1
I.
INAUGURAL LECTURE,
ON THE VALUE OF COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY
AS A BRANCH OF ACADEMIC STUDY.
DELIVERED BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
THE 27TH OF OCTOBER, 1868.
The foundation of a professorial
chair in the University of Oxford marks an important epoch in the
history of every new science.1 There are other universities far more
ready to confer this academical
2
recognition on new branches of scientific research, and it would be easy
to mention several subjects, and no doubt important subjects, which have
long had their accredited representatives in the universities of France
and Germany, but which at Oxford have not yet received this well-merited
recognition.
If we take into account the study of ancient languages only, we see
that as soon as Champollion’s discoveries had given to the study of
hieroglyphics and Egyptian antiquities a truly scientific character, the
French government thought it its duty to found a chair for this
promising branch of Oriental scholarship. Italy soon followed this
generous example: nor was the Prussian government long behind hand in
doing honor to the newborn science, as soon as in Professor Lepsius it
had found a scholar worthy to occupy a chair of Egyptology at
Berlin.
If France had possessed the brilliant genius to whom so much is due
in the deciphering of the cuneiform inscriptions, I have little
doubt that long ago a chair would have been founded at the Collège de
France expressly for Sir Henry Rawlinson.
England possesses some of the best, if not the best, of Persian
scholars (alas! he who was here in my mind, Lord Strangford, is no
longer among us), yet there is no chair for Persian at Oxford or
Cambridge, in spite of the charms of its modern literature, and the vast
importance of the ancient language of Persia and Bactria, the Zend,
a language full of interest, not only to the comparative
philologist, but also to the student of Comparative Theology.
There are few of the great universities of Europe without a chair for
that language which, from the very beginning of history, as far as it is
known to us,
3
seems always to have been spoken by the largest number of human
beings,—I mean Chinese. In Paris we find not one, but two chairs
for Chinese, one for the ancient, another for the modern language of
that wonderful empire; and if we consider the light which a study of
that curious form of human speech is intended to throw on the nature and
growth of language, if we measure the importance of its enormous
literature by the materials which it supplies to the student of ancient
religions, and likewise to the historian who wishes to observe the
earliest rise of the principal sciences and arts in countries beyond the
influence of Aryan and Semitic civilization,—if, lastly, we take
into account the important evidence which the Chinese language,
reflecting, like a never-fading photograph, the earliest workings of the
human mind, is able to supply to the student of psychology, and to the
careful analyzer of the elements and laws of thought, we should feel
less inclined to ignore or ridicule the claims of such a language to a
chair in our ancient university.2
I could go on and mention several other subjects, well worthy of the
same distinction. If the study of Celtic languages and Celtic
antiquities deserves to be encouraged anywhere, it is surely in
England,—not, as has been suggested, in order to keep English
literature from falling into the abyss of German platitudes, nor to put
Aneurin and Taliesin in the place of Shakespeare and Burns, and to
counteract by their “suavity and brilliancy” the Philistine tendencies
of the Saxon and the Northman, but in order to
4
supply sound materials and guiding principles to the critical student of
the ancient history and the ancient language of Britain, to excite an
interest in what still remains of Celtic antiquities, whether in
manuscripts or in genuine stone monuments, and thus to preserve such
national heir-looms from neglect or utter destruction. If we consider
that Oxford possesses a Welsh college, and that England possesses the
best of Celtic scholars, it is surely a pity that he should have to
publish the results of his studies in the short intervals of official
work at Calcutta, and not in the more congenial atmosphere of
Rytichin.
For those who know the history of the ancient universities of
England, it is not difficult to find out why they should have been less
inclined than their continental sisters to make timely provision for the
encouragement of these and other important branches of linguistic
research. Oxford and Cambridge, as independent corporations, withdrawn
alike from the support and from the control of the state, have always
looked upon the instruction of the youth of England as their proper
work; and nowhere has the tradition of classical learning been handed
down more faithfully from one generation to another than in England;
nowhere has its generous spirit more thoroughly pervaded the minds of
statesmen, poet, artists, and moulded the character of that large and
important class of independent and cultivated men, without which this
country would cease to be what it has been for the last two centuries,
a res publica, a commonwealth, in the best sense of the
word. Oxford and Cambridge have supplied what England expected or
demanded, and as English parents did not send their sons to learn
Chinese or to study
5
Cornish, there was naturally no supply where there was no demand. The
professorial element in the university, the true representative of
higher learning and independent research, withered away; the tutorial
assumed the vastest proportions during this and the last centuries.
But looking back to the earlier history of the English universities,
I believe it is a mistake to suppose that Oxford, one of the most
celebrated universities during the Middle Ages and in the modern history
of Europe, could ever have ignored the duty, so fully recognized by
other European universities, of not only handing down intact, and laid
up, as it were, in a napkin, the traditional stock of human knowledge,
but of constantly adding to it, and increasing it fivefold and tenfold.
Nay, unless I am much mistaken, there was really no university in which
more ample provision had been made by founders and benefactors than at
Oxford, for the support and encouragement of a class of students who
should follow up new lines of study, devote their energies to work
which, from its very nature, could not be lucrative or even
self-supporting, and maintain the fame of English learning, English
industry, and English genius in that great and time-honoured republic of
learning which claims the allegiance of the whole of Europe, nay, of the
whole civilized world. That work at Oxford and Cambridge was meant to be
done by the Fellows of Colleges. In times, no doubt, when every kind of
learning was in the hands of the clergy, these fellowships might seem to
have been intended exclusively for the support of theological students.
But when other studies, once mere germs and shoots on the tree of
knowledge, separated from the old stem and
6
assumed an independent growth, whether under the name of natural
science, or history, or scholarship, or jurisprudence, a fair
division ought to have been made at once of the funds which, in
accordance with the letter, it may be, but certainly not with the spirit
of the ancient statutes, have remained for so many years appropriated to
the exclusive support of theological learning, if learning it could be
called. Fortunately, that mistake has now been remedied, and the funds
originally intended, without distinction, for the support of “true
religion and useful learning,” are now again more equally apportioned
among those who, in the age in which we live, have divided and
subdivided the vast intellectual inheritance of the Middle Ages, in
order to cultivate the more thoroughly every nook and every corner in
the boundless field of human knowledge.
Something, however, remains still to be done in order to restore
these fellowships more fully and more efficiently to their original
purpose, and thus to secure to the university not only a staff of
zealous teachers, which it certainly possesses, but likewise a class of
independent workers, of men who, by original research, by critical
editions of the classics, by an acquisition of a scholarlike knowledge
of other languages besides Greek and Latin, by an honest devotion to one
or the other among the numerous branches of physical science, by
fearless researches into the ancient history of mankind, by a careful
collection or revision of the materials for the history of politics,
jurisprudence, medicine, literature, and arts, by a life-long occupation
with the problems of philosophy, and last, not least, by a real study of
theology, or the science of religion, should perform again those duties
7
which in the stillness of the Middle Ages were performed by learned
friars within the walls of our colleges. Those duties have remained in
abeyance for several generations, and they must now be performed with
increased vigor, in order to retain for Oxford that high position which
it once held, not simply as a place of education, but as a seat of
learning, amid the most celebrated universities of Europe.
“Noblesse oblige” is an old saying that is sometimes addressed
to those who have inherited an illustrious name, and who are proud of
their ancestors. But what are the ancestors of the oldest and proudest
of families compared with the ancestors of this university! “Noblesse
oblige” applies to Oxford at the present moment more than ever, when
knowledge for its own sake, and a chivalrous devotion to studies which
command no price in the fair of the world, and lead to no places of
emolument in church or state, are looked down upon and ridiculed by
almost everybody.
There is no career in England at the present moment for scholars and
students. No father could honestly advise his son, whatever talent he
might display, to devote himself exclusively to classical, historical,
or physical studies. The few men who still keep up the fair name of
England by independent research and new discoveries in the fields of
political and natural history, do not always come from our universities;
and unless they possess independent means, they cannot devote more than
the leisure hours, left by their official duties in church or state, to
the prosecution of their favorite studies. This ought not to be, nor
need it be so. If only twenty men in Oxford and Cambridge had the will,
everything
8
is ready for a reform, that is, for a restoration of the ancient glory
of Oxford. The funds which are now frittered away in so-called
prize-fellowships, would enable the universities to-morrow to invite the
best talent of England back to its legitimate home. And what should we
lose if we had no longer that long retinue of non-resident fellows? It
is true, no doubt, that a fellowship has been a help in the early career
of many a poor and hard-working man, and how could it be otherwise? But
in many cases I know that it has proved a drag rather than a spur for
further efforts. Students at English universities belong, as a rule, to
the wealthier classes, and England is the wealthiest country in Europe.
Yet in no country in the world would a young man, after his education is
finished, expect assistance from public sources. Other countries tax
themselves to the utmost in order to enable the largest possible number
of young men to enjoy the best possible education in schools and
universities. But when that is done the community feels that it has
fulfilled its duty, and it says to the young generation, Now swim or
drown. A manly struggle against poverty, it may be even against
actual hunger, will form a stronger and sounder metal than a
lotus-eating club-life in London or Paris. Whatever fellowships were
intended to be, they were never intended to be mere sinecures, as most
of them are at present. It is a national blessing that the two ancient
universities of England should have saved such large funds from the
shipwreck that swallowed up the corporate funds of the continental
universities. But, in order to secure their safety for the future, it is
absolutely necessary that these funds should be utilized again for the
9
advancement of learning. Why should not a fellowship be made into a
career for life, beginning with little, but rising like the incomes of
other professions? Why should the grotesque condition of celibacy be
imposed on a fellowship, instead of the really salutary condition
of—No work, no pay? Why should not some special literary or
scientific work be assigned to each fellow, whether resident in Oxford
or sent abroad on scientific missions? Why, instead of having fifty
young men scattered about in England, should we not have ten of the best
workers in every branch of human knowledge resident at Oxford, whether as
teachers, or as guides, or as examples? The very presence of such men
would have a stimulating and elevating effect: it would show to the
young men higher objects of human ambition than the baton of a
field-marshal, the mitre of a bishop, the ermine of a judge, or the
money bags of a merchant; it would create for the future a supply of new
workers as soon as there was for them, if not an avenue to wealth and
power, at least a fair opening for hard work and proper pay. All this
might be done to-morrow, without any injury to anybody, and with every
chance of producing results of the greatest value to the universities,
to the country, and to the world at large. Let the university continue
to do the excellent work which it does at present as a teacher, but let
it not forget the equally important duty of a university, that of a
worker. Our century has inherited the intellectual wealth of former
centuries, and with it the duty, not only to preserve it or to dole it
out in schools and universities, but to increase it far beyond the
limits which it has reached at present. Where there is no advance, there
is retrogression: rest is impossible for the human mind.
10
Much of the work, therefore, which in other universities falls to the
lot of the professors, ought, in Oxford, to be performed by a staff of
student-fellows, whose labors should be properly organized as they are
in the Institute of France or in the Academy of Berlin. With or without
teaching, they could perform the work which no university can safely
neglect, the work of constantly testing the soundness of our
intellectual food, and of steadily expanding the realms of knowledge. We
want pioneers, explorers, conquerors, and we could have them in
abundance if we cared to have them. What other universities do by
founding new chairs for new sciences, the colleges of Oxford could do
to-morrow by applying the funds which are not required for teaching
purposes, and which are now spent on sinecure fellowships, for making
either temporary or permanent provision for the endowment of original
research.
It is true that new chairs have, from time to time, been founded in
Oxford also; but if we inquire into the circumstances under which
provision was made for the teaching of new subjects, we shall find that
it generally took place, not so much for the encouragement of any new
branch of scientific research, however interesting to the philosopher
and the historian, as in order to satisfy some practical wants that
could no longer be ignored, whether in church or state, or in the
university itself.
Confining ourselves to the chairs of languages, or, as they used to
be called, “the readerships of tongues,” we find that as early as 1311,
while the Crusades were still fresh in the memory of the people of
Europe, an appeal was made by Pope Clement V. at the Council of
Vienne, calling upon the principal
11
universities in Christendom to appoint lecturers for the study of
Hebrew, Arabic, and Chaldaic. It was considered at the time a great
honor for Oxford to be mentioned by name, together with Paris, Bologna,
and Salamanca, as one of the four great seats of learning in which the
Pope and the Council of Vienne desired that provision should be made for
the teaching of these languages. It is quite clear, however, from the
wording of the resolution of the Council,3 that the chief object in
the foundation of these readerships was to supply men capable of
defending the interests of the church, of taking an active part in the
controversies with Jews and Mohammedans, who were then considered
dangerous, and of propagating the faith among unbelievers.
Nor does it seem that this papal exhortation produced much effect,
for we find that Henry VIII. in 1540 had to make new provision in order
to secure efficient teachers of Hebrew and Greek in the University of
Oxford. At that time these two languages, but more particularly Greek,
had assumed not only a theological, but a political importance, and it
was but natural that the king should do all in his power to foster and
spread a knowledge of a language which had been one of the most powerful
weapons in the hands of the reformers. At Oxford itself this new chair
was by no means popular: on the contrary those who studied Greek were
for a
12
long time looked upon with great suspicion and dislike.4
Henry VIII. did nothing for the support of Arabic; but a century
later (1636) we find Archbishop Laud, whose attention had been attracted
by Eastern questions, full of anxiety to resuscitate the study of Arabic
at Oxford, partly by collecting Arabic MSS. in the East and depositing
them in the Bodleian Library, partly by founding a new chair of Arabic,
inaugurated by Pococke, and rendered illustrious by such names as
Greaves, Thomas Hyde, John Wallis, and Thomas Hunt.
The foundation of a chair of Anglo-Saxon, too, was due, not so much
to a patriotic interest excited by the ancient national literature of
the Saxons, still less to the importance of that ancient language for
philological studies, but it received its first impulse from the divines
of the sixteenth century, who wished to strengthen the position of the
English Church in its controversy with the Church of Rome. Under the
auspices of Archbishop Parker, Anglo-Saxon MSS. were first collected,
and the Anglo-Saxon translations of the Bible, as well as Anglo-Saxon
homilies, and treatises on theological and ecclesiastical subjects were
studied by Fox, the martyrologist, and others,5 to be quoted as witnesses
to the purity and simplicity of the primitive church founded in this
realm, free in its origin from the later faults and fancies of the
Church of Rome. Without
13
this practical object, Anglo-Saxon would hardly have excited so much
interest in the sixteenth century, and Oxford would probably have
remained much longer without its professorial chair of the ancient
national language of England, which was founded by Rawlinson, but was
not inaugurated before the end of the last century (1795).
Of the two remaining chairs of languages, of Sanskrit and of Latin,
the former owes its origin, not to an admiration of the classical
literature of India, nor to a recognition of the importance of Sanskrit
for the purposes of Comparative Philology, but to an express desire on
the part of its founder to provide efficient missionaries for India;
while the creation of a chair of Latin, though long delayed, was at last
rendered imperative by the urgent wants of the university.
Nor does the chair of Comparative Philology, just founded by the
university, form altogether an exception to this general rule. It is
curious to remark that while Comparative Philology has for more than
half a century excited the deepest interest, not only among continental,
but likewise among English scholars, and while chairs of this new
science have been founded long ago in almost every university of France,
Germany, and Italy, the foundation of a new chair of Comparative
Philology at Oxford should coincide very closely with a decided change
that has taken place in the treatment of that science, and which has
given to its results a more practical importance for the study of Greek
and Latin, such as could hardly be claimed for it during the first fifty
years of its growth.
We may date the origin of Comparative Philology,
14
as distinct from the Science of Language, from the foundation of the
Asiatic Society of Calcutta, in 1784. From that time dates the study of
Sanskrit, and it was the study of Sanskrit which formed the foundation
of Comparative Philology.
It is perfectly true that Sanskrit had been studied before by
Italian, German, and French missionaries; it is likewise perfectly true
that several of these missionaries were fully aware of the close
relationship between Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin. A man must be
blind who, after looking at a Sanskrit grammar, does not see at once the
striking coincidences between the declensions and conjugations of the
classical language of India and those of Greece and Italy.6
Filippo Sassetti, who spent some time at Goa, between 1581 and 1588,
had only acquired a very slight knowledge of Sanskrit before he wrote
home to his friends “that it has many words in common with Italian,
particularly in the numerals, in the names for God, serpent, and many
others.” This was in the sixteenth century.
Some of the Jesuit missionaries, however, went far beyond this.
A few among them had acquired a real and comprehensive knowledge of
the ancient language and literature of India, and we see them anticipate
in their letters several of the most brilliant discoveries of Sir W.
Jones and Professor Bopp. The père Cœurdoux,7 a French Jesuit,
writes in 1767 from Pondichery to the French Academy, asking that
learned society for a solution of the question, “How is it that
Sanskrit has so many words in common
15
with Greek and Latin?” He presents not only long lists of words, but
he calls attention to the still more curious fact, that the grammatical
forms in Sanskrit show the most startling similarity with Greek and
Latin. After him almost everybody who had looked at Sanskrit, and who
knew Greek and Latin, made the same remark and asked the same
question.
But the fire only smouldered on; it would not burn up, it would not
light, it would not warm. At last, owing to the exertions of the
founders of the Asiatic Society at Calcutta, the necessary materials for
a real study of Sanskrit became accessible to the students of Europe.
The voice of Frederick Schlegel roused the attention of the world at
large to the startling problem that had been thrown into the arena of
the intellectual chivalry of the world, and at last the glove was taken
up, and men like Bopp, and Burnouf, and Pott, and Grimm, did not rest
till some answer could be returned, and some account rendered of
Sanskrit, that strange intruder, and great disturber of the peace of
classical scholarship.
The work which then began, was incessant. It was not enough that some
words in Greek and Latin should be traced in Sanskrit. A kind of
silent conviction began to spread that there must be in Sanskrit a
remedy for all evils; people could not rest till every word in Greek and
Latin had, in some disguise or other, been discovered in Sanskrit. Nor
were Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit enough to satisfy the thirst of the new
discoverers. The Teutonic languages were soon annexed, the Celtic
languages yielded to some gentle pressure, the Slavonic languages
clamored for incorporation, the sacred idiom
16
of ancient Persia, the Zend, demanded its place by the side of Sanskrit,
the Armenian followed in its wake; and when even the Ossetic from the
valleys of Mount Caucasus, and the Albanian from the ancient hills of
Epirus, had proved their birthright, the whole family, the Aryan family
of language, seemed complete, and an historical fact, the original unity
of all these languages, was established on a basis which even the most
skeptical could not touch or shake. Scholars rushed in as diggers rush
into a new gold field, picking up whatever is within reach, and trying
to carry off more than they could carry, so that they might be foremost
in the race, and claim as their own all that they had been the first to
look at or to touch. There was a rush, and now and then an ugly rush,
and when the armfuls of nuggets that were thrown down before the world
in articles, pamphlets, essays, and ponderous volumes, came to be more
carefully examined, it was but natural that not everything that
glittered should turn out to be gold. Even in the works of more critical
scholars, such as Bopp, Burnouf, Pott, and Benfey, at least in those
which were published in the first enthusiasm of discovery, many things
may now be pointed out, which no assayer would venture to pass. It was
the great merit of Bopp that he called the attention away from this
tempting field to the more laborious work of grammatical analysis,
though even in his Comparative Grammar, in that comprehensive survey of
the grammatical outlines of the Aryan languages, the spirit of conquest
and centralization still predominates. All languages are, if possible,
to submit to the same laws; what is common to all of them is welcome,
what is peculiar to each is treated as anomalous, or explained as the
result of later corruption.
17
This period in the history of Comparative Philology has sometimes
been characterized as syncretistic, and to a certain extent that
name and the censure implied in it are justified. But to a very small
extent only. It was in the nature of things that a comparative study of
languages should at first be directed to what is common to all; nay,
without having first become thoroughly acquainted with the general
features of the whole family, it would have been impossible to discover
and fully to appreciate what is peculiar to each of the members.
Nor was it long before a reaction set in. One scholar from the very
first, and almost contemporaneously with Bopp’s first essays on
Comparative Grammar, devoted himself to the study of one branch of
languages only, availing himself, as far as he was able, of the new
light which a knowledge of Sanskrit had thrown on the secret history of
the whole Aryan family of speech, but concentrating his energies on the
Teutonic; I mean, of course, Jacob Grimm, the author of the great
historical grammar of the German language; a work which will live
and last long after other works of that early period shall have been
forgotten, or replaced, at least, by better books.
After a time Grimm’s example was followed by others. Zeuss, in his
“Grammatica Celtica,” established the study of the Celtic languages on
the broad foundations of Comparative Grammar. Miklosich and Schleicher
achieved similar results by adopting the same method for the study of
the Slavonic dialects. Curtius, by devoting himself to an elucidation of
Greek, opened the eyes of classical scholars to the immense advantages
of this new treatment of grammar and etymology; while Corssen, in his
more
18
recent works on Latin, has struck a mine which may well tempt the
curiosity of every student of the ancient dialects of Italy. At the
present moment the reaction is complete; and there is certainly some
danger, lest what was called a syncretistic spirit should now be
replaced by an isolating spirit in the science of language.
It cannot be denied, however, that this isolating, or rather
discriminating, tendency has produced already the most valuable results,
and I believe that it is chiefly due to the works of Curtius and
Corssen, if Greek and Latin scholars have been roused at last from their
apathy and been made aware of the absolute necessity of Comparative
Philology, as a subject to be taught, not only in every university but
in every school. I believe it is due to their works that a
conviction has gradually been gaining ground among the best scholars at
Oxford, also, that Comparative Philology could no longer be ignored as
an important ingredient in the teaching of Greek and Latin; and while a
comparative analysis of Sanskrit, Zend, Armenian, Greek, Latin, Gothic,
High-German, Lithuanian, Slavonic, and Celtic, such as we find it in
Bopp’s “Comparative Grammar,” would hardly be considered as a subject of
practical utility, even in a school of philology, it was recognized at
last that, not only for sound principles of etymology, not only for a
rational treatment of Greek and Latin grammar, not only for a right
understanding of classical mythology, but even for a critical
restoration of the very texts of Homer and Plautus, a knowledge of
Comparative Philology, as applied to Greek and Latin, had become
indispensable.
My chief object, therefore, as Professor of Comparative
19
Philology at Oxford, will be to treat the classical languages under that
new aspect which they have assumed, as viewed by the microscope of
Curtius and Corssen, rather than by the telescope of Bopp, Pott, and
Benfey. I shall try not only to give results, but to explain what
is far more important, the method by which these results were obtained,
so far as this is possible without, for the present at least,
presupposing among my hearers a knowledge of Sanskrit. Sanskrit
certainly forms the only sound foundation of Comparative Philology, and
it will always remain the only safe guide through all its intricacies.
A comparative philologist without a knowledge of Sanskrit is like
an astronomer without a knowledge of mathematics. He may admire, he may
observe, he may discover, but he will never feel satisfied, he will
never feel certain, he will never feel quite at home.
I hope, therefore, that, besides those who attend my public lectures,
there will be at least a few to form a private class for the study of
the elements of Sanskrit. Sanskrit, no doubt, is a very difficult
language, and it requires the study of a whole life to master its
enormous literature. Its grammar, too, has been elaborated with such
incredible minuteness by native grammarians, that I am not surprised if
many scholars who begin the study of Sanskrit turn back from it in
dismay. But it is quite possible to learn the rules of Sanskrit
declension and conjugation, and to gain an insight into the grammatical
organization of that language, without burdening one’s memory with all
the phonetic rules which generally form the first chapter of every
Sanskrit grammar, or without devoting years of study to the unraveling
20
of the intricacies of the greatest of Indian, if not of all
grammarians,—Pâṇini. There are but
few among our very best comparative philologists who are able to
understand Pâṇini. Professor Benfey,
whose powers of work are truly astounding, stands almost alone in his
minute knowledge of that greatest of all grammarians. Neither Bopp, nor
Pott, nor Curtius, nor Corssen, ever attempted to master Pâṇini’s wonderful system. But a study of Sanskrit, as
taught by European grammarians, cannot be recommended too strongly to
all students of language. A good sailor may, for a time, steer
without a compass, but even he feels safer when he knows that he may
consult it, if necessary; and whenever he comes near the
rocks,—and there are many in the Aryan sea,—he will hardly
escape shipwreck without this magnetic needle.8,A,B
It will be asked, no doubt, by Greek and Latin scholars who have
never as yet devoted themselves seriously to a study of Comparative
Philology, what is to be gained after all the trouble of learning
Sanskrit, and after mastering the works of Bopp, and Benfey, and
Curtius? Would a man be a better Greek and Latin scholar for knowing
Sanskrit? Would he write better Latin and Greek verse? Would he be
better able to read and compare Greek and Latin MSS., and to prepare a
critical edition of classical authors? To all these questions I reply
both No and Yes.
If there is one branch of classical philology where the advantages
derived from Comparative Philology have been most readily admitted, it
is etymology. More than fifty years ago, Otfried Müller told classical
21
scholars that that province at least must be surrendered. And yet it is
strange to see how long it takes before old erroneous derivations are
exploded and finally expelled from our dictionaries; and how, in spite
of all warnings, similarity of sound and similarity of meaning are still
considered the chief criteria of Greek and Latin etymologies. I do
not address this reproach to classical scholars only; it applies equally
to many comparative philologists who, for the sake of some striking
similarity of sound and meaning, will now and then break the phonetic
laws which they themselves have helped to establish.
If we go back to earlier days, we find that Sanskrit scholars who had
discovered that one of the names of the god of love in Bengali was
Dipuc, i.e. the inflamer, derived from it by inversion the
name of the god of love in Latin, Cupid. Sir William Jones
identified Janus with the Sanskrit Gaṇeśa, i.e., lord of hosts,9 and even later scholars
allowed themselves to be tempted to see the Indian prototype of
Ganymedes in the Kaṇva-medhâtithi or
Kaṇva-mesha of the Veda.10
After the phonetic laws of each language had been more carefully
elaborated, it was but too frequently forgotten that words have a
history as well as a growth, and that the history of a word must be
explored first, before an attempt is made to unravel its growth. Thus it
was extremely tempting to derive paradise from the Sanskrit
paradeśa. The compound para-deśa was supposed to mean
the highest or a distant country, and all the rest seemed so evident as
to require no further elucidation. Paradeśa,
22
however, does not mean the highest or a distant country in Sanskrit, but
is always used in the sense of a foreign country, an enemy’s country.
Further, as early as the Song of Solomon (iv. 13), the word occurs
in Hebrew as pardés, and how it could have got there straight
from Sanskrit requires, at all events, some historical explanation. In
Hebrew the word might have been borrowed from Persian, but the Sanskrit
word paradeśa, if it existed at all in Persian, would have been
paradaesa, the s being a guttural, not a dental sibilant.
Such a compound, however, does not exist in Persian, and therefore the
Sanskrit word paradeśa could not have reached Hebrew viâ
Persia.
It is true, nevertheless, that the ancient Hebrew word pardés
is borrowed from Persian, viz.: from the Zend pairidaêza, which
means circumvallatio, a piece of ground inclosed by high walls,
afterwards a park, a garden.11 The root in Sanskrit is DIH or DHIH
(for Sanskrit h is Zend z), and means originally to knead,
to squeeze together, to shape. From it we have the Sanskrit
dehî, a wall, while in Greek the same root, according to the
strictest phonetic rules, yielded τοῖχος, wall. In Latin our root is regularly changed
into fig, and gives us figulus, a potter, figura,
form or shape, and fingere. In Gothic it could only appear as
deig-an, to knead, to form anything out of soft substances; hence
daig-s, the English dough, German Deich.
But the Greek παράδεισος did not come from Hebrew, because here
again there is no historical bridge between the two languages. In Greek
we trace the word to Xenophon, who brought it back from his
23
repeated journeys in Persia, and who uses it in the sense of
pleasure-ground, or deer park.12
Lastly, we find the same word used in the LXX., as the name given to
the garden of Eden, the word having been borrowed either a third time
from Persia, or taken from the Greek, and indirectly from the works of
Xenophon.
This is the real history of the word. It is an Aryan word, but it
does not exist in Sanskrit. It was first formed in Zend, transferred
from thence as a foreign word into Hebrew and again into Greek. Its
modern Persian form is firdaus.
All this is matter of history rather than philology. Yet we read in
one of the best classical dictionaries: “The root of παράδεισος appears to be Semitic,
Arab. firdaus, Hebr. pardês: borrowed, also, in Sanskrit
paradêśa.”13 Nearly every word is wrong.
From the same root DIH springs the Sanskrit word deha, body;
body, like figure, being conceived as that which is formed or shaped.
Bopp identified this deha with Gothic leik, body,
particularly dead body, the modern German Leiche and
Leichnam, the English lich in lich-gate. In this
case the master of Comparative Philology disregarded the phonetic laws
which he had himself helped to establish. The transition of d
into l is no doubt common enough as between Sanskrit, Latin, and
Greek, but it has never been established as yet on good evidence as
taking place between Sanskrit and Gothic. Besides, the Sanskrit h
ought in Gothic to appear as g, as we have it in deig-s,
dough, and not by a tenuis.
24
Another Sanskrit word for body is kalevara, and this proved
again a stumbling-block to Bopp, who compares it with the Latin
cadaver. Here one might plead that l and d are
frequently interchanged in Sanskrit and Latin words, but, as far as our
evidence goes at present, we have no doubt many cases where an original
Sanskrit d is represented in Latin by l, but no really
trustworthy instance in which an original Sanskrit l appears in
Latin as d. Besides, the Sanskrit diphthong e cannot, as a
rule, in Latin be represented by long â.
