, or taken towards such

a place, must be written with nang, be it animate or not, and be it in reverse: v.g., Ylapit mo yto

diyan sa tavong yyan/doon sa dingding na yaon, ‘Take this near that man/that wall.’ Moha canang

ysang tavo doon sa maginoo/sa bayan, ‘Bring a man from the nobleman/from town.’ And in some

instances, that sa forms an ablative, and we know this because its usage matches the ablative

prepositions of Latin. In other instances, it can be seen that it functions as an accusative,

given that it matches the accusative prepositions ad, apud, ante, adversum, &c.35

I have encountered another obvious difference after having spoken it for some time:

That a noun is always said in the active form whenever something is named, not by marking

it through any of the Spanish articles el, lo, or la, but rather by quantifying it as one or two, as

in the sentences ‘He made one man,’ ‘He sent two angels,’ or indeterminately, as in ‘God

created angels,’ ‘Only He can make mountains, create the earth and the heavens,’ ‘So-and-so

makes clothes,’ &c. I therefore say that whoever uses nang will avoid errors, and speak clearly

and correctly. On the other hand, he who uses sa will surely err in certain instances, or will

doubt if the word is used correctly in others. Or, more often than not, he will say it with the

35 toward, near, before, against

151 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language littlest of clarity. v.g., Ang P. Dios ay gungmava nang ysang lalaqui/ , ‘God created

one man|two men.’ And also Ang P. Dios na lamang ang macagagava nang tavo, ‘Only our Lord

God can create man.’ Another thing is to ask a man ‘Who else can make angels except God?’

Sino ang macagagava nang Angeles|nang isa mang Angeles, cun di ang P. Dios?

Sa can be used in these instances by anyone who thinks that it sounds good, or

guesses that it fits well. On this matter the only thing left unsaid is that the usage of nang in

similar styles of speaking is a safe choice, since many examples can be supplied for as long as

they are not those that have been mentioned here. Sa, on the other hand, may either be

erroneous or dubitable. I have stated that I have not found any other difference between

them, and I find that these sentences to be correctly said: Ang P. Dios ay gumava sa langit, ‘God

created the heavens’, and also, nang langit. Yto ang nacasisira sa calolova/ ‘This

destroys the soul.’ Yto ang nacalilinao sa tubig/ , ‘This makes water clear.’ Tumatanor nang

cambing/sa cambing, ‘He herds goats.’

Do not use the genitive to say what in Spanish we say as de ‘of’ if such de means

something other than the idea of possessing (this will be discussed in depth in the last

chapter of the third rule), as in a chalice of gold, a house of stone, two jars of wine, &c. Second Lesson

On the Primitive Pronouns ‘I’ and the Rest

.1. Aco|Aquin, ‘mine’|‘of me.’ And it is not important to add any other thing, since

the same word in dative also generally works as an accusative or ablative for all instances.

Neither is it important to mark it as nominative, genitive, &c., since those who know the

nominatives of Latin will find it easy to infer the meaning from what is said.

Plural. Tayo, ‘we.’ Atin|natin, ‘ours.’ Saatin, ‘for us,’ &c. And there is also another

plural: Cami, ‘we.’ Amin|namin, ‘ours.’ Saamin, ‘for us,’ &c. The difference between the two

plurals is that the former is used when we want to include the person or persons with whom

we are speaking. The second, on the other hand, is the opposite because it means that those

Comment [MJS19]: As I have noted in the critical introduction, the directionality of the exemplars in the Arte is not consistent. At times, an exemplar is translated from Tagalog, while in others, such as in this sentence, they are translated into Tagalog.

152 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language with whom we are speaking are not included in what we say, and neither does it talk about

them: v.g., If when talking to the Tagalogs, a Spaniard utters Tayo manga Ca tilla to say

something about the Spaniards, he would have said it erroneously, since the sentence meant

that those with whom he speaks are themselves Spaniards. And if when talking to God he

says Caavaan mo tayo to mean ‘have mercy, &c.,’ he would have said it erroneously, for it was

as if saying that God, too, is included in those to whom He needed to give His mercy. In

both instances, cami should have been said.

.2. Two genitives are given for the aforesaid pronoun and for all those that will be

mentioned hereafter, which generally differs in this regard: The first is placed before the

word to refer to the thing possessed, while the second is placed after, v.g., Ang aquing bahay,

‘my house,’ ang bahay co means the same. And it would be incorrect to say this in the reverse.

The same goes with Ating Panginoon, ‘Our Lord,’ and Panginoon natin. In truth, however,

whenever there is another word that appears before, it would be good to place the second

genitive before the thing possessed, v.g., Dile co ginto yto, ‘This is not my gold.’ Tanto mong

buquir yaon, ‘That field is certainly yours.’ Lavon co nang bahay yto, ‘This house has long been

mine.’ Practice will determine for you when and how it is used.

.3. Let us continue with the pronouns: Ycao|ca, ‘you.’ Yyo|mo, ‘yours.’ Saiyo, ‘for

you.’ The two nominatives are different from one another in that the first is placed before

the verb, and the second, after: v.g. Ycao ang paroon|Paroon ca, ‘You go there.’ Ycao ay

sumulat|sumulat ca, ‘You write.’ Ycao ay marunung|marunung ca, ‘You are wise.’ And should the

learner pay attention to that ay, he will later find out what it is. Cayo|camó, ‘you (plural).’

Yño|niño, ‘yours (plural).’ Sayño, ‘for you (plural),’ &c. There is no difference between the two

plural nominatives except that the first one is used in some places, while the second, in

others.

There is another plural that comprises only two persons, namely the one who speaks

and the one spoken to, which in a way conveys ‘you and I.’ It is said in this manner: Quita, ‘I

and you’|‘both of us.’ Canita|ta, ‘between the two of us.’ Sacanita, ‘for both of us,’ &c. For

the learner to avoid making any mistake, note that this same word quita in some places has

another value similar to the phrase tú de mi ‘from me to you’ in Spanish, in such a way that it

already contains the second person in the nominative form and the first person in the

Comment [MJS20]: Note that these translations into English do not fully account for the syntactic inversion in Tagalog, a grammatical process that can only be approximated in the target language. There will be examples later on where anomalous constructions are deliberately included to differentiate the two possible word orders of Tagalog. A more explicitating approach will be applied in the translation of the sentences in this latter part.

Comment [MJS21]: A fundamental difficulty in translating the metalanguage of the Arte from source into target is that there are certain grammatical features not overtly marked in either of these languages. One of these features is the plural second person. It is overtly marked in both Castilian and Tagalog, but is understood inferentially in English. The parenthetical comment is a translation strategy that maintains the deixis of the ST in the TT.

153 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language genitive. And this is how it is always used in the nominative form of the passive: v.g.,

Sasamahan quita, ‘You shall be accompanied by me,’ which is of equal bearing as Ycao ay

sasamahan co. I have said that this is done in some places, since the word cata in others is used

instead of quita. Susunduin cata, Fetch you I shall, and this is what I have always heard. On the

contrary, cata in some places is the plural of the two forms we have just discussed about quita.

Thus, cata, ‘you and I.’ Ata|ta, ‘from the two of us.’ Saata, ‘for both of us.’ Each learner

should therefore take whatever is used in the place where he is at.

On the other hand, it is quite common to use quita without including the person

being addressed. It is a manner of speaking similar to that in Spanish whenever we say El

hombre va e por e a calle, ‘One should take this road,’ or Haze el hombre lo q puede, ‘One does

what one can,’ or No alcãça más el hombre, ‘One can only do so much,’ and the like. And this is

how they say it inside the confessional and outside it: Quitang tauong macasalanan, ‘I am a

sinner’|‘I am an ignorant fool,’ &c. Quita’y hunghang. Quita’y valan quibuquibu, &c.

.4. However, to form the plural for the first and third persons, cami must be used

with the genitive of the third: v.g., Cami ni Pedro, ‘I and Pedro.’ Cami ni Alõ o ang paroroon,

‘Alonso and I have to go there.’ And it is in this manner that all pronouns form their plural:

v.g., Cayó ni Juan, ‘you and Juan.’ As such, even though a person is added to cayó, which by

itself means ‘all of you’ (and would therefore seem to refer to at least three persons), this

manner of speaking can be used to talk about two, as if saying ‘both you and Juan,’ given that

cayó falls on both. Should there be three or more, one must not say cayó ni Juan, but rather cayó

nina Juan. Therefore, if I speak with two men, and request that they and Juan (who is in

another place) do something, I should say cayó nina Juan, even though nina Juan seems to refer

to Juan and another person or persons who are with him. But since this is their language,

consider that nina to refer to the aforesaid subject in its entirety and not to Juan alone. And

given that cayó refers to two, nina should therefore be used instead of ni. On the other hand,

if I speak with only one person, and I wish to ask him and Juan and another person or

persons who are with Juan, to go together, I must also say cayó nina Juan. And if anyone of

them has been referred to, and then I speak with two, I should not say cayó niya ang paroon,

but rather cayó nila, for the same reason. This way, upon reaching three of whichever of these

parts, the genitive should not be in the singular. And once both pronouns are in the plural,

Comment [MJS22]: ‘Cata’ ( kata’) is an unusual pronoun used in certain dialects of Tagalog, as Blancas himself observes. As a compensatory strategy that emphasizes its peculiarity in the discourse, I have purposely inverted the word order of this sentence in the TT.

Comment [MJS23]: The decision to translate the Castilian ‘hombre’ [lit., a man] into the indefinite English pronominal ‘one’ is a kind of qualitative impoverishment, following the categories proposed by Berman (Munday 2008, 147). It is necessary to do this in this TT to establish a connection between the grammatical idea expressed in the metalanguage and what the exemplar is actually saying. Translating the word as ‘man’ would have undermined the rule on impersonal constructions being discussed here, given that the nominal ‘man’ can be read as a personal subject in English.

154 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language one is formed in the nominative, and the other, in the genitive for the same mood: v.g., Cayo

nila ang paririto, ‘You and they will come.’ Camí niño, ‘We and you.’ Sila niño, &c., and other

similar examples. Third Lesson

On Demonstrative Pronouns

.1. The pronoun aquel, ‘that,’ is said as yaon, and yaon stands for aquel, aquella or

aquello, while nion means ‘of that,’ ‘over there,’ &c. As regards its usage, the thing referred to

must be placed after it, and after which, yaon must be repeated: v.g., yaong tavong yaon, ‘that

man.’ Doon sa tavong yaon, ‘by that man there.’

There is another accusative, which is nion, after which the appellative noun is placed:

v.g. Sinong noha niyong damit co?, ‘Who took that dress of mine?’ And placing the aforesaid yaon

after the appellative is well suited, and gives the phrase elegance and power: v.g., Sinong

hungmapay niong cahuy na yaon? ‘Who felled that tree?’ And the same goes with the previous

example, even though it is put before: Sinong noha niong damit cong yaon|niong damit na yaong

ypinalagay co dito? ‘Who took my clothes away from there?’|‘Who took the clothes that I had

asked to be put here?’ What is done with nion can also be done with noon. The same thing can

be said about other demonstrative pronouns, which should be seen easily once this rule here

is understood.

Siya, ‘he.’ Caniya|niya, ‘his.’ Sacaniya, ‘for him,’ &c. Plural: Sila, ‘they.’ Canila|nila,

‘their.’ Sacanila, ‘for them,’ &c. Yto, ‘this’. Nito, ‘of this,’ and the other cases are formed with

dito sa, which in practice is said thusly: Ytong tavong yto, ‘this man.’ Nitong tavong yto, ‘of this

man.’ Dito sa tavong ito, ‘near this man.’ Its second accusative is nito, used in the same way as

yaon. And in the same way that yaon, which means ‘that over there,’ is assisted by that adverb

doon, which means ‘there’—and it is for this reason that they look alike—, the word yto,

which means ‘this,’ is assisted and accompanied by this adverb dito, which means ‘here,’ and

then a. And since that yaon is placed towards the end, the same thing should be done for all

the cases, for which reason yaon is also placed towards the end. And this is the same for all as

155 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language can be seen in the following: Yari, ‘this.’ Niri, ‘of this,’ &c. Dini a, ‘for this’ &c. Its second

accusative is niri. This is positioned similarly as in the preceding examples. The difference

among these pronouns is that this second group refers to things that are nearer to the

speaker than to the one with whom he is speaking. But the former is for things that are

located in a place that is common to both. For example, if I am talking with someone who

stands far away from me and I point to Pedro who is standing right beside me, I will have to

say, Yaring tavong yari, ‘This man right here’. This is also done with inanimate objects such as

Yaring damit co, ‘These garments of mine’. And when I am praying to the Saints in heaven, I

say, Yaring a al ‘This virtue,’ Yaring buhay naming, ‘This life of ours’ &c., and this corresponds

to the adverbs dito, dini, diyan, doon, in the same way that dito ‘here’ is related to yto to indicate

a very constricted space similar to the aforesaid pronoun yto. Meanwhile, dini describes a

space even more tightly restricted to the speaker, for which reason the sentence parini ca,

‘come here’ is generally said, and never parito ca.

.2. Another demonstrative pronoun is yyan, which means ‘that.’ Niyan, ‘of that,’ &c.

Diyan a, ‘there.’ It is similar in everything for the same reason that I have already mentioned.

Its second accusative is niyan. The particle manga, which as we have said forms the plural,

goes with this pronoun as well as with the others. It can be positioned not only towards the

end of the demonstrative just before the nouns, as in Yaong manga tavong yto, ‘These men

here,’ Yaong manga ulat na yaon, ‘Those letters there,’ &c., but also before the demonstratives

themselves, as in Manga ytong tavõg yto, manga yaong ulat na yaon &c.

Fourth Lesson

On the Interrogative Nouns

.1. Sino, ‘who’. Canino|nino, ‘whose’. Canino, ‘for whom’: v.g., ino ca?, ‘Who are

you?’ ino yaon?, ‘Who is that?’ And for two or more persons, ino ino yaõg manga tavo?, ‘Who

are they?’ Here fits ina, as discussed in lesson 1 .2, and it likewise has the genitive nina and

nino, and the dative cananino, whose usage ought to be in the singular form all throughout.

Caninong bahay yto?, ‘Whose house is this?’ However, nino cannot be used in the initial or in

the final position. We therefore do not say ninong bahay yaon or bahay nino, except in the case

156 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language when the object possessed is named. The possessor in this case is expressed in the genitive.

As such, any speaker who failed to understand the conversation may ask “Nino?” as in “Libro

ni Pedro yto,” ‘This is Pedro’s book,’ and then I will say in response “Nino?” And the other

could respond thusly, “ni Pedro,” ‘Pedro’s,’ since the genitive nino has appeared immediately

before it. And this is also done in those cases when no genitive expressly precedes it, and in

its stead a sentence that requires a genitive is said, v.g., Gagaoin na yto, ‘This ought to be

done,’ and the other replies with a Nino?, which means ‘This ought to be done by whom?’,

given that this gagaoin requires that the doer be expressed in the genitive. And I refer to the

word that precedes another because their style in saying ‘mine,’ ‘yours,’ ‘his,’ ‘theirs’ and the

rest, which are called derivative pronouns, can only be said through what we call the first

genitives: Canino yto?, ‘Whose this is?’ Aquin, ‘mine.’ Caniya, ‘his.’ Yño, ‘yours (plural),’ and the

like. With demonstrative pronouns, one has to respond with a, its third case. Hence, if it is

asked whose object this is, one cannot reply with nitong tavong yto, ‘of this man right here,’ but

rather dito a tavong yto, ‘to this man right here,’ doon a Ca tillang yaon, ‘to that Spaniard there.’

.2. I clearly see how some may claim dissonance upon seeing that the response to

these demonstrative pronouns is rendered in the third case, which is the dative, while the

second is used in others. This may be taken by some as an argument that of the two genitives

we have mentioned, the one we call first is not actually a genitive but rather a dative, and that

the following pronouns should have been used instead: Nom. Aco, ‘I’. Gen. Co, ‘my’. Dat.

Aquin, ‘for me,’ similar to the mihi of Latin, which is a dative. Accu . aaquin, ‘to me.’

However, for us to reach an agreement regarding the substance, there is no reason to insist

so much in calling these particles with this or that name.

.3. Of these same demonstrative pronouns, we have alin, ‘which,’ nang alin, ‘of

which,’ aalin, ‘for which,’ &c.: v.g., Aling tavo? ‘Which man?’ Sa aling tavo doon ybibigay yto? ‘To

which of those men should this be given.’ We similarly have the following: Ano, ‘what.’ Nang

ano, ‘of what.’ Saano, ‘for what’: v.g., Ano yaon? ‘What is that?’, Saanong tapayan y i ilir co yto?

‘Into which kind of jars shall I pour this?’ (for there are different types, such as Burneyas or

Sangleyas). If a speaker said Ang paa nang banco, ‘A leg of the stool,’ and the other did not

understand the second word, he could ask Nang ano? ‘Whose?’ which means ‘The feet of

which?’

Comment [MJS24]: “Cuyo es esto?” in the ST. By giving an unusual construction such as this, Blancas highlights the structural incommensurability between Castilian and Tagalog in the ST. Translating the Castilian sentence into an awkward sentence in English in the TT is hence intentional. It mimics the awkwardness of Blancas’s own exemplars in the ST.


Fifth Lesson

On the Substantive Verb um, Es, Fui

.1. There is no word in this language that says um, es, fui, nor is there anything that

substitutes it. Instead, their manner of expressing this is carried out either by substituting it

with another word or by understanding it subconsciously once other parts of the sentence

are placed in relation to the moods, tenses and other characteristics. This feature could have

been explained by saying that the particle ay is its substitute, as in the sentence i Pedro ay

matapang. But this is not the case, as the particle ay is nothing more than a graceful hum that

is inserted in the middle whenever before it is placed the subject on which something is

being said. Instead of i Pedro ay matapang, the sentence is said the other way around, as in

Matapang i Pedro, a very good and perfect construction. Take note of the position of the ay

whenever it substitutes the um, es, fui. Similarly, in many things these brothers say, they place

this elegant lull, or however you wish to call it, even in those sentences where there is no

reminiscence of the um, es, fui: v.g., Nãg nabubuhay pa dito a lupa ang A.P. Ie u Chri to ay,

‘When Our Lord Jesus Christ was still living… &c.’ The same goes with the questions ino

yaon, ‘Who is that?’ and ano yto, ‘What is this?’ They do not have an ay or any other substitute,

while in the Romance it would have clearly matched the es: Que es e to?, ‘What is this?’ Que es

aquello?, ‘What is that?’

This way, it can be said similarly that in the sentence Cahapun ycao ay magaling, ‘You

were feeling well yesterday,’ the word cahapun replaces um, es, fui, for where else in this

sentence could the past eras be obtained—which is neither the present es, nor the future

eras—, if not from the cahapun? Otherwise, try removing the word from the sentence and see

what it says. Additionally, the particle ga can also be taken as a substitute: v.g., Ga yto yaong

naquita co, ‘It seems that this was what I saw.’

Neither can it be substituted by the word iyang as this is nothing more than the

pronoun iya, which, as explained previously, means he in reference to what has already been

named. Yaong tavong yaong naquita mo dito cahapun ay iyang nagnacao, ‘The man you saw

Comment [MJS25]: ‘Sonsonete y gracia’ in the ST. I am explicitating this translational tension by intervening with a deliberate estranged exemplar in the TT. Later on, we shall read a similar phrase, ‘descansillo y gracia,’ which I have translated as ‘elegant lull.’ Unlike Latinate languages that follow a subject-initial sentence pattern, Tagalog sentences are typically predicate-initial. The ay (sometimes expressed in the Arte as e) is inserted when a Tagalog subject is placed before the predicate for the sake of emphasis, as Blancas correctly observes.

Comment [MJS26]: Blancas is describing the verbal aspect (Schachter and Otanes 1972, 66), a feature of Tagalog verbs that does not directly lend itself to Spanish or Latin. The grammarian knows this as evidenced by his proposal to take the adverbial marker ‘cahapun’ [lit., yesterday] as an equivalent of the copulative verb. Blancas’s analysis does not stem from the connector per se (after all, ‘ay’ already appears in the sample sentence), but rather from the aspectual component of the construction.

158 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language yesterday, he is the one who… &c.’ That iyang is the he, and the verb es is substituted on its

own. Otherwise, there would have been two substitutes, namely ay and iyang. Saying iyang

instead of iya comes from the general practice of these brothers of drawing the words

together to bind them. Because of this, that iya is virtually the same as iya ang, like in the

example inong naparito for ino ang naparito, ‘Who has arrived?’ It is seen that whenever it is

not right to bind words together, they will not say iyang, but instead iya: v.g., Yaong tavong

yaong naquita mo dito cahapun ay iya nga ang &c., ‘That man you say here yesterday was he

who…,’ and also, iya ay nagnacao &c., ‘he who stole.’

.2. With some exercises here placed on the uses the um, es, fui in various modes

and tenses, anyone who studies them will be enlightened in substituting the um, es, fui: v.g.,

‘Pedro is diligent,’ i Pedro ay ma ipag. ‘Diligent is Pedro,’ ma ipag si Pedro. There should not be

any ay in the latter for it would otherwise read as the diligent one is Pedro and should be instead

said as Ang ma ipag ay i Pedro. If you are good, you shall please God: Cun ycao ay magaling na

loob ay mayybig ca nang P. Dios. He does not forgive anyone, even if he is a brother. He did not

forgive anyone, even if he was a brother. He would not forgive anyone, even if he were a

brother. He will not forgive anyone &c. All these are said in a different manner in relation to

um, es, fui, which is never used in any of these sentences in Tagalog. What is instead said is

cahimat capatir niya, yet another clear proof of what already has been explained herein. ‘It is

not good that you talk a lot as a young boy’|‘being the boy that you are,’ Yndi magaling ang

ycao ay magpacarami nang vica mo’t bata ca pa|mo, at ang ycao ay bata pa. ‘He who is a sinner at

present can someday be righteous,’ Ang tavõg mac alanã ngayon ay ucat magin banal balãg arao.

And many times this magin may also mean what in Spanish is said as um, es, fui, which should

be learned from this exercise.

.3. With regard to saying ‘to be at a certain place,’ this um, es, fui is not substituted,

but is instead expressly said through the particles na and a, where the na means ‘to be,’ and

the a, ‘in.’ When the na combines with adverbs that already refer to a place on their own, the

a is not required: v.g., na roon ‘over there is,’ na riyan ‘right there is,’ na rito ‘right here is.’

However, the a is required for other nouns since we cannot say na bondoc, na bahay, but rather

na a bondoc, na a bahay, ‘He is in the mountain,’ ‘He is at home.’ And so, to ask where one is,

159 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language they say Na aan, with an –an placed at the end. This will be discussed in the second chapter,

Rule 4. They also say nahaan, which comes from the na without the a. With this same particle

a, a structure is formed that indicates being in a place, such as gma abahay, which some say

comes from this adverb ung. In reality, however, the truth will be understood by the reader

in the .1 of the sixth lesson. The difference between this one and the na is that the na

means to be at a certain place for whatever reason, while the other one is to be in a place to

take up residence there: v.g., na aan is to ask where one is located at some place as one

pleases. But ungma aan| ungma aang bahay is where one remains, where he is lodged, where he

resides. Therefore, na a bahay ni Pedro, ‘He is in Pedro’s house,’ even though he has only

gone up there in passing, while ungma abahay ni Pedro means ‘he lives there… &c.’