If such things could happen to Bopp, we must not be too severe on
similar breaches of the peace committed by classical scholars. What
classical scholars seem to find most difficult to learn is that there
are various degrees of certainty in etymologies even in those proposed
by our best comparative scholars, and that not everything that is
mentioned by Bopp, or Pott, or Benfey as possible, as plausible, as
probable, and even as more than probable, ought, therefore, to be set
down, for instance, in a grammar or dictionary, as simply a matter of
fact. With certain qualifications, an etymology may have a scientific
value; without those qualifications, it may become not only unscientific
but mischievous. Again, nothing seems a more difficult lesson for an
etymologist to learn than to say, I do not know. Yet to my mind,
nothing shows, for instance, the truly scholarlike mind of Professor
Curtius better than the very fact for which he has been so often blamed,
viz.: his passing over in silence the words about which he has nothing
certain to say.
Let us take an instance. If we open our best Greek dictionaries, we
find that the Greek αὐγή,
25
light, splendor, is compared with the German word for eye, Auge.
No doubt every letter in the two words is the same, and the meaning of
the Greek word could easily be supposed to have been specialized or
localized in German. Sophocles (“Aj.” 70) speaks of ὀμμάτων αὐγαί, the lights of the
eyes, and Euripides (“Andr.” 1180) uses αὐγαί by itself for eyes, like the Latin lumina.
The verb αὐγαζω, too, is
used in Greek in the sense of seeing or viewing. Why, then, it was
asked, should αὐγή not be
referred to the same source as the German Auge, and why should
not both be traced back to the same root that yielded the Latin
oc-ulus? As long as we trust to our ears, or to what is
complacently called common sense, it would seem mere fastidiousness to
reject so evident an etymology. But as soon as we know the real
chemistry of vowels and consonants, we shrink instinctly from such
combinations. If a German word has the same sound as a Greek word, the
two words cannot be the same, unless we ignore that independent process
of phonetic growth which made Greek Greek, and German German. Whenever
we find in Greek a media, a g, we expect in Gothic the
corresponding tenuis. Thus the root gan, which we have in Greek
γιγνώσκω, is in Gothic
kann. The Greek γόνυ,
Lat. genu, is in Gothic kniu. If, therefore, αὐγή existed in Gothic it would be
auko, and not augo. Secondly, the diphthong au in
augo would be different from the Greek diphthong. Grimm supposed
that the Gothic augo came from the same etymon which yields the
Latin oc-ulus, the Sanskrit ak-sh-i, eye, the Greek
ὄσσε for ὄκι-ε, and likewise the Greek stem ὀπ in ὄπ-ωπ-α, ὄμμα, and ὀφ-θ-αλμός. It is true that the short radical
vowel a in Sanskrit, o in Greek,
26
u in Latin, sinks down to u in Gothic, and it is equally
true, as Grimm has shown, that, according to a phonetic law peculiar to
Gothic, u before h and r is changed to aú.
Grimm, therefore, takes the Gothic aúgô for *aúhô, and
this for *uhô, which, as he shows, would be a proper
representative in Gothic of the Sanskrit ak-an, or
aksh-an.
But here Grimm seems wrong. If the au of augô were this
peculiar Gothic aú, which represents an original short a,
changed to u, and then raised to a diphthong by the insertion of
a short a, then that diphthong would be restricted to Gothic; and
the other Teutonic dialects would have their own representatives for an
original short a. But in Anglo-Saxon we find eáge, in Old
High German augâ, both pointing to a labial diphthong,
i.e. to a radical u raised to au.14
Professor Ebel,15 in order to avoid this difficulty, proposed a
different explanation. He supposed that the k of the root
ak was softened to kv, and that augô represents an
original agvâ or ahvâ, the v of hvâ being
inserted before the h and changed to u. As an analogous
case he quoted the Sanskrit enclitic particle ca, Latin
que, Gothic *hva, which *hva appears always under
the form of uh. Leo Meyer takes the same view, and quotes, as an
analogon, haubida as possibly identical with caput,
originally *kapvat.
These cases, however, are not quite analogous. The enclitic particle
ca, in Gothic *hva, had to lose its final vowel. It thus
became unpronounceable, and the short vowel u was added simply to
facilitate
27
its pronunciation.16 There was no such difficulty in pronouncing
*ah or *uh in Gothic, still less the derivative form
*ahvô, if such a form had ever existed.
Another explanation was therefore attempted by the late Dr.
Lottner.17 He supposed that the root ak existed also with
a nasal as ank, and that ankô could be changed to
aukô, and aukô to augô. In reply to this we must
remark that in the Teutonic dialects the root ak never appears as
ank, and that the transition of an into au, though
possible under certain conditions, is not a phonetic process of frequent
occurrence.
Besides, in all these derivations there is a difficulty, though not a
serious one, viz.: that an original tenuis, the k, is supposed
irregularly to have been changed into g, instead of what it ought
to be, an h. Although this is not altogether anomalous,18 yet it
has to be taken into account. Professor Curtius, therefore, though he
admits a possible connection between Gothic augô and the root
ak, speaks cautiously on the subject. On page 99 he refers to
augô as more distantly connected with that root, and on
p. 457 he simply refers to the attempts of Ebel, Grassmann, and
Lottner to explain the diphthong au, without himself expressing
any decided opinion. Nor does he commit himself to any opinion as to the
origin of αὐγή, though, of
course, he never thinks of connecting the two words, Gothic augô
and Greek αὐγή, as coming
from the same root.
The etymology of the Greek αὐγή, in the sense of
28
light or splendor, is not known unless we connect it with the Sanskrit
ojas, which, however, means vigor rather than splendor. The
etymology of oculus, on the contrary, is clear; it comes from a
root ak, to be sharp, to point, to fix, and it is closely
connected with the Sanskrit word for eye, akshi, and with the
Greek ὄσσε. The etymology of
the German word Auge is, as yet, unknown. All we may safely
assert is, that, in spite of the most favorable appearances, it cannot,
for the present, be traced back to the same source as either the Greek
αὐγή or the Latin
oculus.
If we simply transliterated the Gothic augô into Sanskrit, we
should expect some word like ohan, nom. ohâ. The
question is, may we take the liberty, which many of the most eminent
comparative philologists allow themselves, of deriving Gothic, Greek,
and Latin words from roots which occur in Sanskrit, only, but which have
left no trace of their former presence in any other language? If so,
then there would be little difficulty in finding an etymology for the
Gothic augô. There is in Sanskrit a root ûh, which means
to watch, to spy, to look. It occurs frequently in the Veda, and from it
we have likewise a substantive, oha-s, look or appearance. If,
in Sanskrit itself this root had yielded a name for eye, such as
ohan, the instrument of looking, I should not hesitate for
a moment to identify this Sanskrit word ohan with the Gothic
augô. No objection could be raised on phonetic grounds.
Phonetically the two words would be one and the same. But as in Sanskrit
such a derivation has not been found, and as in Gothic the root
ûh never occurs, such an etymology would not be satisfactory.
The number of words of unknown origin is very considerable as yet in
Sanskrit,
29
in Greek, in Latin, and in every one of the Aryan languages; and it is
far better to acknowledge this fact, than to sanction the smallest
violation of any of those phonetic laws, which some have called the
straight jacket, but which are in reality, the leading strings of all
true etymology.
If we now turn to grammar, properly so called, and ask what
Comparative Philology has done for it, we must distinguish between two
kinds of grammatical knowledge. Grammar may be looked upon as a mere
art, and, as taught at present in most schools, it is nothing but an
art. We learn to play on a foreign language as we learn to play on a
musical instrument, and we may arrive at the highest perfection in
performing on any instrument, without having a notion of thorough bass
or the laws of harmony. For practical purposes this purely empirical
knowledge is all that is required. But though it would be a mistake to
attempt in our elementary schools to replace an empirical by a
scientific knowledge of grammar, that empirical knowledge of grammar
ought in time to be raised to a real, rational, and satisfying
knowledge, a knowledge not only of facts, but of reasons;
a knowledge that teaches us not only what grammar is, but how it
came to be what it is. To know grammar is very well, but to speak all
one’s life of gerunds and supines and infinitives, without having an
idea what these formations really are, is a kind of knowledge not quite
worthy of a scholar.
We laugh at people who still believe in ghosts and witches, but a
belief in infinitives and supines is not only tolerated, but inculcated
in our best schools and universities. Now, what do we really mean if we
30
speak of an infinitive? It is a time-honored name, no doubt, handed down
to us from the Middle Ages; it has its distant roots in Rome,
Alexandria, and Athens;—but has it any real kernel? Has it any
more body or substance than such names as Satyrs and Lamias?
Let us look at the history of the name before we look at the mischief
which it, like many other names, has caused by making people believe
that whenever there is a name there must be something behind it. The
name was invented by Greek philosophers who, in their first attempts at
classifying and giving names to the various forms of language, did not
know whether to class such forms as γράφειν, γράψειν, γράψαι, γεγραφέναι, γράφεσθαι, γράψεσθαι, γέγραφθαι, γράψασθαι, γραφθῆναι, γραφθήσεσθαι, as nouns or as verbs. They had
established for their own satisfaction the broad distinction between
nouns (ὀνόματα) and verbs
(ῥήματα); they had
assigned to each a definition, but, after having done so, they found
that forms like γράφειν
would not fit their definition either of noun or verb.19 What could
they do? Some (the Stoics) represented the forms in ειν, etc., as a subdivision of the verb,
and introduced for them the name ῥῆμα ἀπαρέμφατον or γενικώτατον. Others recognized them as a separate
part of speech, raising their number from eight to nine or ten. Others,
again, classed them under the adverb (ἐπιῤῥημα), as one of the eight recognized parts of
speech. The Stoics, taking their stand on Aristotle’s definition of
ῥῆμα, could not but regard
the infinitive as ῥῆμα,
because it implied time, past, present, or future, which was with them
recognized
31
as the specific characteristic of the verb (Zeitwort). But they
went further, and called forms such as γράφειν, etc., ῥῆμα, in the highest or most general sense,
distinguishing other verbal forms, such as γράφει, etc., by the names of κατηγόρημα or σύμβαμα. Afterwards, in the progress of grammatical
science, the definition of ῥῆμα became more explicit and complete. It was pointed
out that a verb, besides its predicative meaning (ἔμφασις), is able to20 express several
additional meanings (παρακολουθήματα or παρεμφάσεις), viz.: not only time, as already
pointed out by Aristotle, but also person and number. The two latter
meanings, however, being absent in γράφειν, this was now called ῥῆμα ἀπαρέμφατον (without
by-meanings), or γενικώτατον, and, for practical purposes, this
ῥῆμα
ἀπαρέμφατον soon became the prototype of conjugation.
So far there was only confusion, arising from a want of precision in
classifying the different forms of the verb. But when the Greek
terminology was transplanted to Rome, real mischief began. Instead of
ῥῆμα
γενικώτατον, we now find the erroneous, or, at all events,
inaccurate, translation, modus infinitus, and infinitivus
by itself. What was originally meant as an adjective belonging to ῥῆμα, became a substantive, the
infinitive, and though the question arose again and again what this
infinitive really was, whether a noun, or a verb, or an adverb; whether
a mood or not a mood; the real existence of such a thing as an
infinitive could no longer be doubted. One can hardly trust one’s eyes
in reading the
32
extraordinary discussions on the nature of the infinitive in grammatical
works of successive centuries up to the nineteenth. Suffice it to say
that Gottfried Hermann, the great reformer of classical grammars,
treated the infinitive again as an adverb, and, therefore, as a part of
speech belonging to the particles. We ourselves were brought up to
believe in infinitives; and to doubt the existence of this grammatical
entity would have been considered in our younger days a most dangerous
heresy.
And yet, how much confused thought, and how much controversy might
have been avoided, if this grammatical term of infinitive had never been
invented.21,C
The fact is that what we call infinitives are nothing more or less than
cases of verbal nouns, and not till they are treated as what they are
shall we ever gain an insight into the nature and the historical
development of these grammatical monsters.
Take the old Homeric infinitive in μεναι, and you find its explanation in the Sanskrit
termination mane, i.e. manai, the native of the
suffix man (not, as others suppose, the locative of a suffix
mana), by which a large number of nouns are formed in Sanskrit.
From gnâ, to know, we have (g)nâman, Latin
(g)nomén, that by which a thing is known, its name; from
gan, to be born, gán-man, birth. In Greek this suffix
man is chiefly used for forming masculine nouns, such as γνώ-μων, γνώ-μονος,
literally a knower; τλή-μων, a sufferer; or as μην in ποι-μήν, a shepherd, literally a feeder. In Latin,
on the contrary, men occurs frequently at the end of abstract
nouns in the neuter gender, such as teg-men, the covering, or
tegu-men or tegi-men; solamen,
33
consolation; voca-men, an appellation; certa-men, a
contest; and many more, particularly in ancient Latin; while in
classical Latin the fuller suffix mentum predominates. If then we
read in Homer,
κύνας
ἔτευξε δῶμα φυλασσέμεναι,
we may call
φυλασσέμεναι
an infinitive, if we like, and translate “he made dogs to protect the
house;” but the form which we have before us, is simply a dative of an
old abstract noun in μεν, and
the original meaning was “for the protection of the house,” or “for
protecting the house;” as if we said in Latin, tutamini
domum.
The infinitives in μεν may
be corruptions of those in μεναι, unless we take μεν as an archaic accusative, which, though without analogy
in Greek, would correspond to Latin accusatives like tegmen, and
express the general object of certain acts or movements. In Sanskrit, at
least in the Veda, infinitives in mane occur, such as
dấ-mane, to give, Greek δό-μεναι; vid-máne, to know, Greek ϝίδ-μεναι.22
The question next arises, if this is a satisfactory explanation of
the infinitives in μεναι,
how are we to explain the infinitives in εναι? We find in Homer, not only ἴμεναι, to go, but also ἰέναι; not only ἔμμεναι, to be, but also εἶναι, i.e., ἔσ-εναι. Bopp simply says that the m is lost,
but he brings no evidence that in Greek an m can thus be lost
without any provocation. The real explanation, here, as elsewhere, is
supplied by the Beieinander (the collateral growth), not by the
Nacheinander (the successive growth) of language. Besides the
suffix man, the Aryan languages possessed two other suffixes,
van and an, which were added to verbal bases just like
man. By the side of dâman, the act of giving, we find in
the Veda
34
dâ-van, the act of giving, and a dative dâ-váne, with
the accent on the suffix, meaning for the giving, i.e. to give.
Now in Greek this v would necessarily disappear, though its
former presence might be indicated by the digamma æolicum. Thus,
instead of Sanskrit dâváne, we should have in Greek δοϝέναι, δοέναι, and
contracted δοῦναι, the
regular form of the infinitive of the aorist, a form in which the
diphthong ου would remain
inexplicable, except for the former presence of the lost syllable ϝε. In the same manner εἶναι stands for ἐσ-ϝέναι, ἐσ-έναι, ἐέναι,
εἶναι. Hence ἰέναι,
stands for ἰϝέναι, and
even the accent remains on the suffix van, just as it did in
Sanskrit.
As the infinitives in μεναι were traced back to the suffix man, and
those in ϝεναι to a suffix
van, the regular infinitives in εναι after consonants, and ναι after vowels, must be referred to the suffix an,
dat. ane. Here, too, we find analogous forms in the Veda. From
dhûrv, to hurt, we have dhû́rv-aṇe,
for the purpose of hurting, in order to hurt; in Rv. IX. 61, 30, we find
vibhv-áne, Rv. VI. 61, 13, in order to conquer, and by the same
suffix the Greeks formed their infinitives of the perfect, λελοιπ-έναι, and the infinitives of
the verbs in μι, τιθέ-ναι, διδο-ναι,
ἱστα-ναι, etc.
In order to explain, after these antecedents, the origin of the
infinitive in ειν, as τύπτειν, we must admit either
the shortening of ναι to
νι, which is difficult; or the
existence of a locative in ι by the side of a dative in αι. That the locative can take the place of
the dative we see clearly in the Sanskrit forms of the aorist, parsháṇi, to cross, nesháṇi, to lead, which, as far as their form, not their
origin, is concerned, would well match Greek forms like
35
λύσειν in the future. In
either case, τύπτε-νι in
Greek would have become τύπτειν, just as τύπτε-σι became τύπτεις. In the Doric dialect this throwing back of the
final ι is omitted in the second person singular, where the Dorians may
say ἀμέλγες for ἀμέλγεις; and in the same
Doric dialect the infinitive, too, occurs in εν instead of ειν; e.g., ἀείδεν instead of ἀείδειν. (Buttman, “Greek Gr.,” § 103,
10, 11.)
In this manner the growth of grammatical forms can be made as clear
as the sequence of any historical events in the history of the world,
nay, I should say far clearer, far more intelligible; and I should
think that even the first learning of these grammatical forms might be
somewhat seasoned and rendered more really instructive by allowing the
pupil, from time to time, a glimpse into the past history of the
Greek and Latin languages. In English what we call the infinitive is
clearly a dative; to speak shows by its very preposition what it
was intended for. How easy, then, to explain to a beginner that if he
translates, “able to speak,” by ἱκανὸς εἰπεῖν, the Greek infinitive is really the same as
the English, and that εἰπεῖν stands for εἴπενι and this for εἴπεναι, which, to a certain extent, answers the same
purpose as the Greek ἔπει,
the dative of ἔπος, and
therefore originally ἔπεσι.
And remark, these very datives and locatives of nouns formed by the
suffix ος in Greek, as in
Sanskrit, es in Latin, though they yield no infinitives in Greek,
yield the most common form of the infinitive in Latin, and may be traced
also in Sanskrit. As from genus we form a dative generi,
and a locative genere, which stands for genese, so from
gigno an abstract noun would be formed, gignus, and from
it a dative,
36
gigneri, and a locative, gignere. I do not say that the
intermediate form gignus existed in the spoken Latin, I only
maintain that such a form would be analogous to gen-us,
op-us, fœd-us, and that in Sanskrit the process is exactly
the same. We form in Sanskrit a substantive càkshas, sight,
càkshus, eye; and we find the dative of càkshas,
i.e. càkshase, used as what we should call an
infinitive, in order to see. But we also find another so-called
infinitive, jîvàse, in order to live, although there is no
noun, jîvas, life; we find áyase, to go, although
there is no noun áyas, going. This Sanskrit áyase
explains the Latin i-re, as *i-vane explained the Greek
ἰέναι. The intention of the
old framers of language is throughout the same. They differ only in the
means which they use, one might almost say, at random; and the
differences between Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin are often due to the
simple fact that out of many possible forms that might be used and had
been used before the Aryan languages became traditional, settled, and
national, one family or clan or nation fancied one, another another.
While this one became fixed and classical, all others became useless,
remained perhaps here and there in proverbial sayings or in sacred
songs, but were given up at last completely, as strange, obsolete, and
unintelligible.
And even then, after a grammatical form has become obsolete and
unintelligible, it by no means loses its power of further development.
Though the Greeks did not themselves, we still imagine that we feel the
infinitive as the case of an abstract noun in many constructions. Thus
χαλεπὸν εὑρεῖν,
difficult to find, was originally, difficult in the finding, or
difficult
37
for the act of finding; δεινὸς λέγειν, meant literally, powerful in speaking;
ἄρχομαι λέγειν,
I begin to speak, i.e., I direct myself to the act of
speaking; κέλεαί
με μυθήσασθαι, you bid me to speak, i.e., you order me
towards the act of speaking; φοβοῦμαι διελέγχειν σε, I am afraid
of refuting you, i.e., I fear in the act, or, I shrink when
brought towards the act, of refuting you; σὸν ἔργον λέγειν, your business is in or
towards speaking, you have to speak; πᾶσιν ἁδεῖν χαλεπόν, there is something
difficult in pleasing everybody, or, in our endeavor after pleasing
everybody. In all these cases the so-called infinitive can, with an
effort, still be felt as a noun in an oblique case. But in course of
time expressions such as χαλεπὸν ἁδεῖν, it is difficult to please, ἀγαθὸν λέγειν, it is good to
speak, left in the mind of the speaker the impression that ἁδεῖν and λέγειν were subjects in the nominative, the pleasing is
difficult, the speaking is good; and by adding the article, these
oblique cases of verbal nouns actually became nominatives, τὸ ἁδειν, the act of pleasing, τὸ λέγειν, the act of
speaking, capable of being used in every case, e.g., ἐπιθυμια τοῦ πίειν,
desiderium bibendi. This regeneration, this process of creating
new words out of decaying and decayed materials may seem at first sight
incredible, yet it is as certain as the change with which we began our
discussion of the infinitive. I mean the change of the conception
of a ῥῆμα
γενικώτατον, a verbum generalissimum, into a
generalissimus or infinitivus. Nor is the process without
analogy in modern languages. The French l’avenir, the future
(Zukunft), is hardly the Latin advenire. That would mean
the arriving, the coming, but not what is to come. I believe
l’avenir was (quod est) ad venire, what is to come,
contracted
38
to l’avenir. In Low-German to come assumes even the
character of an adjective, and we can speak not only of a year to come,
but of a to-come year, de tokum Jahr.23
This process of grammatical vivisection may be painful in the eyes of
classical scholars, yet even they must see how great a difference there
is in the quality of knowledge imparted by our Greek and Latin grammars,
and by comparative grammar. I do not deny that at first children
must learn Greek and Latin mechanically, but it is not right that they
should remain satisfied with mere paradigms and technical terms, without
knowing the real nature and origin of so-called infinitives, gerunds,
and supines. Every child will learn the construction of the accusative
with the infinitive, but I well remember my utter amazement when I first
was taught to say Miror te ad me nihil scribere, “I am surprised
that you write nothing to me.” How easy would it have been to explain
that scribere was originally a locative of a verbal noun, and
that there was nothing strange or irrational in saying, “I wonder
at thee in the act of not writing to me.” This first step once taken,
everything else followed by slow degrees, but even in phrases like
Spero te mihi ignoscere, we can still see the first steps which
led from “I hope or I desire thee, toward the act of forgiving me,”
to “I trust thee to forgive me.” It is the object of the
comparative philologist to gather up the scattered fragments, to arrange
them and fit them, and thus to show that language is something rational,
human, intelligible, the very embodiment of the mind of man in its
growth from the lowest to the highest stage, and with capabilities for
39
further growth far beyond what we can at present conceive or
imagine.
As to writing Greek and Latin verse, I do not maintain that a
knowledge of Comparative Philology will help us much. It is simply an
art that must be acquired by practice, if in these our busy days it is
still worth acquiring. A good memory will no doubt enable us to say
at a moment’s notice whether certain syllables are long or short. But is
it not far more interesting to know why certain vowels are long and
others short, than to be able to string longs and shorts together in
imitation of Greek and Latin hexameters? Now in many cases the reason
why certain vowels are long or short, can be supplied by Comparative
Philology alone. We may learn from Latin grammar that the i in
fîdus, trusty, and in fîdo, I trust, is long, and that it
is short in fides, trust, and perfidus, faithless; but as
all these words are derived from the same root, why should some have a
long, others a short vowel? A comparison of Sanskrit at once
supplies an answer. Certain derivatives, not only in Latin but in
Sanskrit and Greek too, require what is called Guṇa of the radical vowel. In fîdus and
fîdo, the i is really a diphthong, and represents a more
ancient ei or oi, the former appearing in Greek πείθω, the latter in Latin
foedus, a truce.
We learn from our Greek grammars that the second syllable in δείκνῡμι is long, but in the
plural, δείκνῠμεν, it
is short. This cannot be by accident, and we may observe the same change
in δάμνημι and δάμναμεν, and similar words.
Nothing, however, but a study of Sanskrit would have enabled us to
discover the reason of this change, which is really the accent
40
in its most primitive working, such as we can watch it in the Vedic
Sanskrit, where it produces exactly the same change, only with far
greater regularity and perspicuity.
Why, again, do we say in Greek, οἶδα, I know, but ἴσ-μεν, we know? Why τέτληκα, but τέτλαμεν? Why μέμονα, but μέμαμεν? There is no recollection in the minds of the
Greeks of the motive power that was once at work, and left its traces in
these grammatical convulsions; but in Sanskrit we still see, as it were,
a lower stratum of grammatical growth, and we can there watch the
regular working of laws which required these changes, and which have
left their impress not only on Greek, but on Sanskrit, and even on
German. The same necessity which made Homer say οἶδα and ἴδμεν, and the Vedic poet véda and
vidmás, still holds good, and makes us say in German, Ich
weiss, I know, but wir wissen, we know.
All this becomes clear and intelligible by the light of Comparative
Grammar; anomalies vanish, exceptions prove the rule, and we perceive
more plainly every day how in language, as elsewhere, the conflict
between the freedom claimed by each individual and the resistance
offered by the community at large, establishes in the end a reign of law
most wonderful, yet perfectly rational and intelligible.
These are but a few small specimens to show you what Comparative
Philology can do for Greek and Latin; and how it has given a new life to
the study of languages by discovering, so to say, and laying bare, the
traces of that old life, that prehistoric growth, which made language
what we find it in the oldest literary monuments, and which still
supplies the vigor of the language of our own time. A
41
knowledge of the mere facts of language is interesting enough; nay, if
you ask yourself what grammars really are—those very Greek and
Latin grammars which we hated so much in our schoolboy days—you
will find that they are store-houses, richer than the richest museums of
plants or minerals, more carefully classified and labeled than the
productions of any of the great kingdoms of nature. Every form of
declension and conjugation, every genitive and every so-called
infinitive and gerund, is the result of a long succession of efforts,
and of intelligent efforts. There is nothing accidental, nothing
irregular, nothing without a purpose and meaning in any part of Greek or
Latin grammar. No one who has once discovered this hidden life of
language, no one who has once found out that what seemed to be merely
anomalous and whimsical in language is but, as it were,
a petrification of thought, of deep, curious, poetical,
philosophical thought, will ever rest again till he has descended as far
as he can descend into the ancient shafts of human speech, exploring
level after level, and testing every successive foundation which
supports the surface of each spoken language.
One of the great charms of this new science is that there is still so
much to explore, so much to sift, so much to arrange. I shall not,
therefore, be satisfied with merely lecturing on Comparative Philology,
but I hope I shall be able to form a small philological society of more
advanced students, who will come and work with me, and bring the results
of their special studies as materials for the advancement of our
science. If there are scholars here who have devoted their attention to
the study of Homer, Comparative Philology will place in their hands a
light
42
with which to explore the dark crypt on which the temple of the Homeric
language was erected. If there are scholars who know their Plautus or
Lucretius, Comparative Philology will give them a key to grammatical
forms in ancient Latin, which, even if supported by an Ambrosian
palimpsest, might still seem hazardous and problematical. As there is no
field and no garden that has not its geological antecedents, there is no
language and no dialect which does not receive light from a study of
Comparative Philology, and reflect light in return on more general
problems. As in geology again, so in Comparative Philology, no progress
is possible without a division of labor, and without the most general
coöperation. The most experienced geologist may learn something from a
miner or from a ploughboy; the most experienced comparative philologist
may learn something from a schoolboy or from a child.
I have thus explained to you what, if you will but assist me,
I should like to do as the first occupant of this new chair of
Comparative Philology. In my public lectures I must be satisfied with
teaching. In my private lectures, I hope I shall not only teach,
but also learn, and receive back as much as I have to give.
43
NOTES.
NOTE A.text
On the Final Dental of the Pronominal
Stem tad.
One or two instances may here
suffice to show how compassless even the best comparative philologists
find themselves if, without a knowledge of Sanskrit, they venture into
the deep waters of grammatical research. What can be clearer at first
sight than that the demonstrative pronoun that has the same base
in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and German? Bopp places together (§ 349)
the following forms of the neuter:—
Sanskrit |
Zend |
Greek |
Latin |
Gothic |
tat |
taḍ. |
τό |
is-tud |
thata |
and he draws from them the following conclusions:—
In the Sanskrit ta-t we have the same pronominal element
repeated twice, and this repeated pronominal element became afterwards
the general sign of the neuter after other pronominal stems, such as
ya-t, ka-t.
Such a conclusion seems extremely probable, particularly when we
compare the masculine form sa-s, the old nom. sing., instead of
the ordinary sa. But the first question that has to be answered
is, whether this is phonetically possible, and how.
If tat in Sanskrit is ta + ta, then we
expect in Gothic tha + tha, instead of which we find
tha + ta. We expect in Latin istut, not
istud, illut, not illud, it, not id,
for Latin represents final t in Sanskrit by t, not by
d. The old Latin ablative in d is not a case in point, as
we shall see afterwards.
Both Gothic tha-ta, therefore, and Latin istud,
postulate a Sanskrit tad, while Zend and Greek at all events do
not conflict with an original final media. Everything therefore depends
on what was the original form in Sanskrit; and here no Sanskrit scholar
would hesitate for one moment between tat and tad.
Whatever the origin of tat may have been, it is quite
44
certain that Sanskrit knows only of tad, never of tat.
There are various ways of testing the original surd or sonant nature of
final consonants in Sanskrit. One of the safest seems to me to see how
those consonants behave before taddhita or secondary suffixes,
which require no change in the final consonant of the base. Thus before
the suffix îya (called cha by Pâṇini) the final consonant is never changed, yet we
find tad-îya, like mad-îya, tvad-îya,
asmad-îya, yushmad-îya, etc. Again, before the
possessive suffix vat final consonants of nominal bases suffer
no change. This is distinctly stated by Pâṇini, I. 4, 19. Hence we have
vidyut-vân, from vidyut, lightning, from the root
dyut; we have udaśvit-vân, from uda-śvi-t. In
both cases the original final tenuis remains unchanged. Hence, if we
find tad-vân, kad-vân, our test shows us again that
the final consonant in tad and kad is a media, and
that the d of these words is not a modification of t.