Sixth Lesson

On Verbs

.1. All the moods and tenses of all manner of verbs are formed with only six

tenses, be they active or passive. All persons, both in the singular and in the plural, are

formed with the same word. For this reason, there is no amabam, amabas, amabat36 &c. One

word stands for all of them. With this said, who then would ever dare use this language? The

description of what is called the root, which has been provided for in the third admonition,

will be demonstrated in the conjugation with the particle –vm–. It will be placed first because

it is simpler and more common than the rest. And this will be discussed here although it has

also been placed at the beginning of the Book of Rules so thay this Artecilla may be complete.

The aforementioned tenses are formed thus: If this –vm– is inserted between the

first two letters of the root ulat, it will yield vmulat in such a way that the wounds the v,

while the m wounds the second u, which is the imperative.

And if to this vmulat we insert the letters ng in between the v and the m of the –vm–

in a way that the letters are read as one syllable, vng, it will yield the preterit vngmulat, ‘wrote.’

And if we repeat the first syllable of the simple root, it will yield the future form u ulat, ‘will 36 I loved, you loved, he or she loved

Comment [MJS27]: The Tagalog affixes included in the ST are not indicated by any ostensible punctuation mark. The addition of the dash in the TT to specify where such affixes should be placed in a word is an explicitation. Although the dash will not fully explain the processes involved in changing the verb according to tense and aspect, it will determine whether an affix is a prefix (i.e., an affix in the initial position such as mag–), an infix (i.e., an affix in the medial position such as –vm–), or a suffix (i.e., an affix in the final position such as –an).

160 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language write.’ And if to this future we insert in the first two letters all that we have said about the

preterit, it will yield vngsumulat, which is the present. And if we place the particle naca–

before the simple root, it will yield naca ulat, which is the pluperfect. And if instead of the

said naca– we say maca–, it will yield maca ulat, which is the future perfect. The same is done

with roots having three or more syllables. From the explanation herein, we shall understand

what has been shown in 5. .3. on the matter of ungma abahay, which is formed thusly: Bahay

‘house,’ a ‘in,’ and by combining the two it will yield ‘in the house,’ in the same way as

abuquir means ‘in the field,’ &c. And if in using this said conjugation with –vm–, one puts

those aforementioned letters between the and the a, he gets the present form ungma abahay.

The preterit is ungmabahay, and the imperative, umabahay.

Once these tenses of the indicative mood are learned, all other desired forms will be

revealed because these rules apply to all. And in order to consign these things to memory

easily, they will be exemplified in the following form, on the assumption that the word navá is

taken to mean as ojalá, ‘may,’ and marks the optative mood, much like the vtinam37 of Latin

or the o i of the Romance, and with the admonition that not one but several different

adverbs are used in this language to refer to the future and the preterit, even though the

adverb cuando, ‘when,’ stands in Spanish for both, which will be discussed later.

Sumulat

.2. The imperative is umulat ca, ‘Write.’ The optative present with the particle navá

is umulat nava i covan, ‘May so-and-so write.’ The infinitive is almost always of the same

form. The same goes with the gerund of the genitive, as in hora e t comedendi, ‘Now is the time

for eating,’ ucat nãg cumaen.

SVSULAT

The future indicative is Su ulat aco, ‘I shall write.’ It is also the future imperative:

Su ulat ca, ‘You shall write.’ It is also the future optative: u ulat nava aco, ‘May I (be able to) 37 if only

Comment [MJS28]: In the absence of any other paratextual element in the ST, the bigger font size used for this word is the only indicator that the following paragraphs pertain to an abrupt excursus on this particular Tagalog root.

161 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language write.’ It is also the participle of the future whenever the particle ang is placed before it: Ang

u ulat, cripturus, ‘he who will write.’

SVNGMVLAT

The preterit perfect indicative is Sungmulat na aco, ‘I already wrote.’ It is the same for

the preterit perfect optative with the particle nava: ungmulat nava aco, ‘I wish I wrote.’ The

same goes with a subjunctive: Niong ungmulat i covan, ‘When so-and-so wrote.’

SVNGMVSULAT

The present indicative is this: Sungmu ulat aco, ‘I write.’ It is the same for the preterit

imperfect with the addition of some particle marking the past such as nang, nion, a: Nang

ungmu ulat aco, ‘When I was writing.’ Niong cungmacaen pa aco, ‘When I was still eating’ &c. It is

the same for the preterit imperfect optative with the aforesaid particle nava: ungmu ulat nava

aco, ‘If only I wrote.’ It is the same for the subjunctive: Niong ungmu ulat aco, ‘Had I written.’

It is the same for the participle: Ang ungmu ulat, cribens, ‘he who is writing.’

MACASVLAT

The future perfect is this: Cun maca ulat aco, ‘When I will have finished writing.’

NACASVLAT

The preterit pluperfect indicative is this: Naca ulat na aco, ‘I had already finished

writing.’ It is the same for the pluperfect optative with the addition of the particle nava:

Naca ulat nava aco, ‘I wish I had written.’ It is the same for the subjunctive: Niong nacasulat na

aco, ‘Once I had finished writing.’

.3. All verbs can be reduced in this manner to these six tenses. However, whenever

it is done so through the use of adverbs of time, it is necessary to specify it outright. The two

main adverbs are cun ang nang. Cun is for the present and the future, as well as for the preterit

imperfect for actions not performed once but rather habitually. Example of the present: Cun

162 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language ungmu ulat i Pedro, ‘Whenever Pedro writes.’ Cun cungmacaen ila, ‘Whenever they eat’ | ‘are

eating.’ Examples of the future in which it is understood that the action is about to happen:

Cun umulat i Pedro, ‘In the event that he writes.’ Cun iya e susulat na, ‘Right when he is about

to write.’ Example of the preterit imperfect: ‘When the Lord Jesus Christ was preaching, he

usually &c.’ C nangangaral ang P. Ie u Christo &c. More of this will be discussed later on. The

adverb nang is always for the preterit tense. It also includes the imperfect for a unique action

that was done for some time. The following examples should serve to explain this rule: If we

talk about one particular journey of Our Lord Jesus Christ to Jerusalem in which this or that

thing happened to Him, we have to say nang: v.g., Nang|niong iya e naparoroon a Iheru al ay

may naquita iya doon a daan y ang tavong bulag &c. However, if we want to say that as He went

there, not this one time or that other time but rather each time he went there, he did this and

that, then we shall have to use cun: v.g., Each time the Apostles entered a house, they usually

said &c., cun instead nang should be used here, which is equivalent to tovi, meaning to say all

the times they entered.

.4. There are two other forms that go with these same tenses the way the nang does,

and these forms are nion and a. There are, however, some differences in their usage, given

that nang only refers to the entire latitude the word cuando, ‘when’ evokes. Nion, on the other

hand, though it refers to the same thing, has a certain level of determinacy, as in the case of

entonces cuando, ‘just when,’ of Spanish, which seems to mark something. The a indicates a

definite point within the progress of an action to which the particle is attached, in such a way

that it appears to correspond to the Spanish en: Sa iya e nanao ay, ‘As he was departing’|‘Just

when he departed.’ Sa iya ay namatay, ‘As he was dying’|‘Just when he died.’ As such, the

adverb that means ‘later’ or ‘right after’ goes well with this form: v.g., a iya ay nanao ay

capagcova ay|capagraca |tambing, then afterwards what happened next must be said. All three

similarly concur in that it is also correct to put the subject being talked about immediately

after them instead of placing a verb: v.g., Nang ang P. Ie u Chri to ay namatay na, vel, niong ang P.

&c.| a ang P. Ie u Chri to. Or the relative pronoun iya, a iya’e|nang siya’e |niong siya’e &c.

.5. In order for this doctrine on verbs and their tenses to be better understood, it

will be best to do some practice tasks on them, even without explaining in detail what

gerunds are, what supines are, &c. When you arrive here, I would have finished writing, ‘

163 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language yca’e dumating dito ay maca u ulat na aco.’ And it can also be said as Acoy naca ulat na. When I

arrived there, he was about to write, ‘Nãg acoy dungmating doon ay iya,e, u ulat na.’ This shows

that it is important to look at the tense in question, and an adverb should be placed

according to what is required and what the action of the verb is, whether it is taken to mean

that the action is finished, or if it was about to be performed, in which case the future or the

preterit must be chosen accordingly, similar to what is done in the given examples, where

nang is used together with the verb ‘to arrive’ in the past. However, if the action was about to

be done, it should be expressed in the future, u ulat. Niõg mamamatay na ang P. Ie u Chri to

‘When He was about to die,’ and so forth.

Examples of infinitives: ‘This is how it is to write,’ Gayõ ang umulat. ‘God prefers this

to fasting,’ Lalong nay ybig nang P. Dios yto a magayunal. ‘It moves God more to show

compassion towards men if they themselves show compassion towards others,’ Lubhãg

yquinaaava nãg P.D. a tavo, ãg iya’e maava a capo38 &c. ‘Once I reach Rome, I shall write you,’

Capagrating co a Roma ay magpaparalá aco aiyo nang ulat. (This manner of speaking will be

discussed in detail in Chapter 17, Rule 2.).

‘Since your father loves all of you very much, he very much feels your pain,’ Lubhang

yquinahahapis nang ama mo ang aquét mo, at ang ycao’e yniybig niyang ma aquet, or alternatively,

Ma aquet ang pagcaybig nang ama mo aiyo: cayayata ma aquet naman ang hapis niya a aquet mo. ‘He

hated his son so much, even though he had loved him tenderly,’ Quinapopootan na niyang

ma aquet doon ang anac niya: bago ang áquet na áquet nang pagcaybig acaniya aona. ‘He died all of a

sudden while talking about death,’ ina abi niya ang camatayan ay caalam alam ay namatay, or this

way, Niõg ina abi niya ang camatayã ay valan ano ano ay namatay na ngani. ‘As she was writing this

letter, yours reached her,’ Nang y inu ulat co yto ay dungmating ang ulat mo, or this way, Nang

y inu ulat co yto ay pagrating nang ulat mo. And note this second way of speaking with verbal

nouns, which is common and correct: Nang pagrating nang ulat mo ay y inu ulat co yto, ‘When

your letter arrived, I was writing this.’ The verb form may also appear in both parts. Ang

pagrating ni Pedro ay pagpanao ni Iuan. It can also be expressed with iyang, as in Ang pagrating ni

Pedro ay iyang pagpa- &c. in the same way we say in Spanish El llegar el vno fue partirse el otro,

38 ‘kapwa’

164 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language ‘One’s arrival happened upon the other’s departure’ since it happened immediately right

after. This can be expressed even more clearly with naman, iya naman &c., in such a way that

in working with these gerunds one only has to consider the time, whether future or present

&c., then place the verb in that tense: v.g., E toy tri te por que auiendo e crito, ‘I am sad because

having to write a letter’ | por q estando e criuiendo, ‘because while writing’ | por que auiendo e crito,

‘because having written’ | por que auiendo ya acabado de e criuir no te acuerdas &c., ‘because having

finished writing a letter, you do not remember, &c.’ Acoy nahahapis ang baquit | ang baquin at

u ulat aco | ang baquit ungmu ulat aco | ang baquit ungmulat aco | ang baquit nacasulat na aco ay

vala can alaala, &c.

Eo ad scribendum, ‘I am going to write,’ ‘I am going to drink,’ ‘I am going to read.’

They do not say anything about the future other than the principal action: u ulat aco, yynum

aco, acoy baba a. This is similarly done with the usual sentences in Spanish such as Quiero yr me,

‘I want to go away’ or Quiero dormir, ‘I want to sleep,’ which they express through the future

form of the said actions: Aalis na aco, Acoy matotolog. Otherwise, if effort should be exerted to

convey one’s willingness or desire to do something or, they will expressly say ybig co &c. They

can do this similarly when they want to underscore those movements of going to read, going

to go away &c. Acoy papanhic, at yynum aco. Acoy paroroon, at u ulat aco. Eo accer itum Antonium, ‘I

am going to call Antonio,’ Acoy paroro’t tatavagin ko i Antonio. E t res f auditu, ‘It is an ugly

thing to hear,’ Mahalay dingin, Ma amang paquingan. Gerund of the genitive, tempus legendi &c.

Arao na ybaba a, ‘time for reading,’ Arao na ycacaen, ‘for eating.’ This shall be discussed in the

sixth rule of the second chapter. The passives will be discussed in detail in the second

chapter and there we shall see how other forms are derived from the six aforementioned

tenses of the indicative. The same adverbs for the passives apply to all.

Comparatives are made by putting that which is greater in the nominative form, then

adding to it the adverb lalo, which means ‘more,’ and then that which is lesser in the ablative:

v.g., i Pedro ay lalong , ‘Pedro is more intelligent than Juan.’ Ang Angeles ay

lalong mahal a lahat na gava nang P. Dios, ‘The Angel is the best among all of God’s creations.’

This also works by starting the sentence with lalo: Lalong marunung i Pedro cay Iuan. Do not say

lalo marunung but rather say lalong marunung for the reasons that will be explained in the last

Comment [MJS29]: My translation of the exemplars for this verb rule does not read smoothly in English. The syntax is deliberately obscured, and the choice of words, while respecting the compositional and stylistic tenets of the TL, sounds rather contrived. The dissonances in explaining the gerund confirm that this form functions differently across the languages we are working with. An English gerund is formed by adding –ing to a verb (e.g., I like writing). This is the same form used in the present progressive (e.g., I am writing). In Spanish, on the other hand, the gerund, formed by adding a –ndo, is always used in verb phrases but never in a noun (e.g., ‘Me gusta escribir,’ and never *‘Me gusta escribiendo’). The problem is compounded even further in Tagalog, where a gerund takes either an aspectual (e.g., ‘pagsulat’) or a perfective (e.g., ‘pagkasulat’) form (Schachter and Otanes, 159-168). Hence, the verb forms here mentioned by Blancas are, strictly speaking, forms of the imperfective aspect of Tagalog, which in Blancas’s scheme are called the present tense of the verb. Therefore, in translating this part of the Arte, in which the underlying message is the complex linguistic equivalence in these combinations, I am convinced that the sample sentences in Spanish should be retained then translated directly into English without trying to provide a perfect and efficient version. The message, after all, is not the product of the translation itself, but rather its procedural complexity.

Comment [MJS30]: The part in the TT that says ‘I am going to read,’ or ‘voy a leer’ in the ST, is a pseudo-translation. It is made to appear in a Castilian-Tagalog sequence, but there is no Castilian or Latin exemplar to which it is appended. In a sense, what is translated here is not the content of the sentence, but rather the connotative value of the tense.

165 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language chapter of the first rule. Marami ang olan ytong taong yto a a taong y a | a a y ang taon | a taon

taon, ‘There is more rain this year than in the last,’ &c.

These comparisons can likewise be made without expressly putting the aforesaid

particle lalo, which still yields the same meaning: v.g., i Pedro ay marunung cay Iuan. To express

parity between persons or objects by saying ‘They are equal’ | ‘They are equal in this or that,’

see Chapter 16, Rule 2.

Comment [MJS31]: The last part of this section (24) is an enumeration of pages in the Arte where specific verb functions are discussed. It is omitted in this TT since the information it conveys is largely peripheral to the scope of this dissertation.


¶ Book of Rules~

First Chapter

On the Active Conjugation

First Rule

.1. The first active conjugation is called –vm– because it is with this particle that

the verb is formed. The particle –vm– is inserted between the first letter of the imperative

form (if it is a consonant) and the succeeding vowel: Sulat, umulat. The future is formed by

reduplicating the first syllable of the root: ulat, u ulat. The preterit is the same as the

imperative for this form. The present is derived from the future by putting the particle –vm–

between the first and the second letters. Sulat. umulat, imperative. Su ulat, future. Sumulat,

preterit. Sumu ulat, present.

But if this is to be discussed thoroughly and in greater detail with those students who

are somewhat advanced in their studies, it has to be said that the preterit of this conjugation

requires a n and a g, similar to what has been discussed previously, in such a way that umulat

is the imperative, but ungmulat is the preterit. The present requires the same, and therefore

becomes ungmu ulat. This is how they themselves pronounce it, and this is how they write it

in our letters without fail.

Those roots whose first vowel is a i, even though they are similarly formed, can be

made through another way, and this is by changing the u of the –vm– into a i. Therefore,

litao, ‘to surface,’ in the preterit is either lungmitao or lingmitao. The present is formed in both

ways as well: There is no difference between them except that the second

one sounds rather pretentious.

Comment [MJS32]: The title of this section, ‘De las activas,’ Arte is quite ambiguous. Does it refer to the grammatical voice, or ‘voz’ in Spanish, which is a feminine noun and therefore agrees with the modifier ‘activa’? Does it refer to a ‘partícula,’ since that it is the main concern of the section? A closer reading suggests that the title refers to a conjugation that is formed by a particle. The first sentence of this section states this clearly.

167 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language .2. It is certain that the future is used many times to talk about the present. What

ails so-and-so? Suca’t tatae, ‘He vomits and has loose bowels’ Lalacar ay nangungusap, ‘He goes

walking and talking.’ Su umpa mana aco aiyo, magagalit mana aco aiyo ay y a man di ca matacot,

‘Although I curse you and I become angry with you, you have no fear.’ Aaral mana acong aaral

aiño ay dile din cayo magcacabaet, ‘Even though I keep on teaching you, you will never learn to behave

yourselves,’ (that mana is man and na, which means ‘even though,’ like when they say Namatay

mana ang a. P. Ie u Chri to &c., ‘Even though our Lord Jesus Christ died…,’ without

pronouncing the two n’s distinctly), and also Aaral na acong aaral aiño &c., which is expressed

in the present, not because it is being done at present, but rather means the same way as the

enseño te or riño te of Spanish, where the action is customarily done. Anong ycaquimot co nang

yba? Aco ang babayo, at aco ang yygib? ‘Why should I do someone else’s chores? Am I to pound

the rice stalks, then fetch water, too?’ And in the negative, v.g., How is the sick man doing?

Yndi cacaen, ‘He is not eating.’ This very clearly agrees with what will be discussed as regards

the passive in Chapter 2, Rule 1 .4., and with the other places there mentioned, as well as

in the discussion in Chapter 18, Rule 2 .1.

Of those formed from those adverbs of place such as dito, doon, &c., ririto and roroõ

are frequently said to convey the present and the preterit imperfect. Nang ririto pa a lupa ang

P. Ie u Chri to, ‘When He was still here’ &c. As regards the future, please refer to another

admonition in Chapter 2, Rule 1 .4.

We also use the present form in Spanish on those occasions where to say something

is to do something. In this way, to say becomes saying, and to do, doing. This in Tagalog

corresponds to the imperative. ‘Go I,’ Acoy malis na. ‘Take a seat I,’ Malitmo na aco &c. See

Chapter 2, Rule 1 .5. and 6.

In addition, the imperative is usually abbreviated whenever one speaks quickly, in

which case only the root is mentioned. Lacar cayo, agvan cayo, which in Spanish sounds like Ea

andar, ‘Oy, to walk,’ remar, ‘to row,’ &c. Caen, ‘eat,’ this is how it is said to children. A similar

discussion is found in Chapter 2, Rule 8 .3., and in Chapter 15, Rule 1 .1.

.3. Let us continue with the formation of this tense. If the root begins with a

vowel, there is no need for the imperative or the preterit. Simply place the particle vm–

Comment [MJS33]: In modern Spanish, pronominal complements can be placed after the verb only if it is an infinitive (e.g., enseñarlo), a gerund (e.g., enseñándolo), or an imperative in the affirmative form (e.g., enséñalo). In the past, however, these pronouns could be placed either before or after a verb, either as an affix or as a separate morpheme, (Cano Aguilar 1988, 245). This orthographical vacillation is reflected the first and last edition of the Arte: In 1610 the exemplars given are written as separate morphemes, while in the 1832 Dayot edition, the same exemplars are given as affixes (i.e., enseñote, riñote). I have tried to reflect this in the next paragraphs by using agrammatical sequences deliberately. ‘Voy me’ becomes ‘Go I,’ ‘A i to me’ becomes ‘Take a sit I.’ What I hope to emphasize here is the problematic usage of the term ‘imperative’ in the Arte. In assuming that the simplest combination of a root and an affix in Tagalog should be called an imperative, Blancas also has to account for properties of this grammatical feature that are different in Castilian, such as the persons of the verb. In Romance languages, imperatives are always directed to a second person. The base form of the verb in Tagalog, however, can take all persons, as these sentences correctly show. Notice further that the primary function of an imperative—that is, to make a command—is lost whenever the subject of the Tagalog verbs is not a second person.

168 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language before it. For the future, reduplicate the vowel without the vm–. For the present, add the

vm– to the future. Vmaaral, present. Vngmaral, preterit (speaking strictly and truthfully, this is

how it is pronounced). It is the same for these ones: aba, abang, abat, abut, aco, acay, ayro, agao,

agolo, ahit, alagar, alam, alangalang, alibay, alinlangan, aliu, aloc, alo itha, ama, anac, amac, ambag, amo,

vnti, amoy, ampat, ampon, angil, ybig, yyac, yba, ybis, &c. See Chapter 7, Rules 1 and 2.

It is true that in some cases, the imperative is formed by adding a single m that

wounds the vowel. The future is formed by reduplicating the said first vowel without adding

any m to it, or anything else. The preterit is formed by putting a n instead of the m of the

imperative. The present is formed based on the preterit by reduplicating the first syllable

entirely. Alis, ‘to take off.’ Malis ca diyan, imperative, ‘Go away from there.’ Aalis na aco,

future, ‘I already want to go.’ Nalis na si covã, preterit, ‘He already went away.’ Nanalis,

present, ‘He goes away now.’ But this does not prevent these same words from having the

first formation. I have yet to discover if there is a difference in meaning between these two

since I am not sure if there is any. The same can be said about these ones: ona, ovi, ayao, acyat

ay, ynum, yhi, yguib, otot OO, orõg, osos, and others. See Chapter 7, Rule 1 .3.

However, if the root begins with a b or a p, the tenses are formed in the following

manner: The imperative is formed by changing the b or the p into a m. The future

reduplicates the first syllable of the root entirely. The preterit is formed by changing the p or

the b into n, while the present reduplicates the entire first syllable of the pre-formed preterit.

v.g., Pa oc, ‘to enter’. Once the p is changed into a m, we shall have ma oc, an imperative. Ma oc

ca, ‘Enter.’ Future, papa oc. Preterit, na oc. Present, nana oc. Panhic, manhic, papãhic, nanhic,

nananhic. Patay ‘to kill,’ matay, natay, papatay, nanatay. Bili, buca, bilis, boval, bangbang, bulag, balaga,

bagyo, bovis, babag, bolõg, bugao, bati, bating, bagting, biro, baoy, bavi, barlis, bali a, banlat, bonot,

balaquir, binit, baloqui, bahagi, bulabus, pucao, pi ãg, pitas, pangus, pagui, pita, pi il, potol, pilit, pola,

para, payag, poyoc, pangit, pongoc, pugot, pipis, palogpong, pucnat, patac, purpur, payapay, piit, palar, bo og,

buya, &c. See Rule 2 .3., and all of Rule 4; Chapter 7, Rule 1 .2.; Chapter 10, Rule 1 .2.

Be warned that if the root begins with a p and is a polysyllable—or in other words, if

it has three syllables or more—, the preterit and the imperative are formed as in the manner

previously described. For the future and the present, it is not the first syllable that is

reduplicated, but rather the second one in the middle of the word. Pangayi, ‘to pray.’ Mangayi,

169 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language imperative. Nangayi, preterit. And for the future, the first syllable must not be taken

separately since it is part of the root in its entirety, for which reason we must never say

papangayi. Instead, we should take the imperative, reduplicate the second syllable and say

mangangayi. And for the present, we ought to take the preterit and reduplicate the second

syllable. We therefore say nangangayi. And in order for us to understand this discussion on the

roots better, and rightfully ascertain the nature of the roots beginning with a p and,

consequently, know the variations of their tenses with ease and certainty (and this happens

quite often), I shall write another chapter after this one, which will fascinate those with sharp

wits. Refer to Chapter 4. In those roots that truly begin with a m, which are not many, this

conjugation with –vm– can never be applied, v.g., malasmas, ‘to understand,’ &c. It can,

however, be done to those that start with an n.

.6. The second active conjugation is called mag– because it is formed using this

particle. The imperative is formed by putting it to the root and adding nothing else, as in mag-

aral. And with respect to the pronunciation, anyone who wishes to speak with a certain level

of correctness will notice along the way that when that mag– is followed by a vowel, the g of

the mag– should not attach itself to the vowel. Mag– is cut very briefly and then the

following vowel is pronounced. The same goes for pag– and pinag–. The future is formed by

reduplicating the second syllable of the root: magaaral. The preterit requires that the m of

mag– be turned into an n, and be said as nag–, which when combined with the root forms

the preterit, as in nagaral. The present is formed by putting this same nag– to the root whose

first syllable is reduplicated, as in nagaaral. The past perfect is formed by combining nacapag

and the root, as in nacapagaral, while the future perfect is formed with macapag. Any beginner

should realize that there as as many particles in this language as there are variations in the

tenses. He will find out that the first letter always becomes an n in the present. However, in

the imperative and the future, it is always with an m, and this will never change as can be seen

explained in the discussions throughout this book.

.7. Nouns referring to the action of the verb, such as lección, ‘lesson’ adoraciõ,

‘adoration,’ or el leer, ‘the action of reading,’ el comer, ‘the action of eating,’ el andar, ‘the action

of walking,’ and el dormir, ‘the action of sleeping,’ which we often call as verbal nouns, are

formed with the particle pag– and the root, as in pag ulat. At times, the reduplication of the

170 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language first syllable of the root is required. On this matter, see the entire section of Rule 2 in

Chapter 17, and the other sections cited therein, where the entire discussion on these rules

has indicated how this formation with pag– has to be carried out, according to how they

should be formed in a particular place.

Second Rule

There is no rule whatsoever to ascertain when we ought to use the active um– or the

active mag–. I shall put here what I have been able to discover to provide some sort of

guidance. Although perfection is the result of each person’s exercise and individual effort to

listen to the Indios or study their vocabulary, it can be said that the active um– is used

whenever they mean that there is a change from within that stops in the object itself. We find

something similar in Spanish whenever we say that something ends up becoming black or

white, or if something gets frozen, or if someone takes a turn for the better or for the worse.

In this way, this particle does not describe an action that is transposed into another thing, but

rather a passion or a change that happens within. Galing, ‘well.’ Gungmagaling, ‘He is

recovering or getting well.’ Sama, ‘sick.’ Sungmasama, ‘He is getting sick or becoming ill.’

Holas, ‘to get melted.’ Hungmoholas, ‘The salt is getting melted.’ The same can be said about

taba, yayat, ytim, lanta, ala, lalim, acac AA, alat, a im, tabang tA, hopa, laqui, tigas, lambut, ynit,

lamig, cablao, quitir, quipot, loang, linang, rilim, tibay, hina, hipa, cati, vnti, tamys tE, yaman, ducha,

taas, capal, nipis, loag, tapang, rovag, haba, litao, linao, tinao, tining, tanda, gulãg, riquit, lic i, gãda, lubha,

labnao, ucal, livanag, lilim, limlim, linis, quinis, ganir, rahas, livag, rahã, rahac, nacnac, lilac, talaghay,

alaysay, lãgor, lagquit, hinhin, tacao, iba, iban, iquip, laet, ganit, conat, lotong, impis, tulin, tatag, rumi,

livavay, libog, hilao, totoo, alat, tiyim, liyit, havas, tacot, tamar, adiva, talim, ralang, in in, limit, angcac,

lahoy, rami, tubo, tabol, talobo, tamlay, langba, nana, nahot, nacnac.

Change those roots beginning with a b or a p into a m or a n, as previously explained

in Rule 1 .7. Buti, muti, ‘to become beautiful,’ and the same things goes for puti ‘to become

white,’ even though it has a different accent. Baho, bango, paet, pola, baet, bilog, bigat, pangtot,

boloc, porol, panis, bag ic, bangis, balam, pacla, payat. See the fourth rule in this section. No one

should apply this rule to other words if he barely knows if such a rule fits, for he will surely

Comment [MJS34]: ‘Holas’ is defined in the ST as ‘derritir e la sal,’ while ‘hungmoholas’ is ‘ e e ta derritiendo.’ The reference to salt is transposed to the second signifier since it cannot be placed in the first without modulating the text completely.

171 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language err. If he plans to effect this change in the same subject, it will suggest that the action is

transposed to another object, since the um– already says this so many times. It was for this

reason that I have gathered all those words I have encountered that possess such property.

To say that something ends up being something else does not depend on the present

or the future tense &c., but rather on what is said with the particle pag–, mentioned in the

preceding Rule .7. This is similar to what in Spanish we say as en ancharse, ‘to become

swollen,’ enegrecerse, ‘to turn black,’ &c. This will be explained in Chapter 17, Rule 2 .4,

which is one of the most notable things contained in this book.

.2. In those verbs describing motion, what is expressed through the active um– is

the movement that a thing in the nominative case exercises on its own, or the manner in

which it moves. But an active motion that is transposed to another thing should be said with

mag–. These are the examples: alis, malis, nalis &c., means ‘to go away’ or ‘to remove one’s

self from a place.’ But to removing something from somewhere will be magalis, as in the

example Sinong nagalis nang ulat co doon? ‘Who removed it from which place’ &c. Lumapit, ‘to

get near.’ inong naglapit nitong cahuy doon? Dumolog, ‘to draw one’s self near.’ Yndi pa nagrolog nãg

ac i, ‘He has not forwarded and presented witnesses yet’. Panhic, manhic, ‘To climb’. Magpãhic,

‘He who brings something upstairs’. Acyat, panaog, iping, taas: Magtaas nãg ho tias, all of which

are similar to what have been said previously. Dito, ‘here.’ Dumito, ‘He is here.’ Magrito, ‘to

place something here.’ Sino kaya ang nagrito nitong pingan? ‘Who placed this here,’ &c., and the

same goes with its brothers dini, diyan, doon. Labas with –vm– means ‘to go out.’ But Naglabas

nang bata mean ‘She took him out.’ The same can be said about tavir, which means to cross

the river. Soot, umoot ‘to insert one’s self’ &c. Nag oot ‘He who inserted’ in the active form

&c. Tovir, ‘to straighten,’ tumovir, magtuvir. Luval, ‘to birth,’ –vm– or mag–. Ovi, ‘to get home,’

movi, magovi. Layo with –vm– means ‘To distance one’s self,’ and with mag– means ‘to put an

object faraway.’ The same can be said about ilir, harap, pa oc, lagac, tira, habilin, lubug, ingit, ynit,

ugba, hango, halo, ipot, avat, tacas, tanan, quibu, loãg, looc, riquit, lamig, hãga, tamys, tigas, olõg, ilõg,

gomõ, giyt, ybis, ayar, tabi, calat, ing ay, li iya, larlar, lihis, ocol, halili, angcap, hingil, tahan, talicor,

lactao, lulan, acay, tolac, laglag, ligao, liban. And this is how the words hunghang and tampala an

work, which with –vm– mean ‘to become stupid or wicked,’ but with mag– mean to ‘treat

someone villainously.’

Comment [MJS35]: This paragraph is unnumbered in the ST and is only indicated with a pilcrow (¶). However, since a reference to this rule is made in Chapter 2, Rule 4 .3. I have substituted the sign with the usual numbering scheme used in the text.


For those that begin with a b or a p, it is the same as baba. Magbaba, ‘To bring

something downstairs.’ But b in –vm– ‘To descend.’ Babao, mabao, ‘to place one’s self on top.’

Magbabao, ‘to place something on top.’ In some of these words (there are a few), it can be

seen that an –vm– formation describes an action that is transitive to another: v.g., inong

hungmango nito don a dati? However, the truth of the rule always stands, and it is that to

express the movement of a subject on its own, the aforesaid construction with –vm– has to

be said infallibly, and not that of mag–, while the construction with mag– can never describe

the movement of the subject on its own but rather the transposition of the same into

another, even if there are still a few people (as I have remarked) who with the –vm– describe

a transposed action. Whoever in his diligence desires to make other constructions on the

basis of these ones will easily commit mistakes. It is as if on the basis of the aforementioned

go, one may say inong ungmilir nito?, , Sinong lungmubug nito?, and so

on, and everything would be incorrect.

.3. To confirm this, let it be said as a sort of warning that if the nouns describing

the action of these verbs have the meaning expressed through –vm–, they should be formed

by combining pag– and the root. However, if the meaning that should be expressed pertains

to mag–, the noun should be formed with the pag– and the root whose first syllable is

reduplicated. Pagrolog, ‘the action of someone arriving.’ Pagrorolog, ‘the action of making

something arrive.’ Paglabas, ‘the action of someone going out.’ Paglalabas, ‘the action of

making something or someone go out,’ which in this form requires an accusative. Pagrito, ‘the

action of being here.’ Pagririto, ‘the action of bringing something here.’ &c. There are several

other words that should be noted at specific instances in order not to commit any mistake,

since the difference explained herein is indeed quite certain and necessary.

To further confirm the foregoing and to begin discerning the harmony of these rules,

or to correctly speak the language expressed though them, please refer to Chapter 8, Rule 5,

.2., Chapter 9, Rule 2 .2., Chapter 10, Rule 5 .2., Chapter 12, Rule 2, .4., Chapter 15,

Rule 1, .2.


Third Rule

This particle mag– is used many times and is quite ordinarily said to mean an

abundance of something. It may refer to a group of people who perform the meaning of the

verb, or to different actions and deeds performed by one person, or to different actions done

by different persons jointly. In this manner, what is described as a single and simple action in

the active form with the particle –vm– is augmented once the mag– is placed instead,

denoting that there are many people who are performing the action, or there is one who does

so frequently. The verbs expressed in these rules are examples, and as such I cannot afford

to be frugal with them so that their certainty may be proven, and more so whenever they

seem obscure. This, however, is not the case with what we already have at hand: v.g.,

ungmu ulat, ‘He writes’ or ‘He is writing.’ Nag u ulat is done by many people or by one person

repeatedly. Tungmatangis, ‘He cries.’ Nagtatangis is done by many people who cry, or by one

who cries a lot, and so forth with the rest without mentioning any of them.

.2. And in the passive form, the pag–, which corresponds to the mag–, has the

same properties. The learner should know that whenever in the active form this mag– is

linked to some particular cause or meaning, there should be a pag– in the passive that

matches the said meaning, given that this mag– originates from the pag–, and is regulated

through it, which may be proven, if need there be, in Chapters 14 and 15 on the particles

pagin– and paqui–. Nevertheless, this fundamental correspondence given here between the

mag– and the pag– is sufficient whenever the passive is a true passive of the active and

possesses the same meaning. The certainty of such a correspondence will be observed by the

reader in the complete explanation of these rules. Please refer to what is written on this in

Chapter 2, Rule 4, at the middle of .3., and Chapter 3, Rule 2 .4. And I have said here

that this rule applies whenever the mag– refers to a particular cause or meaning, because

whenever there is no such meaning, the pag– is not required, v.g., nagaalaala, nagyy ip,

nagmamala mas and others have the mag–. And yet, the pag– is not called for in the passive

since it is already sufficient to say alalahin &c.

With regard to the passive, it is true that whenever I say Palohin mo or Hampa in mo, I

do not always require what these words mean, which is to command a person to give

another a lot of beating or lashes. By beating him once, one can truthfully reply with a Pinalo

174 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language co na or a Hinampas co na. But if I say Pagpaloyn mo or Paghampa in mo, the meaning is

augmented and made more intense. It now tells a person to beat or whip another repeatedly.

Morahin is when people curse each other, and pagmorahin is when they do so many times.

Tinaga ang olo means a blow or a cut, but pinagtaga is to do so over and over again. Quinaen na,

‘He already ate it.’ Pinagcaen na if he ate various things.

.3. It is for this truth that it happens many times that a verb has a different

meaning when linked to the particle mag– and its conjugation, and then when it is linked to –

vm–, in addition to replacing –vm– with mag– whenever there is a need to denote

abundance. However, it seems inconvenient to provoke the error that happens whenever the

same word takes two meanings. The first meaning is that which is expressed by mag–, and

the other is the multiplicity in meaning created by –vm–. Bili in the –vm– conjugation (which

in those words that begin with a b, the b should be changed into a m) means ‘to buy,’ and

with the mag– conjugation means ‘to sell.’ And yet, despite this, to denote abundance in

buying, either because there is a multiplicity of buyers, or because there are various products

that a person buys, it is the mag– that should be used. For this reason, the same word can

now be taken to mean ‘to sell’ or ‘to buy,’ denoting abundance.

Note, however, that whenever the other meaning is applied to denote abundance,

another syllable is usually placed to form these tenses in addition to what the general rules

require. As in the aforesaid bili, to express abundance, the present form becomes nagbibibili,

while the preterit is nagbibili, &c. Ganti with –vm– means ‘to take revenge,’ and with mag–,

‘to change clothes.’ But to express repetition in taking revenge, the form is naggagaganti. Anong

ypaggaganti co aiyo? Aral with –vm– means ‘to teach,’ while with mag–, it means ‘to learn.’

Despite this, in order for one to say ‘to teach in a condition of abundance’ (as in, for

example, to teach many times), it is the mag– that is used. Nagaaral refers to one who teaches

many times. Pinagaaralã co iya, ‘I teach him over and over again,’ &c. Ypinagaaral is what is

taught over and over again.

It is true that it is through pronunciation that they distinguish between different

meanings. To express a condition of abundance in teaching, the mag– is held back while

both a’s of aral are dropped, but if it is taken to mean ‘to learn,’ everything is pronounced

uniformly, spaciously and clearly. For this reason, this being rather difficult, I have to say that

Comment [MJS36]: The explanation Blancas is trying to formulate here may no longer be understood even by a Tagalog speaker because the sample verb given, the root ‘aral,’ only means ‘to study’ in modern-day Tagalog. But the difference still stands with certain Tagalog roots. When formed with the mag–, the verb ‘turo’ yields ‘magtuturo,’ which means ‘to point at different people or things at random’ (i.e., in a condition of abundance) when the mag– is held back and the vowel sounds are said ‘fast.’ However, if the meaning that should be conveyed is ‘to teach,’ all the vowels are pronounced slowly and uniformly.

175 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language I have not mentioned this example so that it could be used by those who of us who did not

suckle the language, but rather so that it could serve as a remarkable confirmation of the

aforementioned rule. By knowing this, we shall understand the Indios’ language better. Any

new learner will not be beguiled into arguing with someone who has told him that such a

verb with such a meaning should go with a –vm–, and with another meaning should go with

a mag–, if and when he sees the mag–instead of the –vm– to convey a sense of abundance.

And this truth is not only found in these simple active and passive compositions, but

rather in all the rest that are formed with other parts that we shall have to discuss afterwards.

This property is always at work and is always true. See Chapter 3, Rule 3 .3., and Rule 5

.3., Chapter 10, Rule 1 .3., and Rule 2 .3., and Rule 5 .2., Chapter 12, Rule 2 .4.

See also Chapter 15, Rule 2 .4.

.5. In spite of this given doctrine, it is advised that the verbs whose roots begin

with a b or a p have a particular meaning that challenges the understanding of the beginners.

Be it known that these verbs with a b or a p in their simple construction, as we have

mentioned previously in Chapter 1, Rule 1 .4., do not denote abundance even if they do

express what the verb signifies. They instead denote minuteness. For this reason, the

language has searched itself for another way of expressing and denoting abundance. It is by

forming the imperative and changing the b and the p of the root into a m and placing the ma–

before it, v.g., Biñag, whose other imperative is miñag, and from this comes mamiñag. Biac, miac,

mamiac. The future is formed by reduplicating the first syllable of the root whose head has

been transformed into a m, as in mamimiñag, mamimiac. The preterit is easily formed if the

initial m of the imperative is changed into a n while retaining the rest of the word, as in

namimiñag, namimiac. The verbal noun is formed by changing the n of the present into a p, as

in pamimiñag, &c. As such, after putting a p with the root bayar already turned into a mayar or a

nayar, &c, the verb now means ‘to buy a slave,’ but mamayar, namayar, namamayar &c., is ‘to

buy several slaves.’ The eyes must not be confused at the sight of those three m’s, since only

the first one has been added, and the other two are from the b when it has been changed into

a m. The meanings of other verbs can be seen in this manner, and there can be various

actions in it, such as in this simple change from a p or b into a m in bolos, ‘to harpoon.’ Molos

as bobolos means ‘to throw a harpoon over and over again’. But to say ‘to go to the sea and

fish with a harpoon,’ it should be said as mamolos, not because they will throw the harpoon

176 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language once, but rather because they will not do any other work during the time when this action is

done. This aforesaid rule is also found in these verbs: baac, baybay, baca, bago, bavay, bigay, patay,

panhic, paus, bacas, palongpong, pagpag, batas, bangca, bosong, polac, pintoho, palar, bahagi, bingi, balat,

bangon, barha, ba ag, bati, bigvas biw, bintol, binwit biwi, bitana, bugtung, boyagyag, busac, biroc, bonga,

balay, pandao, bianan, bilango, bovis, bagcat, bili, pacpac, pu ao, paen, pagba, pagacpac, pahir, pali, palit,

palo, pana, pavir, pitas, pocpoc, popol, pili, potõg, botavin, potol, pi cal, and many more. See Chapter

16, Rule 1 .4., Chapter 19, Rule 2, .3.

.6. There is another rule that should be understood with those roots that begin

with a s or a t, which in the simple –vm– form denotes minuteness. To express multiplicity,

one must follow all that we have previously explained here, except that the s and the t never

change into a m, but rather into a n. Moreover, the simple form remains truly and completely

with the –vm–, unlike in the previous example where the –vm– is left out and the b and the p

are changed into a m. Silo, ‘to trap,’ is joined with an –vm– when referring to one action,

while Manilo is a repeated action. Sonor, ‘to follow,’ becomes manonor when it is done

repeatedly. Future: manononor, maninilo. Preterit: nanonor, nanilo. Present: nanononor, naninilo.

And the verbals are panononor, paninilo. And the same with these ones: ibac, ip ip, apin, tavas,

ulir, taclir, toc o, umpa, abat, toca, tolong, ap ap, ulat, icvan, timbang, inantan, ira, olo, ilir, talo,

tungayao, ambulat, tovir, am am, agi ag, totog, tiyim, iba ib, tulac, taos, umpit, ingil, tavag,

tampala an, aar, tanong, tavar, tactac, ipot, tanghali, ovag, taga, tangan, amat, uyo, ar ar, iir. See

Chapter 16, Rule 1 .4, for more verbs. Therefore, those with a b and a p, like these ones

with s and t cannot form the preterit, past perfect or the future perfect, nor can they form the

maca, which will be discussed in Chapter 9, without first changing the m into a p in the

imperative, and without reduplicating the syllable that contains the pa– in the other tenses.

Macapamayar, infinitive. Macapamamayar, future. Nacapamayar, preterit. Nacapamamayar, present.

Macapanonor, macapanononor, nacapanonor, nacapanononor, and the like. See Chapter 19, Rule 2,

.3.

It has been said at the end of .5 that depending on the meaning, it is possible to

refer to an action and also to the idea of abundance, where the two aforesaid formations can

be had. It is clear that there are many words that start with a b and a p, and with a s and a t

that do not refer to actions but rather to things, such as ‘house,’ ‘rock,’ ‘town,’ &c., where

177 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language these particles cannot be found. An extremely peculiar feature of this language is the

possibility of forming verbs from those roots that refer to things and endowing them with

the necessary conjugation according to how the thing is used in a particular situation. Take

the word bahay, ‘house,’ as an example. It can be said as nagbabahay, ‘to build a house,’ which

we will see in detail in Chapter 5, Rule 7, .5, and it also be said as namamahay, which means

‘to live in a house,’ because of the conjugation. And this is also true with bangca, ‘boat.’ And

this word bato, ‘rock,’ has nagbabato, ‘to hew a rock,’ which we will see in detail in Chapter 5,

Rule 7, .4, and namamato, which we no longer have to discuss. And take this word paa or

‘foot.’ Why is it necessary to have nanaa and namamaa? And an infinite list of other verbs that

mean things and not actions. And yet, despite this, they are still able to give significantly

nuanced meanings at certain points, which can never be imagined by anyone who does not

belong to them. In the end it has to be recognized that among them it is nature, and among

us, it is art and strength of arms.

Whoever is able to derive the word namomoto from boto, boO, ‘bone,’ and says

Namomoto ang aquét, means that the pain throbs in the bones. From the previously mentioned

paa, namamaa means that the pain throbs in the feet, and from pagytan, ‘middle,’ namamagytan

means that a man puts himself in the middle and becomes impartial. From bañaga, ‘foreigner,’

namamañaga refers to a native of a town who behaves himself like a bañaga out of a feeling of

detachment. Bayan, ‘town,’ with a mag–, means ‘to people a town’ or ‘to build a town,’ but

namamâyan, with the stress falling on the penultimate syllable, means ‘to dwell in a town,’

while namamayán, with the stress on the last syllable, means ‘to long for the town.’ From

potong, namomôtong means ‘to bind the head with a scarf’ and from panganay, ‘the first child,’

nanganganay, ‘to give birth to the first child.’ Bingi means ‘deaf.’ Nabibingi is ‘to feign deafness,’

while namimingi is ‘to have a weak hearing’ as when one feels hungry: Namimingi acó nang gotom.