Taking our stand therefore on the undoubted facts of Sanskrit
grammar, we cannot recognize t as the termination of the neuter
of pronominal stems, but only d;24 nor can we accept Bopp’s
explanation of tad as a compound of ta + t, unless the
transition of an original t into a Sanskrit and Latin d
can be established by sufficient evidence. Even then that transition
would have to be referred to a time before Sanskrit and Gothic became
distinct languages, for the Gothic tha-ta is the counterpart of
the Sanskrit tad, and not of tat.
Bopp endeavors to defend the transition of an original t into
Latin d by the termination of the old ablatives, such as
gnaivod, etc. But here again it is certain that the original
termination was d, and not t. It is so in Latin, it may be
so in Zend, where, as Justi points out, the d of the ablative is
probably a media.25 In Sanskrit it is certainly a media in such forms as
mad, tvad, asmad, which Bopp considers as old
ablatives, and which in madîya, etc., show the original media.
In other cases it is impossible in Sanskrit to test the nature of the
final dental in
45
the ablative, because d is always determined by its position in a
sentence. But under no circumstances could we appeal to Latin
gnaivod in order to prove a transition of an original t
into d; while on the contrary all the evidence at present is in
favor of a media, as the final letter both of the ablative and of the
neuter bases of pronouns, such as tad and yad.
These may seem minutiæ, but the whole of Comparative Grammar
is made up of minutiæ, which, nevertheless, if carefully joined
together and cemented, lead to conclusions of unexpected magnitude.
NOTE B.text
Did Feminine Bases in â take s in the Nominative Singular?
I add one other instance to show how
a more accurate knowledge of Sanskrit would have guarded comparative
philologists against rash conclusions. With regard to the nominative
singular of feminine bases ending in derivative â, the question
arose, whether words like bona in Latin, ἀγαθά in Greek, sivâ in Sanskrit, had
originally an s as the sign of the nom. sing., which was
afterwards lost, or whether they never took that termination. Bopp
(§ 136), Schleicher (§ 246), and others seem to believe in the
loss of the s, chiefly, it would seem, because the s is
added to feminine bases ending in î and û. Benfey26 takes
the opposite view, viz. that feminines in â never took the
s of the nom. sing. But he adds one exception, the Vedic
gnâ-s. This remark has caused much mischief. Without verifying
Benfey’s statements, Schleicher (l.c.) quotes the same exception, though
cautiously referring to the Sanskrit dictionary of Boehtlingk and Roth
as his authority. Later writers, for instance Merguet,27 leave out all
restrictions, simply appealing to this Vedic form gnâ-s in
support of the theory that feminine bases in â too took
originally s as sign of the nom. sing. and afterwards dropped it.
Even so careful a scholar as Büchler28 speaks of the s as
lost.
There is, first of all, no reason whatever why the s should
46
have been added29; secondly, there is none why it should have been
lost. But, whatever opinion we may hold in this respect, the appeal to
the Vedic gnâ-s cannot certainly be sustained, and the word
should at all events be obelized till there is better evidence for it
than we possess at present.30
47
The passage which is always quoted from the Rv. IV. 9, 4, as showing
gnâ-s to be a nom. sing. in s, is extremely difficult,
and as it stands at present, most likely corrupt:—
Utá gnấḥ agníḥ adhvaré utó gṛhá-patiḥ dáme, utá
brahmấ ní sídati.
This could only be translated:—
“Agni sits down at the sacrifice as a woman, as lord in the house,
and as priest.”
This, however, is impossible, for Agni, the god of fire, is never
represented in the Veda as a woman. If we took gnâḥ as a genitive, we might translate, “Agni sits down
in the sacrifice of the lady of the house,” but this again would be
utterly incongruous in Vedic poetry.
I believe the verse is corrupt, and I should propose to
read:—
Utá agnấv agníḥ adhvaré.
“Agni sits down at the sacrifice in the fire, as lord in the house,
and as a priest.”
The ideas that Agni, the god of fire, sits down in the fire, or that
Agni is lighted by Agni, or that Agni is both the sacrificial fire and
the priest, are familiar to every reader of the Veda. Thus we read,
I. 12, 6, agnínâ agníḥ sám idhyate,
“Agni is lighted by Agni;” X. 88, 1, we find Agni invoked as ấ-hutam
agnáu, etc.
But whether this emendation be right or wrong, it must be quite clear
how unsafe it would be to support the theory that feminine bases in
â ended originally in s by this solitary passage from the
Veda.
NOTE C.text
Grammatical Forms in Sanskrit corresponding to
so-called Infinitives in Greek and Latin.
There is no trace of such a term as
infinitive in Sanskrit, and yet exactly the same forms, or, at all
events, forms strictly analogous to those which we call infinitives in
Greek and Latin, exist in Sanskrit. Here, however, they are treated in
the simplest way.
Sanskrit grammarians when giving the rules according to which nouns
and adjectives are derived from verbal roots by means of primary
suffixes (Kṛt), mention among the rest
the suffixes tum (Pâṇ., III.
3, 10), se, ase, adhyai, tavai,
tave, shyai, e, am, tos, as
(IV. 4, 9–17), defining their meaning
48
in general by that of tum (III. 3, 10). This tum
is said to express immediate futurity in a verb, if governed by another
word conveying an intention. An example will make this clearer. In order
to say he goes to cook, where “he goes” expresses an intention, and “to
cook” is the object of that intention which is to follow immediately, we
place the suffix tum at the end of the verb pak, to
cook, and say in Sanskrit, vrajati pak-tum. We might also say pâcako
vrajati, he goes as one who means to cook, or vrajati pâkâya, he goes to
the act of cooking, placing the abstract noun in the dative; and all
these constructions are mentioned together by Sanskrit grammarians. The
same takes place after verbs which express a wish (III. 3, 158);
e.g., icchati paktum, he wishes to cook, and after such words as
kâla, time, samaya, opportunity, velâ, right
moment (III. 3, 167); e.g., kâlaḥ
paktum, it is time to cook, etc. Other verbs which govern forms
in tum are (III. 4, 65) śak, to be able; dhṛsh, to dare; jñâ, to know;
glai, to be weary; ghaṭ, to
endeavor; ârabh, to begin; labh, to get;
prakram, to begin; utsah, to endure; arh, to
deserve; and words like asti, there is; e.g., asti
bhoktum, it is (possible) to eat; not, it is (necessary) to eat. The
forms in tum are also enjoined (III. 4, 66) after words
like alam, expressing fitness, e.g., paryâpto bhoktum,
alam bhoktum, kuśalo bhoktum, fit or able to eat.
Here we have everything that is given by Sanskrit grammarians in
place of what we should call the Chapter on the Infinitive in Greek and
Latin. The only thing that has to be added is the provision, understood
in Pâṇini’s grammar, that such suffixes
as tum, etc., are indeclinable.
And why are they indeclinable? For the simple reason that they are
themselves case terminations. Whether Pâṇini was aware of this, we cannot tell with
certainty. From some of his remarks it would seem to be so. When
treating of the cases, Pâṇini
(I. 4, 32) explains what we should call the dative by
Sampradâna. Sampradâna means giving (δοτική), but Pâṇini uses it here as a technical term, and assigns
to it the definite meaning of “he whom one looks to by any act” (not
only the act of giving, as the commentators imply). It is therefore what
we should call “the remote object.” Ex. Brâhmaṇâya dhanam dadâti, he gives wealth to the
Brâhman. This is afterwards extended by several rules explaining that
the
49
Sampradâna comes in after verbs expressive of pleasure caused
to somebody (I. 4, 33); after ślâgh, to applaud,
hnu, to dissemble, to conceal, sthâ,31 to reveal,
śap, to curse (I. 4, 34); after dhâray, to
owe (I. 4, 35); spṛh, to long for
(I. 4, 36); after verbs expressive of anger, ill-will, envy,
detraction (I. 4, 37); after râdh and îksh,
if they mean to consider concerning a person (I. 4, 39); after
pratiśru and âśru, in the sense of according
(I. 4, 40); anugṛ and pratigṛ, in the sense of acting in accordance with
(I. 4, 41); after parikrî, to buy, to hire
(I. 4, 44). Other cases of Sampradâna are mentioned
after such words as namaḥ, salutation to,
svasti, hail, svâhâ, salutation to the gods,
svadhâ, salutation to the manes, alam, sufficient for,
vashaṭ, offered to, a sacrificial
invocation, etc. (II. 3, 16); and in such expressions as na tvam triṇâya manye, I do not value
thee a straw (II. 3, 17); grâmâya gacchati, he goes to the
village (II. 2, 12): where, however, the accusative, too, is
equally admissible. Some other cases of Sampradâna are mentioned in the
Vârttikas; e.g., I. 4, 44, muktaye harim bhajati, for the
sake of liberation he worships Hari; vâtâya kapilâ vidyut, a dark
red lightning indicates wind. Very interesting, too, is the construction
with the prohibitive mâ; e.g. mâ câpalâya, lit. not for
unsteadiness, i.e., do not act unsteadily.32
In all these cases we easily recognize the identity of
Sampradâna with the dative in Greek and Latin. If therefore we
see that Pâṇini in some of his rules
states that Sampradâna takes the place of tum, the so
called infinitive, we can hardly doubt that he had perceived the
similarity in the functions of what we call dative and infinitive. Thus
he says that instead of phalâny âhartum
yâti, he goes to take the fruits, we may use the dative and say
phalebhyo yâti, he goes for the fruits;
instead of yashṭum yâti, he goes to
sacrifice, yâgâya yâti, he goes to the
act of sacrificing (II. 3, 14–15).
But whether Pâṇini recognized this
fact or not, certain it is that we have only to look at the forms which
in the Veda take the place of tum, in order to convince
ourselves that most of
50
them are datives of verbal nouns. As far as Sanskrit grammar is
concerned, we may safely cancel the name of infinitive altogether, and
speak instead boldly of datives and other cases of verbal nouns. Whether
these verbal nouns admit of the dative case only, and whether some of
those datival terminations have become obsolete, are questions which do
not concern the grammarian, and nothing would be more unphilosophical
than to make such points the specific characteristic of a new
grammatical category, the infinitive. The very idea that every noun must
possess a complete set of cases, is contrary to all the lessons of the
history of language; and though the fact that some of these forms belong
to an antiquated phase of language has undoubtedly contributed towards
their being used more readily for certain syntactical purposes, the fact
remains that in their origin and their original intention they were
datives and nothing else. Neither could the fact that these datives of
verbal nouns may govern the same case which is governed by the verb, be
used as a specific mark, because it is well known that, in Sanskrit more
particularly, many nouns retain the power of governing the accusative.
We shall now examine some of these so-called infinitives in
Sanskrit.
Datives in e.
The simplest dative is that in e, after verbal bases ending in
consonants or â, e.g., dṛśé, for the
sake of seeing, to see; vid-é, to know, paribhveê,33
to overcome; śraddhé kám, to believe.
Datives in ai.
After some verbs ending in â, the dative is irregularly
(Grammar, §§ 239, 240) formed in ai; Rv. VII. 19, 7,
parâdái, to surrender. III. 60, 4, pratimái, to
compare, and the important form vayodhái, of which more by and
by.
Accusatives in am. Genitives and
Ablatives in as. Locatives in i.
By the side of these datives we have analogous accusatives in
am, genitives and ablatives in as, locatives in
i.
Accusative: I. 73, 10, śakéma yámam, May we be able to get.
I. 94, 3, śakéma tvâ samídhan, May we be able to light
51
thee. This may be the Oscan and Umbrian infinitive in um,
om (u, o), if we take yama as a base in
a, and m as the sign of the accusative. In Sanskrit it is
impossible to determine this question, for that bases in a also
are used for similar purposes is clearly seen in datives like
dábhâya; e.g., Rv. V. 44, 2, ná dábhâya, not to conquer;
VIII. 96, 1, nṛ́bhyâḥ tárâya síndhavaḥ
su-pârấḥ, the rivers easy to cross for men. Whether the Vedic
imperatives in âya (śâyac) admit of a similar
explanation is doubtful on account of the accent.
Genitive: vilikhaḥ, in îśvaro vilikhaḥ, cognizant of drawing; and
possibly X. 108, 2, atiskádaḥ
bhiyásâ, from fear of crossing.
Ablative: Rv. VIII. 1, 12, purâ
âtṛ́daḥ, before striking.
Locative: Rv. V. 52, 12, dṛśí tvishé,
to shine in glancing(?)
Datives in s-e.
The same termination of the dative is added to verbal bases which
have taken the increment of the aorist, the s. Thus from
ji, to conquer, we have ji-sh, and je-sh, and
from both datival forms with infinitival function. I. 111, 4, té naḥ hinvantu sâtáye dhiyé jishé, May they
bring us to wealth, wisdom, victory!
I. 100, 11, apấm tokásya tánayasya jeshé, May Indra help us for
getting water, children, and descendants. Cf. VI. 44, 18.
Or, after bases ending in consonants, upaprakshé; V. 47, 6,
upa-prakshé vṛ́shaṇaḥ - - - vadhvấḥ
yanti áccha, the men go towards their wives to embrace.
These forms correspond to Greek infinitives like λῦσαι and τύψαι, possibly to Latin infinitives like ferre,
for fer-se, velle for vel-se, and voluis-se;
for se, following immediately on a consonant, can never represent
the Sanskrit ase. With regard to infinitives like
fac-se, dic-se, I do not venture to decide whether they
are primitive forms, or contracted, though fac-se could hardly be
called a contraction of fecisse. The 2d pers. sing. of the
imperative of the 1st aorist middle, λῦσαι, is identical with the infinitive in form, and the
transition of meaning from the infinitive to the imperative is well
known in Greek and other languages. (Παῖδα δ’ ἐμοὶ
λῦσαί τε φίλην τά τ’ ἄποινα δέχεσθαι, Deliver up my dear child
and accept the ransom). Several of these aoristic forms are sometimes
very perplexing in Sanskrit. If we find, for instance, stushé,
we cannot always tell whether
52
it is the infinitive (λῦσαι); or the 1st pers. sing. of the aor. Âtmanep. in
the subjunctive (for stushai), Let me praise (λύσωμαι); or lastly, the 2d pers. sing.
Âtmanep. in the indicative (λύῃ). If stushe has no accent, we know, of
course, that it cannot be the infinitive, as in X. 93, 9; but when it
has the accent on the last, it may, in certain constructions, be either
infinitive, or 1st pers. sing. aor. Âtm. subj. Here we want far more
careful grammatical studies on the language of the Veda, before we can
venture to translate with certainty. In places, for instance, where as
in I. 122, 7 we have a nominative with stushé, it is
clear that it must be taken as an infinitive, stushé sâ vâm - - - râtíḥ, your gift, Varuṇa and Mitra, is to be praised; but in
other places, such as VIII. 5, 4, the choice is difficult. In VIII. 65,
5, índra griṇîshé u stushé,
I should propose to translate, Indra, thou longest for praising,
thou desirest to be praised, cf. VIII. 71, 15; while in II. 20, 4, tám u stushe índram tám gṛṇîshe,
I translate, Let me praise Indra, let me laud him, admitting here,
the irregular retention of Vikaraṇa in
the aorist, which can be defended by analogous forms such as gṛ́-ṇî-sh-áṇi, stṛ́-ṇî-sh-áṇi, of which more
hereafter. However, all these translations, as every real scholar knows,
are, and can be tentative only. Nothing but a complete Vedic grammar,
such as we may soon expect from Professor Benfey, will give us safe
ground to stand on.
Datives in âyai.
Feminine bases in â form their dative in âyai, and
thus we find carâyai used in the Veda, VII. 77, 1, as what we
should call an infinitive, in the sense of to go. No other cases of
carâ have as yet been met with. A similar form is
jârâyai, to praise, I. 38, 13.
Datives in aye.
We have next to consider bases in i, forming their dative in
áye. Here, whenever we are acquainted with the word in other
cases, we naturally take aye as a simple dative of a noun. Thus
in I. 31, 8, we should translate sanáye dhánânâm, for the
acquisition of treasures, because we are accustomed to other cases, such
as I. 100, 13, sanáyas, acquisitions, V. 27, 3,
saním, wealth. But if we find, V. 80, 5, dṛśáye naḥ asthât, she stood to be seen by us, lit., for
our seeing, then we
53
prefer, though wrongly, to look upon such datives as infinitives, simply
because we have not met with other cases of dṛśi-s.
Datives in taye.
What applies to datives of nouns in i, applies with still
greater force to datives of nouns in ti. There is no reason why
in IX. 96, 4 we should call áhataye, to be without hurt,
an infinitive, simply because no other case of áhati-s occurs
in the Rig-Veda; while ájîtaye, not to fail, in the same line,
is called a dative of ájîti-s, because it occurs again in the
accusative ájîti-m.
Datives in tyai.
In ityái, to go, I. 113, 6; 124, 1, we have a dative of
iti-s, the act of going, of which the instrumental
ityâ occurs likewise, I. 167, 5. This tyâ,
shortened to tya, became afterwards the regular termination of
the gerund of compound verbs in tya (Grammar § 446), while
ya (§ 445) points to an original ya or
yai.
Datives in as-e.
Next follow datives from bases in as, partly with accent on
the first syllable, like neuter nouns in as, partly with the
accent on as; partly with Guṇa,
partly without. With regard to them it becomes still clearer how
impossible it would be to distinguish between datives of abstract nouns,
and other grammatical forms, to be called infinitives. Thus Rv.
I. 7, 3 we read dîrghâya cákshase, Indra made the sun
rise for long glancing, i.e., that it might glance far and wide.
It is quite true that no other cases of cákshas, seeing, occur,
on which ground modern grammarians would probably class it as an
infinitive; but the qualifying dative dîrghâya, clearly shows
that the poet felt cákshase as the dative of a noun, and did
not trouble himself, whether that noun was defective in other cases or
not.
These datives of verbal nouns in as, correspond exactly to
Latin infinitives in ĕre, like vivere (jîváse),
and explain likewise infinitives in âre, êre, and
îre, forms which cannot be separated. It has been thought that
the nearest approach to an infinitive is to be found in such forms as
jîváse, bhiyáse, to fear (V. 29, 4), because
in such cases the ordinary nominal form would be bháyas-e.
There is, however, the instrumental bhiyása, X.
108, 2.
54
Datives in mane.
Next follow datives from nouns in man, van, and
an. The suffix man is very common in Sanskrit, for
forming verbal nouns, such as kar-man, doing, deed, from
kar. Van is almost restricted to forming nomina
agentis, such as druh-van, hating; but we find also
substantives like pat-van, still used in the sense of flying.
An also is generally used like van, but we can see
traces of its employment to form nomina actionis in Greek ἀγών, Lat. turbo, etc.
Datives of nouns in man, used with infinitival functions,
are very common in the Veda; e.g. I. 164, 6, pṛccâmi vidmane, I ask to know; VIII. 93, 8,
dâmane kṛtáḥ, made to give. We find also
the instrumental case vidmánâ, e.g., VI. 14, 5, vidmánâ
urushyáti, he protects by his knowledge. These correspond to Homeric
infinitives, like ἴδμεναι, δόμεναι, etc., old datives and not locatives,
as Schleicher and Curtius supposed; while forms like δόμεν are to be explained either as
abbreviated, or as obsolete accusatives.
Datives in vane.
Of datives in váne I only know dāvâne, a most
valuable grammatical relic, by which Professor Benfey was enabled to
explain the Greek δοῦναι,
i.e., δοϝέναι.34
Datives in ane.
Of datives in áne I pointed out (l.c.) dhûrv-ane
and vibhv-áne, VI. 61, 13, taking the latter as synonymous with
vibhvế, and translating, Sarasvatî, the great, made to
conquer, like a chariot. Professor Roth, s.v. vibhván,
takes the dative for an instrumental, and translates “made by an
artificer.” It is, however, not the chariot that is spoken of, but
Sarasvatî, and of her it could hardly be said that she was made
either by or for an artificer.
Locatives in sani.
As we saw before that aoristic bases in s take the datival
e, so that we had prák-sh-e by the side of pṛ́c-e, we shall have to consider here aoristic bases in
s, taking the suffix an, not however with the
termination of the dative, but with that of the locative i. Thus
we read X. 126, 3, náyishṭhâḥ u naḥ nesháṇi
55
párshishṭhâḥ u naḥ parsháṇi áti dvíshaḥ, they who are the best
leaders to lead us, the best helpers to help us to overcome our enemies,
lit. in leading us, in helping us. In VIII. 12, 19, gṛṇîsháni, i.e. gṛ-ṇî-sháṇ-i
stands parallel with turv-án-e, thus showing how both cases can
answer nearly the same purpose. If these forms existed in Greek, they
would, after consonantal bases, be identical with the infinitives of the
future.
Cases of Verbal Nouns in tu.
We next come to a large number of datives, ablatives, or genitives,
and accusatives of verbal nouns in tu. This tu occurs
in Sanskrit in abstract nouns such as gâtú, going, way, etc.,
in Latin in adven-tus, etc. As these forms have been often
treated, and as some of them occur frequently in later Sanskrit also, it
will suffice to give one example of each:—
Dative in tave: gántave, to go, I. 46, 7.
Old form in ai: gántavái, X. 95, 14.
Genitive in toḥ: dâtoḥ, governed by îśe, VII. 4, 6.
Ablative in toḥ: gántoḥ, I. 89, 9.
Accusative in tum: gántum. This is the supine in
tum in Latin.
Cases of Verbal Nouns in tva.
Next follow cases of verbal nouns in tvá, the accent being
on the suffix.
Datives in tvấya: hatvấya, X. 84, 2.
Instrumental in tvấ: hatvấ, I. 100, 18.
Older form in tvî́: hatvî́, II. 17, 6;
gatvî́, IV. 41, 5.
Datives in dhai and dhyai.
I have left to the end datives in dhai and dhyai,
which properly belong to the datives in ai, treated before, but
differ from them as being datives of compound nouns. As from máyaḥ, delight, we have mayaskará,
delight-making, mayobhú, delight-causing, and constructions
like máyo dádhe, so from váyas, life, vigor, we have
váyaskṛ́t, life-giving, and constructions
like váyo dhât. From dhâ we can frame two substantival
frame, dhâ and dhi-s, e.g.
puro-dhâ, and puro-dhis, like vi-dhi-s. As an
ordinary substantive, purodhâ takes the feminine termination
â, and is declined like śivâ. But if the verbal base
remains at the
56
end of a compound without the feminine suffix, a compound like
vayodhâ would form its dative vayodhe (Grammar, § 239); and as in
analogous cases we found old datives in ai, instead of e, e.g.
parâdai, nothing can be said against vayodhai, as a
Vedic dative of vayodhâ. The dative of purodhi would
be purodhaye, but here again, as, besides forms like dṛśaye, we met with datives, such as
ityai, rohishyai, there is no difficulty in admitting
an analogous dative of purodhi, viz., purodhyai.
The old dative dhai has been preserved to us in one form
only, which for that reason is all the more valuable and important,
offering the key to the mysterious Greek infinitives in θαι, I mean vayodhái, which
occurs twice in the Rig-Veda, X. 55, 1, and X. 67, 11. The importance of
this relic would have been perceived long ago, if there had not been
some uncertainty as to whether such a form really existed in the Veda.
By some accident or other, Professor Aufrecht had printed in both
passages vayodhaiḥ, instead of
vayodhai. But for this, no one, I believe, would have
doubted that in this form vayodhai we have not only the most
valuable prototype of the Greek infinitives in (σ)θαι, but at the same time their full
explanation. Vayodhai stands for vayas-dhai, in which
composition the first part vayas is a neuter base in
as, the second a dative of the auxiliary verb dhâ,
used as a substantive. If, therefore, we find corresponding to
vayodhai a Greek infinitive βέεσθαι, we must divide it into βέεσ-θαι, as we divide ψεύδεσθαι into ψεύδεσ-θαι, and translate it literally by “to do
lying.”
It has been common to identify Greek infinitives in σθαι with corresponding Sanskrit forms
ending in dhyai. No doubt these forms in dhyai are
much more frequent than forms in dhai, but as we can only take
them as old datives of substantives in dhi, it would be
difficult to identify the two. The Sanskrit dhy appears, no
doubt, in Greek, as σσ, dh being represented by the surd θ, and
then assibilated by y; but we could hardly attempt to explain σθ
= θy, because σδ = ζ = δy. Therefore, unless we are prepared to see with
Bopp in the σ before θ, in this and similar forms, a remnant of the
reflexive pronoun, nothing remains but to accept the explanation offered
by the Vedic vayodhai, and to separate ψεύδεσθαι into ψεύδεσ-θαι lying to do. That this grammatical
compound, if once
57
found successful, should have been repeated in other tenses, giving us
not only γράφεσ-θαι,
but γράψεσ-θαι, γράψασ-θαι, and even γραφθήσεσ-θαι, is no more than
what we may see again and again in the grammatical development of
ancient and modern languages. Some scholars
have objected on the same ground to Bopp’s explanation of
ama-mini, as the nom. plur. of a participle, because they think
it impossible to look upon amemini, amabâmini, amaremini,
amabimini as participial formations. But if a mould is once made
in language, it is used again and again, and little account is taken of
its original intention. If we object to γράψεσ-θαι, why not to κελευ-σέ-μεναι or τεθνά-μεναι or μιχθή-μεναι? In Sanskrit, too, we should hesitate
to form a compound of a modified verbal base, such as pṛṇa, with dhi, doing; yet as the Sanskrit ear
was accustomed to yajadhyai from yaja,
gamadhyai from gama, it did not protest against pṛṇadhyai, vâvṛdhadhyai, etc.
Historical Importance of these Grammatical
Forms.
And while these ancient grammatical forms which supply the foundation
of what in Greek, Latin, and other languages we are accustomed to call
infinitives are of the highest interest to the grammarian and the
logician, their importance is hardly less in the eyes of the historian.
Every honest student of antiquity, whether his special field be India,
Persia, Assyria, or Egypt, knows how often he is filled with fear and
trembling when he meets with thoughts and expressions which, as he is
apt to say, cannot be ancient. I have frequently confessed to that
feeling with regard to some of the hymns of the Rig-Veda, and I well
remember the time when I felt inclined to throw up the whole work as
modern and unworthy of the time and labor bestowed upon it. At that time
I was always comforted by these so-called infinitives and other relics
of ancient language. They could not have been fabricated in India. They
are unknown in ordinary Sanskrit, they are unintelligible as far as
their origin is concerned in Greek and Latin, and yet in the Vedic
language we find these forms, not only identical with Greek and Latin
forms, but furnishing the key to their formation in Greece and Italy.
The Vedic vayas-dhái compared with Greek βεεσ-θαι, the Vedic stushe compared
with λυσαι are to my mind
evidence in support of the antiquity and genuineness of the Veda that
cannot be shaken by any arguments.
58
The Infinitive in English.
I add a few words on the infinitive in English, though it has been
well treated by Dr. March in his “Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Language,”
by Dr. Morris, and others. We find in Anglo-Saxon two forms, one
generally called the infinitive, nim-an, to take, the other the
gerund, to nim-anne, to take. Dr. March explains the first as
identical with Greek νέμ-ειν and νέμ-εν-αι, i.e., as an oblique case, probably
the dative, of a verbal noun in an. He himself quotes only the
dative of nominal bases in a, e.g. namanâya, because he
was probably unacquainted with the nearer forms in an-e supplied
by the Veda. This infinitive exists in Gothic as nim-an, in Old
Saxon as nim-an, in Old Norse as nem-a, in Old High German
as nem-an. The so-called gerund, to nimanne, is rightly
traced back by Dr. March to Old Saxon nim-annia, but he can
hardly be right in identifying these old datival forms with the Sanskrit
base nam-anîya. In the Second Period of English
(1100–1250)35 the termination of the infinitive became en,
and frequently dropped the final n, as smelle =
smellen; while the termination of the gerund at the same time
became enne, (ende), ene, en, or e,
so that outwardly the two forms appear to be identical, as early as the
12th century.36 Still later, towards the end of the 14th century, the
terminations were entirely lost, though Spenser and Shakespeare have
occasionally to killen, passen, delven, when they
wished to impart an archaic character to their language. In modern
English the infinitive with to is used as a verbal substantive.
When we say, “I wish you to do this,” “you are able to do this,” we
can still perceive the datival function of the infinitive. Likewise in
such phrases, “it is time,” “it is proper,” “it is wrong to do that,”
to do may still be felt as an oblique case. But we have only to
invert these sentences, and say, “to do this is wrong,” and we have a
new substantive in the nom. sing., just as in the Greek τὸ λέγειν. Expressions like for to
do, show that the simple to was not always felt to be
sufficiently expressive to convey the meaning of an original dative.
Works on the Infinitive.
The infinitive has formed the subject of many learned treatises.