Patay, being a word that begins with a p that changes into a m in the manner

described in Rule 1 .4 means ‘to kill someone.’ And in the passive patayin and with mag–, it

mean ‘to kill,’ denoting a spate of killings, based on what is said here in Rule .1. Magpatay,

in the passive, becomes pagpatayin. And since there is a need to express the meaning of ‘to

die,’ this language has put it in the conjugation that we shall practice right now: Patay,

namatay, ‘He died.’ Namatay na, ‘He already died.’ Namamatay, ‘He is dead.’ Mamamatay, ‘He

Comment [MJS37]: While this usage is incorrect in modern-day Tagalog if we consider the translation given in the ST (i.e., ‘e ta muerto,’ instead of a closer translation solution such as ‘está muriendo’), it is difficult to say for certain if this was once acceptable in an earlier variety of the language. Such is the influence of the Arte as a textual afterlife of Tagalog: Because of the scarcity in contemporary documents that may be used to triangulate the information contained in the grammar, many exemplars in the Arte remain largely uncontested and are taken as reflections of actual language use, instead of acknowledging it as a representation of Tagalog.

178 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language needs to die.’ Mamamatay na, ‘He is about to die.’ However, many of the locals say that

namatay and namamatay also refer to ‘to kill many,’ for which reason, the passive is pinamatay,

which means there were many who were dead who did not die because of natural causes, but

instead were killed. And the word mapamatay refers to ‘the killer of many.’ But the word that

is most certain and most useful is mamatay, which only means ‘to die.’

.7. With regard to the things they look for in the fields, mountains or seas,

conjugating the root as such means to forage, hunt, gather or fish that which the root

expresses. Anyone who wishes to practice this rule may do so with the following: Paho,

namamaho, ‘to go get some paho’ &c., and the same things with bagin, baging, balingbing, balobar,

banga, bagongon, biyoas, bilacong, pahas, pagatpat, pala pas, palaca, palatohat, palos, paros, piris, pugahan,

pulirpulir, pototan, bignay, balaring, pavican, bilocao, binayoyo, pala an, balingvay, potat, banban, balibago,

&c. And the same for those with a t or a s, as in togac, manonogac, tical, tuba, talaba, ual suA,

taga a, ampaloc, acva, tangal, ulib, pacó, pagyl pI, &c. i iu, manini iu is the bird or the cat that

looks, hunts and eat them. This is how they express those things that are foraged, gathered

or hunted, with the verbs ‘to forage,’ &c., expressed flawlessly through this conjugation.

When this conjugation is joined with names of instruments that refer to weapons, it

means ‘to wield the weapon,’ such as palacol, ‘axe,’ namamalacol. It also means ‘to go about

wielding the weapon while committing evil.’ Sondang, ‘knife,’ nanonõdang. Tabac, ‘sword,’

nanabac. umpit, ‘blowgun,’ &c.

.8. Additionally, those that begin with a c have a great peculiarity. Aside from the

usual conjugation with the aforementioned –vm–, they also have another with mag–. But

they do not the use entire the mag– or nag– because the g becomes their nasal g, N, or ng,

and the c is either removed or is transformed into it (a process which in essence is one and

the same). Cuyapit, ‘to cling tightly,’ apart from the –vm– form, also becomes manguyapit,

which is an imperative. The future always requires the reduplication of the syllable formed

with the ng, which happens to be the second. The preterit, like the imperative, is formed by

changing the m to a p, while the present, like the future, is formed by changing the m to a n.

The noun expressing the action is formed by changing the m of the future or the first n of

the present into a p. It is impossible to fix any specific meaning to this manner of speaking,

since the Author of language most curiously created it in such a way that it may mean a

179 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language condition of abundance contrary to the uses of –vm– described in this chapter. Coha means

‘to take’: mangoha, nangoha, nangongoha. Pangongoha denotes abundance. At times, however, it is

not used to mean this, but rather to say other things that are required according to the

meaning of each individual verb, a task that anyone who desires to make a complete

vocabulary can perhaps work on. Some examples include: calis, nangangalis, ‘to scrape,’ carlit,

calap, cacac, caen, quilabut, cavil, camcam, cuentas, compilma, nangunguentas, ‘he who prays the beads

of the rosary,’ nangongonpilma, ‘the bishop who administers confirmation,’ cagat, catha, quilala,

caycay, camot, colcol, cahig, quiquig, catam, cabal, quinig (as in nangninginig), calõcot, coyompis, caligquig,

quintay, calicot. From calatiyo, ‘a cuatrillo coin’ comes mangalatiyo, and from cunding, ‘a cuarto

coin,’ mangunding.39 See Chapter 19, Rule 2, .3.

.9. This rule for roots that begin with a c must also be applied to those that begin

with some of the vowels, denoting the idea of multiplicity in certain examples, or any other

particularities in some others. From olo, ‘head’ comes nangongolo, ‘to place the hands on the

head,’ and from olila, ‘orphan,’ comes nangongolila, ‘to feel sad and desolate like an orphan’. As

such, the meanings of the following words are rather peculiar: alis, anino, ampat, oyam, oroy,

ynat, amo, ylao, a o, alila, aco, aral, alangalãg, agao, aniani, yva, ylit, yrog, ybig, ylap, ytlog, aninag, yba (as

in nagingiba iya a lupang yto, ‘This land feels new to him’), olac, orong, ona, orali, opat, ampat, ygib,

ybaba, ylaya, ybayio, ybis, ylog, ylang, ylac, a ava (as in nangaga awa, ‘He who tried to get married’),

ybang bayan (as in nangingibang bayan, ‘he who travels to foreign lands’), and many others, the

meanings of which are impossible to inferred from the discourse, and must hence be asked

individually.

And as discussed in .7, the meaning of foraging or hunting that which the root

implies can likewise be applied to those roots that begin with a vowelm as well as to those

that begin with a c. Cohol is nangongohol, calap, cumpay, calapinay, quiyapo, catmõ, camyas, coliyat, colis,

cavong, calumpit, cangcõg, caligay, capis, cula i i, cavayan, coliyavan, olang, y da, agvas, ovay, alagao, ybon,

and others. From a o, ‘dog,’ comes nangangaso, ‘to go hunting’ not for dogs but instead with

dogs. What is said here in .7.8.9 agrees with what will be said in Chapter 13, Rule 1

.2.3.4., Chapter 16, Rule 1 .1.2.3, Chapter 19, Rule 3 .2 and 3.

39 A cuarto is a coin made of billon (an alloy of silver and copper) and is worth four maravedís, while a cuartillo is billon coin equivalent to a fourth of a real.


.10 Finally, it is advised that in order to convey abundance with those verbs

mentioned in Rule 2 .1, what should be used is man– and not mag–. The other uses of this

particle will be discussed in Chapter 12. Gungmagaling, ‘he is recovering,’ if we are talking

about only one person. But if the verb refers to many, nangagaling. Sungma amá, nan a amá.

Nungminipis, nãninipis. Hungmahaba, nanghahaba. This applies to all those words that have been

mentioned, as well as to those others that are not included here but have the same usage.

The other tenses should be clear if we take into account all that has been said herein. The

verbal noun is similar to the present tense, and only changes the p into a n.

Fourth Rule

Oftentimes, this particle mag– does not describe an action that passes to another, but

rather an action that remains in the same subject expressed as a nominative. In this manner,

it is similar to what we, Spaniards, say with the particle e. V.g., e haze la barba, e angra &c.,

even if the action of bloodletting or cutting &c. is not performed onto one’s own self, but is

instead received from another. Other modes of speech may be added to this using this

particle mag–, which must be noted so as not to reverse the way in which things ought to be

said. Ahit means ‘to shave with a razor.’ He who shaves or cuts another man’s beard is

expressed with a vm–. Vngmaahit in the present means ‘He is shaving him.’ But he who

shaves either himself or another person is nagaahit. The latter means that he dedicates himself

to this undertaking, that this is his present endeavor, as in other examples that we shall see.

These uses do not have a single explanation. Each one of them matches a specific meaning

in Spanish according to what is asked. Gapas is ‘to reap.’ Naggagapas means ‘he who reaps,’

even if he is not holding a scythe in his hand at that time. The owner of the land where the

reaping is done, who is in the process of carrying out this labor, even when he does not do

so with his own hands, is called gungmagapas. From gamot comes maggamot, which means ‘he

who cures his own illness and takes care of his own health.’ With the –vm–, it means ‘he

who cures others.’ Hocom with mag– means ‘those who file a dispute for judging,’ while with

the –vm– means ‘he who passes judgement and pronounces a sentence.’ From gunting comes

i Covan, ‘he is cutting his own hair with a pair of scissors,’ but he who cuts it for

another uses –vm–. Nagcacarlit means ‘he who lets his own blood out.’ Cungmacarlit is ‘he who

181 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language lets another person’s blood.’ Nagbabacam means ‘he who puts cupping glasses onto himself,’

but to mean ‘he who puts them onto somebody else’ is nanacam, babacam, nacam &c.,

following what has been explained in Rule 1 .4. , ‘I do not know how

to put cupping glasses on.’ Nagyybis means ‘he who unloads,’ either when a person takes off a

load from another, or when he performs the unloading to himself. Vngmiybis means ‘he who

unloads another person.’ Nagtoto oc is ‘the woman who pierces her own ears,’ but the agent

who does so to another is said with a –vm–.

Biñag means ‘to wet by splashing water overhead,’ for which reason it is taken to

mean ‘to baptize.’ Nagbibiñag is ‘he who is baptized,’ and the parents and the other guests as

part of such an endeavor are also referred to as such, which means that they have a baptism.

But the baptizer is referred to with miñag, niniñag, following what is discussed in Rule 1 .4.,

and if they are many, namimiñag, because of Rule 3 .4. Nagcacalis and nagtatabac mean ‘he

who wields the weapons referred to with these terms.’ With –vm–, they mean ‘he who

wounds using these weapons,’ and if he does so many times, we say nangagalis and nananabac,

because of Rule 3 .6. Nagbibiling means ‘he who turns his body around,’ while miling means

to perform the action actively by turning a thing in one’s surroundings. Nag a agvan cami

means ‘We are now rowing,’ and this can be said by the main rower, or by the master who

has never touched the paddle. With –vm–, it means ‘he who rows.’ From calag comes magcalag

cayó nãg damit, or ‘Undo your dress.’ But cumalag refers to the action of undoing or taking off

somebody else’s clothes. Magatang is ‘to lift a load.’ With –vm–, it means ‘to put a load onto

somebody.’ Magbangon ca diyan means ‘Get up!’ But when the b is changed into a m, it means

‘to get somebody up,’ as in Valan mangon a aquin, ‘There is no one who props me up,’ which

is said by a sick man. Magbuhat na cayó diyan is ‘Hey, get up there!’ Having a m instead of the b

refers to the one who lifts somebody else up. Magbaloctot ca means ‘Curl up and make your

mouth touch your knees,’ while an action directed to the outside will maloctot, as in inong

naloctot nitong &c., ‘Who twisted this?’

Roots that begin with a p: Pilit, magp., ‘he requires himself to do something.’ Milit, nilit

&c., ‘to require somebody else to do something.’ Pugay with the m instead of the p means ‘to

remove another person’s potong or hat,’ or in other words, ‘to remove whatever is on another

person’s head,’ while magpugay means ‘to remove it from one’s own head as a sign of

182 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language reverence.’ All of these are notable examples. Notice that when one says inong nugay aiyo?, it

means ‘Who removed the potong from your head?’ On the other hand, inong nagpugay aiyo?

means ‘Who made a sign of reverence to you by removing it from his head?’ And this

manner, he whose potong is removed by another is the pinugayan, while he for whom it was

done as an act of reverence is the pinagpugayan. Take note of the bizarreness that may be

uttered by anyone who does not study the language and barely knows how to speak it.

Ganti with –vm– means ‘to perform a retribution for a good or a bad deed,’ while

with mag– it means ‘to put on a set of clothes to replace that which has been removed,’

which also means a form of retribution, when one thinks about it. The same thing happens

with bihis, mihis, magbihis. Aral with –vm– is ‘to teach actively by imparting doctrine,’ while

with mag– it means ‘to learn something on one’s own accord,’ ‘to teach one’s self

something,’ or ‘to study something either on one’s own or with someone else teaching him.’

The same goes for bitin, bicti, ylao, paying, hubar, umpit, quiquig, cangay, patnugot, hogas, bali a, alio,

laban, higit, hubo, paypay, uyor, uclay, ipan, yyot, hubo, bitac, loar, licao, ayiquir, and those that

pertain to clothes such as baro, tapis, tapi, pingi, potong, babat. I have not been able to discover

more examples to verify this rule. I would have put more roots had I found more, for there

is no way of knowing which examples follow this rule without testing them one by one. And

because of the very peculiar difference in meaning brought about by these two particles,

mag– and –vm–, I always thought that there should be more examples other than those I

have included here ever since I noticed this peculiarity. The reader will probably do the same

once he grasps it better than did this minister, who while trying to learn it, quipped, “But is

this not the same thing as when one says natotová?”

.2. Moreover, the noun expressing the action is formed differently for these roots.

In the meaning that –vm– has, the noun is formed by joining the pag– with the root. But if

the meaning is with mag–, it is formed with pag– and the root whose first syllable is

reduplicated: v.g., the action of the person, say, a minister, who baptizes is pagbiñag, and if it

is directed to many, pamimiñag, following what has been explained in Rule 3 .5. But

pagbibiñag refers to the work of baptizing one’s self, or to attending a baptism, like what has

been previously said. Pagaral is the action of teaching another, while pagaaral is learning.

Comment [MJS38]: This is the only reference in the entire section of the Arte covered in this dissertation that comments on how Blancas has studied Tagalog.


.3. This same difference is retained in other variations for the same reason. This

will be seen in greater detail by those who read Chapter 2, Rule 6 .2., Chapter 3, Rule 2

.4., Chapther 8, Rule 6, .2., Chapter 9, Rule 2, .2., and Rule 3, .2., Chapter 10, Rule

5, .2. Fifth Rule

There are times when the following difference can be seen between the conjugations

of –vm– and mag–: The former describes an action that moves inwardly, as if it were being

pulled in, while the latter means repelling or pushing something outwardly in the way that

will be described in the passives of Chapter 2, Rule 2. Abut, with vm– means ‘to reach for

something and grab it,’ while with mag– it means ‘to give.’ Palit, with the p turned into a m,

which in substance is a form of –vm–, means ‘to exchange something by taking it,’ but with

mag– it means ‘to give.’ In other words, an accusative must be used to convey the thing

taken in exchange in the first form, and the thing that is given in exchange in the second.

Papalit aco nãg pilac means that a person is searching for someone who can give him silver in

exchange for something, while magpapalit nang ginto means that someone already has gold that

he wishes to give in exchange for something. The same goes for bayar and bili. Tacbo with –

vm– is ‘to run while bringing something’, but with mag– it means ‘to carry something.’ Su u

with –vm– is ‘to light a candle by taking light from another,’ while with mag– it means ‘to

use one’s own candle to light another.’

There are other irregular forms, for since they abound in other languages, it is not

surprising that they do not lack in this language. And some of them begin with the c, which

in the imperative turns into a m, and in the preterit, into a n. Coha, moha, noha although they

also say cumoha and , and in the present, nonoha, although they also say cungmocoha. The

future, however, is always cocoha. And this word caon, ‘to call,’ in the preterit is naon, and this

word quita, ‘to see,’ makes for a nita, and their present forms are nanaon and ninita. There are

also roots that begin with a d in the singular, which despite their ordinary forms expressed

with a –vm–, also have the same form described in Rule 6 .3., for expressing multiplicity in

the manner explained therein. From daquep, ‘to arrest,’ comes mananaquep. From docot, ‘to

184 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language seize,’ manonocot. From dungao, ‘to look outside,’ comes manungao. From daan, ‘a hundred,’

comes manaan. And if it is to give a hundred to each one, magmanaan. And the other tenses

are in the form used for those that begin with a s or a t, which have been referred to

previously. I have not reached the other differences between –vm– and mag– (if there is any

other). See Chapter 5 for a discussion on on mag–.

Comment [MJS39]: ‘Alcanço’ in the ST. Recall how in the introduction Blancas describes learning a language as a process of reaching for it.


Second Chapter

On the Three Passive Conjugations

A Foreword on the Passive

The principal mechanism of this language rests in its entirety on its three passive

conjugations, which we shall call the y– passive, the –in– passive, and the –an passive. He

who is well-learned and has a good foundation in these three is rightfully the lord of this

language, and has already traversed through the greatest and most substantial of its parts.

And he who is slow-witted and ignorant of these forms, which are the substance and

foundation of this language, will be incapable of saying anything correctly and will no longer

benefit from other rules. The rest of these rules are like mere accidents when compared to

this topic because of its great importance and the ample dependence that all other structures

have on them. For this reason, I would like to discuss, first of all, some rules that will shed

light on when to use either this or that passive. I could have done each and every one of

them without providing any proof or giving any detailed examples, but instead we shall verify

all of the conjugations together for each verb. This will bring about more clarity and make

for a more uniform presentation, since the passive y–, yn– and –an can be joined with the

same verb according to what the rules say. Through this and through the many examples that

will be supplied for verification, the intellect will receive a lot of light, and thus will it abide

by the truth and find ease in the use of these passives.

First Rule

I shall first give a brief description of these three passives so that the student of the

language can have a basis for understanding the rules. The first passive is called y– because it

is formed by putting this letter right before the root of the word. The imperative is formed

simply by combining root and the aforesaid y–, which should be placed before it. The future

Comment [MJS40]: In the 1610 version, this section bears the title of Regla Primera. This is a typographical error since the next paragraph bears the same title. This is corrected in the Dayot edition by changing the numbering of the sections. Hence, Dayot’s second rule is actually Blancas’s first, etc. The opening paragraph is this section actually gives a general introduction on passive contructions in Tagalog, for which reason this title is expressly created in the TT.

Comment [MJS41]: ‘Accidente’ in the ST. In it is quite common in classical grammar to refer to verbal variations as accidents of the verb (cf. Salor Sánchez 2002).

186 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language has the same form, but with the first syllable of the root reduplicated. The preterit is formed

based on the imperative by putting the syllable –in– between the first and second letters of

the first syllable of the root. The present is the same but with the reduplication of the first

syllable of the root: v.g., Sulat does not express any tense, and neither is it an active form, nor

a passive form. Y ulat is the imperative. Y u ulat is the future. Y inulat is the preterit. Y inu ulat

is the present. The thing that receives the action or upon which whatever action the verb

expresses is exerted should be put in the nominal form, while he who exerts the action is in

the genitive. Y ulat ni Pedro ito, ‘May this be written by Pedro.’

The truth is that when the root begins with a h, the –in– can be placed for the

preterit and the present in three ways. So as to avoid spending so many words in something

so small, this in practice will look something like this: Yniholog, ynaholog, yhinolog, all of which

are correct, although some are used more frequently in certain places, and the rest in others.

As far I can tell, I have not heard the third form ever again, and the second one is rather rare.

However, in order to use the y– to form the preterit and the present with a root that begins

with a vowel, a yni– or yna– must be used, as in ona, yniona, ynaona, so that in this manner it

can be distinguished from the yn– form, and be understood that yniona|ynaona comes from y

ona. This ynona, however, comes from onahin, as will be explained later on.

In those verbs that begin with a consonant outside the form herein described for the

preterit and the present, there is another form that is very much in use. This is done by

joining yna– and the root together. Ynabigay, ynapapanaog, ynatapõ, &c., are preterits. Their

present tense is formed when the first syllable of the root is reduplicated. Refer to Chapter

11, Rule 7, .1. Moreover, there are some who say that these words with yni–, such as in

ynipanaog, ynitapon, &c. To what extent this this form is used depends on which part of these

lands it is spoken.

.2. The –yn passive is called as such because it is formed by placing this syllable at

the end of the root. It is true, however, that this said –in– is not retained at the end in all of

the tenses of this conjugation. It only appears in this position for the imperative and the

future tenses. Hanap, ‘search,’ hanapin, ‘to search,’ imperative. For the future, the first syllable

is reduplicated, hahanapin. The preterit does not have the –yn– at the end but is rather placed

in between the two first letters ha, as in hinanap. Tavag, ‘call,’ tinavag. See Chapter 14, Rule

Comment [MJS42]: Note the graphemic switch here from y to i. Like in u-v and d-r, these two graphemes are interchangeable in the orthographical conventions of the sixteenth to seventeenth centuries.

187 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language 3 .4. The present is formed similarly by reduplicating the same first syllable, as in hinahanap,

tinatavag. And when the root begins with a vowel, the yn– must be placed before the vowel to

form the present and the preterit in such as way that the n of the yn– wounds the vowel of

the root. Ona, yona, preterit. Ynoona, present. Ocab, ‘a bite,’ ynocab, ynoocab.

.3. The passive of –an is called as such because it is formed by adding this syllable

–an after the root. The root will never lose this particle in any of the tenses. The imperative

is formed by putting a –an at the end of the root.; the future, by reduplicating the first

syllable; the preterit, by adding –yn– to the imperative, placing it in between the two first

letters of the root; the present, by adding the –yn– to the future as described above. Sulatan,

susulatan, sinulatan, sinusulatan. And when the first syllable is a vowel, what must be done is

similar to what has just been said about –yn–, v.g., aral, ynaralan, ynaaralan.

.4. However, it has to be noted here, as we have already noted with regard to the

active conjugations in Chapter 1, Rule 1 .2., that the present tense in Spanish is used not to

denote what I am doing at this moment, but rather what I am accustomed to doing or what I

habitually do, something I perform many times. The future is ordinarily used instead to

describe that is being done, such as in ‘I curse my children, I rebuke my household,’

Susumpain co ang manga anac co: pagaavayã co ang &c. As such, whenever the elderly reprimand

their slaves, they say Momorahin cata’t hahampasin cata’t susumpain cata, bago dile ca din nagcacabaét,

which does not mean ‘Curse you I shall, whip you I shall’ &c., but rather ‘I curse you and

whip you,’ and everything else that has been previously explained. This is confirms and

conforms with what is found in Chapter 2, Rule 4, .12 and Chapter 18, Rule 2, .1.

Additionally, the future may also be used as an imperative to command or entrust

that something be done with greater efficacy. Tatandaan mo yto, ‘(You shall) take note of this.’

Ypananalangin mo rao siya sa P. Dios, ‘(You shall) pray for him to God.’ And in the negative,

Hovag mõg pangungusapã, ‘You shall not talk,’ is not a prohibition against speaking with

someone on one occasion. It is rather a prohibition from speaking with this person ever

again. Whoever has been advised regarding this will notice it in their manner of talking, even

though in the grammar they themselves use a future imperative to command that something

be done later on: v.g., Bucas susulat ca &c., ysusulat mo bucas yto.


This form is also infallibly used to talk about an action performed as a consequence

of another, or to say that once the former happens or comes into being, the latter will be

done or will come to pass. These forms of the present are always said with the imperative.

‘Whenever I get angry or once I get angry, I curse my son’ is Sumpain co na siya, or with this

particle capagcovan, or without it. ‘In repenting for his sins, a sinner is forgiven by God.’ Once

we have said the first part, we then say Patavarin na nang P. Dios. Capagcagalit ay morahin na ang

capova tavo. This sentence does not mean that the action was done or what happened just

once, given that the preterit is used. It rather infallibly says that the action is habitually done,

similar to the present tense in Spanish. He curses and he swears right after he gets mad &c.

These forms of the present are expressed with an imperative and the particle na at the end,

or with capagcovan at the beginning, or any other similar particle. Howewer, it is not incorrect

to express this with an obvious present form. Capagcalit ay mimomora niya &c., ‘Whenever he is

angry, he curses and swears,’ and similarly so for the rest.

Another form of the present that we were talking about in the active conjugation

refers to something being said or being done. Canin co yeri, ‘I am eating this.’ Conin co yto,

aquinin co yeri, ‘I am taking this with me.’ Ytapon co yto | Ytapon con na yto, ‘I am throwing this

away.’

Some students would have noticed (and quite reasonably so) how we determine if

this –yn– does or does not bear a h whenever it is placed in the composition of roots that

end with a vowel, v.g., when should alilain or alilahin be said. The rule is that there is no rule.

It is instead necessary to learn each and every one of these verbs since there is no trace that

allows for a rule to be formulated with respect to this. And it is a good way of proving this

by seeing that there are about ten to twenty verbal roots that end not only with the same

vowel, but also with the same syllable, such as –ta, –la or –ya. Some do carry the h, while the

others do not. The same thing can be said about those roots that end with a o and those that

end with a y. If this explanation is still insufficient, I will let the evidence speak for itself.

With these three passives explained briefly, we now attempt to further explanin when one

form should be used, and when another form should be considered.


Second Rule

The difference that can be given between the y– passive and the –yn– passive, which

likewise indicates which of the two should be used, is that the passive y– refers to any action

that moves outwards, ad extra,40 that is to say, anything that goes out of the person who

performs it, while the other part is expressed as a genitive, which ultimately means to cast it

out or to throw it to the outside. But the –in– means attracting something towards one’s self

or the manner in which something is attracted towards one’s self. As such, there are

thousands of verbs that only have the passive y– and not the passive –yn– because the

meaning of their action can only be expressed as an outward movement originating from the

doer. Others, on the contrary, are on the reverse, since they do not and cannot have the

passive y–, given that the action they express moves towards the doer and not outwards. An

action that moves outwards takes the y–, while an action that moves inwards takes the in-.

Third Rule

This third rule is infallible whenever and wherever a reference is made to an

instrument, be it in a literal sense or in a metaphorical sense, and as a consequence, to the

occasion or cause of doing something, where the instrument, occasion or cause is expressed

in the nominative. In these instances, the passive y– is required. This is also true in those

instances when we say con, ‘with,’ in Spanish, even if the word does not refer to an

instrument: v.g., No tengo vestido con q baxar de casa, ‘I do not have any dress with which to go

down the house.’ No tengo manto con q yr a missa, ‘I do not have a veil with which to go to

Mass,’ &c. Refer to Chapter 5, Rule 2 .3 and Rule 3 .3 and 4; Chapter 7, Rule 2, .5.;

Chapter 14, Rule 2, .3; Chapter 15, Rule 2 .7.

Fourth Rule

Anything that is a place or a placive, when put in the nominative, requires the passive

–an. However, it does not always admit the same particles. It depends on whether the action

40 To the outside

Comment [MJS43]: In the absence of the notion of a grammatical topic, Blancas uses the category of a como lugar to describe nouns and noun phrases to where an action is directed. Although the term ‘locative’ exists in English to describe a closely related concept, I have used ‘placive’ as the translation solution. The peculiarity of this neologism in the TT is an approximation of the peculiarity of the word in ST. It also avoids confusing this category, which describes a nominal, with the function of a locative, which describes a verb. It also allows us to understand how the fourth rule is formulated, which requires the ‘placive’ in the nominative form. The use of ‘locative’ would have contravened the prescription here stated.

190 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language is done on purpose or, perhaps, if it is done more or less frequently. Refer to .9. and

Chapter 5, Rule 3, .5 and Rule 7, .6., Chapter 12, Rule 5, .2., Chapter 13, Rule 3, .3.

Let us give some examples so that all these rules can be seen. Some will be given in

one verb, the others in another, and all of them together in yet another one. All the rules can

be confirmed with this word acyat, ay. Yacyat mo aco nang bonga. Based on the second rule,

this sentence means ‘Take me up because of the fruit,’ for which reason the ‘I’ functions as

the occasion. Because of the second rule, Yacyat ytong sulat doon means ‘Take this book up

there.’ Because of the same second rule, Acyatin mo ytong bonga means ‘Go up there because of

the fruit and bring it down.’ Acyatan refers to the tree because of the fourth rule, and also if

there is any person above towards whom something should be brought up. Acyatan mo yaon

nitong ytac, ‘Take this machete to him over there,’ since ‘to him’ is the place where it will end

up, based on the same fourth rule.

This is similar to panaog, ‘to go down,’ or abut, ‘to reach.’ Yabut mo yeri diyã means

‘Reach this and take it there,’ in such as way that something should be given so that a person

can reach for it and take it with him. But Abutin mo yyan, because of the second rule, means

‘Reach it by taking it and bringing it to yourself.’ Based on the fourth rule, abutan is the

person who is given something that he was reaching for it as if he were a place where the

object ends up. And in order to verify the third rule, I want to form its conjugation: Anong

dahelang yniabut mo niyan doon cay, ‘For which reason was that given by you to…,’ &c.

Tacbo, ‘to run.’ Ytacbo mo ytong canin sa maginoo, ‘Take this food by running to… &c.’

Note that he is commanded to take it. Tacbohin mo ang canin doon sa maginoo|doon sa bahay nang

maginoo, ‘Go get food by running towards a maginoo and taking some from him.’ Because of

the second rule, this means that the maginoo is either in his house, or has the food with him.

But tacbohan refers to the person or place towards which someone runs to bring food, such as

Tacbohan mo si covan nitõg canin, ‘Take this rice running to so-and-so,’ or a place towards which

someone runs to take cover, which will be discussed in the tenth rule. Anong ypinagtatacbo

niong manga tavo? refers to the reason for running, taken from magtacbo, because of the third

rule. Also, pagtacbohan is either the place from which we run to remove ourselves, or the place

where the action of running is done. One cannot mention everything here when the only

objective is to give examples to verify the rules. As such, all those verbs that refer to

Comment [MJS44]: If this were translated from the Tagalog instead of the Spanish, a better rendition would have been ‘Take this fruit up for me.’ However, I have opted to calque the Spanish exemplar, ‘Súbeme por fruta,’ to emphasize the convoluted equivalence that Blancas wishes to establish here.

191 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language movement are like this tacbo. Luvas means ‘to go downstream.’ Yluvas mo cay covan ytong carang,

‘Take this downstream.’ This means that the person to whom it should be given is at the

mouth of the river or thereabouts. Luvasin mo si covan, ‘Go downstream to fetch or call so-

and-so or any other object to be taken from there by going downstream.’ With luvasin, there

is nothing else that should be done for either the person or the object to be fetched except

that they should be put in the nominative because of the second rule. Lovasan is the very

mouth of the river that leads to the sea. This will be discussed in the tenth rule. And if

anything needs to be taken downstream to the person who is there, Lovasan mo siya nang canin

‘Go and bring him food.’ Pahir, which means ‘to wipe,’ &c. As an example of this, suppose

that somebody’s hand is coated with oil and I wipe it out with some cotton. If the verb refers

to the cotton, it is expressed with y– since the cotton is the instrument, based on the third

rule. If the verb refers to the oil that I remove and clean, it goes with –yn– because, based on

the second rule, it is as if I attract the oil towards me. And with aforesaid hand, the verb

should be in –an since it is a place, based on the fourth rule. Anong yphinahir nang Padre niong

lana? ‘‘What did the priest wipe with the piece of wool?’’ Ano yaõg pinapahir nãg Padre sa camay

ni Pedro? ‘What is the priest wiping from Pedro’s hands?’ Aling camay ang pinahiran nang Padre?

‘Which hand did the priest wipe?’ Coha, ‘to take.’ Conin mo yto, conin mo yaon. Both forms say

that the person who does the action, when expressed in the genitive, takes that which is

expressed in the nominative towards himself, based on the second rule. Aco ycoha mo nang

tubig, because of the third rule, means ‘Bring water to me,’ for the ‘I’ is the occasion and the

water is intended for me. But ycoha will never mean ‘to move something out,’ as in ‘to give

something out,’ ‘to take something out,’ or ‘to throw something out,’ unlike with other verbs

where these meanings may fit as explained in the previous conjugations. The form does not

contradict one meaning against the other: A person can run to take something away or he

can run to bring back. A person can reach to give something away, or he can reach to take

something in. As such, there is ytacbo and there is also tacbohin. There is yabut and there is also

abutin. But since this coha in its strictest meaning refers to no other thing but to the action of

bringing and taking something towards one’s self, to say ycoha with the object that is taken

expressed in the nominative, would have been quite contrary to its meaning. Neither can

there be ypaquinabãg, as it should be paquinabangin, ‘to cause that a benefit be given to

someone.’ Given that higit means ‘to stretch out,’ it will be impossible to stretch anything

inwards. As such, there is no such thing as yhigit but only higtin. This is the same for any verb

192 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language that refers to an action that moves inwardly: hango, tabo, labnot, docot, ipit, dampot, tiltil, lapnit,

pucnat, hila, binlit, binit, andoc, yacap, quimquim, quipquip. And if Yyacap mo is said, it does not

mean that one should embrace something. It instead means that he should cause something

to embrace a pillar or a tree trunk, which stands outside him. Yyacap mo diyan sa cahuy,

‘Embrace this to the tree trunk’. This is the same as tali, as in Ytali mo yto diyã, ‘Tie it around

there,’ which means that the application of the action moves outwards. But talian mo, ‘Tie it

up,’ refers to binding something together, or in other words doonan ng tali.

Other very peculiar examples could have been placed here if it were not for the

unease of writing something too lengthily. But I shall give some examples to anyone who is

curious. He then should strive to know (if he still does not know it) what mystery there is in

the difference between lactavin mo si covan and lactavan mo si covan, between locsohin and locsohan,

between bavasin and bavasan, between valisin, yvalis and valisan. As with those verbs that pertain

to bartering, notice that what I exchange goes with y–, as in ypalit, while that which I receive

in exchange goes with –in–, as in palitin. But palitan refers to that in whose place another

thing is put, either because a man takes the thing for himself, or because he throws it to

waste. This is so because the –an no longer refers to the place. Palitin, however, refers to that

action of bringing and taking something towards one’s self. These are all examples that

obviously prove the truth of the rules here stated herein.

.2. Because of the same foundation, all verbs that mean or imply giving, in which

the object that given is expressed in the nominative, follow this same conjugation with y–. It

is for this very reason that the verb is said, for it means casting something out from one’s

self. Gavar, bigay, biyaya, yrog, handog, labi, bahao, ohol, hayin, laan, taã, adya, lagac, habilin, lamac,

tira, tambing, andali, aoli, bili, bayar, &c. Alternatively, because of the second rule, those verbs

that mean taking in, however it is performed, even if it means hunting or fishing, have to be

in the –in– form. And chief among all of them is coha, conin. Agao, am am, tavas, daquep, dagit,

bilango, pangao, omit, limir, hubnit, gamit, pili, halao, honos, balon, pa olo, ilo, a o, bating, bintol, binvit

biwi, iir, bitana, parvas fw, docot, taclir, tigpao, loblob, bucatot, parpar, patda, bitag, bavay, quitang,

bi aog, bolos, acag, pu ao, bangcat, dala, and finally bili, bilhin. However, ‘to sell,’ which is an

outward motion, is ypagbili.


And the first cousins of these verbs mean ‘to ask for something’: hingi, hingyn, hiram,

otang, bala, angcat, dalangin, polo, pulhin: and those that mean ‘to take an object and make it

one’s own,’ which are limited to the yyo, yyohin mo yto; aquin, aquinin, atin, canila, &c., but also

to many other words that also mean the very object taken, which through yn– means that it

is taken from that which appears in the genitive, ytaquin mo yto. This sentence sounds

somewhat erroneous because it commands a person to take the machete in, giving his all, or

to use the machete with himself, based on what will be said in the fifth rule. This said error is

removed by saying, as they do, ytaquin mo na yto, ‘Chop this up with a knife,’ which literally

means to take the knife for one’s self. It is also possible to say ytaquin mo môna yto’ in this

instance. It will be an imperfection, however, if the particles na and mona are both used in the

same sentence. One is required to understand what preceeds it and what comes afterwards.

Let the reader add other examples as he wishes. See Chapter 13, Rule 1, .6.

But in those verbs that mean giving and in those that mean receiving, the person to

whom something is given and from whom something is received must be expressed very

clearly in –an conjugation without fail, because both these meanings refer to the idea of a

place towards which an object goes, or from which an object comes out. Let the reader

prove this for himself. In addition, both the person from whom something is bought and the

person to whom something is sold are expressed in –an. One is bilhan from bili, which is

buying, and the other, pagbilhan from magbili, which is selling. This does not only refer to

those verbs that on their own formally give the impression of giving, but also to those that

mean another thing, such as, for example, calling or cutting, etc., whenever it is used to

command a person to do something for someone else, as in the sentence ‘Cut him up a baro

from there and give it to him.’ The aforesaid person, the ‘to whom,’ is expressed in the

nominative, and the aforesaid verb in –an. Tavagan mo yaong tavo nitong canin. It is not necessary

to say tavagin mo, at bigyan nitõg canin, ‘Call him and give him this food, &c.’ But if it refers to

the reason for which he is called, Ytavag mo sa caniya ytong canin. Gisian moa co nang potong ‘Tear

up a potong for me.’ Bavasan mo aco nang munti, ‘Reduce this one for me, &c.’

.3. ¶ For the same principle given in the second rule, it is necessary that those verbs

referring to actions that move outwards be formed with a y–. It is impossible for these verbs

to have a –in– form because this would go against the action signified by these verbs, which

Comment [MJS45]: ‘Na’ is an emphatic morpheme in Tagalog. Although in certain cases it is used to emphasize the perfective aspect of the verb, its usage in this case conveys a sense of urgency to the action of chopping.

Comment [MJS46]: The sentence ‘Ytaquin mo na môna yto,’ with the particles ‘na’ and ‘mona’ combined, implies that the action of chopping happens first before another action can take place.

194 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language is performed towards the speaker: v.g., tapon, vac i, acvil, taboy, tolac, lagpac, arlac, bulir, bunto,

bolosoc, tiric, tolos. This is also done for those that refer to throwing something upwards or

downwards, such as lo ong, loslos, osos, daraosos, panaog, luvas, lavit, inga, uca, lova, tugpa, bolos, tae,

yhi, holog, hapay, bôbo, giba, pãhic, acyat, taas, babao, batay, apin, uba, alonga, acay, tovas, alampay,

ubaybay, bitin, abit, angpa, yaang, tunhay, tongtõg, ampay. And those that refer to pouring or

scattering something out: bobó, bohos, abog, ambulat, bulag ac, lagoslos, hoho, aboy, livat, alin,

valat, ac am, where the object thrown or poured out is expressed in the nominative. Finally,

this is also done with all those verbs referring to movements that head outwards from where

an object is at, or whenever an object is applied onto another. Whatever is moved or is

applied should be expressed with a y–, or to whomever it is done should expressed with –an

for being the place. ‘May the captain be there,’ yroon. Lapit, layo, iping, rayti, tago, tacbo, tapat,

tongo, harap, olong, gatong, alac, acral, hatir, palagay, lapat, uba ob, taob, latag, larlar, rapa, yoco, laylay,

onday, riin, titic, ulat, babar, laving, orong, ovi, oli, omang, talingir, lingir, oot, ayar, ar ar, dagsa,

bõg or, langcap, dugtung, ragrag, tahe, tagpi, hinang, taip, andig, andal, âma, caná, pi an, riquit, damay,

lapag, halo, bilibir, lagom, lahoc, ahog, banto, barbar, bilar, agpang, ic ic, bungt , mandala, põgso, timbon,

&c. See Chapter 15, Rule 1, .5. And those that mean placing something over the fire: nanag,

angit, laga, labon, aing, igang, tapa, alab, yhao. But to say ‘Take it off the fire,’ given that the

action moves towards the speaker, the verb becomes ahunin mo.

What is described in Chapter 1, Rule 2 .2 for the acceptation we ascribe to the

particle mag– will be clearly seen whenever these verbs are put in the passive. It has to be

formed with this y–, although it is not necessary to put a pag– here unless there is another

meaning that should be expressed. This is so because what the mag– says in that particular

acceptation is the action of throwing something outwards using that transitory action, which

is naturally expressed with the y– even without the pag–. For the same reason, the place or

placive of the same is expressed in the –an without the pag–, unless this particle is put for

another reason, of which roonan, ‘Take this there’ will be the guide.

And those actions that speak of a metaphorical application, either by likening

something to another, such as tular, para, gagar, gaya, halimbava, lagyo, mucha, pantay, laravan,

which with the particle –an express to whom or to which something should be likened, or by

expressing one’s self (since the word is thrown towards a person with whom one speaks,

195 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language thus making him a place), such as pangusap, alitá, barya, balîta, aral, hayag, ombong, bolõg, olong,

hatol, hocom, igao, yngay, yyac, hiyao, pangayi, palibha a, baoy, tungayao, bintãg, tacap, opa ala, ga a,

pa ar g, talinhaga. It is specified that these actions move outwards, given that there are other

movements or displacements of things that do not have this meaning. They instead refer to

movements or changes happening within their own places, or to maneuvers done with one’s

own hands. These verbs should go instead with –yn: quibu, with one’s own, ogoy, biling, giling,

pilis, pilit, hotoc, yopii, lamas, ticatic, tocol, ticlop, ticom, timbon, tinao, linao, tining, lapis, boo, tampi, tapic,

pari ay ay, alay ay,

hu ay, biro, laro, piga, &c.

.4. It can be deduced from the same rule that all the verbs for eating and drinking

go with –yn, since these two actions move towards one’s self. Caen, canin, with one’s own,

lamon, ila, pag ilyn, ngoya, quilao, ocab, cagat, ynum, higop, lagoc lgo, ip ip, pangus pU, hothot|otot,

u u, toca, hithit. All of these verbs mean attracting something toward’s one’s self. But it is not

possible to say that something is thrown from the mouth with a –in–, but rather with a y–.

Suca, lova and subo describe the movement of taking a mouthful towards the mouth, and it is

unimportant whether this moved into my own mouth or into another person’s mouth, in

which case it does not mean to carry it towards one’s self, but rather to bring it towards the

mouth, whether the mouth is mine or another person’s, and as such it requires a y–.

An example is ylapit, which expresses a movement of taking something near to

something else and therefore requires a y–. This happens even when the action of bringing

something closer is performed by a man onto his own self, a piece of information that is

immaterial to the formation of the verb. The man in these cases functions as if he were a

different thing towards which that which is applied and conjoined is brought, and for this

reason the sentence Ylapit co aaquin yto, ‘Take this closer to me’ can be said.

.5. Because of the same principle, all those verbs that mean ‘to search’ or ‘to call’

require a –yn–, given that they all imply attracting something to one’s self. Harap, tavag, caon,

ongco, yaya, yacag, polong, dapit, bacas, habul, o ig, ongdo, i ir, aninao, loc o, quita, tonton, hucay. That

some of these verbs have other passive forms does not contradict this rule. Rather, by

considering them carefully, one discovers the truth of these rules and their conformity with

196 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language each other. Hanap, ‘to search.’ The thing one searches for is in the –yn– form. And whenever

applicable (if one is certain that a verb has it), the –an is used for the place being searched or

for the person who functions like a place where a lost object is searched, either because he is

asked about its whereabouts, or he is suspected to have taken the object with him. As such,

Y i ir mo a tubig yyan, ‘Put that into the water’ or ‘Submerge that,’ takes a y– because it means

extra mittendo.41 But i irin mo a tubig yaong alapi requires a man to submerge himself into the

water and take something out from it, or to search for it if he still does not see it, provided

that he will have to get it and take it out. Si iran refers to the water because of the fourth rule.

This is the same for the rest. Finally, all those verbs that mean attracting something or

moving something closer to one’s self metaphorically through flattery, succor, love, &c., all

go with –yn–: pilit, amo, amo, lamuyo, cu a, yrog, alo, aloc, ohot, hicayat, alila, calinga, ampon, aco, yvi,

laró, anquin, aliu.

.6. Another truth is derived from all that has been said so far: Ordinarily, all verbs

that refer to an action performed with an instrument cannot go with the passive y– and

instead take any of the other two whenever the thing is expressed in the nominative. The

reason is clear since it is the instrument that should be expressed with the passive y–. It is

good to prescribe that the action performed by the instrument be expressed not with the

same passive particle so that there would be no confusion. Those actions referred to in .2

about the verbs for hunting and fishing go into this number. It follows, firstly, that all those

verbs that mean cutting cannot be expressed with the passive y– when the thing that is cut is

expressed in the nominative. It is rather the instrument which should be expressed in this

passive. The verbs, on the other hand, go with –yn– in such a way that whenever something

is cut and there remains a piece from where it is cut, the cut piece is expressed with –yn– and

the things from where this piece is cut goes with –an since it refers to a place. Potol, ‘to cut.’

Putlin mo yto, ‘Cut this,’ indicating that which has to be cut. But that from which the cut must

be made is with –an: Putlã mo yto nang munti, ‘Cut a bit from this’ or ‘Take a bit from here by

cutting it.’ Pinongos ni S. Pedro ang tayinga cay Malchos, ‘Malchus’s ear was cut off by St. Peter.’

The ear that has been cut off is expressed with an –in–, but the person whose ear is cut off is

pinongo an. The instrument used is ypinotol and ypinongos. And this is how it is with the rest:

41 ‘Moved towards the outside’

197 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. TRANSLATION. Art and Rules of the Tagalog Language calap, tagá, tigpas, la ac, ibac, giling, popo, palongpong, polac, biac, tabac, baac, lagari, bangal bA, angal

sA, lapa, gapi, quitil, popol, bacbac, gitay, calamay, gilit, puti, bonglo, pogot, ipol, obor, tilar, taac, tactac,

gapas, hiva, gayat, a a, ti tis, hilis, tartar, lapac, daying, pongos, umbali, alas, lagot, lamoc, bali, tari,

ta i, punit, gilgil, catam, quiquil, daras, palacol, bugvas, lapi, ahit.

And all those that mean ‘to dig up’: cotcot, coco, colcol, locar, camot, cali, cahig, caycay, buyagyag,

tayabutab, hucay. As such, hucayin is an entirely different thing from hucayan.

It is not an exception to this rule that the verb yva, ‘to slice,’ does not have a –yn– but

rather a –an. What is said is not yvain but rather yvaan. This confirms all the rules, since if we

take a closer look, yvaan does not mean cutting by making perfect segmentations, like what is

said with the other verbs. Rather, it means that a dagger, which they call yva, is stuck into a

man’s chest or any other body part, and as such, that thing that is hurt and into which the

dagger is inserted functions as a place (vt itam dicã),42 and is therefore expressed with a –an.