I divide them into two classes, those which appeared before
59
and after Wilhelm’s excellent essay, written in Latin, “De Infinitivi Vi
et Natura,” 1868; and in a new and improved edition, “De Infinitivo
Linguarum Sanscritæ, Bactricæ, Persicæ, Græcæ, Oscæ, Umbricæ, Latinæ,
Goticæ, forma et usu,” Isenaci, 1873. In this essay the evidence
supplied by the Veda was for the first time fully collected, and the
whole question of the nature of the infinitive placed in its true
historical light. Before Wilhelm the more important works were Hofer’s
book, “Vom Infinitiv, besonders im Sanskrit,” Berlin, 1840; Bopp’s
paragraphs in his “Comparative Grammar;” Humboldt’s paper, in Schlegel’s
“Indische Bibliothek” (II. 74), 1824; and his posthumous paper in
Kuhn’s “Zeitschrift” (II. 245), 1853; some dissertations by
L. Meyer, Merguet, and Golenski. Benfey’s “Sanskrit Grammar”
(1852), too, ought to be mentioned, as having laid the first solid
foundations for this and all other branches of grammatical research, as
far as Sanskrit is concerned. After Wilhelm the same subject has been
treated with great independence by Ludwig, “Der Infinitif im Veda,”
1871, and again “Agglutination oder Adaptation,” 1873; and also by
Jolly, “Geschichte des Infinitivs,” 1873.
I had myself discussed some questions connected with the nature of
the infinitive in my “Lectures on the Science of Language,” vol. ii.
p. 15 seq., and I had pointed out in Kuhn’s “Zeitschrift,” XV. 215
(1866) the great importance of the Vedic vayodhai for
unraveling the formation of Greek infinitives in σ-θαι.
The Infinitive in Bengali.
At a still earlier time, in 1847, in my “Essay on Bengali,”
I said: “As the infinitives of the Indo-Germanic languages must be
regarded as the absolute cases of a verbal noun, it is probable that in
Bengali the infinitive in ite was also originally a locative,
which expressed not only local situation, but also movement towards some
object, as an end, whether real or imaginary. Thus the Bengali
infinitive corresponds exactly with the English, where the relation of
case is expressed by the preposition to. Ex. tâhâke mârite âmi
âsiyâchi, means, I came to the state of beating him, or,
I came to beat him; âmâke mârite deo, give me (permission), let me
(go) to the action of beating, i.e., allow me to beat. Now as the
form of the participle is the same as that of the infinitive, it may be
doubted if there is really a distinction
60
between these two forms as to their origin. For instance, the phrase
âpan putrake mârite âmi tâhâka dekhilâm, can be translated, I saw
him beating his own son; but it can be explained also as, what they
nonsensically call in Latin grammar accusativus cum infinitivo,
that is to say, the infinitive can be taken for a locative of the verbal
noun, and the whole phrase be translated, I saw him in the action
of beating his own son, (vidi patrem cædere ipsius filium). As in
every Bengali phrase the participle in ite can be understood in
this manner, I think it admissible to ascribe this origin to it,
and instead of taking it for a nominative of a verbal adjective, to
consider it as a locative of a verbal noun.”
The Infinitive in the Dravidian Languages.
I also tried to show that the infinitive in the Dravidian languages
is a verbal noun with or without a case suffix. This view has been
confirmed by Dr. Caldwell, but, in deference to him, I gladly
withdraw the explanation which I proposed in reference to the infinitive
in Tamil. I quote from Dr. Caldwell’s “Comparative Grammar of the
Dravidian Languages,” 2d ed. p. 423: “Professor Max Müller,
noticing that the majority of Tamil infinitives terminate in ka,
supposed this ka to be identical in origin with kô, the
dative-accusative case-sign of the Hindi, and concluded that the
Dravidian infinitive was the accusative of a verbal noun. It is true
that the Sanskrit infinitive and Latin supine in tum is correctly
regarded as an accusative, and that our English infinitive to do,
is the dative of a verbal noun; it is also true that the Dravidian
infinitive is a verbal noun in origin, and never altogether loses that
character; nevertheless, the supposition that the final ka of
most Tamil infinitives is in any manner connected with ku, the sign of
the Dravidian dative, or of kô, the Hindi dative-accusative, is
inadmissible. A comparison of various classes of verbs and of the
various dialects shows that the kâ in question proceeds from a
totally different source.”
On Labialized and Unlabialized Gutturals.
As in my article on Vayodhai, published in Kuhn’s
“Zeitschrift,” 1866, p. 215, I had entered a caveat
against identifying Greek β with Sanskrit ज, I take this opportunity of frankly
withdrawing it. Phonetically, no doubt, these two letters represent
61
totally distinct powers, and to say that Sanskrit ज ever became Greek β is as irrational
to-day as it was ten years ago. But historically I was entirely wrong,
as will be seen from the last edition of Curtius’ “Grundzüge.” The
guttural sonant check was palatalized in the Southeastern Branch, and
there became j and z, while in the Northwestern Branch the same g
was frequently labialized and became gv, v, and b. Hence, where we
have ज in Sanskrit,
we may and do find β in Greek.
But after withdrawing my former caveat, I make bold to propose
another, namely, that the original palatal sonant flatus, which in
Sanskrit is graphically represented by j, can never be represented in
Greek by β. Whether j in Sanskrit represents an original palatal sonant
check or an original palatal sonant flatus can generally be determined
by a reference to Zend, which represents the former by j, the latter by
z. We may therefore formulate this phonetic law:—
“When Sanskrit j is represented by Zend z, it cannot be
represented by Greek β.”
In this manner it is possible, I believe, to utilize Ascoli’s and
Fick’s brilliant discovery as to a twofold, or even threefold,
distinction of the Aryan k, as applied to the Aryan g. They have
proved that all Aryan languages show traces of an original distinction
between a guttural surd check, k, frequently palatalized in the
Southeastern Branch (Sk. c, Zend c) and liable to
labialization, in Latin, Greek, Cymric, and Gothic; and another k, never
liable to labialization, but changed into a flatus, palatal or
otherwise, in Sanskrit, Lithuanian, and Old Slavonic. They showed, in
fact,—
Sanskrit. |
Lith. |
Slav. |
Gadh. & Cym. |
Lat. |
Greek. |
Gothic. |
क (च) |
= k |
= k, č, c |
= c |
= p |
= c, qu, v |
= κ, κϝ, κκ, π, ππ, τ, ττ, = |
hv, h. |
श |
= sz |
= s |
= c |
= c |
= κ |
= h |
In the same manner we ought in future to distinguish between a
guttural sonant check, g, frequently palatalized in the Southeastern
Branch (Sk. j, Zend j), and liable to labialization, like k;
and another g, never liable to labialization, but changed into a flatus,
palatal or otherwise, in Zend, Lithuanian, and Old Slavonic. As we never
have π = श we never
have β = ज, if
ज in Zend is
z.
The evidence will be found under Sk. jan, jabh,
jar (to
62
decay, and to praise), jush, jñâ, jñu,
jâmâtar; aj, bhrâj, marj,
yaj, raj(atam).
Gothic quinô, Gadh. ben, Bœot. βάνα depend on Zend jeni; Gadh.
baith-is on Zend jaf-ra. It is wrong to connect σβεσ with jas, on account
of Zend zas, and gyâ-ni with βία, on account of Zend zyâ-ni.
63
II.
REDE LECTURE,
DELIVERED IN THE SENATE HOUSE BEFORE
THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE,
ON FRIDAY, MAY 29, 1868.1
Part I.
ON THE STRATIFICATION OF LANGUAGE.
There are few sensations more
pleasant than that of wondering. We have all experienced it in
childhood, in youth, and in our manhood, and we may hope that even in
our old age this affection of the mind will not entirely pass away. If
we analyze this feeling of wonder carefully, we shall find that it
consists of two elements. What we mean by wondering is not only that we
are startled or stunned,—that I should call the merely passive
element of wonder. When we say “I wonder,” we confess that we are
taken aback, but there is a secret satisfaction mixed up with our
feeling of surprise, a kind of hope, nay, almost of certainty, that
sooner or later the wonder will cease, that our senses or our mind will
recover, will grapple with these novel impressions or experiences, grasp
them, it may be, throw them, and finally triumph over them. In fact we
wonder at the riddles
64
of nature, whether animate or inanimate, with a firm conviction that
there is a solution to them all, even though we ourselves may not be
able to find it.
Wonder, no doubt, arises from ignorance, but from a peculiar kind of
ignorance; from what might be called a fertile ignorance: an ignorance
which, if we look back at the history of most of our sciences, will be
found to have been the mother of all human knowledge. For thousands of
years men have looked at the earth with its stratifications, in some
places so clearly mapped out; for thousands of years they must have seen
in their quarries and mines, as well as we ourselves, the imbedded
petrifications of organic creatures: yet they looked and passed on
without thinking more about it—they did not wonder. Not even an
Aristotle had eyes to see; and the conception of a science of the earth,
of Geology, was reserved for the eighteenth century.
Still more extraordinary is the listlessness with which during all
the centuries that have elapsed since the first names were given to all
cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field, men
have passed by what was much nearer to them than even the gravel on
which they trod, namely, the words of their own language. Here, too, the
clearly marked lines of different strata seemed almost to challenge
attention, and the pulses of former life were still throbbing in the
petrified forms imbedded in grammars and dictionaries. Yet not even a
Plato had eyes to see, or ears to hear, and the conception of a science
of language, of Glottology, was reserved for the nineteenth century.
I am far from saying that Plato and Aristotle knew nothing of the
nature, the origin, and the purpose of
65
language, or that we have nothing to learn from their works. They, and
their successors, and their predecessors too, beginning with Herakleitos
and Demokritos, were startled and almost fascinated by the mysteries of
human speech as much as by the mysteries of human thought; and what we
call grammar and the laws of language, nay, all the technical terms
which are still current in our schools, such as noun and
verb, case and number, infinitive and
participle, all this was first discovered and named by the
philosophers and grammarians of Greece, to whom, in spite of all our new
discoveries, I believe we are still beholden, whether consciously
or unconsciously, for more than half of our intellectual life.
But the interest which those ancient Greek philosophers took in
language was purely philosophical. It was the form, far more than the
matter of speech which seemed to them a subject worthy of philosophical
speculation. The idea that there was, even in their days, an immense
mass of accumulated speech to be sifted, to be analyzed, and to be
accounted for somehow, before any theories on the nature of language
could be safely started, hardly ever entered their minds; or when it
did, as we see here and there in Plato’s “Kratylos,” it soon vanished,
without leaving any permanent impression. Each people and each
generation has its own problems to solve. The problem that occupied
Plato in his “Kratylos” was, if I understand him rightly, the
possibility of a perfect language, a correct, true, or ideal
language, a language founded on his own philosophy, his own system
of types or ideas. He was too wise a man to attempt, like Bishop
Wilkins, the actual construction of a philosophical language. But, like
Leibniz, he just
66
lets us see that a perfect language is conceivable, and that the chief
reason of the imperfections of real language must be found in the fact
that its original framers were ignorant of the true nature of things,
ignorant of dialectic philosophy, and therefore incapable of naming
rightly what they had failed to apprehend correctly. Plato’s view of
actual language, as far as it can be made out from the critical and
negative rather than didactic and positive dialogue of “Kratylos,” seems
to have been very much the same as his view of actual government. Both
fall short of the ideal, and both are to be tolerated only in so far as
they participate in the perfections of an ideal state and an ideal
language.2 Plato’s “Kratylos” is full of suggestive wisdom. It is
one of those books which, as we read them again from time to time, seem
every time like new books: so little do we perceive at first all that is
pre-supposed in them,—the accumulated mould of thought, if I may
say so, in which alone a philosophy like that of Plato could strike its
roots and draw its support.
But while Plato shows a deeper insight into the mysteries of language
than almost any philosopher that has come after him, he has no eyes for
that marvelous harvest of words garnered up in our dictionaries, and in
the dictionaries of all the races of the earth. With him language is
almost synonymous with Greek, and though in one passage of the
“Kratylos” he suggests that certain Greek words might have been borrowed
from the Barbarians, and, more particularly from the Phrygians, yet that
remark, as coming from Plato, seems to be purely ironical, and though it
contains, as we know, a germ of truth that
67
has proved most fruitful in our modern science of language, it struck no
roots in the minds of Greek philosophers. How much our new science of
language differs from the linguistic studies of the Greeks; how entirely
the interest which Plato took in language is now supplanted by new
interests, is strikingly brought home to us when we see how the
Société de Linguistique, lately founded at Paris, and including
the names of the most distinguished scholars of France, declares in one
of its first statutes that “it will receive no communication concerning
the origin of language or the formation of a universal language,” the
very subjects which, in the time of Herakleitos and Plato, rendered
linguistic studies worthy of the consideration of a philosopher.
It may be that the world was too young in the days of Plato, and that
the means of communication were wanting to enable the ancient
philosopher to see very far beyond the narrow horizon of Greece. With us
it is different. The world has grown older, and has left to us in the
annals of its various literatures the monuments of growing and decaying
speech. The world has grown larger, and we have before us, not only the
relics of ancient civilization in Asia, Africa, and America, but living
languages in such number and variety that we draw back almost aghast at
the mere list of their names. The world has grown wiser too, and where
Plato could only see imperfections, the failures of the founders of
human speech, we see, as everywhere else in human life, a natural
progress from the imperfect towards the perfect, unceasing attempts at
realizing the ideal, and the frequent triumphs of the human mind over
the inevitable difficulties of this earthly
condition,—difficulties,
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not of man’s own making, but, as I firmly believe, prepared for him, and
not without a purpose, as toils and tasks, by a higher Power and by the
highest Wisdom.
Let us look then abroad and behold the materials which the student of
language has now to face. Beginning with the language of the Western
Isles, we have at the present day, at least 100,000 words, arranged as
on the shelves of a Museum, in the pages of Johnson and Webster. But
these 100,000 words represent only the best grains that have remained in
the sieve, while clouds of chaff have been winnowed off, and while many
a valuable grain too has been lost by mere carelessness. If we counted
the wealth of English dialects, and if we added the treasures of the
ancient language from Alfred to Wycliffe, we should easily double the
herbarium of the linguistic flora of England. And what are these Western
Isles as compared to Europe; and what is Europe, a mere promontory,
as compared to the vast continent of Asia; and what again is Asia, as
compared to the whole inhabitable world? But there is no corner of that
world that is not full of language: the very desert and the isles of the
sea teem with dialects, and the more we recede from the centres of
civilization, the larger the number of independent languages, springing
up in every valley, and overshadowing the smallest island.
Ἴδαν ἐς πολύδενδρον ἀνὴρ ὑλατόμος ἐνθὼν
Παπταίνει, παρέοντος ἄδην, πόθεν ἄρξεται ἔργω.3
We are bewildered by the variety of plants, of birds, and fishes, and
insects, scattered with lavish prodigality over land and sea;—but
what is the living
69
wealth of that Fauna as compared to the winged words which fill the air
with unceasing music! What are the scanty relics of fossil plants and
animals, compared to the storehouse of what we call the dead languages!
How then can we explain it that for centuries and centuries, while
collecting beasts, and birds, and fishes, and insects, while studying
their forms, from the largest down to the smallest and almost invisible
creatures, man has passed by this forest of speech, without seeing the
forest, as we say in German, for the very number of its trees (Man
sah den Wald vor lauter Bäumen nicht), without once asking how this
vast currency could have been coined, what inexhaustible mines could
have supplied the metal, what cunning hands could have devised the image
and superscription,—without once wondering at the countless
treasure inherited by him from the fathers of the human race?
Let us now turn our attention in a different direction. After it had
been discovered that there was this great mass of material to be
collected, to be classified, to be explained, what has the Science of
Language, as yet, really accomplished? It has achieved much, considering
that real work only began about fifty years ago; it has achieved little,
if we look at what still remains to be done.
The first discovery was that languages admit of classification. Now
this was a very great discovery, and it at once changed and raised the
whole character of linguistic studies. Languages might have been, for
all we know, the result of individual fancy or poetry; words might have
been created here and there at random, or been fixed by a convention,
more or less arbitrary. In that case a scientific classification would
70
have been as impossible as it is if applied to the changing fashions of
the day. Nothing can be classified, nothing can be scientifically ruled
and ordered, except what has grown up in natural order and according to
rational rule.
Out of the great mass of speech that is now accessible to the student
of language, a number of so-called families have been separated,
such as the Aryan, the Semitic, the Ural-Altaic,
the Indo-Chinese, the Dravidian, the
Malayo-Polynesian, the Kafir or Bâ-ntu in Africa,
and the Polysynthetic dialects of America. The only classes,
however, which have been carefully examined, and which alone have
hitherto supplied the materials for what we might call the Philosophy of
Language, are the Aryan and the Semitic, the former comprising the
languages of India, Persia, Armenia, Greece and Italy, and of the
Celtic, Teutonic, and Slavonic races; the latter consisting of the
languages of the Babylonians, the Syrians, the Jews, the Ethiopians, the
Arabs.
These two classes include, no doubt, the most important languages of
the world, if we measure the importance of languages by the amount of
influence exercised on the political and literary history of the world
by those who speak them. But considered by themselves, and placed in
their proper place in the vast realm of human speech, they describe but
a very small segment of the entire circle. The completeness of the
evidence which they place before us in the long series of their literary
treasures, points them out in an eminent degree as the most useful
subjects on which to study the anatomy of speech, and nearly all the
discoveries that have been made as to the laws of language, the process
of composition, derivation, and
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inflexion, have been gained by Aryan and Semitic scholars.
Far be it from me, therefore, to underrate the value of Aryan and
Semitic scholarship for a successful prosecution of the Science of
Language. But while doing full justice to the method adopted by Semitic
and Aryan scholars in the discovery of the laws that regulate the growth
and decay of language, we must not shut our eyes to the fact that our
field of observation has been thus far extremely limited, and that we
should act in defiance of the simplest rules of sound induction, were we
to generalize on such scanty evidence. Let us but clearly see what place
these two so-called families, the Aryan and Semitic, occupy in the great
kingdom of speech. They are in reality but two centres, two small
settlements of speech, and all we know of them is their period of decay,
not their period of growth, their descending, not their ascending
career, their Being, as we say in German, not their Becoming (Ihr
Gewordensein, nicht ihr Werden). Even in the earliest literary
documents both the Aryan and Semitic speech appear before us as fixed
and petrified. They had left forever that stage during which language
grows and expands, before it is arrested in its exuberant fertility by
means of religious or political concentration, by means of oral
tradition, or finally by means of a written literature. In the natural
history of speech, writing, or, what in early times takes the place of
writing, oral tradition, is something merely accidental. It represents a
foreign influence which, in natural history, can only be compared to the
influence exercised by domestication on plants and animals. Language
would be language still, nay,
72
would be more truly language, if the idea of a literature, whether oral
or written, had never entered men’s minds; and however important the
effects produced by this artificial domestication of language may be, it
is clear that our ideas of what language is in a natural state, and
therefore what Sanskrit and Hebrew, too, must have been before they were
tamed and fixed by literary cultivation, ought not to be formed from an
exclusive study of Aryan and Semitic speech. I maintain that all
that we call Aryan and Semitic speech, wonderful as its literary
representatives may be, consists of neither more or less than so many
varieties which all owe their origin to only two historical
concentrations of wild unbounded speech; nay, however perfect, however
powerful, however glorious in the history of the world,—in the
eyes of the student of language, Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin, Hebrew,
Arabic, and Syriac, are what a student of natural history would not
hesitate to call “monstra,” unnatural, exceptional formations
which can never disclose to us the real character of language left to
itself to follow out its own laws without let or hindrance.
For that purpose a study of Chinese and the Turanian dialects,
a study even of the jargons of the savages of Africa, Polynesia,
and Melanesia is far more instructive than the most minute analysis of
Sanskrit and Hebrew. The impression which a study of Greek and Latin and
Sanskrit leaves on our minds is, that language is a work of art, most
complicated, most wonderful, most perfect. We have given so many names
to its outward features, its genders and cases, its tenses and moods,
its participles, gerunds, and supines, that at last we are frightened at
our own devices. Who can read through all the so-called
73
irregular verbs, or look at the thousands and thousands of words in a
Greek Dictionary without feeling that he moves about in a perfect
labyrinth? How then, we ask, was this labyrinth erected? How did all
this come to be? We ourselves, speaking the language which we speak,
move about, as it were, in the innermost chambers, in the darkest
recesses of that primeval palace, but we cannot tell by what steps and
through what passages we arrived there, and we look in vain for the
thread of Ariadne which in leading us out of the enchanted castle of our
language, would disclose to us the way by which we ourselves, or our
fathers and forefathers before us, entered into it.
The question how language came to be what it is has been asked again
and again. Even a school-boy, if he possesses but a grain of the gift of
wondering must ask himself why mensa means one table, and
mensæ many tables; why I love should be amo, I am loved
amor, I shall love amabo, I have loved amavi, I
should have loved amavissem. Until very lately two answers only
could have been given to such questions. Both sound to us almost absurd,
yet in their time they were supported by the highest authorities.
Either, it was said, language, and particularly the grammatical
framework of language was made by convention, by agreeing to call
one table mensa, and many tables mensæ; or, and this was
Schlegel’s view, language was declared to possess an organic life, and
its terminations, prefixes, and suffixes were supposed to have sprouted
forth from the radicals and stems and branches of language, like so many
buds and flowers. To us it seems almost incredible that such theories
should have been seriously maintained, and
74
maintained by men of learning and genius. But what better answer could
they have given? What better answer has been given even now? We have
learnt something, chiefly from a study of the modern dialects, which
often repeat the processes of ancient speech, and thus betray the
secrets of the family. We have learnt that in some of the dialects of
modern Sanskrit, in Bengali for instance,4 the plural is formed,
as it is in Chinese, Mongolian, Turkish, Finnish, Burmese, and Siamese,
also in the Dravidian and Malayo-Polynesian dialects, by adding a word
75
expressive of plurality, and then appending again the terminations of
the singular. We have learnt from French how a future, je
parlerai, can be formed by an auxiliary verb: “I to speak have”
coming to mean, I shall speak. We have learnt from our own
language, whether English or German, that suffixes, such as head
in godhead, ship in ladyship, dom in
kingdom were originally substantives, having the meaning of
quality, shape, and state. But I doubt whether even thus we should have
arrived at a thorough understanding of the real antecedents of language,
unless, what happened in the study of the stratification of the earth,
had happened in the study of language. If the formation of the crust of
the earth had been throughout regular and uniform, and if none of the
lower strata had been tilted up, so that even those who run might read,
no shaft from the surface could have been sunk deep enough to bring the
geologist from the tertiary strata down to the Silurian rocks. The same
in language. Unless some languages had been arrested in their growth
during their earlier stages, and had remained on the surface in this
primitive state exposed only to the decomposing influence of atmospheric
action, and to the ill-treatment of literary cultivation, I doubt
whether any scholar would have had the courage to say that at one time
Sanskrit was like unto Chinese, and Hebrew no better than Malay. In the
successive strata of language thus exposed to our view, we have in fact,
as in Geology, the very thread of Ariadne, which, if we will but trust
to it, will lead us out of the dark labyrinth of language in which we
live, by the same road by which we and those who came before us, first
entered into it. The more we retrace our steps, the
76
more we advance from stratum to stratum, from story to story, the more
shall we feel almost dazzled by the daylight that breaks in upon us; the
more shall we be struck, no longer by the intricacy of Greek or Sanskrit
grammar, but by the marvelous simplicity of the original warp of human
speech, as preserved, for instance, in Chinese; by the child-like
contrivances, that are at the bottom of Paulo-post Futures and
Conditional Moods.
Let no one be frightened at the idea of studying a Chinese grammar.
Those who can take an interest in the secret springs of the mind, in the
elements of pure reason, in the laws of thought, will find a Chinese
grammar most instructive, most fascinating. It is the faithful
photograph of man in his leading-strings, trying the muscles of his
mind, groping his way, and so delighted with his first successful grasps
that he repeats them again and again. It is child’s play, if you like,
but it displays, like all child’s play, that wisdom and strength which
are perfect in the mouth of babes and sucklings. Every shade of thought
that finds expression in the highly finished and nicely balanced system
of Greek tenses, moods, and particles can be expressed, and has been
expressed, in that infant language by words that have neither prefix nor
suffix, no terminations to indicate number, case, tense, mood, or
person. Every word in Chinese is monosyllabic, and the same word,
without any change of form, may be used as a noun, a verb, an
adjective, an adverb, or a particle. Thus ta, according to its
position in a sentence, may mean great, greatness, to grow, very much,
very.5
And here a very important observation has been
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made by Chinese grammarians, an observation which, after a very slight
modification and expansion, contains indeed the secret of the whole
growth of language from Chinese to English. If a word in Chinese is used
with the bonâ fide signification of a noun or a verb, it is
called a full word (shi-tsé); if it is used as a particle
or with a merely determinative or formal character, it is called an
empty word (hiu-tsé6). There is as yet no outward
difference between full and empty words in Chinese, and this renders it
all the more creditable to the grammarians of China that they should
have perceived the inward distinction, even in the absence of any
outward signs.
Let us learn then from Chinese grammarians this great lesson, that
words may become empty, and without restricting the meaning of empty
words as they do, let us use that term in the most general sense, as
expressive of the fact that words may lose something of their full
original meaning.
Let us add to this another observation, which the Chinese could not
well have made, but which we shall see confirmed again and again in the
history of language, viz.: that empty words, or, as we may also call
them, dead words, are most exposed to phonetic decay.
It is clear then that, with these two preliminary
78
observations, we can imagine three conditions of language:—
1. There may be languages in which all words, both empty and full,
retain their independent form. Even words which are used when we should
use mere suffixes or terminations, retain their outward integrity in
Chinese. Thus, in Chinese, jin means man, tu means crowd,
jin-tu, man-crowd. In this compound both jin and tu
continue to be felt as independent words, more so than in our own
compound man-kind; but nevertheless tu has become empty,
it only serves to determine the preceding word jin, man, and
tells us the quantity or number in which jin shall be taken. The
compound answers in intention to our plural, but in form it is wide
apart from men, the plural of man.
2. Empty words may lose their independence, may suffer phonetic
decay, and dwindle down to mere suffixes and terminations. Thus in
Burmese the plural is formed by to, in Finnish, Mordvinian, and
Ostiakian by t. As soon as to ceases to be used as an
independent word in the sense of number, it becomes an empty, or if you
like, an obsolete word, that has no meaning except as the exponent of
plurality; nay, at last, it may dwindle down to a mere letter, which is
then called by grammarians the termination of the plural. In this second
stage phonetic decay may well-nigh destroy the whole body of an empty
word, but—and this is important—no full words, no radicals
are as yet attacked by that disintegrating process.
3. Phonetic decay may advance, and does advance still further. Full
words also may lose their independence, and be attacked by the same
disease that
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had destroyed the original features of suffixes and prefixes. In this
state it is frequently impossible to distinguish any longer between the
radical and formative elements of words.
If we wished to represent these three stages of language
algebraically, we might represent the first by RR, using R as the symbol
of a root which has suffered no phonetic decay; the second, by R + ρ or
ρ + R, or ρ + R + ρ representing by ρ an empty word that has suffered
phonetic change; the third, by rρ, or ρr, or ρrρ, when both full and
empty words have been changed, and have become welded together into one
indistinguishable mass through the intense heat of thought, and by the
constant hammering of the tongue.
Those who are acquainted with the works of Humboldt will easily
recognize, in these three stages or strata, a classification of
language first suggested by that eminent philosopher. According to him
languages can be classified as isolating, agglutinative,7
and inflectional, and his definition of these three classes
agrees in the main with the description just given of the three strata
or stages of language.
But what is curious is that this threefold classification, and the
consequences to which it leads, should not at once have been fully
reasoned out, nay, that a system most palpably erroneous should have
been founded upon it. We find it repeated again and again in most works
on Comparative Philology, that Chinese belongs to the isolating
class, the Turanian languages to the combinatory, the Aryan and
Semitic
80
to the inflectional; nay, Professor Pott8 and his school seem
convinced that no evolution can ever take place from isolating to
combinatory and from combinatory to inflectional
speech. We should thus be forced to believe that by some inexplicable
grammatical instinct, or by some kind of inherent necessity, languages
were from the beginning created as isolating or
combinatory, or inflectional, and must remain so to the
end.
It is strange that those scholars who hold that no transition is
possible from one form of language to another, should not have seen that
there is really no language that can be strictly called either
isolating, or combinatory, or inflectional, and that the transition from
one stage to another is in fact constantly taking
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place under our very noses. Even Chinese is not free from combinatory
forms, and the more highly developed among the combinatory languages
show the clearest traces of incipient inflection. The difficulty is not
to show the transition of one stratum of speech into another, but rather
to draw a sharp line between the different strata. The same difficulty
was felt in Geology, and led Sir Charles Lyell to invent such pliant
names as Eocene, Meiocene, and Pleiocene, names
which indicate a mere dawn, a minority, or a majority of new
formations, but do not draw a fast and hard line, cutting off one
stratum from the other. Natural growth, and even merely mechanical
accumulation and accretion, here as elsewhere, are so minute and almost
imperceptible that they defy all strict scientific terminology, and
force upon us the lesson that we must be satisfied with an approximate
accuracy. For practical purposes Humboldt’s classification of languages
may be quite sufficient, and we have no difficulty in classing any given
language, according to the prevailing character of its formation, as
either isolating, or combinatory, or inflectional. But when we analyze
each language more carefully we find there is not one exclusively
isolating, or exclusively combinatory, or exclusively inflectional. The
power of composition, which is retained unimpaired through every
stratum, can at any moment place an inflectional on a level with an
isolating and a combinatory language. A compound such as the
Sanskrit go-duh, cow-milking, differs little, if at all, from
the Chinese nieou-jou, vaccæ lac, or in the patois of
Canton, ngau ü, cow-milk, before it takes the terminations of the
nominative, which is, of course, impossible in Chinese.
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So again in English New-town, in Greek Nea-polis, would
be simply combinatory compounds. Even Newton would still belong
to the combinatory stratum; but Naples would have to be classed
as belonging to the inflectional stage.