Secondly, it follows that for all those verbs that mean hitting with an instrument,

either as a group or individually, the instrument should be expressed with a y– and the thing

that is hurt with a –yn–. In other words, if one talks about an instrument and puts it in the

nominative, the verb is formed with the y–. But if the one talks about the thing that is made

or hurt with an instrument, and this thing is expressed in the nominative, it has to go with

the –yn–, and the instrument (if ever we have to express it) will be expressed without fail in

the accusative form with nang or a similar word: v.g., Yto ang ybaril mo acaniya, ‘You shot him

with this.’ Barilin mo iya nito, ‘Shot him with this.’ Examples of this doctrine include baril,

pana, bolos, hagis, balagbag, baca, pocol, ontoc, babag, tampal, hampas,

abonot, pâtir, iquil, acong, corot, piral, ondol, borlong, bugtac, tandos, alapang, bolot, panamit,

panamitin mo, ‘Lance [him].’

42 ‘ut itam dicam’ [so to speak]

198 Sales, M.J. A Grammar of God GLOSSARY OF TAGALOG ROOTS

GLOSSARY OF TAGALOG ROOTS

Both root and affix are supplied whenever the listed entry is a derivation. Alternative spellings are given, whenever applicable, to contrast the word as it is written in the ST and the form in which it appears in the SB or the NS. Elided elements are explicitated in the definition.

• aba: SB 619: salutación [a greeting]

• abang: SB 619: arguardar [to wait]

• abat: SB 619: interrumpir [to interrupt]

• abut: SB 619: alcançar [to reach]

• acac: SB 619: graznar [to caw]

• acay: SB 620: guiar [to guide]

• aco: SB 620: prometer [to promise]

• acral: SB 620: empujar [to push], written as acdal

• acʃam: NS 3: amontonar basura [to pile up garbage]

• acyat: NS 3: subir [to climb]

• agao: SB 620: arrebatar [to snatch]

• agolo: SB 620: fornicar [to fornicate]

• agpang: NS 5: encajar dos cosas como cruz [to join two things together in the form of a cross]

• agvas: NS 5: lisas de la mar [sea mullet]

• ahit: SB 620: afeytar, rapar [to shave]

• ala: SB 620: enrrançiarʃe [to go rancid]

• alac: SB 620: vino [wine]

• alagao: NS 6: un árbol [a tree]

• alagar: SB 620: diʃcipulo[disciple]

• alam: SB 621: saber [to know]

• alampay: SB 621: echar [to throw]

• alangalãg: see alangalang

• alangalang: SB 621: reuerençia [reverence]

• alas: SB 621: cortar [to cut]

• alat: SB 621: salado [saltiness]

• alibay: SB 621: trocar [to exchange]

• alila: SB 621: cuidar [to take care]

• alinlangan: SB 621: confuʃion [confusion]

• alio: SB 622: consolar [to console]

• alis: SB 622: irʃe [to go away]

• aliu: see alio

• alo: SB 622: acallar [to silence]

• aloc: SB 622: comer|dar [to give food]

• aloʃitha: SB 622: zertificarʃe[to certify one’self]

• ama: SB 622: nombrar [to name]

• amac: SB 622: acariçiar [to caress]

• ambag: SB 622: contribuir [to contribute]

• amo: SB 622: amansar [to tame]

• amoy: SB 622: oler [to smell]

• ampat: SB 622: zesar [to cease]

• ampon: SB 622: amparar [to shelter]

• anac: SB 622: prohijar [to have a child]

• angcac: SB 623: hinchado [bloated]

• angcat: : SB 623: fiado [credit]

• angil: SB 623: gruñir [to growl]

• angit: SB 623: hedor [stench]

• aniani: SB 623: acatamiento [observance]

• aninag: SB 623: traʃluçirʃe [to be revealed]


• aninao: SB 623: traʃparente [transparent]

• anino: SB 623: sombra [shadow]

• anquin: SB 623: regalo [gift], written as angcqi

• aquin: SB 620: mio [mine]

• aral: SB 624: enseñar [to teach]

• aʃaoyn: SB 624: Aʃava– marido [husband], affix: –in

• aʃava: SB 624: marido [husband]

• aʃim: SB 624: agrio [sourness]

• aʃo: SB 624: perro [dog]

• atin: : SB 625: nuestro [our]

• avat: SB 625: apartar [to separate]

• ayao: SB 625: no querer [to not want]

• ayiquir: SB 625: enrroʃcar [to coil]

• ayro: SB 625: subir [to go up]

• baac: SB 625: hender [to cleave]

• babag: SB 625: reñir[to quarrel]

• babao: SB 626: ençima [above]

• babar: SB 626: remojar [to soak]

• babat: SB 626: zeñir [to bind]

• baca: SB 626: pelear [to fight]

• bacas: SB 626: raʃtro [footprint]

• bacbac: SB 626: descorteçar [to strip the skin off]

• baet: SB 627: entendimiento [understanding], written as bait

• bagang: SB 626: muela [molar]

• bagcat: SB 626: miel [honey]

• bagin: see baging

• baging: SB 626: hedra [ivy vine]

• bago: SB 626: renovar [to renew]

• bagongon: Neither SB nor NS has this word. It is, however, present in the Visayan language. It is defined as a kind of shellfish in the vocabulary of the Visayan language by Sánchez (1711, 44).

• bagʃic: SB 626: potencia [power]

• bagting: SB 626: tañer [to ring a bell]

• bagyo: SB 626: tempestad [typhoon]

• bahagi: SB 627: partir [to divide]

• bahao: SB 627: sanarʃe [to be cured]

• baho: SB 627: heder [to stink]

• bala: NS 30: comprar al fiado [to buy from a creditor]

• balaga: SB 627: eʃpantar [to frighten]

• balagbag: SB 627: trauesaños [bolsters]

• balam: SB 627: tardar [to be late]

• balaquir: SB 627: aʃirʃe [to cling]

• balaring: SB 627: turmas [testicles]

• balat: SB 628: piel [skin]

• balay: SB 627: horqueta [pitchfork]

• bali: SB 628: quebrar [to break]

• balibago: SB 628: cáñamo [hemp]

• balingbing: SB 628: ochauado [eight-sided]

• balingvay: SB 628: palo [stick]

• baliʃa: SB 628: prieʃa [archaic, hurry] | NS 38: festinación con inquietud de ánimo [tendency to have anxieties]

• balîta: SB 628: nueva [news]

• balobar: NS 39: una frutilla con el hueso por de fuera, por otro nombre Casoy [a fruit whose seed is on the outside, another name for casoy, ‘cashew’]

• balon: SB 629: poço [well]

• baloqui: SB 628: doblegar [to vanquish], written as balocqui

• banban: SB 629: acequia [dike], written as bangbang

• banga: SB 629: topar [to run into]

• banga: SB 629: cantaro [jar]

• bangal: SB 629: raʃgarʃe [to rip]

• bangbang: see banban

• bangca: SB 629: barco [ship]


• bangcat: SB 629: garlito [fish trap]

• bangis: SB 629: brauo [fierce]

• bango: SB 629: olor [fragrance]

• bangon: SB 629: leuantar [to rise]

• banlat: SB 630: pozilga [sty]

• banto: SB 630: templar [to temper]

• baoy: SB 630: mofa [mockery]

• barbar: SB 630: cadena [chain]

• barha: SB 630: hablar [to talk], written as barya

• baril: SB 630: alcabuz [arquebus]

• barlis: SB 630: raya [line]

• baro: SB 630: sayo [skirt]

• barya: see barha

• baʃag: SB 630: quebrar [to break]

• batas: SB 630: atajar [to stop]

• batay: SB 630: aʃentar [to lay down]

• bati: SB 630: saludar [to greet]

• bating: SB 630: castrar [to castrate]

• bavay: NS 52: caña alta para pescar dalag [a long pole for fishing dalag]

• bavi: NS 52: quitar lo ya dado [to take away what has already been given]

• bayar: SB 631: vender [to sell]

• baybay: NS 53: orilla del mar [seashore]

• bayo: SB 631: moler [to crush]

• biac: SB 631: hender [to cleave]

• bianan: SB 631: suegro [parent-in-law]

• bicti: SB 631: ahorcarʃe [to hang one’s self]

• bigat: SB 631: pesado [heavy]

• bigay: SB 631: dar [to give]

• bignay: NS 56: cierta fruta colorada [a kind of red-colored fruit]

• bigvas: SB 632: tirar [to throw]

• bilacong: NS 386: Un género de choncas relucientes [a kind of shiny seashell]

• bilango: SB 632: preʃo [prisoner]

• bilar: SB 632: orear [to air]

• bili: SB 632: vender [to sell]

• bilibir: SB 632: enrroscar [to wind]

• biling: SB 632: enrrededor [around]

• bilis: SB 632: fuerça [force]

• bilocao: NS 59: un árbol de fruta muy agria [a tree with a very bitter fruit]

• bilog: SB 632: redondo [circle]

• binayoyo: NS 59: Un género de arroz [a kind of rice]

• bingi: SB 632: sordo [deaf]

• binit: SB 632: eʃtirar [to stretch]

• binlit: SB 632: enarcar [to arch]

• bintãg: SB 632: teʃtimonio [testimony]

• bintol: NS 61: redecilla para coger cangrejos [small net for catching crabs]

• binwit: SB 633: peʃcar [to fish], written as binuit

• biñag: SB 632: baptiʃmo [baptism], written as binyag

• biro: SB 633: burla [joke]

• biroc: SB 633: nauio [ship]

• bisaog: NS 62: coger pescado con las manos [to catch fish with one’s bare hands]

• bitac: SB 633: grietas [crevices]

• bitag: SB 633: lazo [snare]

• bitana: SB 633: chinchorro [net]

• bitin: SB 633: colgar [to hang]

• biyaya: NS 63: dádiva, merced [gift, mercy]

• biyoas: NS 64: unas como bainillas, á modo de cañafístola [like a vanilla pod, similar to cassia]


• bôbo: SB 633: naʃa [fishing creel], written as bobo and annotated as a ‘pp’ (penúltima perfecta)

• bobó: SB 633: verter [to pour], written as bobo and annotated as a ‘pc’ (penúltima correpta)

• bogong: SB 634: envoluer [to wrap]

• bõgʃor: SB 634: a. raʃtrar [to drag],

written as bongʃor

• bohos: SB 634: derramar [to pour]

• bolo: SB 634: beçerro [calf]

• boloc: NS 69: desigual [unequal]

• bolõg: SB 634: murmurar [to murmur]

• bolos: SB 634: soplar [to blow]

• bolosoc: SB 634: caer [to fall]

• bolot: NS 71: flecha que tiene garfio [an arrow with a hook]

• bonga: SB 634: fruta [fruit]

• bonglo: NS 72: rama ó cogollo tronchado [a cut branch or sprout]

• bonot: SB 634: arrancar [to tear off]

• boo: SB 635: entero [whole]

• borlong: SB 635: tirar [to throw]

• boʃog: SB 635: harto [full]

• bosong: SB 635: caʃtigo [punishment]

• botavin: SB 635: gaʃtar [to spend], written as botavan

• boto: SB 635: pepita [seed]

• boval: SB 635: caerʃe [to fall down]

• bovis: NS 76: tribute [tax]

• boyagyag: NS 67: mullir cualquiera cosa [to soften anything]

• buca: SB 635: abrir [to open]

• bucatot: NS 55: un género de red para pescar [a kind of net for fishing], written as bicatot

• bugao: NS 455: sobresaltarse por temor de enemigos [to get startled out of fright of enemies]

• bũgcal: NS 72: metafóricamente se toma por revolver ó buscar pleitos [metaphorically, to examine or search for a dispute], written as bongcal

• bugtac: NS 79: arrojar, descargar del hombro la carga pesada [to throw away, to take a heavy load off one’s shoulder], written as bogtong

• bugtung: SB 634: adivinar [to guess], written as bogtong

• bugvas: SB 635: deʃbaʃtar [to polish]

• bulabus: Perhaps a derivative of busabus (?): NS 83: subido en su ser [a lot]

• bulag: SB 636: ziego [blind]

• bulagʃac: SB 636: deʃparramar [to squander]

• bulir: SB 636: rodar [to roll]

• bungtũ: see bugtung

• bunto: SB 634: arrojar [to throw], written as bonto

• busac: NS 83: blancura grande [immense whiteness]

• bũtali: SB 636: golpear [to hit], written as buntal

• buya: NS 84: comer hasta reventar [to eat to bursting]

• buyagyag: SB 636: deʃenmarañar [to untangle]

• cabal: SB 637: removerʃe [to be stirred]

• cablao: SB 637: hinchaçon [swelling], written as cablau

• cacac: NS 87: cacarear la gallina [to cluck like a hen]

• caen: SB 638: comer [to eat], written as cain

• cagat: SB 637: morder [to bite]

• cahig: SB 638: eʃcaruar [to dig]


• cahig: SB 638: eʃcaruar [to dig]

• calamay: SB 638: conʃerva [preserve]

• calap: SB 638: cortar [to cut]

• calapinay: NS 91: un género de árbol [a kind of tree]

• calat: SB 639: eʃtender [to extend]

• cali: SB 639: cauar [to dig]

• calicot: NS 93-94: sacar algo de un agugero con el dedo ó palito [to take something through a hole with the help of a finger or a stick], also written as calicol

• caligay: NS 94: carcolillo [small snail]

• caligquig: SB 639: temblar [to tremble], written as caligcqig

• calinga: SB 639: cuydar [to take care]

• calõcot: NS 95: temblar de frio [to shiver because of the cold]

• calumpit: NS 96: arbol tambien conocido así [a tree known by such name, i.e., calumpang]

• camcam: SB 640: arrebatar [to snatch]

• camot: SB 640: raʃcarʃe [to scratch one’s self]

• camyas: NS 90-91: Unos como Bilimbines sin gajos [similar to a bilimbing fruit but without segments]

• caná: SB 640: poner [to put]

• cangay: SB 640: combidar [to invite]

• cangcõg: NS 99: yerva de que se hace ensalada [leafy vegetable that is made into a salad], written as cangcong

• canila: NS 99: de ellos, ó de ellas [theirs]

• caon: SB 640: llamar [to call]

• capal: SB 640: grueso [thick]

• capapacanan: SB 681: provecho [benefit], listed as pacanan

• capis: SB 641: nacar [mother-of-pearl]

• carlit: SB 641: sajar [to cut open]

• catam: SB 642: acepillar [to plane]

• catha: NS 105: componer, idear [to compose, to conceive]

• cati: SB 642: bubas [buboes]

• catmõ: NS 106: fruta conocida con este nombre [fruit know by such a name], written as catmon

• cavalan: SB 642: limpieça [cleanliness], or more probably ‘void,’ from the root vala SB 705: faltar ‘to be absent’

• cavayan: SB 642: caña [bamboo]

• cavil: SB 642: ançuelo [hook]

• cavong: SB 643: palma [palm]

• caycay: NS 527: escarbar como el gato [to dig like a cat]

• coco: SB 644: vña [fingernail]

• cocot: SB 644: deʃcaʃcarar [to remove from the shell]

• colcol: NS 111: escarbar [to dig]

• colis: SB 644: coles [cabbages]

• coliyat: NS 111: ébano [ebony], written as coliat

• coliyavan: SB 645: oropẽdola [oropendola]

• comcom: NS 113: abarcar, apartar algo al pecho, ó dentro de la mano [to cover or to move something towards one’s chest or within one’s hand]

• compilma: SB 645: confirmar [to confirm], written as compil

• conat: SB 645: duro [hard]

• copit: SB 645: plegar [to fold]

• corot: SB 645: pellizcar [to pinch]

• cotcot: SB 645: raʃpar [to scratch]

• coton: SB 645: plegar [to fold]

• coycoy: SB 645: cauar [to dig]

• coyom: SB 645: encojer [to cringe]


• coyompis: NS 117: encoger [to shrink]

• cuentas: SB 645: roʃario [rosary], written as covintas

• culaʃiʃi: NS 111: pájaro verde como el Papagayo, pero muy pequeño [a green bird similar to a parrot, only smaller], written as colasisî

• cumpay: SB 645: zacate [forage]

• cuʃa: SB 645: voluntad [will]

• dagit: SB 646: arrebatar [to snatch]

• dagsa: SB 646: arrojar [to throw]

• dala: SB 647: llevar [to carry]

• dalangin: SB 647: pedir [to ask]

• dama: SB 647: tocar [to touch]

• damay: SB 647: participar [tocar]

• dampot: SB 648: tomar [to take]

• dapit: SB 648: traer [to bring]

• daquep: SB 646: cojer|prender [to take, to arrest], written as dacqip

• daraosos: SB 648: desliçarʃe [to

slide], written as daoʃos

• daras: SB 648: açuela [adze]

• daying: SB 649: rogar [to pray]

• digas: SB 649: pilar [pillar]

• docot: SB 650: sacar [to take out]

• ducha: SB 650: pobre [poor]

• dugtung: SB 650: añadir [to add], written as dogtong

• gaby: SB 651: noche ‘night’

• gãda: SB 652: hermoʃura [beauty], written as ganra

• gagar: SB 651: imitar [to imitate]

• gamit: SB 652: tomar [to take]

• ganir: SB 652: caçador [hunter]

• ganit: SB 652: rigor [rigor]

• gapas: SB 652: segar [to reap]

• gapi: SB 652: deʃgajar [to break off]

• gaʃa: SB 652: reñir [to scold]

• gatong: SB 652: atiçar [to stoke]

• gavar: SB 652: dar [to give]

• gaya: SB 653: imitar [to imitate]

• gayat: SB 653: picar [to slice into small pieces]

• gayon: SB 653: anʃi [that way]

• giba: SB 651: derriuar [to tear down]

• gilgil: NS 153: cortar como quien asierra [to cut by sawing]

• giling: SB 653: moler [to grind]

• gilit: SB 653: cortar [to cut]

• giʃi: SB 651: deʃgarrar [to rip]

• gitay: SB 654: tajadas [slabs]

• giyt: SB 653: entremeterʃe [to meddle]

• gomõ: SB 654: caer [to fall], written as gomon

• gulãg: SB 654: envejeçer [to get old], written as gulang

• gũting: SB 654: tijeras [scissors], written as gunting

• haba: SB 654: largo [length]

• habilin: SB 655: dejar [to leave]

• habul: SB 6555: corer [to run]

• hãga: SB 656: termino [limit], not

to be confused with hanga [to admire]

• hagis: SB 655: tirar [to throw]

• halao: NS 162: entresacar las espigas [to pull spikes out]

• halili: SB 655: trocar [to exchange]

• halimbava: SB 651: exemplo [example]

• halo: SB 656: mezclar [to mix]

• hampas: SB 656: apalear [to thrash]

• handog: SB 656: tributo [tribute], written as hanrog

• hango: SB 656: sacar [to take out]

• hapay: SB 657: derribar [to tear down]

• harap: SB 657: delante [front]

• hatir: SB 657: llevar [to carry]


• hatol: SB 657: iuzgar [to judge]

• havas: SB 657: diʃpueʃto [ready]

• hayag: SB 657: deʃcubrir [to reveal]

• hayin: SB 657: ofreçer [to offer]

• hicayat: NS 171: enlabiar con buenas palabras [to convince someone with nice words]

• higit: SB 658: eʃtirar [to stretch]

• higop: SB 658: soruer [to sip]

• hila: SB 658: tirar [to pull]

• hilao: NS 173: crudo, fruta verde [raw, unripe]

• hilis: SB 658: rebanar [to slice]

• hina: SB 658: enflaquecer [to make thin]

• hinang: SB 659: soldar [to solder]

• hingi: SB 659: pedir [to ask]

• hingil: SB 659: allegarʃe [to adopt]

• hingyn: see hingi

• hinhin: SB 659: meʃura [restraint]

• hipa: SB 659: allanarʃe [to even out]

• hiram: SB 659: empreʃtar [to lend]

• hithit: SB 659: chupar [to suck]

• hiva: SB 659: cortar [to cut]

• hiyao: SB 659: voçes [shouts]

• hocom: SB 660: iuzgar [to judge]

• hogas: SB 660: lauar [to wash]

• hoho: SB 660: derramar [to pour]

• holog: SB 660: caer [to fall]

• honos: SB 660: dezmar [to divide into ten]

• hopa: SB 660: paz [peach]

• hothot: SB 660: sorver [to slurp]

• hotoc: SB 660: enarcar [to arch]

• huba: SB 660: deʃatar [to untie]

• hubnit: : SB 660: arrebatar [to snatch]

• hubo: SB 659: deʃnudarʃe [to get naked], written as hobo

• hucay: NS 182: hoya, ó cabar [a big hole, or to dig up]

• huʃay: SB 660: abonançar [to become calm]

• impis: SB 662: apretar [to squeeze]

• laan: SB 663: aparejar [to prepare]

• laban: SB 663: deʃafiar [to challenge]

• labi: SB 663: sobra|sobras [excess]

• labnao: SB 663: ralo [thin, sparse]

• labnot: SB 663: arrancar [to pull]

• labon: SB 664: cocer [to boil]

• lactao: NS 200: dejar un número grande, y pasar á otro [to leave out a big number and proceed to the next]

• laet: SB 665: empeorar [to worsen], written as lait

• laga: SB 664: cocer [to boil]

• lagac: SB 664: dejar [to leave]

• lagari: SB 664: aserrar [to saw]

• laglag: SB 664: deʃtruir [to destroy]

• lagoc: SB 664: tragar [to swallow]

• lagom: SB 664: emparejar [to match]

• lãgor: SB 666: tierno [tender], written as langor

• lagoslos: SB 664: ruido [noise]

• lagot: SB 664: raʃgar [to tear up]

• lagpac: SB 664: caer [to fall]

• lagquit: SB 664: eʃpeʃar [to thicken], written as lagcqit

• lagyo: SB 664: nombre [to name], written as lagio

• lahoc: SB 664: mezclar [to mix]

• lahoy: SB 665: materia [material]

• laiyn: SB 665: penca [main rib of a leaf], written as listed as lain

• lalim: SB 665: abiʃmo [abyss]

• lamac: SB 665: eʃparcir [to scatter]

• lamas: SB 664: aserrar [to saw]

• lambut: SB 665: amasar [to knead]

• lamig: SB 665: frio [cold]


• lamoc: SB 665: pedaços [pieces]

• lamon: SB 665: tragar [to swallow]

• lamuyo: SB 665: embaucar [to swindle]

• langba: SB 666: medrar [to grow]

• langcap: SB 666: iuntar [to join]

• lanta: SB 666: marchito [withered]

• lapa: SB 666: deʃcuartiçar [to cut up]

• lapac: SB 666: deʃgajar [to break off]

• lapag: SB 666: aʃentar [to settle]

• lapat: SB 666: traʃlapar [to overlap]

• lapi: SB 667: deʃgajar [to break off]

• lapis: SB 667: labrar [to carve]

• lapit: SB 667: açercarʃe [to draw near]

• lapnit: SB 667: deʃcorteçar [to skin]