Finnish, Hungarian, Turkish, and the Dravidian languages belong in
the main to the combinatory stratum; but having received a considerable
amount of literary cultivation, they all alike exhibit forms which in
every sense of the word are inflectional. If in Finnish, for instance,
we find käsi, in the singular, hand, and kädet, in the
plural, hands, we see that phonetic corruption has clearly reached the
very core of the noun, and given rise to a plural more decidedly
inflectional than the Greek χεῖρ-ες, or the English hand-s. In Tamil, where
the suffix of the plural is gaḷ, we have
indeed a regular combinatory form in kei-gaḷ, hands; but if the same plural suffix gaḷ is added to kal, stone, the euphonic
rules of Tamil require not only a change in the suffix, which becomes
kaḷ, but likewise a modification in the body
of the word, kal being changed to kar. We thus get the
plural karkaḷ which in every sense of the
word is an inflectional form. In this plural suffix gaḷ, Dr. Caldwell has recognized the Dravidian taḷa or daḷa, a host,
a crowd; and though, as he admits himself in the second edition
(p. 143), the evidence in support of this etymology may not be
entirely satisfactory, the steps by which the learned author of the
Grammar of the Dravidian languages has traced the plural termination
lu in Telugu back to the same original suffix kaḷ admit of little doubt.
Evidence of a similar kind may easily be found in any grammar,
whether of an isolating, combinatory,
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or inflectional language, wherever there is evidence as to the ascending
or descending progress of any particular form of speech. Everywhere
amalgamation points back to combination, and combination back to
juxtaposition, everywhere isolating speech tends towards terminational
forms, and terminational forms become inflectional.
I may best be able to explain the view commonly held with regard to
the strata of language by a reference to the strata of the earth. Here,
too, where different strata have been tilted up, it might seem at first
sight as if they were arranged perpendicularly and side by side, none
underlying the other, none presupposing the other. But as the geologist,
on the strength of more general evidence, has to reverse this
perpendicular position, and to re-arrange his strata in their natural
order, and as they followed each other horizontally, the student of
language too is irresistibly driven to the same conclusion. No language
can by any possibility be inflectional without having passed through the
combinatory and isolating stratum; no language can by any possibility be
combinatory without clinging with its roots to the underlying stratum of
isolation. Unless Sanskrit and Greek and Hebrew had passed through the
combinatory stratum, nay, unless, at some time or other, they had been
no better than Chinese, their present form would be as great a miracle
as the existence of chalk (and the strata associated with it)
without an underlying stratum of oolite (and the strata associated
with it;) or a stratum of oolite unsupported by the trias or system
of new red sandstone. Bunsen’s dictum, that “the question whether a
language can begin with inflections, implies an absurdity,” may have
seemed too
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strongly worded: but if he took inflections in the commonly received
meaning, in the sense of something that may be added or removed from a
base in order to define or to modify its meaning, then surely the simple
argument ex nihilo nihil fit is sufficient to prove that the
inflections must have been something by themselves, before they became
inflections relatively to the base, and that the base too must have
existed by itself, before it could be defined and modified by the
addition of such inflections.
But we need not depend on purely logical arguments, when we have
historical evidence to appeal to. As far as we know the history of
language, we see it everywhere confined within those three great strata
or zones which we have just described. There are inflectional changes,
no doubt, which cannot as yet be explained, such as the m in the
accusative singular of masculine, feminine, and in the nominative and
accusative of neuter nouns; or the change of vowels between the Hebrew
Piel and Pual, Hiphil and Hophal, where we
might feel tempted to admit formative agencies different from
juxtaposition and combination. But if we consider how in Sanskrit the
Vedic instrumental plural, aśvebhis (Lat. equobus),
becomes before our very eyes aśvais (Lat. equis), and
how such changes as Bruder, brother, and Brüder, brethren,
Ich weiss, I know, A.S. wât, and Wir wissen, we
know, A.S. wit-on, have been explained as the results of purely
mechanical, i.e., combinatory proceedings, we need not despair of
further progress in the same direction. One thing is certain, that,
wherever inflection has yielded to a rational analysis, it has
invariably been recognized as the result of a previous combination, and
wherever combination has
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been traced back to an earlier stage, that earlier stage has been simple
juxtaposition. The primitive blocks of Chinese and the most perplexing
agglomerates of Greek can be explained as the result of one continuous
formative process, whatever the material elements may be on which it was
exercised; nor is it possible even to imagine in the formation of
language more than these three strata through which hitherto all human
speech has passed.
All we can do is to subdivide each stratum, and thus, for instance,
distinguish in the second stratum the suffixing (R + ρ) from
the prefixing (ρ + R), and from the affixing (ρ + R
+ ρ) languages.
A fourth class, the infixing or incapsulating languages, are but a
variety of the affixing class, for what in Bask or in the polysynthetic
dialects of America has the appearance of actual insertion of formative
elements into the body of a base can be explained more rationally by the
former existence of simpler bases to which modifying suffixes or
prefixes have once been added, but not so firmly as to exclude the
addition of new suffixes at the end of the base, instead of, as with us,
at the end of the compound. If we could say in Greek δείκ-μι-νυ, instead of δείκ-νυ-μι, or in Sanskrit yu-mi-na-j, instead of yu-na-j-mi, we
should have a real beginning of so-called incapsulating formations.9
A few instances will place the normal progress of language from
stratum to stratum more clearly before our eyes. We have seen that in
Chinese every word is monosyllabic, every word tells, and there are, as
yet, no suffixes by which one word is derived from another, no
case-terminations by which the relation
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of one word to another could be indicated. How, then, does Chinese
distinguish between the son of the father, and the father of the son?
Simply by position. Fú is father, tzé, son; therefore
fú tzé is son of the father, tzé fú, father of the son.
This rule admits of no exception but one. If a Chinese wants to say a
wine-glass, he puts wine first and glass last, as in
English. If he wants to say a glass of wine, he puts glass
first and wine last. Thus i-pei thsieou, a cup of wine;
thsieou pei, a wine-cup. If, however, it seems desirable to mark
the word which is in the genitive more distinctly, the word tchi
may be placed after it, and we may say, fú tchi tzé, the son of
the father. In the Mandarin dialect this tchi has become
ti, and is added so constantly to the governed word, that, to all
intents and purposes, it may be treated as what we call the termination
of the genitive. Originally this tchi was a relative, or rather a
demonstrative, pronoun, and it continues to be used as such in the
ancient Chinese.10
It is perfectly true that Chinese possesses no derivative suffixes;
that it cannot derive, for instance, kingly from a noun, such as
king, or adjectives like visible and invisible from
a verb videre, to see. Yet the same idea which we express by
invisible, is expressed without difficulty in Chinese, only in a
different way. They say khan-pu-kien, “I-behold-and-do-not-see,”
and this to them conveys the same idea as the English invisible,
though more exactly invisible might be rendered by kien,
to see, pou-te, one cannot, tí, which.
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We cannot in Chinese derive from ferrum, iron, a new
substantive ferrarius, a man who works in iron,
a blacksmith; ferraria, an iron mine, and again
ferrariarius, a man who works in an iron mine. All this is
possible in an inflectional language only. But it is not to be supposed
that in Chinese there is an independent expression for every single
conception, even for those which are clearly secondary and derivative.
If an arrow in Chinese is shi, then a maker of arrows
(in old French fléchier, in English fletcher) is
called an arrow-man, shi-jin. Shui means water, fu,
man; hence shui-fu, a water man, a water carrier. The same
word shui, water, if followed by sheu, hand, stands for
steersman, literally, water-hand. Kin means gold, tsiang,
maker; hence kin-tsiang, a goldsmith. Shou
means writing, sheu, hand; hence shou-sheu, a writer,
a copyist, literally, a writing-hand.
A transition from such compounds to really combinatory speech is
extremely easy. Let sheu, in the sense of hand, become obsolete,
and be replaced in the ordinary language by another word for hand; and
let such names as shu-sheu, author, shui-sheu, boatsman,
be retained, and the people who speak this language will soon accustom
themselves to look upon sheu as a mere derivative, and use it by
a kind of false analogy, even where the original meaning of sheu,
hand, would not have been applicable.11
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We can watch the same process even in comparatively modern languages.
In Anglo-Saxon, for instance, hâd means state, order. It is used
as an independent word, and continued to be so used as late as Spenser,
who wrote:—
“Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good,
So vainly t’ advaunce thy headlesse hood.”
After a time, however, hâd, as an independent word, was lost,
and its place taken by more classical expressions, such as habit,
nature, or disposition. But there remained such compounds
as man-hâd, the state of man, God-hâd, the nature of God;
and in these words the last element, being an empty word and no longer
understood, was soon looked upon as a mere suffix. Having lost its
vitality, it was all the more exposed to phonetic decay, and became both
hood and head.
Or, let us take another instance, The name given to the fox in
ancient German poetry was Regin-hart. Regin in Old High
German means thought or cunning, hart, the Gothic hardu,
means strong. This hart12 corresponds to the Greek κράτος, which, in its adjectival
form of κρατης, forms as
many proper names in Greek as hart in German. In Sanskrit the
same word exists as kratu, meaning intellectual rather than
bodily strength, a shade of meaning which is still perceivable even
in the German hart, and in the English hard and
hardy. Reginhart, therefore, was originally a compound,
meaning “thought-strong,” strong in cunning. Other words formed in the
same
89
or a very similar manner are: Peranhart and Bernhart,
literally, bear-minded, or bold like a bear; Eburhart,
boar-minded; Engil-hart, angel-minded; Gothart,
god-minded; Egin-hart, fierce-minded; Hugihart,
wise-minded or strong in thought, the English Hogarth. In Low
German the second element, hart, lost its h and became
ard. This ard ceased to convey any definite meaning, and
though in some words which are formed by ard we may still
discover its original power, it soon became a mere derivative, and was
added promiscuously to form new words. In the Low German name for the
fox, Reinaert, neither the first nor the second word tells us any
longer anything, and the two words together have become a mere proper
name. In other words the first portion retains its meaning, but the
second, ard, is nothing but a suffix. Thus we find the Low German
dronk-ard, a drunkard; dick-ard, a thick fellow;
rik-ard, a rich fellow; gêrard, a miser. In English
sweet-ard, originally a very sweet person, has been changed and
resuscitated as sweet-heart,13 by the same process which
changed shamefast into shamefaced.
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But, still more curious, this suffix ard, which had lost all life
and meaning in Low German, was taken over as a convenient derivative by
the Romance languages. After having borrowed a number of words such as
renard, fox, and proper names like Bernard,
Richard, Gerard, the framers of the new Romance dialects
used the same termination even at the end of Latin words. Thus they
formed not only many proper names, like Abeillard, Bayard,
Brossard, but appellatives like leccardo, a gourmand,
linguardo, a talker, criard, a crier, codardo,
Prov. coart, Fr. couard, a coward.14 That a German word
hart, meaning strong, and originally strength, should become a
Roman suffix may seem strange; yet we no longer hesitate to use even
Hindustani words as English suffixes. In Hindustani válá is
used to form many substantives. If Dilli is Delhi, then
Dill-vállá is a man of Delhi. Go is cow,
go-válá a cow-herd, contracted into gválá. Innumerable
words can thus be formed, and as the derivative seemed handy and useful,
it was at last added even to English words, for instance in “Competition
wallah.”
These may seem isolated cases, but the principles on which they rest
pervade the whole structure of language. It is surprising to see how
much may be achieved by an application of those principles, how large
results may be obtained by the smallest and simplest means. By means of
the single radical î or yâ (originally ya), which in
the Aryan languages means to go or to send, the almost unconscious
framers of Aryan grammar formed not only their neuter, denominative, and
causative verbs, but their passives, their
91
optatives, their futures, and a considerable number of substantives and
adjectives. Every one of these formations, in Sanskrit as well as in
Greek, can be explained, and has been explained, as the result of a
combination between any given verbal root and the radical î or
yâ.
There is, for instance, a root nak, expressive of perishing
or destruction. We have it in nak, night; Latin nox,
Greek νύξ, meaning originally
the waning, the disappearing, the death of day. We have the same root in
composition, as, for instance, jîva-nak, life-destroying; and
by means of suffixes Greek has formed from it νεκ-ρός, a dead body, νέκ-υς, dead, and νέκ-υ-ες in the plural, the departed. In
Sanskrit this root is turned into a simple verb, naś-a-ti, he
perishes. But in order to give to it a more distinctly neuter meaning,
a new verbal base is formed by composition with ya,
naś-ya-ti, he goes to destruction, he perishes.
By the same or a very similar process denominative verbs are formed
in Sanskrit to a very large extent. From râjan, king, we form
râjâ-ya-te, he behaves like a king, literally, he goes the
king, he acts the king, il a l’allure d’un roi. From
kumârî, girl, kûmârâ-ya-te, he behaves like a girl,
etc.15
After raising naś to nâśa, and adding the same
radical ya, Sanskrit produces a causative verb,
nâśa-ya-ti, he sends to destruction, the Latin
nêcare.
In close analogy to the neuter verb naśyati, the regular
passive is formed in Sanskrit by composition with ya, but by
adding, at the same time, a different
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set of personal terminations. Thus náś-yá-ti means he perishes,
while naś-yá-te means he is destroyed.
The usual terminations of the Optative in Sanskrit are:—
yâm, |
yâs, |
yât, |
yâma, |
yâta, |
yus, |
or, after bases ending in vowels:—
iyam, |
is, |
it, |
ima, |
ita, |
iyus. |
In Greek:—
ιην, |
ιης, |
ιη, |
ιημεν, |
ιητε, |
ιεν, |
or, after bases ending in o:—
ιμι, |
ις, |
ι, |
ιμεν, |
ιτε, |
ιεν. |
In Latin:—
iêm |
iês |
iet |
—— |
—— |
ient, |
îm, |
îs, |
it, |
îmus, |
îtis, |
int. |
If we add these terminations to the root AS, to be, we get
the Sanskrit s-yâm for as-yâm:—
syâm, |
syâs, |
syât, |
syâma, |
syâta, |
syus. |
Greek ἐσ-ίην,
contracted to εἴην:—
εἴην, |
εἴης, |
εἴη, |
εἴημεν, |
εἴητε, |
εἶεν. |
Latin es-iem, changed to siêm, sîm, and
erîm:—
siêm, |
siês, |
siet,16 |
—— |
—— |
sient. |
sim, |
sîs, |
sit,17 |
sîmus, |
sitis, |
sint. |
erîm, |
erîs, |
erit, |
erîmus, |
erîtis, |
erint. |
If we add the other termination to a verbal base ending in certain
vowels, we get the Sanskrit bhara-iyam, contracted to bháreyam:—
bharêyam, |
bharês, |
bharêt, |
bharêma, |
bharêta, |
bharêyus. |
in Greek φέρο-ιμι:—
φέρο-ιμι, |
φέρο-ις, |
φέρο-ι, |
φέρο-ιμεν, |
φέρο-ιτε, |
φέρο-ιεν. |
in Latin fere-im, changed to ferem, used in the sense
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of a future, but replaced18 in the first person by
feram, the subjunctive of the present:—
feram, |
ferês, |
feret, |
ferêmus, |
ferêtis, |
ferent. |
Perfect Subjunctive:—
tul-erîm, |
tul-erîs, |
tul-erit, |
tul-erimus, |
tul-eritis,19 |
tul-erint. |
Here we have clearly the same auxiliary verb, i or ya,
again, and we are driven to admit that what we now call an optative or
potential mood, was originally a kind of future, formed by ya,
to go, very much like the French je vais dire, I am going to say,
I shall say, or like the Zulu
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
|
ngi- |
ya- |
ku- |
tanda, |
I |
go |
to |
love, |
I shall love.20 |
The future would afterwards assume the character of a civil command,
as “thou wilt go” may be used even by us in the sense of “go;” and the
imperative would dwindle away into a potential, as we may say: “Go and
you will see,” in the same sense as, If you go, you will see.
The terminations of the future are:—
Sanskrit:—
syâmi, |
syasi, |
syati, |
syâmas, |
syâtha, |
syanti. |
Greek:—
σω, |
σεις, |
σει, |
σομεν, |
σετε, |
σοντι. |
Latin:—
ero, |
erĭs, |
erĭt, |
erĭmus, |
erĭtis, |
erunt. |
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In these terminations we have really two auxiliary verbs, the verb
as, to be, and ya, to go, and by adding them to any
given root, as, for instance, DA, to give, we have the Sanskrit
(dâ-as-yâ-mi):—
dâ-s-yâ-mi, |
dâ-s-ya-si, |
dâ-s-ya-ti, |
dâ-s-yâ-mas, |
dâ-s-ya-tha, |
dâ-s-ya-nti, |
Greek (δω-εσ-ιω):—
δώ-σ-ω,21 |
δώ-σ-εις, |
δώ-σ-ει, |
δώ-σ-ομεν, |
δώ-σ-ετε, |
δώ-σ-ουσι. |
Latin:—
pot-ero, |
pot-erĭs, |
pot-erit, |
pot-erĭmus, |
pot-erĭtis, |
pot-erunt. |
A verbal form of very frequent occurrence in Sanskrit is the
so-called gerundive participle which signifies that a thing is necessary
or proper to be done. Thus from budh, to know, is formed
bodh-ya-s, one who is to be known, cognoscendus; from
guh, to hide, gúh-ya-s, or goh-ya-s, one who
is to be hidden, literally, one who goes to a state of hiding or being
hidden; from yaj, to sacrifice, yâj-ya-s, one who is
or ought to be worshipped. Here, again, what is going to be becomes
gradually what will be, and lastly, what shall be. In Greek we find but
few analogous forms, such as ἅγιος, holy, στύγ-ι-ος, to be hated; in Latin ex-im-i-us,
to be taken out; in Gothic anda-nêm-ja, to be taken on, to be
accepted, agreeable, German angenehm.22
95
While the gerundive participles in ya are formed on the same
principle as the verbal bases in ya of the passive,
a number of substantives in ya seem to have been formed in
close analogy to the bases of denominative verbs, or the bases of neuter
verbs, in all of which the derivative ya expresses originally
the act of going, behaving, and at last of simple being. Thus from
vid, to know, we find in Sanskrit vid-yâ, knowing,
knowledge; from śi, to lie down, śayyâ; resting.
Analogous forms in Latin are gaud-i-um, stud-i-um, or with
feminine terminations, in-ed-i-a, in-vid-i-a,
per-nic-i-es, scab-i-es; in Greek, μαν-ί-α, ἁμαρτ-ί-α, or ἁμάρτ-ι-ον; in German, numerous
abstract nouns in i and e.23
This shows how much can be achieved, and has been achieved, in
language with the simplest materials. Neuter, denominative, causative,
passive verbs, optatives and futures, gerundives, adjectives, and
substantives, all are formed by one and the same process, by means of
one and the same root. It is no inconsiderable portion of grammar which
has thus been explained by this one root ya, to go, and we
learn again and again how simple and yet how wonderful are the ways of
language, if we follow them up from stratum to stratum to their original
starting-point.
Now what has happened in these cases, has happened over and over
again in the history of language. Everything that is now formal, not
only derivative suffixes, but everything that constitutes the
grammatical
96
framework and articulation of language, was originally material. What we
now call the terminations of cases were mostly local adverbs; what we
call the personal endings of verbs were personal pronouns. Suffixes and
affixes were mostly independent words, nominal, verbal, or pronominal;
there is, in fact, nothing in language that is now empty, or dead, or
formal, that was not originally full, and alive, and material. It is the
object of Comparative Grammar to trace every formal or dead element back
to its life-like form; and though this resuscitating process is by no
means complete, nay, though in several cases it seems hopeless to try to
discover the living type from which proceeded the petrified fragments
which we call terminations or suffixes, enough evidence has been brought
together to establish on the firmest basis this general maxim, that
Nothing is dead in any language that was not originally alive;
that nothing exists in a tertiary stratum that does not find its
antecedents and its explanation in the secondary or primary stratum of
human speech.
After having explained, as far as it was possible in so short a time,
what I consider to be the right view of the stratification of human
speech, I should have wished to be able to show to you how the
aspect of some of the most difficult and most interesting problems of
our science is changed, if we look at them again with the new light
which we have gained regarding the necessary antecedents of all
language. Let me only call your attention to one of the most contested
points in the Science of Language. The question whether we may assign a
common origin to the Aryan and Semitic languages has been discussed over
and over again. No one thinks now of deriving
97
Sanskrit from Hebrew, or Hebrew from Sanskrit; the only question is
whether at some time or other the two languages could ever have formed
part of one and the same body of speech. There are scholars, and very
eminent scholars, who deny all similarity between the two, while others
have collected materials that would seem to make it difficult to assign
such numerous coincidences to mere chance. Nowhere, in fact, has Bacon’s
observation on this radical distinction between different men’s
dispositions for philosophy and the sciences been more fully verified
than among the students of the Science of Language:—Maximum et
velut radicale discrimen ingeniorum, quoad philosophiam et scientias,
illud est, quod alia ingenia sint fortiora et aptiora ad notandas rerum
differentias; alia ad notandas rerum similitudines. . . .
. . Utrumque autem ingenium facile labitur in excessum, prensando
aut gradus rerum, aut umbras.24 Before, however, we enter upon an
examination of the evidence brought forward by different scholars in
support of their conflicting theories, it is our first duty to ask a
preliminary question, viz.: What kind of evidence have we any right to
expect, considering that both Sanskrit and Hebrew belong, in the state
in which we know them, to the inflectional stratum of speech?
Now it is quite true that Sanskrit and Hebrew had a separate
existence long before they reached the tertiary stratum, before they
became thoroughly inflectional; and that consequently they can share
nothing in common that is peculiar to the inflectional stratum in each,
nothing that is the result of phonetic decay, which sets in after
combinatory formations have become
98
unintelligible and traditional. I mean, supposing that the pronoun
of the first person had been originally the same in the Semitic and
Aryan languages, supposing that in the Hebrew an-oki (Assyrian
an-aku, Phen. anak) the last portion, oki, was
originally identical with the Sanskrit ah in aham, the
Greek ἐγ in ἐγ-ώ, it would still be useless to attempt
to derive the termination of the first person singular, whether in
kâtal-ti or in ektôl, from the same type which in Sanskrit
appears as mi or am or a, in
tudâ-mi, atud-am, tutod-a. There cannot be
between Hebrew and Sanskrit the same relationship as between Sanskrit
and Greek, if indeed the term of relationship is applicable even to
Sanskrit and Greek, which are really mere dialectic varieties of one and
the same type of speech.
The question then arises, Could the Semitic and Aryan languages have
been identical during the second or combinatory period? Here, as
before, the answer must be, I believe, decidedly negative, for not
only are the empty words which are used for derivative purposes
different in each, but, what is far more characteristic, the manner in
which they are added to the stems is different too. In the Aryan
languages formative elements are attached to the ends of words only; in
the Semitic languages they are found both at the end and at the
beginning. In the Aryan languages grammatical compounds are all
according to the formula rρ; in the Semitic we have formations after the
formulas rρ, ρr, and ρrρ.
There remains, therefore, the first or isolating stage only in which
Semitic and Aryan speech might have been identical. But even here we
must make a distinction. All Aryan roots are monosyllabic, all Semitic
99
roots have been raised to triliteral form. Therefore it is only previous
to the time when the Semitic roots assumed this secondary triliteral
form that any community could possibly be admitted between these two
streams of language. Supposing we knew as an historical fact that at
this early period—a period which transcends the limits of
everything we are accustomed to call historical—Semitic and Aryan
speech had been identical, what evidence of this union could we expect
to find in the actual Semitic and Aryan languages such as we know them
in their inflectional period? Let us recollect that the 100,000 words of
English, nay, the many hundred thousand words in all the dictionaries of
the other Aryan languages, have been reduced to about 500 roots, and
that this small number of roots admits of still further reduction. Let
us, then, bear in mind that the same holds good with regard to the
Semitic languages, particularly if we accept the reduction of all
triliteral to biliteral roots. What, then, could we expect in our
comparison of Hebrew and Sanskrit but a small number of radical
coincidences, a similarity in the form and meaning of about 500
radical syllables, everything else in Hebrew and Sanskrit being an
after-growth, which could not begin before the two branches of speech
were severed once and forever.
But more, if we look at these roots we shall find that their
predicative power is throughout very general, and therefore liable to an
infinite amount of specification. A root that means to fall
(Sk. pat, πί-πτ-ω) comes to mean to fly
(Sk. ut-pat, πέτομαι). The root dâ, which means to give,
assumes, after the preposition â, the sense of taking. The root
yu, which means to join, means to separate if preceded
100
by the preposition vi. The root ghar, which expresses
brightness, may supply, and does supply in different Aryan languages,
derivations expressive of brightness (gleam), warmth
(Sk. gharma, heat), joy (χαίρειν), love (χάρις), of the colors of green (Sk. hari),
yellow (gilvus, flavus), and red (Sk. harit,
fulvus), and of the conception of growing (ger-men). In
the Semitic languages this vagueness of meaning in the radical elements
forms one of the principal difficulties of the student, for according as
a root is used in its different conjugations, it may convey the most
startling variety of conception. It is also to be taken into account
that out of the very limited number of roots which at that early time
were used in common by the ancestors of the Aryan and Semitic races,
a certain portion may have been lost by each, so that the fact that
there are roots in Hebrew of which no trace exists in Sanskrit, and
vice versâ, would again be perfectly natural and
intelligible.
It is right and most essential that we should see all this clearly,
that we should understand how little evidence we are justified in
expecting in support of a common origin of the Semitic and Aryan
languages, before we commit ourselves to any opinion on this important
subject. I have by no means exhausted all the influences that would
naturally, nay necessarily, have contributed towards producing the
differences between the radical elements of Aryan and Semitic speech,
always supposing that the two sprang originally from the same source.
Even if we excluded the ravages of phonetic decay from that early period
of speech, we should have to make ample allowances for the influence of
dialectic variety. We know in the Aryan languages the constant play
between gutturals,
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dentals, and labials (quinque, Sk. panca, πέντε, Æol. πέμπε, Goth. fimf). We know the dialectic
interchange of Aspirate, Media, and Tenuis, which, from the very
beginning, has imparted to the principal channels of Aryan speech their
individual character (τρεῖς, Goth. threis, High German drei).25 If this and much more could happen within the
dialectic limits of one more or less settled body of speech, what must
have been the chances beyond those limits? Considering how fatal to the
identity of a word the change of a single consonant would be in
monosyllabic languages, we might expect that monosyllabic roots, if
their meaning was so general, vague, and changeable, would all the more
carefully have preserved their consonantal outline. But this is by no
means the case. Monosyllabic languages have their dialects no less than
polysyllabic ones; and from the
102
rapid and decisive divergence of such dialects, we may learn how rapid
and decisive the divergence of language must have been during the
isolating period. Mr. Edkins, who has paid particular attention to the
dialects of Chinese, states that in the northern provinces the greatest
changes have taken place, eight initial and one final consonant having
been exchanged for others, and three finals lost. Along the southern
bank of the Yang-tsï-kiang, and a little to the north of it, the old
initials are all preserved, as also through Chekiang to Fuh-kien. But
among the finals, m is exchanged for n; t and
p are lost, and also k, except in some country districts.
Some words have two forms, one used colloquially, and one appropriated
to reading. The former is the older pronunciation, and the latter more
near to Mandarin. The cities of Su-cheu, Hang-cheu, Ningpo, and
When-cheu, with the surrounding country, may be considered as having one
dialect, spoken probably by thirty millions of people, i.e., by
more than the whole population of Great Britain and Ireland. The city of
Hwei-cheu has a dialect of its own, in which the soft initial consonants
are exchanged for hard and aspirated ones, a process analogous to
what we call Lautverschiebung in the Aryan languages. At
Fu-cheu-fu, in the eastern part of the province of Kiang-si, the soft
initials have likewise been replaced by aspirates. In many parts of the
province of Hunan the soft initials still linger on; but in the city of
Chang-sha the spoken dialect has the five tones of Mandarin, and the
aspirated and other initials distributed in the same manner. In the
island of Hai-nan there is a distinct approach to the form which Chinese
words assume in the language of Annam. Many of the hard consonants are
softened,
103
instead of the reverse taking place as in many other parts of China.
Thus ti, di, both ti in Mandarin, are both
pronounced di in Hai-nan. B and p are both used for
many words whose initials are w and f in Mandarin. In the
dialects of the province of Fuhkien the following changes take place in
initial consonants: k is used for h; p for
f; m, b, for w; j for y;
t for ch; ch for s; ng for i,
y, w; n for j.26 When we have
clearly realized to ourselves what such changes mean in words consisting
of one consonant and one vowel, we shall be more competent to act as
judges, and to determine what right we have to call for more ample and
more definite evidence in support of the common origin of languages
which became separated during their monosyllabic or isolating stages,
and which are not known to us before they are well advanced in the
inflectional stage.
It might be said,—Why, if we make allowance for all this, the
evidence really comes to nothing, and is hardly deserving of the
attention of the scholar. I do not deny that this is, and always
has been my own opinion. All I wish to put clearly before other scholars
is, that this is not our fault. We see why there can be no evidence, and
we find there is no evidence, or very little support of a common origin
of Semitic and Aryan speech. But that is very different from dogmatic
assertions, so often and so confidently repeated, that there can be no
kind of relationship between Sanskrit and Hebrew, that they must have
had different beginnings, that they represent, in fact, two independent
species of human speech. All this is pure dogmatism, and no true scholar
will be satisfied with it, or turn away contemptuously
104
from the tentative researches of scholars like Ewald, Raumer, and
Ascoli. These scholars, particularly Raumer and Ascoli, have given us,
as far as I can judge, far more evidence in support of a radical
relationship between Hebrew and Sanskrit than, from my point of view, we
are entitled to expect. I mean this as a caution in both
directions. If, on one side, we ought not to demand more than we have a
right to demand, we ought, on the other, not to look for, nor attempt to
bring forward, more evidence than the nature of the case admits of. We
know that words which have identically the same sound and meaning in
Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and German, cannot be the same words, because
they would contravene those phonetic laws that made these languages to
differ from each other. To doom cannot have any connection with
the Latin damnare; to call cannot be the Greek καλεῖν, the Latin calare; nor
Greek φαῦλος the German
faul; the English care cannot be identified with Latin
cura, nor the German Auge with the Greek αὐγή. The same applies, only with a
hundred-fold greater force, to words in Hebrew and Sanskrit. If any
triliteral root in Hebrew were to agree with a triliteral word in
Sanskrit, we should feel certain, at once, that they are not the same,
or that their similarity is purely accidental. Pronouns, numerals, and a
few imitative rather than predicative names for father and mother, etc.,
may have been preserved from the earliest stage by the Aryan and Semitic
speakers; but if scholars go beyond, and compare such words as Hebrew
barak, to bless, and Latin precari; Hebrew lab,
heart, and the English liver; Hebrew melech, king, and the
Latin mulcere, to smoothe, to quiet, to subdue, they are in great
danger, I believe, of proving too much.
105
Attempts have lately been made to point out a number of roots which
Chinese shares in common with Sanskrit. Far be it from me to stigmatize
even such researches as unscientific, though it requires an effort for
one brought up in the very straitest school of Bopp, to approach such
inquiries without prejudice. Yet, if conducted with care and sobriety,
and particularly with a clear perception of the limits within which such
inquiries must be confined, they are perfectly legitimate; far more so
than the learned dogmatism with which some of our most eminent scholars
have declared a common origin of Sanskrit and Chinese as out of the
question. I cannot bring myself to say that the method which Mr.
Chalmers adopts in his interesting work on the “Origin of Chinese” is
likely to carry conviction to the mind of the bonà fide skeptic.
I believe, before we compare the words of Chinese with those of any
other language, every effort should be made to trace Chinese words back
to their most primitive form. Here Mr. Edkins has pointed out the road
that ought to be followed, and has clearly shown the great advantage to
be derived from an accurate study of Chinese dialects. The same scholar
has done still more by pointing out how Chinese should at first be
compared with its nearest relatives, the Mongolian of the
North-Turanian, and the Tibetan of the South-Turanian class, before any
comparisons are attempted with more distant colonies that started during
the monosyllabic period of speech. “I am now seeking to compare,”
he writes, “the Mongolian and Tibetan with the Chinese, and have already
obtained some interesting results:—
“1. A large proportion of Mongol words are Chinese. Perhaps a fifth
are so. The identity is in the
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first syllable of the Mongol words, that being the root. The
correspondence is most striking in the adjectives, of which perhaps one
half of the most common are the same radically as in Chinese; e.g.,
sain, good; begen, low; ic‘hi, right;
sologai, left; c‘hihe, straight; gadan, outside;
c’hohon, few; logon, green; hung-gun, light (not
heavy). But the identity is also extensive in other parts of speech, and
this identity of common roots seems to extend into the Turkish, Tatar,
etc.; e.g., su, water; tenri, heaven.
“2. To compare Mongol with Chinese it is necessary to go back at
least six centuries in the development of the Chinese language. For we
find in common roots final letters peculiar to the old Chinese,
e.g., final m. The initial letters also need to be
considered from another standpoint than the Mandarin pronunciation. If a
large number of words are common to Chinese, Mongol, and Tatar, we must
go back at least twelve centuries to obtain a convenient epoch of
comparison.
“3. While the Mongol has no traces of tones, they are very distinctly
developed in Tibetan. Csoma de Körös and Schmidt do not mention the
existence of tones, but they plainly occur in the pronunciation of
native Tibetans resident in Peking.
“4. As in the case of the comparison with Mongol, it is necessary in
examining the connection of Tibetan with Chinese to adopt the old form
of the Chinese with its more numerous final consonants, and its full
system of soft, hard, and aspirated initials. The Tibetan numerals
exemplify this with sufficient clearness.
“5. While the Mongol is near the Chinese in the
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extensive prevalence of words common to the two languages, the Tibetan
is near in phonal structure, as being tonic and monosyllabic. This being
so, it is less remarkable that there are many words common to Chinese
and Tibetan, for it might have been expected; but that there should be
perhaps as many in the Mongol with its long untoned polysyllables, is a
curious circumstance.”27
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This is no doubt the right spirit in which researches into the early
history of language should be
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conducted, and I hope that Mr. Edkins, Mr. Chalmers, and others, will
not allow themselves to be discouraged by the ordinary objections that
are brought against all tentative studies. Even if their researches
should only lead to negative results, they would be of the highest
importance. The criterion by which we test the relationship of
inflectional languages, such as Sanskrit and Greek, Hebrew and Arabic,
cannot, from the nature of the case, be applied to languages which are
still in the combinatory or isolating stratum, nor would they answer any
purpose, if we tried by them to determine whether certain languages,
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separated during their inflectional growth, had been united during their
combinatory stage, or whether languages, separated during their
combinatory progress, had started from a common centre in their
monosyllabic age. Bopp’s attempt to work with his Aryan tools on the
Malayo-Polynesian languages, and to discover in them traces of Aryan
forms, ought to serve as a warning example.
However, there are dangers also, and even greater dangers, on the
opposite shore, and if Mr. Chalmers in his interesting work on “the
Origin of Chinese,” compares, for instance, the Chinese tzé,
child, with the Bohemian tsi, daughter, I know that the
indignation of the Aryan scholars will be roused to a very high pitch,
considering how they have proved most minutely that tsi or
dci in Bohemian is the regular modification of dugte, and
that dugte is the Sanskrit duhitar, the Greek θυγάτηρ, daughter, originally
a pet-name, meaning a milk-maid, and given by the Aryan shepherds, and
by them only, to the daughters of their house. Such accidents28 will
happen in so comprehensive a subject as the Science of Language. They
have happened to scholars like Bopp, Grimm, and Burnouf, and they will
happen again. I do not defend haste or inaccuracy, I only say,
we must venture on, and not imagine that all is done, and that nothing
remains to conquer in our science. Our watchword, here as elsewhere,
should be Festina lente! but, by all means, Festina! Festina!
Festina!
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Part II.
ON CURTIUS’ CHRONOLOGY
OF THE INDO-GERMANIC LANGUAGES.
In a former Lecture on the
“Stratification of Language” I ventured to assert that wherever
inflection has yielded to a rational analysis, it has invariably
been recognized as the result of a previous combination, and
wherever combination has been traced back to an earlier stage,
that earlier stage has been simply juxtaposition.
Professor Pott in his “Etymologische Forschungen” (1871, p. 16),
a work which worthily holds its place by the side of Bopp’s
“Comparative Grammar,” questions the correctness of that statement; but
in doing so he seems to me to have overlooked the restrictions which I
myself had introduced, in order to avoid the danger of committing myself
to what might seem too general a statement. I did not say that
every form of inflection had been proved to spring from a previous
combination, but I spoke of those cases only where we have succeeded in
a rational analysis of inflectional forms, and it was in these that I
maintained that inflection had always been found to be the result of
previous combination. What is the object of the analysis of grammatical
inflections, or of Comparative Grammar in general, if not to find out
what terminations originally were, before they had assumed a purely
formal character? If we take the French adverb sincèrement,
sincerely, and trace it
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back to the Latin sincerâ mente, we have for a second time the
three stages of juxtaposition, combination, and, to a certain extent,
inflection, repeated before our eyes. I say, inflection, for
ment, though originally an independent word, soon becomes a mere
adverbial suffix, the speakers so little thinking of its original
purport, that we may say of a stone that it falls lourdement,
heavily, without wishing to imply that it falls luridâ mente,
with a heavy, lit., with a lurid mind.
If we take the nom. sing. of a noun in Sanskrit, Greek, or Latin, we
find that masculine nouns end frequently in s. We have for
instance, Sk. veśa-s, Gr. οἶκο-ς, Lat. vîcu-s. These three words are
identical in their termination, in their base, and in their root. The
root is the Sk. viś, to settle down, to enter upon or into a
thing. This root, without undergoing any further change, may answer the
purpose both of a verbal and a nominal base. In the precative, for
instance, we have viś-yâ-t, he may enter, which yields to a
rational analysis into viś, the root yâ, to go, and
the old pronominal stem of the third person, t, he. We
reduplicate the root, and we get the perfect vi-viś-us, they
have entered. Here I can understand that objections might be raised
against accepting us as a mere phonetic corruption of ant and
anti; but if, as in Greek, we find as the termination of the
third pers. plur. of the perfect ᾶσι, we know that this is a merely phonetic change of the
original anti,29 and this anti has been
traced back by Pott himself (whether rightly or wrongly, we need not
here inquire) to the pronominal stems ana, that, and
ti, he. These two stems, when joined together,
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become anti,30 meaning those and he, and are
gradually reduced to ᾶσι, and
in Sanskrit to us for ant. What we call reduplication
has likewise been traced back by Pott himself to an original repetition
of the whole root, so that vi-viś stands for an original or
intentional viś-viś; thus showing again the succession of the
three stages, juxtaposition, viś-viś, combination
vi-viś, inflection, the same, vi-viś, though liable to
further phonetic modification.
Used as a nominal base the same root viś appears, without
any change, in the nom. plur. viś-as, the settlers, the clans,
the people. Now here again Professor Pott himself has endeavored to
explain the inflection as by tracing it back to the pronominal
base as, in asau, ille. He therefore takes the
plural viś-as as a compound, meaning “man and that;” that is to
say, he traces the inflection back to a combinatory origin.
By raising the simple base viś to viśa, we arrive
at new verbal forms, such as viś-â-mi, I enter,
viś-a-si, thou enterest, viś-a-ti, he enters. In all
these inflectional forms, the antecedent combinatory stage is still more
or less visible, for mi, si, ti, whatever
their exact history may have been, are clearly varieties of the
pronominal bases of the first, second, and third persons, ma,
tva, ta.
Lastly, by raising viś to veśa, we arrive at a new
nominal base, and by adding to it the stem of a demonstrative pronoun
s, we form the so-called nom. sing. veśa-s, οἶκο-ς, vicu-s, from which we
started, meaning originally house-here, this house, the house.
In all this Professor Pott would fully agree, but where he would
differ, would be when we proceed to
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generalize, and to lay it down as an axiom, that all inflectional forms
must have had the same combinatory origin. He may be right in
thus guarding against too hasty generalization, to which we are but too
prone in all inductive sciences. I am well aware that there are
many inflections which have not yielded, as yet, to any rational
analysis, but, with that reservation, I thought, and I still think,
it right to say that, until some other process of forming those
inflections has been pointed out, inflection may be considered as the
invariable result of combination.
It is impossible in writing, always to repeat such qualifications and
reservations. They must be taken as understood. Take for instance the
augment in Greek and Sanskrit. Some scholars have explained it as a
negative particle, others as a demonstrative pronoun; others, again,
took it as a mere symbol of differentiation. If the last explanation
could be established by more general analogies, then, no doubt, we
should have here an inflection, that cannot be referred to combination.
Again, it would be difficult to say, what independent element was added
to the pronoun sa, he, in order to make it sâ, she. This, too,
may, for all we know, be a case of phonetic symbolism, and, if so, it
should be treated on its own merits. The lengthening of the vowel in the
subjunctive mood was formerly represented by Professor Curtius as a
symbolic expression of hesitation, but he has lately recalled that
explanation as untenable. I pointed out that when in Hebrew we meet
with such forms as Piel and Pual, Hiphil and
Hophal, we feel tempted to admit formative agencies, different
from mere juxtaposition and combination. But before we admit this purely
phonetic symbolism, we
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should bear in mind that the changes of bruder, brother, into
brüder, brethren, of Ich weiss, I know, into wir
wissen, we know, which seem at first sight purely phonetic, have
after all been proved to be the indirect result of juxtaposition and
combination, so that we ought to be extremely careful and first exhaust
every possible rational explanation, before we have recourse to phonetic
symbolism as an element in the production of inflection forms.
The chief object, however, of my lecture on the “Stratification of
Language” was not so much to show that inflection everywhere presupposes
combination, and combination juxtaposition, but rather to call attention
to a fact that had not been noticed before, viz.: that there is hardly
any language, which is not at the same time isolating,
combinatory, and inflectional.
It had been the custom in classifying languages morphologically to
represent some languages, for instance Chinese, as isolating;
others, such as Turkish or Finnish, as combinatory; others, such
as Sanskrit or Hebrew, as inflectional. Without contesting the
value of this classification for certain purposes, I pointed out
that even Chinese, the very type of the isolating class, is not free
from combinatory forms, and that the more highly developed among the
combinatory languages, such as Hungarian, Finnish, Tamil, etc., show the
clearest traces of incipient inflection. “The difficulty is not,” as I
said, “to show the transition of one stratum of speech into another, but
rather to draw a sharp line between the different strata. The same,
difficulty was felt in Geology, and led Sir Charles Lyell to invent such
pliant names as Eocene, Meiocene, and Pleiocene,
names which indicate a mere
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dawn, a minority, or a majority of new formations, but do not draw
a fast and hard line, cutting off one stratum from the other. Natural
growth and even merely mechanical accumulation and accretion, here as
elsewhere, are so minute and almost imperceptible that they defy all
strict scientific terminology, and force upon us the lesson that we must
be satisfied with an approximate accuracy.”
Holding these opinions, and having established them by an amount of
evidence which, though it might easily be increased, seemed to me
sufficient, I did not think it safe to assign to the three stages
in the history of the Aryan languages, the juxtapositional, the
combinatory, and the inflectional, a strictly successive
character, still less to admit in the growth of the Aryan languages a
number of definite stages, which should be sharply separated from each
other, and assume an almost chronological character. I fully admit
that wherever inflectional forms in the Aryan languages have
yielded to a rational analysis, we see that they are preceded
chronologically by combinatory formations; nor should I deny for
one moment that combinatory forms presuppose an antecedent, and
therefore chronologically more ancient stage of mere juxtaposition. What
I doubt is whether, as soon as combination sets in, juxtaposition
ceases, and whether the first appearance of inflection puts an end to
the continued working of combination.
It seems to me, even if we argue only on à priori grounds,
that there must have been at least a period of transition during which
both principles were at work together, and I hardly can understand what
certain scholars mean if they represent the principle of inflection as a
sudden psychological change which,
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as soon as it has taken place, makes a return to combination altogether
impossible. If, instead of arguing à priori, we look the facts of
language in the face, we cannot help seeing that, even after that period
during which it is supposed that the United Aryan language had attained
its full development, I mean at a time when Sanskrit, Greek, and
Latin had become completely separated, as so many national dialects,
each with its own fully developed inflectional grammar, the power of
combination was by no means extinct. The free power of composition,
which is so manifest in Sanskrit and Greek, testifies to the continued
working of combination in strictly historical times. I see no real
distinction between the transition of Néa pólis, i.e., new town,
into Neápolis, and into Naples, and the most primitive
combination in Chinese, and I maintain that as long as a language
retains that unbounded faculty of composition, which we see in Sanskrit,
in Greek, and in German, the growth of new inflectional forms from
combinatory germs must be admitted as possible. Forms such as the
passive aorist in Greek, ἐτέθην, or the weak preterite in Gothic
nas-i-da, nas-i-dédjau, need not have been formed before
the Aryan family broke up into national languages; and forms such as
Italian meco, fratelmo, or the future avro, I shall
have, though not exactly of the same workmanship, show at all events
that analogous powers are at work even in the latest periods of
linguistic growth.
Holding these opinions, which, as far as I know, have never been
controverted, I ought perhaps, when I came to publish the preceding
Lecture, to have defended my position against the powerful arguments
advanced in the meantime by my old friend, Professor
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G. Curtius, in support of a diametrically opposite opinion in his
classical essay, “On the Chronology of the Indo-Germanic Languages,”
published in 1867, new edition, 1873. While I had endeavored to show
that juxtaposition, combination, and inflection, though following each
other in succession, do not represent chronological periods, but
represent phases, strongly developed, it is true, in certain languages,
but extending their influence far beyond the limits commonly assigned to
them, Professor Curtius tried to establish the chronological character
not only of these three, but of four other phases or periods in the
history of Aryan speech. Confining himself to what he considers the
undivided Aryan language to have been, before it was broken up into
national dialects, such as Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin, he proceeds to
subdivide the antecedent period of its growth into seven definite
stages, each marked by a definite character, and each representing a sum
of years in the chronology of the Aryan language. As I had found it
difficult to treat Chinese as entirely juxtapositional, or
Turkish as entirely combinatory, or Sanskrit as entirely
inflectional, it was perhaps not to be wondered at that not even
the persuasive pleading of my learned friend could convince me of the
truth of the more minute chronological division proposed by him in his
learned essay. But it would hardly have been fair if, on the present
occasion, I had reprinted my “Rede Lecture” without explaining why
I had altered nothing in my theory of linguistic growth, why I retained
these three phases and no more, and why I treated even these, not as
chronological periods, in the strict sense of the word, but as
preponderating tendencies, giving an individual character to certain
classes of language, without
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being totally absent in others. Professor Curtius is one of the few
scholars with whom it is pleasant to differ. He has shown again and
again that what he cares for is truth, not victory, and when he has
defended his position against attacks not always courteous, he has
invariably done so, not with hard words, but with hard arguments.
I therefore feel no hesitation in stating plainly to him where his
theories seem to me either not fully supported, or even contradicted by
the facts of language, and I trust that this free exchange of ideas,
though in public, will be as pleasant as our conversations in private
used to be, now more than thirty years ago.
Let us begin with the First Period, which Professor Curtius
calls the Root-Period. There must have been, as I tried to
explain before, a period for the Aryan languages, during which they
stood on a level with Chinese, using nothing but roots, or radical
words, without having reduced any of them to a purely formal character,
without having gone through the process of changing what Chinese
grammarians call full words into empty words. I have
always held, that to speak of roots as mere abstractions, as the result
of grammatical theory, is self-contradictory. Roots which never had any
real or historical existence may have been invented both in modern and
ancient collections or Dhâtupâṭhas; but that
is simply the fault of our etymological analysis, and in no way affects
the fact, that the Aryan, like all other languages we know, began with
roots. We may doubt the legitimacy of certain chemical elements, but not
the reality of chemical elements in general. Language, in the sense in
which we use the word, begins with roots, which are not only the
ultimate
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facts for the Science of Language, but real facts in the history of
human speech. To deny their historical reality would be tantamount to
denying cause and effect.
Logically, no doubt, it is possible to distinguish between a root as
a mere postulate, and a root used as an actual word. That distinction
has been carefully elaborated by Indian grammarians and philosophers,
but it does in no way concern us in purely historical researches. What I
mean by a root used in real language is this: when we analyze a cluster
of Sanskrit words, such as yodha-s, a fighter,
yodhaka-s, a fighter, yoddhâ, a fighter,
yodhana-m, fighting, yuddhi-s, a fight,
yuyutsu-s, wishing to fight, â-yudha-m, a weapon, we
easily see that they presuppose an element yudh, to fight, and
that they are all derived from that element by well-known grammatical
suffixes. Now is this yudh, which we call the root of all these
words, a mere abstraction? Far from it. We find it as yudh
used in the Veda either as a nominal or as a verbal base, according to
suffixes by which it is followed. Thus yudh by itself would be
a fighter, only that dh when final, has to be changed
into t. We have goshu-yúdh-am, an accusative, the fighter
among cows. In the plural we have yúdh-as, fighters; in the
locative yudh-i, in the fight; in the instrumental,
yudh-â, with the weapon. That is to say, we find that as a
nominal base, yudh, without any determinative suffixes, may
express fighting, the place of fighting, the instrument of fighting, and
a fighter. If our grammatical analysis is right, we should have
yudh as a nominal base in yúdh-ya-ti, lit. he goes to
fighting, yudh-yá-te, pass.; (a)-yut-smahi, aor.,
either
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we were to fight, or we were fighters; yú-yut-sa-ti, he is to
fight-fight; yudh-ya-s, to be fought (p. 94), etc. As a
verbal base we find yudh, for instance, or yu-yudh-e,
I have fought; in a-yud-dha, for a-yudh-ta, he fought.
In the other Aryan languages this root has left hardly any traces; yet
the Greek ὑσμῖν, and ὑσμίνη would be impossible
without the root yudh.
The only difference between Chinese and these Sanskrit forms which we
have just examined, is that while in Chinese such a form as
yudh-i, in the battle, would have for its last element a word
clearly meaning middle, and having an independent accent, Sanskrit has
lost the consciousness of the original material meaning of the i
of the locative, and uses it traditionally as an empty word, as a formal
element, as a mere termination.
I also agree with Curtius that during the earliest stage, not of
Sanskrit, but of Aryan speech in general, we have to admit two classes
of roots, the predicative and demonstrative, and that what
we now call the plural of yudh, yudh-as, fighters,
was, or may have been, originally a compound consisting of the
predicative root yudh, and the demonstrative root, as
or sa, possibly repeated twice, meaning “fight-he-he,” or
“fight-there-there,” i.e., fighters.
There is another point with regard to the character of this earliest
radical stage of the Aryan language, on which formally I should have
agreed with Curtius, but where now I begin to feel more
doubtful,—I mean the necessarily monosyllabic form of all original
roots. There is, no doubt, much to be said for this view. We always like
to begin with what is simple. We imagine, as it has been said, that “the simple
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idea must break forth, like lightning, in a simple body of sound, to be
perceived in one single moment.” But, on the other hand, the simple, so
far as it is the general, is frequently, to us at least, the last result
of repeated complex conceptions, and therefore there is at all events no
à priori argument against treating the simplest roots as the
latest, rather than the earliest products of language. Languages in a
low state of development are rich in words expressive of the most minute
differences, they are poor in general expressions, a fact which
ought to be taken into account as an important qualification of a remark
made by Curtius that language supplies necessaries first, luxuries
afterwards (p. 32). I quote the following excellent remarks
from Mr. Sayce’s “Principles of comparative Philology” (p. 208):
“Among modern savages the individual objects of sense have names enough,
while general terms are very rare. The Mohicans have words for cutting
various objects, but none to signify cutting simple.”31 In taking
this view we certainly are better able to explain the actual forms of
the Aryan
roots, viz., by elimination, rather than by composition.
If we look for instance, as I did myself formerly, on such roots as
yudh, yuj, and yauṭ, as
developed from the simpler root yu, or on mardh,
marg, mark, marp, mard,
smar, as developed from mar, then we are bound to
account
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for the modificatory elements, such as dh, g, k,
p, d, s, n, t, r, as remnants
of other roots, whether predicative or demonstrative. Thus Curtius
compares tar or tra, with tras,
tram, trak, trap; tri and
tru with trup, trib, taking the final
consonants as modificatory letters. But what are these modificatory letters?
Every attempt to account for them has failed. If it could be proved that
these modificatory elements, which Curtius calls Determinatives,
produced always the same modification of meaning, they might then
be classed with the verbal suffixes which change simple verbs into
causative, desiderative, or intensive verbs. But this is not the case.
On the other hand, it would be perfectly intelligible that such roots as
mark, marg, mard, mardh, expressing
different kinds of crushing, became fixed side by side, that by a
process of elimination, their distinguishing features were gradually
removed, and the root mar left as the simplest form, expressive
of the most general meaning. Without entering here on that process of
mutual friction by which I believe that the development of roots can
best be explained, we may say at least so much, that whatever process
will account for the root yu, will likewise account for the
root yuj, nay, that roots like mark or mard
are more graphic, expressive, and more easily intelligible than the root
mar.
However, if this view of the origin of roots has to be adopted, it
need not altogether exclude the other view. In the process of
simplification, certain final letters may have become typical, may have
seemed invested with a certain function or determinative power, and may
therefore have been added independently to other roots, by that powerful
imitative tendency
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which asserts itself again and again through the whole working of
language. But however that may be, the sharp line of distinction which
Curtius draws between the First Period, represented by simple, and the
Second Period represented by derivative roots, seems certainly no longer
tenable, least of all as dividing chronologically two distinct
periods in the growth of language.
When we approach the Third Period, it might seem that here, at least,
there could be no difference of opinion between Professor Curtius and
myself. That Third Period represents simply what I called the first
setting in of combination, following after the isolating
stage. Curtius calls it the primary verbal period, and ascribes
to it the origin of such combinatory forms as dấ-ma, give-I,
dâ-tva, give-thou, dấ-ta, give-he;
dâ-ma-tvi, give-we, dâ-tva-tvi, give-you,
dâ-(a)nti, give-they. These verbal forms he considers as much
earlier than any attempts at declension in nouns. No one who has read
Curtius’ arguments in support of this chronological arrangement would
deny their extreme plausibility; but there are grave difficulties which
made me hesitate in adopting this hypothetical framework of linguistic
chronology. I shall only mention one, which seemed to me
insurmountable. We know that during what we called the First Radical
Period the sway of phonetic laws was already so firmly established,
that, from that period onward to the present day, we can say, with
perfect certainty, which phonetic changes are possible, and which are
not. It is through these phonetic laws that the most distant past in the
history of the Aryan language is connected with the present. It is on
them that the
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whole science of etymology is founded. Only because a certain root has a
tenuis, a media, an aspirate, or a sibilant, is it possible to keep
it distinct from other roots. If t and s could be interchanged, then the
root tar, to cross, would not be distinct from the root
sar, to go. If d and dh could vary, then dar,
to tear, would run together with dhar, to hold. These phonetic
distinctions were firmly established in the radical period, and continue
to be maintained, both in the undivided Aryan speech, and in the divided
national dialects, such as Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Gothic. How then
can we allow an intervening period, during which ma-tvi, could
become masi, tva-tvi, thas, and the same
tva-tvi appear also as sai? Such changes, always most
startling, may have been possible in earlier periods; but when phonetic
order had once been established, as it was in what Curtius calls his
first and second periods, to admit them as possible, would be, as far as
I can judge, to admit a complete anachronism. Of two things one; either
we must altogether surrender those chaotic changes which are required
for identifying Sanskrit e with Greek μαι, and Greek μαι with mâ-ma, etc., or we must throw them back
to a period anterior to the final settlement of the Aryan roots.
I now proceed to point out a second difficulty. If Curtius uses these
same personal terminations, masi, tvasi, and
anti, as proof positive that they must have been compounded out
of ma + tva, and tva-tva, before there were
any case terminations, I do not think his argument is quite
stringent. Curtius says: “If plural suffixes had existed before the
coining of these terminations, we should expect them here, as well as in
the noun” (p. 33). But the plural of the
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pronoun I could never have been formed by a plural suffix, like
the plural of horse. I admits of no plural, as little as
thou, and hence the plural of these very pronouns in the Aryan
language is not formed by the mere addition of a plural termination, but
by a new base. We say I, but we; thou but
you, and so through all the Aryan languages. According to Curtius
himself, masi, the termination of the plural, is not formed by
repeating ma, by saying I and I, but by ma and
tva, I and thou, the most primitive way, he thinks, of
expressing we. The termination of the second person plural might
be expressed by repeating thou. “You did it,” might have been
rendered by “thou and thou did it;” but hardly by treating thou
like a noun, and adding to it a plural termination. The absence of
plural terminations, therefore at the end of the personal suffixes of
the verbs, does not prove, as far as I can see, that plurals of nouns
were unknown when the first, second, and third persons plural of the
Aryan verbs were called into existence.
Again, if Curtius says, that “what language has once learnt, it does
not forget again, and that therefore if the plural had once found
expression in nouns, the verb would have claimed the same distinction,”
is true, no doubt, in many cases, but not so generally true as to supply
a safe footing for a deductive argument. In so late a formation as the
periphrastic future in Sanskrit, we say dâtâ-smaḥ, as it were dator sumus, not dâtâraḥ smaḥ; and in the second person plural of the
passive in Latin amamini, though the plural is marked, the gender
is always disregarded.
Further, even if we admit with Bopp and Curtius that the terminations
of the medium are composed of
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two pronouns, that the ta of the third person singular stands for
ta-ti, to-him-he, that καλύπτεται in fact meant originally hide-himself-he,
it does not follow that in such a compound one pronominal element should
have taken the termination of the accusative, any more than the other
takes the termination of the nominative. The first element in every
composition takes necessarily its Pada or thematic form; the second or
final element has suffered so much, according to Bopp’s own explanation,
that nothing would be easier to explain than the disappearance of a
final consonant, if it had existed. The absence of case-terminations in
such compounds cannot therefore be used as proof of the non-existence of
case-terminations at a time when the medial and other personal endings
took their origin. On the contrary, these terminations seem to me to
indicate, though I do not say to prove, that the conception of a
subjective, as distinct from an objective case, had been fully realized
by those who framed them. I do not myself venture to speak very
positively of such minute processes of analysis as that which discovers
in the Sk. first pers. sing. ind. pres. of the middle, tude,
I strike, an original tuda + a + i, tuda +
ma + i, tuda + ma + mi, tuda +
mâ + ma, but admitting that the middle was formed in
that way, and that it meant originally strike-to-me-I, then
surely we have in the first mâ an oblique case, and in the
compound itself the clearest indication that the distinction between a
nominative and an oblique case, whether dative or accusative, was no
longer a mystery. Anyhow, and this is the real point at issue, the
presence of such compounds as mâ-ma, to-me-I, is in no way a
proof that at the time of their formation people could not
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distinguish between yudh (s), nom., a fighter, and
yudh (am), acc., a fighter; and we must wait for more
irrefragable evidence before admitting, what would under all
circumstances be a most startling conclusion, namely, that the Aryan
language was spoken for a long time without case-terminations, but with
a complete set of personal terminations, both in the singular and the
plural. For though it is quite true that the want of cases could only be
felt in a sentence, the same seems to me to apply to personal
terminations of the verb. The one, in most languages we know, implies
the other, and the very question whether conjugation or declension came
first is one of those dangerous questions which take something for
granted which has never been proved.