• laqui: SB 664: grande [big], written as lacqui

• laravan: SB 667: imagen [image]

• larlar: SB 667: multiplicar [to multiply]

• laro: SB 667: iuego [game]

• laró: see laro

• laʃac: NS 214: podrirse la fruta [to rot, as in a fruit]

• latag: SB 667: eʃtender [to stretch]

• laving: SB 667: colgar [to hang]

• lavit: SB 667: colgar [to hang]

• laylay: SB 665: colgar [to hang], written as lailay

• layo: SB 667: alejarʃe [to move away]

• liban: SB 667: dilatar [to expand]

• libog: SB 668: lujurioʃo [lusty]

• licao: SB 668: enroʃcar [to wind]

• licʃi: SB 668: ligero [agile]

• ligang: SB 668: trastornar [to upset]

• ligao: SB 668: errar [to err]

• lihis: SB 668: deʃcaminado [misguided]

• lilac: SB 668: hojas [leaves]

• lilim: NS 222: sombra del árbol [shade of a tree]

• limir: NS 224: goloso, disimulado, secreto, comer á escondidas [greedy, concealed, secret, eat in hiding]

• limit: SB 669: juntar|eʃpeʃar [to join or to thicken]

• limlim: SB 669: sombra [shadow]

• linang: SB 669: hermoʃa [beautiful]

• linao: SB 669: claro [clear]

• lingir: SB 669: encubrir [to conceal]

• linis: SB 669: enlucir [to polish]

• liʃiya: NS 229: desviar [to divert]

• litao: SB 670: brotar [to emerge]

• livag: SB 670: condiçion [condicion]

• livanag: SB 670: luz|rayo [light, ray]

• livat: SB 670: enbaʃar [to pack]

• livavay: SB 670: alba [dawn], written ay livayvay

• liyit: SB 670: menudo [small]

• loag: SB 670: enʃanchar [to widen]

• loãg: SB 670: enʃanchar [to widen], written as loang

• loang: see loãg

• loar: SB 670: lodo [mud]

• loblob: SB 670: meter [to insert]

• locar: SB 670: arrebañar [to scrape]

• locʃo: SB 670: saltar [to jump]

• looc: SB 671: enʃenada [cove]

• loslos: SB 671: desliçar [to slide]

• loʃong: SB 671: abajar [to go down]

• lotong: SB 671: delicado [delicate]


• lova: SB 671: hechar [to throw out]

• lubha: SB 671: demaʃiado [too much]

• lubug: SB 672: hundir [to sink]

• lulan: SB 671: carga [load], written as lolan

• luvas: SB 671: ir [to go]

• mandala: SB 674: hacina [pile]

• manonogac: frog catcher, from togac: NS 428: rana [frog] (ma–, sound change and reduplication)

• mucha: SB 677: cara [face]

• nacnac: SB 677: enconarʃe [to fester]

• nahot: NS 251: tirar metal para hacerlo alambre [to pull metal to make it into a wire]

• nana: SB 678: podre [pus]

• nanag: SB 678: aʃar [to roast]

• ngayon: SB 678: agora [now]

• ngoya: SB 679: maʃcar [to chew]

• nipis: SB 678: zençeño [thin]

• obor: SB 679: palmito [palm heart], written as obur

• ocab: SB 679: bocado|morder [a mouthful, to bite]

• ogoy: SB 678: bambalearʃe [to sway]

• olac: SB 679: entrar [to enter]

• olang: SB 679: langoʃta [lobster]

• oli: SB 679: boluer [to return]

• olipas: SB 679: soʃlayo [sideways]

• olol: SB 679: loco [fool]

• olong: SB 680: hablar[to talk]

• omang: SB 680: armar [to assemble]

• omit: SB 680: hurtar|siʃar [to steal, to pilfer]

• ona: SB 680: delante|el primero [front, first]

• opaʃala: SB 680: alebe [treacherous]

• opat: SB 680: deʃtetar [to wean]

• orali: SB 680: atraer [to attract]

• orõg: SB 680: deʃcrecer [to decrease], written as orong

• orong: see orõg

• oroy: SB 681: mofar [to ridicule]

• oʃig: SB 681: seguir [to follow]

• osos: SB 681: deʃliçarʃe [to slide]

• otang: SB 681: deuda|tomar [debt, to take]

• otot: SB 681: pedo|peerʃe [fart, to fart]

• ovay: SB 681: bexuco|sirga [reed, towrope]

• ovi: SB 681: menʃtruo [menstruation]

• oyam: SB 681: mofar [to ridicule]

• pacaʃamyn: to make something or someone evil, from sama: SB 692: malo|mala [bad] (paca–, –in and contraction)

• pacla: NS 275: sabor áspero [harsh taste]

• pacó: NS 275: una yerva comestible [an edible herb]

• pacpac: SB 681: ala|batir [wing, to beat]

• paen: SB 682: zebo [bait], written as pain

• paet: SB 682: amargor [bitterness], written as pait

• pagacpac: SB 681: alear [to flutter]

• pagatpat: NS 276: una fruta como higos, también un género de pájaro [a fruit similar to a fig, also a kind of bird]

• pagba: SB 682: coçer [to cook]

• pagong: SB 682: galapago [big turtle]

• pagpag: SB 682: sacudir [to shake]

• pagʃilyn: possibly from sili: NS 364: echar el arroz en el bilao para limpiarlo [put rice on a winnowing


tray to clean it] (pag–, –in and contraction)

• pagui: SB 682: raʃpar|raya [to scrape, stingray]

• pagyl: SB 682: iauali [wild boar]

• pagytan: SB 682: entremedias [in-between space]

• pahas: SB 682: tortuga [turtle]

• pãhic: SB 685: subir [to go up], written as panhic

• pahir: SB 682: refregõ|vntar [scrubbing, to spread]

• paho: SB 682: aceytunas [olives]

• palaca: SB 682: rana [frog]

• palacol: SB 682: acha|hacha [axe]

• palagay: SB 682: depoʃitar [to deposit]

• palar: SB 682: hender [to cleave]

• palaʃan: NS 281: bejuco grande [big reed]

• palaʃpas: SB 683: hoja [leaf]

• palatohat: SB 683: hurdidero [loom]

• pali: SB 683: reʃponder [to respond]

• palibhaʃa: SB 683: hironia|ironia [irony]

• palit: SB 683: comutar [to change]

• palo: SB 683: açotar [to flog]

• palogpong: SB 683: cogollos [sprouts], written as palongpong

• palongpong: see palogpong

• palos: SB 683: anguillas [eels]

• pana: SB 684: flecha|saeta [arrow, dart]

• panamit: NS 289: lanza con fisga [fish spear]

• panaog: NS 290: bajar por escalera [to go down the stairs]

• panayam: NS 290: conversación [conversation]

• pandao: SB 684: requirir [to require]

• pangao: SB 684: encarçerlar [to imprison]

• pangayi: SB 684: reçar [to pray],

written as pangaryi

• pangit: NS 294: torcer mucho un hilo [to twist a thread very tightly]

• pangtot: NS 69: hedor de carne ó pescado podrido [foul smell of rotten meat or fish], filed under boloc, its synonym

• pangus: NS 295: chupar caña dulce [to suck on a piece of sugarcane]

• pangusap: NS 295: hablar [to

talk], written as pangosap

• panhic: SB 685: subir [to go up]

• panis: SB 685: açedo|olor [sour smell]

• pantay: SB 685: allanar [to flatten]

• para: SB 685: igual|imitar [to imitate]

• pariʃucat: SB 685: cuadrado [square]

• paros: SB 685: almejas [clams]

• parpar: NS 301: estraviarse navengando por viento recio ó corriente [to go astray while sailing with a strong or blowing wind]

• parvas: NS 301: caña de boo más

larga que Palingasan [a bamboo pole longer than a palingasan]

• paʃarĩg: SB 686: decir [to say], written as pasaring

• paʃoc: SB 686: entrar [to enter]

• pasolo: SB 686: balleʃton [snare]

• patac: SB 686: gotear|gota [to drip]

• patay: SB 686: cuerpo|omiçidio [to kill]

• patda: SB 686: leche|liga [milk, sap]

• pâtir: NS 386: juego de muchachos, dándose en las


pantorrillas [a game in which children hit each other’s calf]

• patnugot: SB 686: acompañar [to accompany], written as patnogot

• paus: SB 685: enrronqueçer [to make hoarse], written as paos

• pavican: SB 686: tortuga [turtle]

• pavir: NS 307: zacate ó nipa para techar cosiéndola [grass or palm fronds that when sewn together can be used for roofing]

• payag: SB 686: conçeder [to grant]

• payapay: SB 686: llamar [to call]

• payat: SB 686: deʃmedrado [feeble]

• paying: NS 308: encogerse [to shrink]

• paypay: SB 682: auentador [fan], written as paipay

• piga: SB 686: eʃprimir [to squeeze]

• pigy: SB 686: culo|nalga [butt, buttock]

• piit: NS 311: detener la salida de alguna cosa animada ó inanimada [to halt the departure of an anímate or inanimate object]

• pili: SB 687: eʃcojer [to choose]

• pilis: SB 687: torçer|torçerʃe [to twist]

• pilit: SB 687: conʃtreñir [to compel]

• pingi: SB 687: paño [cloth]

• pintoho: SB 687: obedeçer [to obey]

• pipis: SB 7: eʃtender|algodõn [to stretch cotton]

• piral: SB 687: liga|soldar [binding, to solder]

• piris: NS 315: un género de fruta agridulce [a kind of sweet and sour fruit]

• piʃãg: see piʃan

• piʃan: SB 687: iuntar [to bind]

• piʃcal: SB 687: cojer|rondar [to get, to circle]

• piʃil: SB 687: ablandar [to soften]

• pita: SB 688: apeteçer [to fancy]

• pitas: SB 688: desgranar [to thresh]

• pocol: SB 688: quebrar|calabaçada [to break, blow on the head]

• pocpoc: SB 688: palo [stick]

• pogot: SB 688: degollar [to behead]

• põgso: SB 688: monton [pile],

written as pongʃo

• pola: SB 688: colorado [red]

• polac: SB 688: zerrado [shut]

• polo: NS 319: pedir cosillas, menudencias [to ask for little things]

• polong: SB 688: ayuntamiento [meeting]

• pongoc: SB 688: chichon [bump], written as pongco (the handwritten annotation on top of the word by the unknown owner of this copy of the Arte clearly defines it as a ‘chichón’)

• pongos: SB 688: zercenar [to cut]

• popo: SB 688: cortar [to cut]

• popol: SB 688: afeitar|barniçar [to shave, to varnish]

• porol: SB 688: boto|embotar [to blunt]

• potat: SB 689: hojas [leaves]

• potõg: SB 689: toquilla [headdress], written as potong

• potol: SB 689: cortar|manco [to cut]

• potong: see potõg

• pototan: NS 323: un árbol [a tree]

• poyoc: SB 689: morder [to chew]

• pucao: SB 689: deʃpertar [to awaken]


• pucnat: SB 688: deʃpegar [to detach], written as pocnat

• pugahan: SB 689: palma [palma]

• pugot: SB 688: degollar [to behead]

• pulhin: see polo

• pulirpulir: NS 324: ostiones pequeños [small oysters]

• punit: SB 689: raʃgar|roto [to rip, broken]

• purpur: SB 689: deʃpuntado [blunt], written as porpor

• puʃao: NS 324: pescar [to fish], written as pusau

• puti: SB 689: blancura [whiteness]

• quibu: SB 643: moverʃe [to move around], written as cqibo

• quilabut: SB 643: eʃtremecerse [to be frightened], written as cqilabot

• quilala: SB 643: conoçer [to know], written as cqilala

• quilao: SB 643: adobo [marinade], written as cquilao

• quimquim: SB 643: apretar [to squeeze], written as cqimcqim

• quinig: SB 644: eʃcuchar [to listen], written as cqinig

• quinis: SB 644: reluçir [to shine], written as cqinis

• quintay: SB 644: cuajarʃe [to curdle], written as cqintay

• quipot: SB 644: angosto [narrow], written as cqipot

• quipquip: SB 644: allegarʃe [to gather], written as cqipcqip

• quiquig: SB 643: eʃcaruar [to rummage], written as cqicqig

• quiquil: SB 643: limar [to polish], written as cqicqil

• quita: SB 644: buʃcar [to search], written as cqita

• quitang: NS 330: cordel largo de que penden muchos anzuelos [a

long cord to which various hooks are tied], written as qitang

• quitil: SB 644: deʃhojar [to pull the petals off], written as cqitil

• quitir: SB 644: angosto [narrow], written as cqitir

• quiyapo: NS 331: yerva asi llamada [a grass that is so named], written as qiyapò

• ragan: SB 646: cargar [to weigh down], written as dagan

• ragrag: SB 646: añadir [to add], written as dagrag

• ragys: SB 646: empujar [to push], written as dagis

• rahã: SB 646: deʃpacio [slowly], written as dahan

• rahac: SB 646: gargajear [to spit up phlegm], written as dahac

• rahas: SB 646: bravo|forçar [to force violently], written as dahas

• ralang: SB 647: ralo [sparse], written as dalang

• rami: SB 647: mucho [a lot], written as dami

• rapa: SB 648: caer [to fall], written as dapa

• rayti: SB 647: apegar [to become attached], written as daiti

• ricric: SB 649: moler [to crush], written as dicdic

• riin: SB 649: apretar [to squeeze], written as diin

• rilim: SB 649: oʃcuro [dark], written as dilim

• riquit: SB 649: donayre [finesse], written as dicqit

• rovag: SB 650: cobarde [corward], written as dovag

• rumi: SB 650: suciedad [dirt], written as dumi

• ʃaar: SB 689: auiʃo|auiʃar [advice, to advise]

• ʃabat: SB 689: atajar|traer [to interrupt, to bring]


• ʃabit: SB 689: colgar [to hang]

• ʃabog: SB 689: sembrar [to sow]

• ʃabonot: SB 689: arrãcar [to pull out]

• ʃaboy: SB 689: regar|hechar [to scatter, to throw]

• ʃacag: SB 643: eʃcaruar [to rummage], written as cqicqig

• ʃacay: SB 690: embarcarʃe [to get on board]

• ʃacong: SB 690: calcañal|talõ [heel]

• ʃacva: SB 690: pie [foot]

• ʃacvil: NS 335: dar de mano echando de sí [to refuse something by throwing it away]

• ʃadiva: SB 690: freʃca coʃa [fresh thing]

• ʃadya: NS 335: prevenir, aparejar [to foresee, to be ready]

• ʃagang: NS 496: caer algo asentado [to fall securely]

• ʃagiʃag: SB 690: diviʃa [emblem]

• ʃagvan: SB 690: remo [paddle]

• ʃahog: SB 690: reboluer [to stir]

• ʃaing: SB 690: guiʃar|coçer [to stew, to boil]

• ʃalab: SB 691: socarrar [to scorch]

• ʃalapang: SB 691: fiʃga [spear]

• ʃalat: SB 691: faltar [to lack]

• ʃalaysay: SB 691: declarar [to declare]

• ʃalin: SB 691: traʃladar [to transfer]

• ʃalitá: SB 691: cuento [story]

• ʃalityn: SB 691: Diverʃidad ‘diversity,’ written as salit (–in)

• ʃalonga: SB 692: cueʃta[slope]

• ʃâma: SB 692: acompañar [to accompany]

• ʃamat: NS 348: hojas de palmas tejidas que sirven de platos [palm leaves sewn together and used as plates]

• ʃambulat: SB 692: eʃparcir [to spread]

• ʃamo: SB 692: liʃonjear [to flatter]

• ʃampaloc: SB 692: tamarindo [tamarind]

• ʃampay: SB 692: tender [to hang out]

• ʃamʃam: SB 692: robar [to rob]

• ʃandal: SB 692: arrimar [to push against]

• ʃandali: NS 350: pedir prestado, prestar [to borrow, to lend]

• ʃandig: SB 692: arrimar|poner [to push against, to put]

• ʃandoc: SB 692: cuchara|sacar [ladle, to scoop out]

• ʃangal: NS 351: desmochar el árbol grande [to pollard a big tree]

• ʃangcap: SB 692: adherentes [ingredients]

• ʃangpa: SB 692: poner [to put]

• ʃaoli: SB 693: boluer [to return]

• ʃapin: SB 693: aforrar [to line]

• ʃapʃap: SB 693: deʃcaʃcarar [to peel]

• ʃarlac: SB 693: arrojar [to throw]

• ʃarʃar: SB 693: varar|zarpar [to beach, to set sail]

• ʃaʃa: SB 693: hender [to cleave]

• ʃayar: SB 693: arraʃtrar [to drag]

• ʃayʃay: SB 693: declarer [to declare]

• ʃiba: SB 694: partir [to divide]

• ʃibac: SB 694: hender [to cleave]

• ʃiban: NS 360: dilatar, diferir [to extend, to defer]

• ʃibaʃib: NS 360: inquietud del puerco dentellando [unease of a pig as it bites]

• ʃicʃic: SB 694: hinchir [to fill]

• ʃicvan: SB 694: enhilar [to thread]

• ʃigang: SB 694: cocer [to cook]

• ʃigao: SB 694: gritar [to shout], written as sigau


• ʃiir: SB 694: peʃcar [to fish]

• ʃila: SB 694: comer|carne [to eat meat]

• ʃilir: SB 694: entrar|meter [to enter, to insert]

• ʃilo: SB 694: laço|armar [trap, to set one]

• ʃilõg: SB 694: debajo

[underneath], written as ʃilong

• ʃinantan: SB 694: quintal [a hundred pounds]

• ʃinga: SB 693: sonarʃe [to blow one’s nose]

• ʃingil: SB 695: pedir|cobrar [to ask, to collect]

• ʃingit: SB 695: meter|ingle [to insert, groin]

• ʃingʃay: SB 695: deʃcarriado [wayward]

• ʃinʃin: SB 695: apretar [to be tight]

• ʃipan: SB 695: mondadientes [toothpicks]

• ʃiping: SB 695: allegarʃe [to come together]

• ʃipit: SB 695: apretar|cojer [to squeeze, to take]

• ʃipol: SB 695: deʃarraigar [to uproot]

• ʃipot: SB 695: aʃomar|aparecer [to peek, to appear]

• ʃipʃip: SB 695: chupar [to suck]

• ʃiquil: SB 694: dar|codazo [to nudge]

• ʃiquip: SB 694: angoʃto [narrow], written as sicqip

• ʃira: SB 695: destruir [to destroy]

• ʃiʃir: SB 695: zabullirʃse [to submerge one’s self]

• ʃiʃiu: SB 695: pollo [chicken]

• ʃocol: SB 695: medir [to measure]

• ʃohol: SB 696: sobornar [to bribe]

• ʃohot: SB 696: dadiua [gift]

• ʃolo: SB 696: vña|pata [nail, leg]

• ʃolõg: see solong

• ʃolong: SB 696: empuyar [to push]

• ʃombong: SB 696: acusar [to accuse]

• ʃonday: SB 696: recoʃtarʃe [to lie down]

• ʃondol: SB 696: herir|picar [to wound, to sting]

• ʃongco: SB 696: tentar|prueua [to test]

• ʃongdo: SB 696: buscar|hallar [to fetch]

• ʃontoc: SB 696: apuñetear [to punch]

• ʃoot: SB 696: meter [to insert]

• ʃovag: NS 379: cornada [goring], written as souag

• ʃual: SB 695: levantar|soliuiar [to raise, to lift], written as soal

• ʃuba: SB 697: tentar [to prove]

• ʃubaʃob: NS 380: caer de hocicos [to fall face down]

• ʃubaybay: SB 697: abraçarʃe [to embrace one’s self]

• ʃuca: SB 697: vomitar [to vomit]

• ʃucal: SB 697: enojo|peʃadũbre [anger, grief]

• ʃuclay: NS 381: peine de dientes ralos [fine-tooth comb]

• ʃugba: SB 697: abalãçarʃe [to spring at]

• ʃulat: SB 697: carta|eʃcrevir [letter, to write]

• ʃulib: SB 697: almejas [clams]

• ʃulir: SB 697: hilar|algodon [to thread cotton]

• ʃumbali: SB 697: cortar|degollar [to cut, to behead]

• ʃumpa: SB 697: iuramento [promise]

• ʃumpit: SB 696: ieringa [syringe], written as sompit

• ʃuʃu: SB 696: mamar, encender [to

suck, to light], written as soʃo


• ʃuyo: SB 697: conformarʃe [to conform], written as soyo

• ʃuyor: SB 697: peine|peinarʃe [comb, to comb], written as soyor

• taã: NS 384: respetar, dejando decir ó hacer algo á otro [to respect, allowing someone to sayo or do something]

• taac: Neither SB nor NS gives any meaning for this word. Based on the group of words found in the Arte, this perhaps refers to taan: NS 384: poner anzuelo entre dos palos dentro del rio ó mar [to place a hook between two sticks in the river or the sea]

• taas: SB 697: alto|alçar [tall, to lift]

• taba: SB 697: gordura|gordo [corpulence, fat]

• tabac: SB 697: alfanje|cortar [cutlass, to cut]

• tabang: SB 697: desabrido [tasteless]

• tabi: SB 698: orilla|ribera [edge, bank]

• tabo: SB 698: sacar [to take out]

• tabol: SB 698: creçer [to grown]

• taboy: SB 698: auyẽtar [to chase away]

• tacao: SB 698: viçioʃo|goloʃo [vicious, glutton]

• tacap: SB 698: brauatas [threats]

• tacas: SB 698: huirʃe [to flee]

• tacbo: SB 698: correr [to run]

• taclir: NS 387: pescar mar adentro con anzuelo, dejándolo atado en dos palos, ó en la banca [to fish offshore with a hook, leaving it tied to two sticks or onto a boat]

• tacot: SB 698: temor|miedo [fright, fear]

• tactac: SB 698: golpear [to hit]

• tae: SB 698: mierda|cagar [excrement, to defecate]

• taga: SB 698: cortarʃe [to be cut]

• tagá: see taga

• tagaʃa: NS 389: un árbol que nace en agua salobre [a tree that grows in salty water]

• tago: SB 698: eʃconderʃe [to hide]

• tagpi: SB 698: remendar [to darn]

• tagyn: see taga

• tahan: SB 699: parar [to stop]

• tahe: see tae

• taip: NS 392: ahechar el arroz [to sift rice], written as tahip

• talaba: SB 699: ostiones|cojer [oysters, to get oysters]

• talaghay: SB 699: eʃforçarʃe [to exert effort]

• talas: SB 699: roçar [to scrape against]

• talicor: SB 699: sobrecargar [to overload]

• talim: SB 699: filo|corte [blade, cut]

• talingir: SB 699: encubrir [to cover]

• talinhaga: SB 699: componer [to compose]

• talo: SB 699: vençido [loser]

• talobo: SB 699: creçer [to grow]

• tamar: SB 700: pereça [laziness]

• tambing: SB 700: al pũto|luego [on point, later]

• tamlay: SB 700: cãʃançio|fati. [exhaustion, fatigue]

• tampal: SB 700: bofeton [slap]

• tampalaʃan: SB 700: bellaco [wicked]