During all this time, according to Curtius, our Aryan language would
have consisted of nothing but roots, used for nominal and verbal
purposes, but without any purely derivative suffixes, whether verbal or
nominal, and without declension. The only advance, in fact, made beyond
the purely Chinese standard, would have consisted in a few combinations
of personal pronouns with verbal stems, which combinations assumed
rapidly a typical character, and led to the formation of a skeleton of
conjugation, containing a present, an aorist with an
augment, and a reduplicated perfect. Why, during the same period,
nominal bases should not have assumed at least some case-terminations,
does not appear; and it certainly seems strange that people who could
say vak-ti, speak-he, vak-anti, speak-this-he, should
not have been able to say vâk-s, whether in the sense of
speak-there, i.e., speech or speak-there, i.e.,
speaker.
The next step which, according to Curtius, the
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Aryan language had to make, in order to emerge from its purely radical
phase, was the creation of bases, both verbal and nominal, by the
addition of verbal and nominal suffixes to roots, both primary and
secondary. Curtius calls this fourth the Period of the Formation of
Themes. The suffixes are very numerous, and it is by them that the
Aryan languages have been able to make their limited number of roots
supply the vast materials of their dictionary. From bhar, to
carry, they formed bhar-a, a carrier, but sometimes also a
burden. In addition to bhar-ti, carry-he, they formed
bhara-ti, meaning possibly carrying-he. The growth of these
early themes may have been very luxuriant, and, as Professor Curtius
expresses it, chiefly paraschematic. It may have been left to a
later age to assign to that large number of possible synonyms more
definite meanings. Thus from φέρω, I carry, we have φορά, the act of carrying, used also in the sense of
impetus (being carried away), and of provectus, i.e., what
is brought in. Φορός means
carrying, but also violent, and lucrative; φέρετρον, an instrument of carrying, means a bier;
φαρέτρα, a quiver,
for carrying arrows. Φορμός comes to mean a basket; φόρτος, a burden; φορός, tribute.
All this is perfectly intelligible, both with regard to nominal and
verbal themes. Curtius admits four kinds of verbal themes as the outcome
of his Fourth Period. He had assigned to his Third Period the simple
verbal themes ἐσ-τί, and
the reduplicated themes such as δίδω-σι. To these were added, in the Fourth Period, the
following four secondary themes:—
(1) πλέκ-ε-(τ)-ι |
Sanskrit lipa-ti |
(2) ἀλείφ-ε-(τ)-ι |
„ laipa-ti |
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(3) δείκ-νυ-σι |
„ lip-nau-ti |
(4) δάμ-νη-σι |
„ lip-nâ-ti. |
He also explains the formation of the subjunctive in analogy with
bases such as lipa-ti, as derived from lip-ti.
Some scholars would probably feel inclined to add one or two of the
more primitive verbal themes, such as
limpa-ti |
rumpo |
limpana-ti |
λαμβάνε(τ)ι |
but all would probably agree with Curtius in placing the formation of
these themes, both verbal and nominal, between the radical and the
latest inflectional period. A point, however, on which there would
probably be considerable difference of opinion is this, whether it is
credible, that at a time when so many nominal themes were
formed,—for Curtius ascribes to this Fourth Period the formation
of such nominal bases as
λόγ-ο, intellect, |
= lipa-ti |
λοίπ-ο, left, |
= laipa-ti |
λιγ-νύ, smoke, |
= lip-nau-ti |
δάφ-νη, laurel, |
= lip-nâ-ti — |
the simplest nominal compounds, which we now call nominative and
accusative, singular and plural, were still unknown; that people could
say dhṛsh-nu-más, we dare, but not dhṛsh-ṇú-s, daring-he; that they had an imperative,
dhṛshṇuhí, dare, but not a vocative, dhṛshṇo? Curtius strongly holds to that opinion,
but with regard to this period too, he does not seem to me to establish
it by a regular and complete argument. Some arguments which he refers to
occasionally have been answered before. Another, which he brings in
incidentally, when discussing
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the abbreviation of certain suffixes, can hardly be said to carry
conviction. After tracing the suffixes ant and tar
back to what he supposes to have been their more primitive forms,
an-ta and ta-ra, he remarks that the dropping of the
final vowel would hardly be conceivable at a time when there existed
case-terminations. Still this dropping of the vowel is very common, in
late historical times, in Latin, for instance, and other Italian
dialects, where it causes frequent confusion and heteroclitism.32
Thus the Augustan innocua was shortened in common pronunciation
to innoca, and this dwindles down in Christian inscriptions to
innox. In Greek, too, διάκτορος is older than διάκτωρ; φύλακος older than φύλαξ.
Nor can it be admitted that the nominal suffixes have suffered less
from phonetic corruption than the terminations of the verb, and that
therefore they must belong to a more modern period
(pp. 39, 40). In spite of all the changes which the personal
terminations are supposed to have undergone, their connection with the
personal pronouns has always been apparent, while the tracing back of
the nominal suffixes, and, still more, of the case-terminations to their
typical elements, forms still one of the greatest difficulties of
comparative grammarians.33
Professor Curtius is so much impressed with the later origin of
declension that he establishes one more period, the fifth, to which he
assigns the growth of all compound verbal forms, compound stems,
compound tenses, and compound moods, before he allows the first
beginnings of declension, and the
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formation even of such simple forms as the nominative and accusative. It
is difficult, no doubt, to disprove such an opinion by facts or dates,
because there are none to be found on either side: but we have a right
to expect very strong arguments indeed, before we can admit that at a
time when an aorist, like ἔδεικ-σα, Sanskrit a-dik-sha-t was possible,
that is to say, at a time when the verb as, which meant
originally to breathe, had by constant use been reduced to the meaning
of being; at a time when that verb, as a mere auxiliary, was joined to a
verbal base in order to impart to it a general historical power; when
the persons of the verb were distinguished by pronominal elements, and
when the augment, no longer purely demonstrative, had become the symbol
of time past, that at such a time people were still unable to
distinguish, except by a kind of Chinese law of position, between “the
father struck the child,” and “the child struck the father.” Before we
can admit this, we want much stronger proofs than any adduced by
Curtius. He says, for instance, that compound verbal bases formed with
yâ, to go, and afterwards fixed as causatives, would be
inconceivable during a period in which accusatives existed. From
naś, to perish, we form in Sanskrit nâśa-yâmi, I make
perish. This, according to Curtius, would have meant originally,
I send to perishing. Therefore nâśa would have been, in
the accusative, nâśam, and the causative would have been
nâśamyâmi, if the accusative had then been known. But we have
in Latin34 pessum dare, venum ire, and no one
would say that compounds like calefacio, liquefacio,
putrefacio, were impossible after the first Aryan separation, or
after that
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still earlier period to which Curtius assigns the formation of the Aryan
case-terminations. Does Professor Curtius hold that compound forms like
Gothic nasi-da were formed not only before the Aryan separation,
but before the introduction of case-terminations? I hold, on the
contrary, that such really old compositions never required, nay never
admitted, the accusative. We say in Sanskrit, dyu-gat, going to
the sky, dyu-ksha, dwelling in the sky, without any
case-terminations at the end of the first part of the compound. We say
in Greek, σακέσ-παλος, not σάκοσ-παλος, παιδοφόνος, not παιδαφόνος, ὀρεσ-κῷος, mountain-bred, and also ὀρεσί-τροφος, mountain-fed. We
say in Latin, agri-cola, not agrum-cola,
fratri-cīda, not fratrem-cīda, rēgĭfugium, not
regis-fugium. Are we to suppose that all these words were formed
before there was an outward mark of distinction between nominative and
accusative in the primitive Aryan language? Such compounds, we know, can
be formed at pleasure, and they continued to be formed long after the
full development of the Aryan declension, and the same would apply to
the compound stems of causal verbs. To say, as Curtius does, that
composition was possible only before the development of declension,
because when cases had once sprung up, the people would no longer have
known the bases of nouns, is far too strong an assertion. In Sanskrit35 the really difficult bases are generally
sufficiently visible in the so-called Pada, cases, i.e., before
certain terminations beginning with consonants, and there is besides a
strong feeling of analogy in language, which would generally, though not
always (for compounds are frequently
134
framed by false analogy), guide the framers of new compounds rightly in
the selection of the proper nominal base. It seems to me that even with
us there is still a kind of instinctive feeling against using nouns,
articulated with case-terminations, for purposes of composition,
although there are exceptions to that rule in ancient, and many more in
modern languages. We can hardly realize to ourselves a Latin
pontemfex, or pontisfex, still less ponsfex instead
of pontifex, and when the Romans drove away their kings, they did
not speak of a regisfugium or a regumfugium, but they
took, by habit or by instinct, the base regi, though none of
them, if they had been asked, knew what a base was. Composition, we
ought not to forget, is after all only another name for combination, and
the very essence of combination consists in joining together words which
are not yet articulated grammatically. Whenever we form compounds, such
as railway, we are still moving in the combinatory stage, and we
have the strongest proof that the life of language is not capable of
chronological division. There was a period in the growth of the Aryan
language when the principle of combination preponderated, when
inflection was as yet unknown. But inflection itself was the result of
combination, and unless combination had continued long after inflection
set in, the very life of language would have become extinct.
I have thus tried to explain why I cannot accept the fundamental fact
on which the seven-fold division of the history of the Aryan language is
founded, viz., that the combinatory process which led to the Aryan
system of conjugation would have been impossible, if at the time nominal
bases had already been articulated
135
with terminations of case and number. I see no reason why the
earliest case-formations, I mean particularly the nominative and
accusative in the singular, plural, and dual, should not date from the
same time as the earliest formations of conjugation. The same process
that leads to the formation of vak-ti, speak-he, would account
for the formation of vak-s, speak-there, i.e., speaker.
Necessity, which after all is the mother of all inventions, would much
sooner have required the clear distinction of singular and plural, of
nominative and accusative, than of the three persons, of the verbs. It
is far more important to be able to distinguish the subject and the
object in such sentences as “the son has killed the father,” or “the
father has killed the son,” than to be able to indicate the person and
tense of the verb. Of course we may say that in Chinese the two cases
are distinguished without any outward signs, and by mere position; but
we have no evidence that the law of position was preserved in the Aryan
languages, after verbal inflection had once set in. Chinese dispenses
with verbal inflection as well as with nominal, and an appeal to it
would therefore prove either too much or too little.
At the end of the five periods which we have examined, but still
before the Aryan separation, Curtius places the sixth, which he calls
the Period of the Formation of Cases, and the seventh, the Period of
Adverbs. Why I cannot bring myself to accept the late date here assigned
to declension, I have tried to explain before. That adverbs existed
before the great branches of Aryan speech became definitely separated
has been fully proved by Professor Curtius. I only doubt whether
the adverbial period can be
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separated chronologically from the case period. I should say, on
the contrary, that some of the adverbs in Sanskrit and the other Aryan
languages exhibit the most primitive and obsolete case-terminations, and
that they existed probably long before the system of case-terminations
assumed its completeness.
If we look back at the results at which we have arrived in examining
the attempt of Professor Curtius to establish seven distinct
chronological periods in the history of the Aryan speech, previous to
its separation into Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, Slavonic, Teutonic, and
Celtic, I think we shall find two principles clearly established:—
1. That it is impossible to distinguish more than three
successive phases in the growth of the Aryan language. In the first
phase or period the only materials were roots, not yet compounded, still
less articulated grammatically, a form of language to us almost
inconceivable, yet even at present preserved in the literature and
conversation of millions of human beings, the Chinese. In that stage of
language, “king rule man heap law instrument,” would mean, the king
rules men legally.
The second phase is characterized by the combination of roots,
by which process one loses its independence and its accent, and is
changed from a full and material into an empty or formal element. That
phase comprehends the formation of compound roots, of certain nominal
and verbal stems, and of the most necessary forms of declension and
conjugation. What distinguishes this phase from the inflectional is the
consciousness of the speaker, that one part of his word is the stem or
the body, and all the rest its environment, a feeling analogous to
that which we have
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when we speak of man-hood, man-ly, man-ful,
man-kind, but which fails us when we speak of man and
men, or if we speak of wo-man, instead of wif-man.
The principle of combination preponderated when inflection was as yet
unknown. But inflection itself was the result of combination, and unless
it had continued long after inflection set in, the very life of language
would have become extinct.
The third phase is the inflectional, when the base and the
modificatory elements of words coalesce, lose their independence in the
mind of the speaker, and simply produce the impression of modification
taking place in the body of words, but without any intelligible reason.
This is the feeling which we have throughout nearly the whole of our own
language, and it is only by means of scientific reflection that we
distinguish between the root, the base, the suffix, and the termination.
To attempt more than this three-fold division seems to me
impossible.
2. The second principle which I tried to establish was that the
growth of language does not lend itself to a chronological division, in
the strict sense of the word. Whatever forces are at work in the
formation of languages, none of them ceases suddenly to make room for
another, but they work on with a certain continuity from beginning to
end, only on a larger or smaller scale. Inflection does not put a sudden
end to combination, nor combination to juxtaposition. When even in so
modern a language as English we can form by mere combination such words
as man-like, and reduce them to manly, the power of
combination cannot be said to be extinct, although it may no longer be
sufficiently strong to produce new cases or new personal terminations.
We may admit,
138
in the development of the Aryan language, previous to its division,
three successive strata of formation, a juxtapositional, a
combinatory, and an inflectional; but we shall have to
confess that these strata are not regularly superimposed, but tilted,
broken up, and convulsed. They are very prominent each for a time, but
even after that time is over, they may be traced at different points,
pervading the very latest formations of tertiary speech. The true motive
power in the progress of all language is combination, and that power is
not extinct even in our own time.
139
III.
ON THE MIGRATION OF FABLES.
A LECTURE DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION,
ON FRIDAY, JUNE 3, 1870.
“Count not your chickens before they
be hatched,” is a well-known proverb in English, and most people, if
asked what was its origin, would probably appeal to La Fontaine’s
delightful fable, La Laitière et le Pot au Lait.1 We all know
Perrette, lightly stepping along from her village to the town, carrying
the milk-pail on her head, and in her day-dreams selling her milk for a
good sum, then buying a hundred eggs, then selling the chickens, then
buying a pig, fattening it, selling it again, and buying a cow with a
calf. The calf frolics about, and kicks up his legs—so does
Perrette, and, alas! the pail falls down, the milk is spilt, her riches
gone, and she only hopes when she comes home that she may escape a
flogging from her husband.
Did La Fontaine invent this fable? or did he merely follow the
example of Sokrates, who, as we know from the Phædon,2 occupied
himself in prison, during the last days of his life, with turning into
verse some of the fables, or, as he calls them, the myths of Æsop.
140
La Fontaine published the first six books of his fables in 1668,3 and it is well known that the subjects of most of
these early fables were taken from Æsop, Phædrus, Horace, and other
classical fabulists, if we may adopt this word “fabuliste,” which La
Fontaine was the first to introduce into French.
In 1678 a second edition of these six books was published, enriched
by five books of new fables, and in 1694 a new edition appeared,
containing one additional book, thus completing the collection of his
charming poems.
The fable of Perrette stands in the seventh book, and was published,
therefore, for the first time in the edition of 1678. In the preface to
that edition La Fontaine says: “It is not necessary that I should say
whence I have taken the subjects of these new fables. I shall only
say, from a sense of gratitude, that I owe the largest portion of them
to Pilpay the Indian sage.”
If, then, La Fontaine tells us himself that he borrowed the subjects
of most of his new fables from Pilpay, the Indian sage, we have clearly
a right to look to India in order to see whether, in the ancient
literature of that country, any traces can be discovered of Perrette
with the milk-pail.
Sanskrit literature is very rich in fables and stories; no other
literature can vie with it in that respect; nay, it is extremely likely
that fables, in particular animal fables, had their principal source in
India. In the sacred literature of the Buddhists, fables held a most
prominent place. The Buddhist preachers, addressing themselves chiefly
to the people, to the untaught,
141
the uncared for, the outcast, spoke to them, as we still speak to
children, in fables, in proverbs and parables. Many of these fables and
parables must have existed before the rise of the Buddhist religion;
others, no doubt, were added on the spur of the moment, just as Sokrates
would invent a myth or fable whenever that form of argument seemed to
him most likely to impress and convince his hearers. But Buddhism gave a
new and permanent sanction to this whole branch of moral mythology, and
in the sacred canon, as it was settled in the third century before
Christ, many a fable received, and holds to the present day, its
recognized place. After the fall of Buddhism in India, and even during
its decline, the Brahmans claimed the inheritance of their enemies, and
used their popular fables for educational purposes. The best known of
these collections of fables in Sanskrit is the Pañcatantra,
literally the Pentateuch, or Pentamerone. From it and from other sources
another collection was made, well known to all Sanskrit scholars by the
name of Hitopadesa, i.e., Salutary Advice. Both these books have
been published in England and Germany, and there are translations of
them in English, German, French, and other languages.4
The first question which we have to answer refers to the date of
these collections, and dates in the history
142
of Sanskrit literature are always difficult points. Fortunately, as we
shall see, we can in this case fix the date of the Pañcatantra at
least, by means of a translation into ancient Persian, which was made
about 550 years after Christ, though even then we can only prove that a
collection somewhat like the Pañkatantra must have existed at that time;
but we cannot refer the book, in exactly that form in which we now
possess it, to that distant period.
If we look for La Fontaine’s fable in the Sanskrit stories of the
Pañcatantra, we do not find, indeed, the milkmaid counting her
chickens before they are hatched, but we meet with the following story:—
“There lived in a certain place a Brâhman, whose name was Svabhâvakṛpaṇa, which means ‘a born miser.’ He
had collected a quantity of rice by begging (this reminds us somewhat of
the Buddhist mendicants), and after having dined off it, he filled a pot
with what was left over. He hung the pot on a peg on the wall, placed
his couch beneath, and looking intently at it all the night, he thought,
‘Ah, that pot is indeed brimful of rice. Now, if there should be a
famine, I should certainly make a hundred rupees by it. With this I
shall buy a couple of goats. They will have young ones every six months,
and thus I shall have a whole herd of goats. Then, with the goats,
I shall buy cows. As soon as they have calved, I shall sell
the calves. Then, with the cows, I shall buy buffaloes; with the
buffaloes, mares. When the mares have foaled, I shall have plenty
of horses; and when I sell them, plenty of gold. With that gold I shall
get a house with four wings. And then a Brâhman will come to my house,
and will give me his beautiful daughter, with a large dowry. She will
have a son, and I shall call him Somaśarman. When he is old enough to be
danced on his father’s knee, I shall sit with a book at the back of
the stable, and while I am reading the boy will see me, jump from his
mother’s lap, and run towards me to be danced on my knee. He will come
too near the horse’s hoof, and, full of anger, I shall call to my
wife, “Take the baby; take him!” But she, distracted by some domestic
work does not hear me. Then I get up, and give her
143
such a kick with my foot.’ While he thought this, he gave a kick with
his foot, and broke the pot. All the rice fell over him, and made him
quite white. Therefore, I say, ‘He who makes foolish plans for the
future will be white all over, like the father of Somaśarman.’”5
I shall at once proceed to read you the same story, though slightly
modified, from the Hitopadeśa.6 The Hitopadeśa professes to be
taken from the Pañcatantra and some other books; and in this case
it would seem as if some other authority had been followed. You will
see, at all events, how much freedom there was in telling the old story
of the man who built castles in the air.
“In the town of Devîkoṭṭa there lived a
Brâhman of the name of Devaśarman. At the feast of the great equinox he
received a plate full of rice. He took it, went into a potter’s shop,
which was full of crockery, and, overcome by the heat, he lay down in a
corner and began to doze. In order to protect his plate of rice, he kept
a stick in his hand, and began to think, ‘Now, if I sell this plate of
rice, I shall receive ten cowries (kapardaka). I shall then,
on the spot, buy pots and plates, and after having increased my capital
again and again, I shall buy and sell betel nuts and dresses till I
become enormously rich. Then I shall marry four wives, and the youngest
and prettiest of the four I shall make a great pet of. Then the other
wives will be so angry, and begin to quarrel. But I shall be in a great
rage, and take a stick, and give them a good flogging.’
. . . . While he said this, he flung his stick away; the
plate of rice was smashed to pieces, and many of the pots in the shop
were broken. The potter, hearing the noise, ran into the shop, and when
he saw his pots broken, he gave the Brâhman a good scolding, and drove
him out of his shop. Therefore I say, ‘He who rejoices over plans for
the future will come to grief, like the Brâhman who broke the
pots.’”
In spite of the change of a Brahman into a milkmaid, no one,
I suppose, will doubt that we have here
144
in the stories of the Pañcatantra and Hitopadeśa the first germs of
La Fontaine’s fable.7,A
But how did that fable travel all the way from India to France? How did
it doff its Sanskrit garment and don the light dress of modern French?
How was the stupid Brahman born again as the brisk milkmaid,
“cotillon simple et souliers plats?”
It seems a startling case of longevity that while languages have
changed, while works of art have perished, while empires have risen and
vanished again, this simple children’s story should have lived on, and
maintained its place of honor and its undisputed sway in every
school-room of the East and every nursery of the West. And yet it is a
case of longevity so well attested that even the most skeptical would
hardly venture to question it. We have the passport of these stories
viséed at every place through which they have passed, and, as far
as I can judge, parfaitement en règle. The story of the migration
of these Indian fables from East to West is indeed wonderful; more
wonderful and more instructive than many of these fables themselves.
Will it be believed that we, in this Christian country and in the
nineteenth century, teach our children the first, the most important
lessons of worldly wisdom, nay, of a more than worldly wisdom, from
books borrowed from Buddhists and Brahmans, from heretics and idolaters,
and that wise words, spoken a thousand, nay, two thousand years ago, in
a lonely village of India, like precious seed scattered broadcast all
over the world, still bear fruit a hundred and a thousand-fold in that
soil which is the most precious before God and man, the soul of a child?
No lawgiver, no philosopher,
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has made his influence felt so widely, so deeply, and so permanently as
the author of these children’s fables. But who was he? We do not know.
His name, like the name of many a benefactor of the human race, is
forgotten. We only know he was an Indian—a nigger, as some people
would call him—and that he lived at least two thousand years
ago.
No doubt, when we first hear of the Indian origin of these fables,
and of their migration from India to Europe, we wonder whether it can be
so; but the fact is, that the story of this Indo-European migration is
not, like the migration of the Indo-European languages, myths, and
legends, a matter of theory, but of history, and that it was never
quite forgotten either in the East or in the West. Each translator, as
he handed on his treasure, seems to have been anxious to show how he
came by it.
Several writers who have treated of the origin and spreading of
Indo-European stories and fables, have mixed up two or three questions
which ought to be treated each on its own merits.
The first question is whether the Aryans, when they broke up their
pro-ethnic community, carried away with them, not only their common
grammar and dictionary, but likewise some myths and legends which we
find that Indians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Celts, Germans, Slaves,
when they emerge into the light of history, share in common? That
certain deities occur in India, Greece, and Germany, having the same
names and the same character, is a fact that can no longer be denied.
That certain heroes, too, known to Indians, Greeks, and Romans, point to
one and the same origin, both by their name and by their
146
history, is a fact by this time admitted by all whose admission is of
real value. As heroes are in most cases gods in disguise, there is
nothing very startling in the fact that nations, who had worshipped the
same gods, should also have preserved some common legends of demi-gods
or heroes, nay, even in a later phase of thought, of fairies and ghosts.
The case, however, becomes much more problematical when we ask, whether
stories also, fables told with a decided moral purpose, formed part of
that earliest Aryan inheritance? This is still doubted by many who have
no doubts whatever as to common Aryan myths and legends, and even those
who, like myself, have tried to establish by tentative arguments the
existence of common Aryan fables, dating from before the Aryan
separation, have done so only by showing a possible connection between
ancient popular saws and mythological ideas, capable of a moral
application. To any one, for instance, who knows how in the poetical
mythology of the Aryan tribes, the golden splendor of the rising sun
leads to conceptions of the wealth of the Dawn in gold and jewels and
her readiness to shower them upon her worshippers, the modern German
proverb, Morgenstunde hat Gold im Munde, seems to have a kind of
mythological ring, and the stories of benign fairies, changing
everything into gold, sound likewise like an echo from the
long-forgotten forest of our common Aryan home. If we know how the trick
of dragging stolen cattle backwards into their place of hiding, so that
their footprints might not lead to the discovery of the thief, appears
again and again in the mythology of different Aryan nations, then the
pointing of the same trick as a kind of proverb, intended to convey a
moral lesson,
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and illustrated by fables of the same or a very similar character in
India and Greece, makes one feel inclined to suspect that here too the
roots of these fables may reach to a pro-ethnic period. Vestigia
nulla retrorsum is clearly an ancient proverb, dating from a nomadic
period, and when we see how Plato (“Alcibiades,” i. 123) was perfectly
familiar with the Æsopian myth or fable,—κατὰ τὸν Αἰσώπου μῦθον, he
says—of the fox declining to enter the lion’s cave, because all
footsteps went into it and none came out, and how the Sanskrit
Pañcatantra (III. 14) tells of a jackal hesitating to enter
his own cave, because he sees the footsteps of a lion going in, but not
coming out, we feel strongly inclined to admit a common origin for both
fables. Here, however, the idea that the Greeks, like La Fontaine, had
borrowed their fable from the Pañcatantra would be simply absurd,
and it would be much more rational, if the process must be one of
borrowing, to admit, as Benfey (“Pantschatantra,” i. 381) does, that the
Hindus, after Alexander’s discovery of India, borrowed this story from
the Greeks. But if we consider that each of the two fables has its own
peculiar tendency, the one deriving its lesson from the absence of
backward footprints of the victims, the other from the absence of
backward footprints of the lion himself, the admission of a common Aryan
proverb such as “vestigia nulla retrorsum” would far better
explain the facts such as we find them. I am not ignorant of the
difficulties of this explanation, and I would myself point to the fact
that among the Hottentots, too, Dr. Bleek has found a fable of the
jackal declining to visit the sick lion, “because the traces of the
animals
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who went to see him did not turn back.”8 Without, however,
pronouncing any decided opinion on this vexed question, what I wish to
place clearly before you is this, that the spreading of Aryan myths,
legends, and fables, dating from a pro-ethnic period, has nothing
whatever to do with the spreading of fables taking place in strictly
historical times from India to Arabia, to Greece and the rest of Europe,
not by means of oral tradition, but through more or less faithful
translations of literary works. Those who like may doubt whether
Zeus was Dyaus, whether Daphne was
Ahanâ, whether La Belle au Bois was the mother of two
children, called L’Aurore and Le Jour,9 but the fact
that a collection of fables was, in the sixth century of our era,
brought from India to Persia, and by means of various translations
naturalized among Persians, Arabs, Greeks, Jews, and all the rest,
admits of no doubt or cavil. Several thousand years have passed between
those two migrations, and to mix them up together, to suppose that
Comparative Mythology has anything to do with the migration of such
fables as that of Perrette, would be an anachronism of a portentous
character.
There is a third question, viz., whether besides the two channels
just mentioned, there were others through which Eastern fables could
have reached Europe, or Æsopian and other European fables have been
transferred to the East. There are such channels, no doubt. Persian and
Arab stories, of Indian origin, were through the crusaders brought back
to Constantinople, Italy, and France; Buddhist fables
149
were through Mongolian10 conquerors (13th century)
carried to Russia and the eastern parts of Europe. Greek stories may
have reached Persia and India at the time of Alexander’s conquests and
during the reigns of the Diadochi, and even Christian legends may have
found their way to the East through missionaries, travellers, or
slaves.
Lastly, there comes the question, how far our common human nature is
sufficient to account for coincidences in beliefs, customs, proverbs,
and fables, which, at first sight, seem to require an historical
explanation. I shall mention but one instance. Professor Wilson
(“Essays on Sanskrit Literature,” i. p. 201) pointed out that the
story of the Trojan horse occurs in a Hindu tale, only that instead of
the horse we have an elephant. But he rightly remarked that the
coincidence was accidental. In the one case, after a siege of nine
years, the principal heroes of the Greek army are concealed in a wooden
horse, dragged into Troy by a stratagem, and the story ends by their
falling upon the Trojans and conquering the city of Priam. In the other
story a king bent on securing a son-in-law, had an elephant constructed
by able artists, and filled with armed men. The elephant was placed in a
forest, and when the young prince came to hunt, the armed men sprang
out, overpowered the prince and brought him to the king, whose daughter
he was
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to marry. However striking the similarity may seem to one unaccustomed
to deal with ancient legends, I doubt whether any comparative
mythologist has postulated a common Aryan origin for these two stories.
They feel that, as far as the mere construction of a wooden animal is
concerned, all that was necessary to explain the origin of the idea in
one place was present also in the other, and that while the Trojan horse
forms an essential part of a mythological cycle, there is nothing truly
mythological or legendary in the Indian story. The idea of a hunter
disguising himself in the skin of an animal, or even of one animal
assuming the disguise of another,11 are familiar in every part of
the world, and if that is so, then the step from hiding under the skin
of a large animal to that of hiding in a wooden animal is not very
great.