• tampi: SB 700: palmada|golpe [slap, hit]

• tamys: SB 700: dulçura [sweetness], written as tamis

• tanan: SB 700: huir|huirʃe [to flee]

• tanao: SB 700: atalayar [to catch a glimpse]


• tanda: SB 700: señal|señalar [sign, to indicate], written as tanra

• tandos: NS 404: dardo ó lanza con punta de hierro [dart or lanze with an iron tip]

• tangal: SB 700: corteça [crust]

• tangan: SB 700: aʃir|aʃirʃe [to attach, to attach one’s self]

• tanghali: SB 700: medio dia [midday]

• tanong: SB 701: preguntar [to ask a question]

• taob: SB 701: boluer|bocaabajo [to turn upside down]

• taos: SB 701: atraueʃar [to pierce]

• tapa: SB 701: ahumar|secar [to smoke, to dry]

• tapang: SB 701: valiente [brave]

• tapat: SB 701: recto|iusto [upright, just]

• tapi: SB 701: aplastar|manta [to flatten a blanket]

• tapic: SB 701: salpicar|palmear [to splash, to pat]

• tapis: SB 701: saya|manta [skirt, blanket]

• tapon: SB 701: arrojar [to throw], written as tapun

• tari: SB 701: eʃpolon [spur]

• tartar: SB 701: picar [to mince]

• taʃac: SB 701: puñalada [stab]

• tatag: SB 701: fortaleçer [to strengthen]

• tavag: SB 701: llamar [to call]

• tavar: SB 701: remiʃion [remission]

• tavas: SB 701: alumbre|piedra [alum]

• tayabutab: NS 401: tierra húmeda, blanda y fofa [humid, soft and fluffy earth], written as tayabotab

• tiba: SB 702: cortar [to cut]

• tibay: SB 702: reçio|firme [strong, firm]

• tical: SB 702: palma [palm]

• ticatic: SB 702: lluuia [rain]

• ticlop: SB 702: doblar [to fold]

• ticom: SB 702: zerrar [to close]

• tigas: SB 702: duro|dura [hard]

• tigpao: NS 419: redecilla á modo de cuchara con que pescan de noche [a small net shaped like a spoon used for fishing at night]

• tigpas: SB 702: cortar [to cut]

• tilar: SB 702: cortar [to cut]

• tiltil: NS 421: mojar algo, como en salsa [to wet something, like in a sauce]

• timbang: SB 702: pesar [to weigh]

• timbon: SB 702: monton [pile]

• tinao: SB 702: colar|aclarar [to strain, to clarify]

• tinga: SB 702: eʃtaño|plomo [tin, lead]

• tinga: SB 702: hĩcarʃe|meterʃe [to wedge]

• tining: NS 424: asentarse lo que está revuelto en algun licor [to settle that which is turbid in some sort of licor]

• tipac: SB 703: hender [to cleave]

• tipon: SB 703: iuntar [to gather]

• tira: SB 703: sobra|restar [excess, to be left]

• tiric: SB 702: hincar|caer [to thrust, to fall]

• tiʃtis: SB 703: tela [cloth]

• titic: NS 426: escritura [writing]

• tiyim: SB 703: empaparʃe [to be soaked], written as tiyem

• toca: SB 703: tocarʃe [to be touched]

• tocol: SB 703: zinçelar [to chisel]

• tocʃo: SB 703: tẽtacion|tentar [temptation, to tempt]

• togac: NS 428: rana [frog]


• tolac: SB 703: rempujar [to shove]

• tolong: SB 704: ayudar [help], written as toloñg

• tolos: NS 430: estaca hincada [thrusted stake]

• tongo: SB 704: abajr [to go down]

• tongol: SB 704: degollar [to behead]

• tongtõg: SB 704: subir [to go up], written as tongtong

• tonton: see tongtõg

• totog: SB 704: atiçar [to poke]

• totoo: SB 704: verdadero [true]

• tovas: SB 704: levantar [to lift]

• tovir: SB 704: endereçar [to straighten]

• tuba: SB 705: licor|mosto [licor]

• tubo: SB 705: creçer [to grow]

• tugpa: SB 705: lleuar [to carry]

• tulac: see tolac

• tular: SB 703: imitar [to imitate], written as tolar

• tulin: NS 438: ligereza [nimbleness]

• tungayao: NS 432: palabras malas, ya indecentes, ya afrentosas [bad words, which are either indecent or insulting]

• tunhay: SB 704: levantar [to lift], written as tonhay

• vacʃi: SB 705: apartar [to pus aside]

• valat: SB 705: eʃparcir [to scatter]

• vnti: SB 680: menudo [small], written as onti

• yaang: SB 706: leuantar [to lift]

• yacag: SB 706: muñir [to convoke]

• yacap: SB 706: abraçar [to embrace]

• yaman: SB 706: riqueça [richness]

• yaya: SB 706: combidar [to invite]

• yayat: SB 706: flaco [thin]

• yba: SB 660: eʃtrañarʃe [to feel strange], written as iba

• yba: SB 706: atiçar [to poke], written as iba

• ybaba: SB 706: abajo [downwards], written as ibaba

• ybang bayan: SB 660: peregrino [pilgrim], written as ibangbayan

• ybayio: SB 661: de aquella parte [from over there], written as ibayeo

• ybig: SB 661: amar [to love], written as ibig

• ybis: SB 661: ayudar [to help], written as ibis

• ybon: SB 661: atiçar [to poke], written as ibon

• ygib: NS 188: ir por agua [to fetch water], written as iguib

• yguib: see ygib

• yhao: NS 188: asar carne ó pescado [to roast meat or fish]

• yhi: SB 661: orinar [to urinate], written as ihi

• ylac: SB 661: derrama [contribution], written as ilac

• ylang: SB 661: yermo [barren land], written as ilang

• ylao: SB 661: luz [light], written as ilao

• ylap: SB 661: eʃquiuarʃe [to avoid], written as ilap

• ylaya: SB 661: arriba [above], written as ilaya

• ylit: SB 661: prenda [pawn], written as ilit

• ylog: SB 661: arroyo|rio [brook, river], written as ilog

• ynabigay: see bigay

• ynapapanaog: see panaog

• ynat: SB 662: deʃpereçarʃe [to stretch out], written as inat

• ynatapõ: see tapon

• yngay: NS 192: voces, gritos, estruendo [voices, shouts, noise]


• yniholog, ynaholog, yhinolog: see holog

• ynit: SB 662: calor [heat], written as init

• ynum: SB 662: beuer [to drink], written as inum

• yoco: SB 707: inclinarʃe [to bow], written as yocor

• yopii: SB 707: doblegarʃe [to fold], written as yopi

• yrog: SB 662: halagar [to flatter], written as irog

• yʃda: SB 663: peʃcado [fish],

written as iʃda

• ytim: SB 663: negro|negra [black], written as itim

• ytlog: SB 663: gueuo [egg], written as itlog

• yva: SB 663: puñalada [stab-wound], written as iva

• yvi: NS 663: criar [to raise], written as ivy

• yyac: SB 663: gritar [to shout], written as iyac

• yyo: SB 663: de ti [yours], written as iyo

• yyot: SB 663: acto carnal [the sexual act], written as iyut

216 A Grammar of God Sales, M.J. CONCLUSION

CONCLUSION

Perhaps the contemporary dialectic of self and other is as much affected by the desire to preserve particular memory in universal culture as by the particular relation of memory to the past. The definition of an ever-greater part of collective memory as universal, shared by all peoples, implies a competition for memory within the context of universal identity.

Gabriel Motzkin (1996, 274)

Memory and Cultural Translation

The Tagalog word for memory is alaala. Although there are other words in the

missionary vocabularies of Tagalog, such as gunita, andam or agam, that may also be used to

refer to memory, alaala appears to be the most generic of them all. Blancas used this same

word to frame his exposition on the nature of the human person in his 1605 Memorial:

Diyata ang tauo, ay persona rin, at alin-alin man sa lahat na tauo, ay personas din naman:

yayamang paraparang binigyan nang Panginoong Dios nang isip, at nang alaala, at nang bait (99).

[Man is thus a persona, and anyone among mankind is also a persona, since the Lord God all gave them mind, memory and good sense in equal measure.]

Memory, for Blancas, was a fundamental attribute of man. It was this attribute that made

religious conversion a possibility. Blancas explained in other parts of his Memorial that memory

led man to look back to his past and see the darkness from which he had escaped (54, 248).

Memory also forced him to abide by the tenets of Christianity by reminding him of the mercy

of God (259-260, 304) and the saintly example of other men who had gone before him (811).

Religious truth is contigent upon memory and its historicity. The very nature of

memory carries with it the implication of pastness. How could anyone remember anything that

did not happen before? Indeed, how could anyone allude to any form of conversion without

contrasting a past state with a present? On this Steiner (2013 [1989]) writes that neither history

nor religion, neither aesthetics nor politics, would be possible without exercising that initial act

of confidence in the postulate of the divine (89). This idea is recurrent in the Catholic liturgy.


In the sacrament of penance, the confession obtained by the priest from the penitent is “a

labor of accounting for and recounting the past” (Rafael 1987, 322), while in the sacrament of

baptism, or in any other sacrament for that matter, repentance from the sins of the past always

precedes the actual sacramental rite (cf. Phelan 1955, 6). In all these instances, the implication

is that the Christian God is positioned as the precedent of all things to whom all things that

came later should be brought to account.

The precedence of the Christian God over all things was also the idea behind the

production of a missionary grammar such as the Arte. The premise that the languages of the

colonies could be analyzed though the structures of the sacred language of the colonial religion

was grounded on the belief that the Christian God was the ultimate source of truth and that

His Church wielded authority over the creation of what we now regard as secular knowledge.

By examining the translationality of missionary grammatization, this dissertation has shown

the precedence of God in a missionary-colonial grammar. The Arte is as much a grammar of

God as it is a grammar of Tagalog. We have seen that the Arte’s prescriptivist tendencies in

formulating grammatical rules did not only determine how Tagalog should be replicated as a

proselytic and pastoral discourse. It also laid down the foundations for representing the

Christian God in this language. It normativized the discursive forms with which speakers of

Tagalog may demonstrate their belongingness to Christianity as a particularized sphere of

colonial signification. The faith in the colonial divine, while performed externally through

devout practices of religious worship, was named, described, and heard in the translationality

of a missionary grammar.

My dissertation confirms what Rafael (2015), Fernández (2012) and López Parada

(2013) have already shown in their work regarding the untranslatability of the Christian God

in missionary texts. I wish to emphasize, however, that the claim that God is an untranslatable

signifier does not necessarily mean that translation has not occurred in these texts. Translation

is not restricted to the level of the word. If we take culture as our unit of translation, as we

have discussed in this dissertation, an untranslated word set against a backdrop of translated

sentences should be regarded as a translation solution in itself. If we accept the argument that

non-translation either brought an inexistent concept into existence, or prevented a signifier

from being corrupted once transferred into a grammatized language, we should likewise accept

that such faculties ascribed to non-translation were made possible because they happened


within a greater context of translation. In other words, if we say that the Castilian words ‘Dios,’

‘Virgen,’ ‘Santos’ and ‘Ángeles’ were untranslatables—here used as a nominal based on the

proposal of Cassin (2004)—, the assumption is that there were many other words that went

with these untranslatables that, on the contrary, were translated. The violence of an

untranslatable therefore lies in its capacity to call our attention to the assumed

incommensurability of a concept inscribed in a translated space. In the Arte, the discursive

newness of the Christian God was attributed not to His absolute conceptual absence in

Tagalog but rather to the supposedly defective modes of through which He has been

memorialized in the language prior to its grammatization. The Christian God was the ultimate

arbiter of languages, even of those spoken outside the traditional domains of Christianity. The

desire to grammatize Tagalog was hence motivated by the conviction that whatever knowledge

that may be gained from such a study will be vital to the eventual proselytization of the Indios.

Learning Tagalog was not an end on its own. It was instead a means to carry out other social

processes associated with the colonial enterprise, such as religious conversion and spiritual and

political governance.

Furthermore, the choice to retain an untranslatable instead of using what is feared to

be a corruptible signifier comes with what I have termed in this dissertation as the tyranny of

the perceived original. I am reminded of the work of Sandra Berman (2005) on translation and

history, where she talks about originality thusly:

A translation can at best inscribe a subsequent understanding, detailed in a new language that can never repeat the original but, at the most, touch it from the point of a tangent, allowing it to live into the future along a new and different line (263).

Berman’s view about originality parallels the findings of this dissertation, particularly with

respect to the alleged insufficiency of the grammatized language to replicate a perceived

original in translation. We have seen in the discussion that translation is a feature of the Arte

even before it was subjected to translation. The Arte had three languages co-occurring within

a single translated space: Tagalog, the grammatized language, Latin, the language template, and

Castilian Spanish, the metalanguage. Although these languages did occupy unequal places in

the hierarchy of colonial meanings, as Rafael maintains, with Latin as the originary and

numinous language that could best depict the Christian God, my own reading of the Arte also

suggests that these languages constituted a single block of interconnected signifiers


exemplifying a grammatical rule, which would have been considered in translation. This was

seen, for instance, in how the Arte was positioned in relation to the very language it was

grammatizing. Given the features of pre-colonial Tagalog, the Arte offered contrastive remarks

to differentiate between the Tagalog that was codified in the alphabetic script of the grammar,

and the Tagalog that was spoken by the indigenous speakers and written in the ancient script

called the baybayin. The author of the Arte admitted that it was difficult to reduce the nuances

of Tagalog completely into the structures of a written grammar, as evidenced by his recourse

to the alterity of the Indios and his occasional reliance on the indigenous script to clarify

pronunciation constraints.

As the fear of incommensurability between the concepts expressed in Latin or Castilian

and the unintended connotations emerging from their indigenous interpretations in Tagalog

was an ever-present concern in the Arte, awkward, complicated, and catachrestic grammatical

formulations were given by its author to compensate for structural and thematic discontinuities

between the languages in question. Structurally, some examples of these discontinuities

included the copulative verb of Latin, which was inexistent in Tagalog and was instead

expressed either through predicate-initial sentences or through the addition of the inversion

marker ay to subject-initial sentences; the notion of grammatical cases in Latin, which in

Tagalog was expressed by combining prepositions and subject pronouns, or by changing the

pronominal form altogether; the imperfective aspect of the Tagalog verb, which was

represented in the Arte in the present, future and historical preterite tenses of Castilian; the

Tagalog glottal stop, which in the Arte was marked using the baybayin; and the Tagalog

pronouns ‘kita’ (i.e., I to you), ‘tayo’ (i.e., we including you) and ‘kami’ (i.e., we without you),

which were all explicitated in Castilian. Thematic discontinuities, on the other hand, included

self-evident references to biblical persons and places, which were retained as realia in the

Tagalog passages; discussions about pre-Hispanic Tagalog practices, which were translated and

described in Castilian; and a general disengagement with pre-colonial belief as seen in the use

of Hispanized names and generic categorizations to refer to the Indio, and the portrayal of

non-Christian deities either as the Devil in the Christian sense or an untrue god.

I have considered these manifestations of the Arte’s translationality as a compelling

reason to adopt an estranging approach in my practical translation component. The Arte

brought the newness of Christianity into Tagalog while at the same time distancing it through


its compositional choices. Such estrangement was a message should be reflected in my own

translation. In my practical component, the sections from the Arte that made up the corpus

for translation have been rendered as a deliberately foreignized TT. This has been achieved

with the use of an archaized variety of Philippine English and the purposeful non-translation

of Latin and some Tagalog passages from the ST into the body of the TT. These passages have

also been rendered in italics as a compensatory visual device to offset minor paratextual

elements that could not be carried compositionally into the TT. Uncommon glyphs, whether

in the form of baybayin characters or obsolete punctuations and abbreviations in the alphabetic

script, have been kept in their unexplicitated forms with very minor modifications. The

agrammatical construction of several ST exemplars has been adopted in the TT to illustrate

the problematic translational equivalences proposed in the Arte.

As this dissertation draws to a close, the conclusion I am offering about the

translationality of missionary grammatization is one that can also be read as a commentary on

translation history. In my opinion, the singularity of the Arte as a core colonial text in the study

of Tagalog should be considered in relation to other authorial practices happening in different

parts of the Spanish Empire. The Arte’s privileging of the colonial divine, its reliance on Latin-

based categories to describe Tagalog, and its frequent referencing of Christian doctrine to

prove the validity of its arguments were historicized responses to how linguistic knowledge

was typically produced during the early modern period. It will be interesting to see in future

research endeavors in the field of missionary linguistics in the Philippines how the shift

towards a more evidence-based approach to language eroded the authority of the colonial

divine in favor of the new knowledges that came with the reshaping of the colonial condition.

A perusal of the materials for teaching grammar produced towards the end of the Spanish

colonial rule and the early years of the American occupation of the Philippines shows that

grammar was generally stripped of its theological anxieties and was executed through the

demonstrable measures of positivist reasoning. What was once considered as a valid form of

knowledge grounded on the accumulated weight of sacred scriptures and holy tradition was

invalidated as a mere mythologization of the all too human experience of language. An

investigation of the history of missionary grammatization in the archipelago from the early

seventeenth century, when Blancas’s Arte was published, to the nineteenth, when the

missionary grammars of Coria and Minguella as well as other non-missionary grammars were


completed, will yield very interesting insights about translation as a process and a product of

meaning-making in the Hispanic Philippines. Although studies to this end have already been

undertaken most notably by Ileto (2011 [1979]), Rafael (2005), Blanco (2009a), Guillermo

(2009) and Donoso Jiménez (2011), I believe that missionary linguistics should be revisited,

given its etiological assumptions. Additionally, my own positionality as a Tagalog limits my

understanding of missionary linguistics to those texts produced in this language. There are

many other Philippine languages that have been grammatized that researchers in the future

should consider.

Furthermore, following the work of Cano (2006, 2008, 2013) on the role of translation

in writing the history of the Philippines, I am proposing, based on the findings of this

dissertation, that any investigation in the history of translation in the Hispanic Philippines must

be broken down into an analysis of translation (in/of/as) history. My findings suggest that it

is nearly impossible to speak of a translation history without acknowledging how translation

figures in history, how it serves as a filter of history, and how it functions as history itself. For

many postcolonial societies such as the Philippines, translation is that unnamed and often

uncontested mechanism that transforms a past into the past.

This dissertation has problematized translation in history by looking at how Blancas

and other missionary authors engaged with translation in their own maasterpieces. As in Ricci’s

work on Islam (2006, 2011), we have seen in this dissertation how the idea of translation as it

is commonly understood in English did not always have a direct equivalent in the activities

that Catholic missionaries in the Philippines were doing as part of the proselytization of the

islands. It was for this reason that I have approached grammar and translation here as

procedurally individible components of missionanary grammatization. It was also for this

reason that the descriptors ‘missionary’ and ‘colonial,’ and the offices of ‘translator,’ ‘author,’

‘grammarian,’ ‘writer’ and ‘missionary’ were often synonymized in my discussion. Since the

concept of translation was not fully elucidated in the historical accounts, any oblique reference

to a translational act was typically imagined as an unproblematic transfer of meaning. One

gross oversimplification in the Arte (and in other missionary grammars as well) was the

presumption that translation was always feasible and that its intended message could be

‘protected’ from any extraneous interpretations.


Subsequently, this dissertation has reflected on why missionary grammatization may

be considered as a translation of history by showing how the Arte has inscribed the Tagalog

language into the Christian narrative. It was through translation that the Philippines was

constituted as a colonial space and was subsumed in a common history whose beginning could

be traced to the Christian account of universal creation. In missionary texts, those who were

thought to be living outside history were given a place where they could reside. This appears

to be a recurrent trope in other colonial contexts, as Bhabha (2004) points out:

[T]he emergence of modernity—as an ideology of beginning, modernity as the new—the template of this ‘non-place’ becomes the colonial space. […] The colonial space is the terra incognita or the terra nulla, the empty or wasted land whose history has to be begun, whose archives must be filled out; whose future progress must be secured in modernity (246, emphasis in the original).

We have seen in this dissertation how the Philippines as a space was generally designated in

missionary texts by including it within the borderlines of an empire of letters. In the Arte

specifically, the story of Christian salvation was transferred into the world of the Tagalogs

through the metaphors of Babel and the Pentecost. These metaphors were used to explain in

which ways linguistic multiplicity could be reframed as a missionary-colonial concern. Since

the knowledge of languages was presented in the Arte as a grace that revealed the majesty of

divine meanings, the formulations of grammatical rules in the Arte were often instantiated in

a moralizing and acculturating discourse. Lexical and syntactical elements were regulated in the

Arte based on how soundly they could express the teachings of Christianity.

Finally, this dissertation has demonstrated how translation can be read as history by

analyzing the Arte as a memory of Tagalog. Even in the American period, which saw the

development of structural linguistics, commentators like Mackinlay (1905) and Blake (1925)

were praising the Arte as an achievement in the language sciences. By the middle of the

twentieth century, amid the nationalist sentiments in the postwar Philippines, we read of the

Filipino statesman Claro M. Recto (1990 [1960], 719-720), who wrote about the contributions

of Blancas, particularly his Arte, to the propagation of the indigenous language. Such was the

influence of the Arte and other similar texts in the study of Tagalog. Many of the historical

‘truths’ about Tagalog language and literacy have been refracted to us through the memory

they contained. The existence of a pre-Hispanic Tagalog literary culture was memorialized in

missionary histories, while literary forms were replicated and analyzed in missionary grammars


and dictionaries. To an extent, this is also the case of Tagalog words, some of which have been

included in the glossary of this dissertation, whose etymologies and usage may be gathered

from the writings of the missionaries.

One of the biggest research gaps we have in the study of Tagalog is a comprehensive

analysis of its early history and evolution. Future research projects in this area will benefit from

the creation of a Tagalog historical corpus reconstructed from missionary grammars and

dictionaries. It would be very naïve, however, to take the linguistic data that we may gather

from missionary texts at face value. Citing Hayden White’s argument about historical

representation as being the “doxa of the modern historiographical establishment” (1987, 4,

emphasis in the original), Vidal Claramonte (2014a) explains that “[t]he discourse of history is

constructed with linguistic acts which translate reality, and which, like all translation, take place

in a specific context and not in a void” (207). Vidal Claramonte’s explanation can be applied

to the study of the history of translation and language in the Philippines. The lesson that the

translationality of missionary linguistics teaches us is that we should always question how

translational processes have modulated our understanding of the past. Memory has always

been the domain of the uneven. It is an irregular conflation of faceless voices, mouthless

languages and disconnected recollections that have been cohered into the narration of a

common past that we all purportedly share. For this reason, a translational reading of our

histories challenges us to acknowledge the imperfections of memory and the contrivance of

any action of authoring that aspires to perfect it.

In the beginning was the Word, says the Gospel of St. John. In Blancas’s Arte, however,

where facts of history could be told in the fictions of memory, the originary Word, the Logos,

was not an unchanging and eternal articulation of truth. It was instead an inflection of language,

a repurposing of discourse to name that which was unknown. Thus in this beginning was

Translation.

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