Every one of these questions, as I said before, must be treated on
its own merits, and while the traces of the first migration of Aryan
fables can be rediscovered
151
only by the most minute and complex inductive processes, the documents
of the latter are to be found in the library of every intelligent
collector of books. Thus, to return to Perrette and the fables of
Pilpay, Huet, the learned bishop of Avranches, the friend of La
Fontaine, had only to examine the prefaces of the principal translations
of the Indian fables in order to track their wanderings, as he did in
his famous “Traite de l’Origine des Romans,” published at Paris in 1670,
two years after the appearance of the first collection of La Fontaine’s
fables. Since his time the evidence has become more plentiful, and the
whole subject has been more fully and more profoundly treated by
Sylvestre de Sacy,12 Loiseleur Deslongchamps,13 and
Professor Benfey.14 But though we have a more accurate knowledge
of the stations by which the Eastern fables reached their last home in
the West, Bishop Huet knew as well as we do that they came originally
from India through Persia by way of Bagdad and Constantinople.
In order to gain a commanding view of the countries traversed by
these fables, let us take our position at Bagdad in the middle of the
eighth century, and watch from that central point the movements of our
literary caravan in its progress from the far East to the far West. In
the middle of the eighth century, during the reign of the great Khalif
Almansur, Abdallah ibn Almokaffa wrote his famous collection of fables,
the “Kalila and Dimnah,” which we still possess.
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The Arabic text of these fables has been published by Sylvestre de Sacy,
and there is an English translation of it by Mr. Knatchbull, formerly
Professor of Arabic at Oxford. Abdallah ibn Almokaffa was a Persian by
birth, who after the fall of the Omeyyades became a convert to
Mohammedanism, and rose to high office at the court of the Khalifs.
Being in possession of important secrets of state, he became dangerous
in the eyes of the Khalif Almansur, and was foully murdered.15 In
the preface, Abdallah ibn Almokaffa tells us that he translated these
fables from Pehlevi, the ancient language of Persia; and that they had
been translated into Pehlevi (about two hundred years before his time)
by Barzûyeh, the physician of Khosru Nushirvan, the King of Persia, the
contemporary of the Emperor Justinian. The King of Persia had heard that
there existed in India a book full of wisdom, and he had commanded his
Vezier, Buzurjmihr, to find a man acquainted with the languages both of
Persia and India. The man chosen was Barzûyeh. He travelled to India,
got possession of the book, translated it into Persian, and brought it
back to the court of Khosru. Declining all rewards beyond a dress of
honor, he only stipulated that an account of his own life and opinions
should be added to the book. This account, probably written by himself,
is extremely curious. It is a kind of Religio Medici of the sixth
century, and shows us a soul dissatisfied with traditions and
formularies, striving after truth, and finding rest only where many
other seekers after truth have found rest before and after him, in a
life devoted to alleviating the sufferings of mankind.
There is another account of the journey of this
153
Persian physician to India. It has the sanction of Firdúsi, in the great
Persian epic, the Shah Nâmeh, and it is considered by some16 as
more original than the one just quoted. According to it, the Persian
physician read in a book that there existed in India trees or herbs
supplying a medicine with which the dead could be restored to life. At
the command of the king he went to India in search of those trees and
herbs; but, after spending a year in vain researches, he consulted some
wise people on the subject. They told him that the medicine of which he
had read as having the power of restoring men to life had to be
understood in a higher and more spiritual sense, and that what was
really meant by it were ancient books of wisdom preserved in India,
which imparted life to those who were dead in their folly and sins.17 Thereupon the physician translated these books, and
one of them was the collection of fables, the “Kalila and Dimnah.”
It is possible that both these stories were later inventions; the
preface also by Ali, the son of Alshah Farési, in which the names of
Bidpai and King Dabshelim are mentioned for the first time, is of later
date. But the fact remains that Abdallah ibn Almokaffa, the author of
the oldest Arabic collection of our fables, translated them from
Pehlevi, the language of Persia at the time of Khosru Nushirvan, and
that the Pehlevi text which he translated was believed to be a
translation of a book brought from India in the middle of the sixth
century. That Indian book could not have been the Pañcatantra, as
we now possess it, but must have been a much larger collection of
fables,
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for the Arabic translation, the “Kalilah and Dimnah,” contains eighteen
chapters instead of the five of the Pañcatantra, and it is only in
the fifth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth chapters
that we find the same stories which form the five books of the
Pañkatantra in the textus ornatior. Even in these chapters the
Arabic translator omits stories which we find in the Sanskrit text, and
adds others which are not to be found there.
In this Arabic translation the story of the Brahman and the pot of
rice runs as follows:—
“A religious man was in the habit of receiving every day from the house
of a merchant a certain quantity of butter (oil) and honey, of which,
having eaten as much as he wanted, he put the rest into a jar, which he
hung on a nail in a corner of the room, hoping that the jar would in
time be filled. Now, as he was leaning back one day on his couch, with a
stick in his hand, and the jar suspended over his head, he thought of
the high price of butter and honey, and said to himself, ‘I will
sell what is in the jar, and buy with the money which I obtain for it
ten goats, which, producing each of them a young one every five months,
in addition to the produce of the kids as soon as they begin to bear, it
will not be long before there is a large flock.’ He continued to make
his calculations, and found that he should at this rate, in the course
of two years, have more than four hundred goats. ‘At the expiration of
this term I will buy,’ said he, ‘a hundred black cattle, in the
proportion of a bull or a cow for every four goats. I will then
purchase land, and hire workmen to plough it with the beasts, and put it
into tillage, so that before five years are over I shall, no doubt, have
realized a great fortune by the sale of the milk which the cows will
give, and of the produce of my land. My next business will be to build a
magnificent house, and engage a number of servants, both male and
female; and, when my establishment is completed, I will marry the
handsomest woman I can find, who, in due time becoming a mother, will
present me with an heir to my possessions, who, as he advances in age,
shall receive the best masters that can be procured; and, if the
progress which he makes
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in learning is equal to my reasonable expectations, I shall be
amply repaid for the pains and expense which I have bestowed upon him;
but if, on the other hand, he disappoints my hopes, the rod which I have
here shall be the instrument with which I will make him feel the
displeasure of a justly-offended parent.’ At these words he suddenly
raised the hand which held the stick towards the jar, and broke it, and
the contents ran down upon his head and face.”18
. . . .
You will have observed the coincidences between the Arabic and the
Sanskrit versions, but also a considerable divergence, particularly in
the winding up of the story. The Brahman and the holy man both build
their castles in the air; but, while the former kicks his wife, the
latter only chastises his son. How this change came to pass we cannot
tell. One might suppose that, at the time when the book was translated
from Sanskrit into Pehlevi, or from Pehlevi into Arabic, the Sanskrit
story was exactly like the Arabic story, and that it was changed
afterwards. But another explanation is equally admissible, viz., that
the Pehlevi or the Arabic translator wished to avoid the offensive
behavior of the husband kicking his wife, and therefore substituted the
son as a more deserving object of castigation.
We have thus traced our story from Sanskrit to Pehlevi, and from
Pehlevi to Arabic; we have followed it in its migrations from the
hermitages of Indian sages to the court of the kings of Persia, and from
thence to the residence of the powerful Khalifs at Bagdad. Let us
recollect that the Khalif Almansur, for whom the Arabic translation was
made, was the contemporary of Abderrhaman, who ruled in Spain, and that
both were but little anterior to Harun
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al Rashid and Charlemagne. At that time, therefore, the way was
perfectly open for these Eastern fables, after they had once reached
Bagdad, to penetrate into the seats of Western learning, and to spread
to every part of the new empire of Charlemagne. They may have done so,
for all we know; but nearly three hundred years pass before these fables
meet us again in the literature of Europe. The Carlovingian empire had
fallen to pieces, Spain had been rescued from the Mohammedans, William
the Conqueror had landed in England, and the Crusades had begun to turn
the thoughts of Europe towards the East, when, about the year 1080, we
hear of a Jew of the name of Symeon, the son of Seth, who translated
these fables from Arabic into Greek. He states in his preface that the
book came originally from India, that it was brought to the King
Chosroes of Persia, and then translated into Arabic. His own translation
into Greek must have been made from an Arabic MS. of the “Kalila and
Dimna,” in some places more perfect, in others less perfect, than the
one published by De Sacy. The Greek text has been published, though very
imperfectly, under the title of “Stephanites and Ichnelates.”19
Here our fable is told as follows (p. 337):—
“It is said that a beggar kept some honey and butter in a jar close to
where he slept. One night he thus thought within himself: ‘I shall
sell this honey and butter for however small a sum; with it I shall buy
ten goats, and these in five months will produce as many again. In five
years they will become four hundred. With them I shall buy one hundred
cows, and with them I shall cultivate some land. And what with their
calves
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and the harvests, I shall become rich in five years, and build a
house with four wings,20 ornamented with gold, and buy
all kinds of servants, and marry a wife. She will give me a child, and I
shall call him Beauty. It will be a boy, and I shall educate him
properly; and if I see him lazy, I shall give him such a flogging
with this stick. . . . .’ With these words he took a
stick that was near him, struck the jar, and broke it, so that the honey
and milk ran down on his beard.”
This Greek translation might, no doubt, have reached La Fontaine; but
as the French poet was not a great scholar, least of all a reader of
Greek MSS., and as the fables of Symeon Seth were not published till
1697, we must look for other channels through which the old fable was
carried along from East to West.
There is, first of all, an Italian translation of the “Stephanites
and Ichnelates,” which was published at Ferrara in 1583.21,B The title is, “Del Governo de’
Regni. Sotto morali essempi di animali ragionanti tra loro. Tratti prima
di lingua Indiana in Agarena da Lelo Demno Saraceno. Et poi dall’
Agarena nella Greca da Simeone Setto, philosopho Antiocheno. Et hora
tradotti di Greco in Italiano.” This translation was probably the work
of Giulio Nuti.
There is, besides, a Latin translation, or rather a free rendering of
the Greek translation by the learned Jesuit, Petrus Possinus, which was
published at Rome in 1666.22,C This may have been, and, according to some
authorities, has really been one of the sources from which La Fontaine
drew his inspirations. But though La Fontaine may have consulted this
work
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for other fables, I do not think that he took from it the fable of
Perrette and the milk-pail.
The fact is, these fables had found several other channels through
which, as early as the thirteenth century, they reached the literary
market of Europe, and became familiar as household words, at least among
the higher and educated classes. We shall follow the course of some of
these channels. First, then, a learned Jew, whose name seems to
have been Joel, translated our fables from Arabic into Hebrew (1250?).
His work has been preserved in one MS. at Paris, but has not yet been
published, except the tenth book, which was communicated by Dr. Neubauer
to Benfey’s journal, “Orient und Occident” (vol. i. p. 658).
This Hebrew translation was translated by another converted Jew,
Johannes of Capua, into Latin. His translation was finished between
1263–1278, and, under the title of “Directorium Humanæ Vitæ,” it
became very soon a popular work with the select reading public of the
thirteenth century.23,D In the “Directorium,” and in Joel’s translation,
the name of Sendebar is substituted for that of Bidpay. The
“Directorium” was translated into German at the command of Eberhard, the
great Duke of Würtemberg,24,E and both the Latin text and the German
translation occur, in repeated editions, among the rare books printed
between 1480 and the end of the fifteenth century.25
A Spanish translation, founded both on the German and the Latin
texts, appeared at Burgos in 1493;26 and from these different
sources flowed in the sixteenth century the Italian
159
renderings of Firenzuola (1548)27 and Doni (1552).28 As these
Italian translations were repeated in French29 and English,
before the end of the sixteenth century, they might no doubt have
supplied La Fontaine with subjects for his fables.
But, as far as we know, it was a third channel that really brought
the Indian fables to the immediate notice of the French poet.
A Persian poet, of the name of Nasr Allah, translated the work of
Abdallah ibn Almokaffa into Persian about 1150. This Persian translation
was enlarged in the fifteenth century by another Persian poet, Husain
ben Ali called el Vaez, under the title of “Anvári Suhaili.”30
This name will be familiar to many members of the Indian Civil Service,
as being one of the old Haileybury class-books which had to be construed
by all who wished to gain high honors in Persia. This work, or
160
at least the first books of it, were translated into French by David
Sahid of Ispahan, and published at Paris in 1644, under the title of
“Livre des Lumières, ou, la Conduite des Rois, composé par le Sage
Pilpay, Indien.” This translation, we know, fell into the hands of La
Fontaine, and a number of his most charming fables were certainly
borrowed from it.
But Perrette with the milk-pail has not yet arrived at the end of her
journey, for if we look at the “Livre des Lumières,” as published at
Paris, we find neither the milkmaid nor her prototype, the Brahman who
kicks his wife, or the religious man who flogs his boy. That story
occurs in the later chapters, which were left out in the French
translation; and La Fontaine, therefore, must have met with his model
elsewhere.
Remember that in all our wanderings we have not yet found the
milkmaid, but only the Brahman or the religious man. What we want to
know is who first brought about this metamorphosis.
No doubt La Fontaine was quite the man to seize on any jewel which
was contained in the Oriental fables, to remove the cumbersome and
foreign-looking setting, and then to place the principal figure in that
pretty frame in which most of us have first become acquainted with it.
But in this case the charmer’s wand did not belong to La Fontaine, but
to some forgotten worthy, whose very name it will be difficult to fix
upon with certainty.
We have, as yet, traced three streams only, all starting from the
Arabic translation of Abdallah ibn Almokaffa, one in the eleventh,
another in the twelfth, a third in the thirteenth century, all
reaching Europe,
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some touching the very steps of the throne of Louis XIV., yet none of
them carrying the leaf which contained the story of “Perrette,” or of
the “Brahman,” to the threshold of La Fontaine’s home. We must,
therefore, try again.
After the conquest of Spain by the Mohammedans, Arabic literature had
found a new home in Western Europe, and among the numerous works
translated from Arabic into Latin or Spanish, we find towards the end of
the thirteenth century (1289) a Spanish translation of our fables,
called “Calila é Dymna.”31,F In this the name of the philosopher is changed
from Bidpai to Bundobel. This, or another translation from Arabic, was
turned into Latin verse by Raimond de Béziers in 1313 (not
published).
Lastly, we find in the same century another translation from Arabic
straight into Latin verse, by Baldo, which became known under the name
of “Æsopus alter.”32,G
From these frequent translations, and translations of translations,
in the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, we see quite clearly
that these Indian fables were extremely popular, and were, in fact, more
widely read in Europe than the Bible, or any other book. They were not
only read in translations, but having been introduced into sermons,33,H
homilies, and works on morality, they were improved upon, acclimatized,
localized, moralized, till at last it is almost impossible to recognize
their Oriental features under their homely disguises.
I shall give you one instance only.
Rabelais, in his “Gargantua,” gives a long description how a man
might conquer the whole world. At
162
the end of this dialogue, which was meant as a satire on Charles V., we
read:—
“There was there present at that time an old gentleman well experienced
in the wars, a stern soldier, and who had been in many great
hazards, named Echephron, who, hearing this discourse, said: ‘J’ay grand
peur que toute ceste entreprise sera semblable à la farce du pot au
laict duquel un cordavanier se faisoit riche par resverie, puis le
pot cassé, n’eut de quoy disner.’”
This is clearly our story, only the Brahman has, as yet, been changed
into a shoemaker only, and the pot of rice or the jar of butter and
honey into a pitcher of milk. Now it is perfectly true that if a writer
of the fifteenth century changed the Brahman into a shoemaker, La
Fontaine might, with the same right, have replaced the Brahman by his
milkmaid. Knowing that the story was current, was, in fact, common
property in the fifteenth century, nay, even at a much earlier date, we
might really be satisfied after having brought the germs of “Perrette”
within easy reach of La Fontaine. But, fortunately, we can make at least
one step further, a step of about two centuries. This step
backwards brings us to the thirteenth century, and there we find our old
Indian friend again, and this time really changed into a milkmaid. The
book I refer to is written in Latin, and is called, “Dialogus
Creaturarum optime moralizatus;” in English, the “Dialogue of Creatures
moralized.” It was a book intended to teach the principles of Christian
morality by examples taken from ancient fables. It was evidently a most
successful book, and was translated into several modern languages. There
is an old translation of it in English, first printed by Rastell,34 and
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afterwards repeated in 1816. I shall read you from it the fable in
which, as far as I can find, the milkmaid appears for the first time on
the stage, surrounded already by much of that scenery which, four
hundred years later, received its last touches at the hand of La
Fontaine.
“Dialogo C. (p. ccxxiii.) For as it is
but madnesse to trust to moche in surete, so it is but foly to hope to
moche of vanyteys, for vayne be all erthly thinges longynge to men, as
sayth Davyd, Psal. xciiii: Wher of it is tolde in fablys that a lady
uppon a tyme delyvered to her mayden a galon of mylke to sell at
a cite, and by the way, as she sate and restid her by a dyche side, she
began to thinke that with the money of the mylke she wold bye an henne,
the which shulde bringe forth chekyns, and when they were growyn to
hennys she wolde sell them and by piggis, and eschaunge them in to
shepe, and the shepe in to oxen, and so whan she was come to richesse
she sholde be maried right worshipfully unto some worthy man, and thus
she reioycid. And whan she was thus mervelously comfortid and ravisshed
inwardly in her secrete solace, thinkynge with howe greate ioye she
shuld be ledde towarde the chirche with her husbond on horsebacke, she
sayde to her self: ‘Goo we, goo we.’ Sodaynlye she smote the ground with
her fote, myndynge to spurre the horse, but her fote slypped, and she
fell in the dyche, and there lay all her mylke, and so she was farre
from her purpose, and never had that she hopid to have.”35
164
Here we have arrived at the end of our journey. It has been a long
journey across fifteen or twenty centuries, and I am afraid our
following Perrette from country to country, and from language to
language, may have tired some of my hearers. I shall, therefore,
not attempt to fill the gap that divides the fable of the thirteenth
century from La Fontaine. Suffice it to say, that the milkmaid, having
once taken the place of the Brahman, maintained it against all comers.
We find her as Dona Truhana, in the famous “Conde Lucanor,” the work of
the Infante Don Juan Manuel,36,I who died in 1347, the grandson of St. Ferdinand,
the nephew of Alfonso the Wise, though himself not a king, yet more
powerful than a king; renowned both by his sword and by his pen, and
possibly not ignorant of Arabic, the language of his enemies. We find
her again in the “Contes et Nouvelles” of Bonaventure des Periers,K published in the sixteenth century, a book
which we know that La Fontaine was well acquainted with. We find her
after La Fontaine in all the languages of Europe.37
[165]
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OLD COLLECTION OF INDIAN
FABLES. |
A.D. |
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500–600 |
531–579. Khosru Nushirvan, King of Persia; his physician,
Barzûyeh, translates the Indian fables into Pehlevi,
s. t. “Qalilag and Damnag” (lost).
570. Translation of the “Qualilag and Damnag,” from Indian into
Syriac, by Bud Periodeutes (Benfey and Socin).
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700–800 |
754–775. Khalif Almansur. Abdallah ibn Almokaffa (d. 760)
translates the Pehlevi into Arabic (ed. de Sacy, 1816). |
900–1000 |
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1000–1100 |
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1080. Into Greek, by Simeon
Seth, s. t. “Ichnelates et Stephanites,” ed. Starkius,
1697. |
1100–1200 |
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1118–53. Into
Persian, by Abul Maali Nasr Allah (prose). |
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1200–1300 |
Into Latin by Baldo, s. t.
Alter Æsopus (ed. du Méril). |
1289. Into Spanish, by order of
the Infante Don Alfonso, s. t. “Calila é Dymna” (ed. de
Gayangos) |
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1250. Into Hebrew, by Rabbi Joel. |
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1263–78. Into Latin,
by Johannes of Capua, s. t. “Directorium humanæ vitæ” (print.
1480). |
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1300–1400 |
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1313. Into Latin, by Raimond de
Beziers, s. t. “Calila et Dimna.” |
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Into German under Eberhard,
Duke of Würtemberg (d. 1325), printed before 1483. |
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1400–1500 |
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1494. Modernized in Persian, by Husain ben
Ali, el Vaez, s. t. “Anvari Suhaili.” |
1493. Into Spanish, s. t. “Exemplario
contra los Engaños.” |
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1500–1600 |
1590. New, by Abulfazl, for Akbar,
“Ayari Danish.” |
1540. Into Turkish, by Ali
Tchelebi, s. t. “Homayun Nameh.” |
1548. Into Italian, by Ange Firenzuola,
s. t. “Discorsi degli Animali.” |
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Translated into
Hindustani, s. t.“Khirud Ufroz,” the Illuminator
of the Understanding. |
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1552. Into Italian, by Doni,
s. t. “La Filosofia Morale.” |
1556. Into French, by Gabr.
Cottier, s. t. “Le Plaisant Discours des Animaux.” |
1583. Into
Italian, by G. Nuti, s. t. “Del Governo de’ Regni.” |
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1570. Into
English, by North. |
1579. Into French, by Pierre de
La Rivey, s. t. “Deux Livres de Filosofie Fabuleuse.” |
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1600–1700 |
1644. Into French, by David Sahid d’Ispahan
(Gaulmin), s. t. “Livre des Lumières, ou la Conduite des Rois,
composé par le sage Pilpay, Indien” (4 cap. only). |
—Into
Spanish, by Brattuti, “Espejo politico,” 1654. |
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1666. Into Latin, by Petrus Possinus. |
1700–1800 |
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1724. Into French, by Galland, s. t. “Les
Contes et Fables Indiennes de Bibpaï et de Lokman” (4 cap. only); finished in
1778 by Cardonne. |
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You see now before your eyes the bridge on which our fables came to
us from East to West. The same bridge which brought us Perrette brought
us hundreds of fables, all originally sprung up in India, many of them
carefully collected by Buddhist priests, and preserved in their sacred
canon, afterwards handed on to the Brahminic writers of a later age,
carried by Barzûyeh from India to the court of
166
Persia, then to the courts of the Khalifs at Bagdad and Cordova, and of
the emperors at Constantinople. Some of them, no doubt, perished on
their journey, others were mixed up together, others were changed till
we should hardly know them again. Still, if you once know the eventful
journey of Perrette, you know the journey of all the other fables that
belong to this Indian cycle. Few of them have gone through so many
changes, few of them have found so many friends, whether in the courts
of kings or in the huts of beggars. Few of them have been to places
where Perrette has not also been. This is why I selected her and her
passage through the world as the best illustration of a subject which
otherwise would require a whole course of lectures to do it justice.
But though our fable represents one large class or cluster of fables,
it does not represent all. There were several collections, besides the
Pancatantra, which found their way from India to Europe. The most
important among them is the “Book of the Seven Wise Masters, or the Book
of Sindbad,” the history of which has lately been written, with great
learning and ingenuity, by Signor Comparetti.38
These large collections of fables and stories mark what may be called
the high roads on which the literary products of the East were carried
to the West. But there are, beside these high roads, some smaller, less
trodden paths on which single fables, sometimes mere proverbs, similes,
or metaphors, have come to us from India, from Persepolis, from Damascus
and Bagdad. I have already alluded to the powerful influence which
Arabic literature exercised on Western Europe through Spain. Again,
a most
167
active interchange of Eastern and Western ideas took place at a later
time during the progress of the Crusades. Even the inroads of Mongolian
tribes into Russia and the East of Europe kept up a literary bartering
between Oriental and Occidental nations.
But few would have suspected a Father of the Church as an importer of
Eastern fables. Yet so it is.
At the court of the same Khalif Almansur, where Abdallah ibn
Almokaffa translated the fables of Calila and Dimna from Persian into
Arabic, there lived a Christian of the name of Sergius, who for many
years held the high office of treasurer to the Khalif. He had a son to
whom he gave the best education that could then be given, his chief
tutor being one Cosmas, an Italian monk, who had been taken prisoner by
the Saracens, and sold as a slave at Bagdad. After the death of Sergius,
his son succeeded him for some time as chief councillor (πρωτοσύμβουλος) to the Khalif
Almansur. Such, however, had been the influence of the Italian monk on
his pupil’s mind, that he suddenly resolved to retire from the world,
and to devote himself to study, meditation, and pious works. From the
monastery of St. Saba, near Jerusalem, this former minister of the
Khalif issued the most learned works on theology, particularly his
“Exposition of the Orthodox Faith.” He soon became the highest authority
on matters of dogma in the Eastern Church, and he still holds his place
among the saints both of the Eastern and Western Churches. His name was
Joannes, and from being born at Damascus, the former capital of the
Khalifs, he is best known in history as Joannes Damascenus, or St. John
of Damascus. He must
168
have known Arabic, and probably Persian; but his mastery of Greek earned
him, later in life, the name of Chrysorrhoas, or Gold-flowing. He became
famous as the defender of the sacred images, and as the determined
opponent of the Emperor Leo the Isaurian, about 726. It is difficult in
his life to distinguish between legend and history, but that he had held
high office at the court of the Khalif Almansur, that he boldly opposed
the iconoclastic policy of the Emperor Leo, and that he wrote the most
learned theological works of his time, cannot be easily questioned.
Among the works ascribed to him is a story called “Barlaam and
Joasaph.”39 There has been a fierce controversy as to whether
he was the author of it or not. Though for our own immediate purposes it
would be of little consequence whether the book was written by Joannes
Damascenus or by some less distinguished ecclesiastic, I must
confess that the arguments hitherto adduced against his authorship seem
to me very weak.
The Jesuits did not like the book, because it was
169
a religious novel. They pointed to a passage in which the Holy Ghost is
represented as proceeding from the Father “and the Son,” as incompatible
with the creed of an Eastern ecclesiastic. That very passage, however,
has now been proved to be spurious; and it should be borne in mind,
besides, that the controversy on the procession of the Holy Ghost from
the Father and the Son, or from the Father through the Son, dates a
century later than Joannes. The fact, again, that the author does not
mention Mohammedanism,40 proves nothing against the
authorship of Joannes, because, as he places Barlaam and Joasaph in the
early centuries of Christianity, he would have ruined his story by any
allusion to Mohammed’s religion, then only a hundred years old. Besides,
he had written a separate work, in which the relative merits of
Christianity and Mohammedanism are discussed. The prominence given to
the question of the worship of images shows that the story could not
have been written much before the time of Joannes Damascenus, and there
is nothing in the style of our author that could be pointed out as
incompatible with the style of the great theologian. On the contrary,
the author of “Barlaam and Joasaph” quotes the same authors whom Joannes
Damascenus quotes most frequently—e.g., Basilius and
Gregorius Nazianzenus. And no one but Joannes could have taken long
passages from his own works without saying where he borrowed them.41
170
The story of “Barlaam and Joasaph”—or, as he is more commonly
called, Josaphat—may be told in a few words: “A king in
India, an enemy and persecutor of the Christians, has an only son. The
astrologers have predicted that he would embrace the new doctrine. His
father, therefore, tries by all means in his power to keep him ignorant
of the miseries of the world, and to create in him a taste for pleasure
and enjoyment. A Christian hermit, however, gains access to the
prince, and instructs him in the doctrines of the Christian religion.
The young prince is not only baptized, but resolves to give up all
his earthly riches; and after having converted his own father and many
of his subjects, he follows his teacher into the desert.”
The real object of the book is to give a simple exposition of the
principal doctrines of the Christian religion. It also contains a first
attempt at comparative theology, for in the course of the story there is
a disputation on the merits of the principal religions of the
world—the Chaldæan, the Egyptian, the Greek, the Jewish, and the
Christian. But one of the chief attractions of this manual of Christian
theology consisted in a number of fables and parables with which it is
enlivened. Most of them have been traced to an Indian source.
I shall mention one only which has found its way into almost every
literature of the world:42—
“A man was pursued by a unicorn, and while he tried to flee from it, he
fell into a pit. In falling he stretched out both his
171
arms, and laid hold of a small tree that was growing on one side of the
pit. Having gained a firm footing, and holding to the tree, he fancied
he was safe, when he saw two mice, a black and a white one, busy
gnawing the root of the tree to which he was clinging. Looking down into
the pit, he perceived a horrid dragon with his mouth wide open, ready to
devour him, and when examining the place on which his feet rested, the
heads of four serpents glared at him. Then he looked up, and observed
drops of honey falling down from the tree to which he clung. Suddenly
the unicorn, the dragon, the mice, and the serpents were all forgotten,
and his mind was intent only on catching the drops of sweet honey
trickling down from the tree.”
An explanation is hardly required. The unicorn is Death, always
chasing man; the pit is the world; the small tree is man’s life,
constantly gnawed by the black and the white mouse—i.e., by
night and day; the four serpents are the four elements which compose the
human body; the dragon below is meant for the jaws of hell. Surrounded
by all those horrors, man is yet able to forget them all, and to think
only of the pleasures of life, which, like a few drops of honey, fall
into his mouth from the tree of life.43
But what is still more curious is, that the author of “Barlaam and
Josaphat” has evidently taken his very hero, the Indian Prince Josaphat,
from an Indian source. In the “Lalita Vistara”—the life, though no
doubt the legendary life, of Buddha—the father of Buddha is a
king. When his son is born, the Brahman Asita predicts that he will rise
to great glory, and become either a powerful king, or, renouncing the
throne and embracing the life of a hermit
172
become a Buddha.44 The great object of his father is to prevent
this. He therefore keeps the young prince, when he grows up, in his
garden and palaces, surrounded by all pleasures which might turn his
mind from contemplation to enjoyment. More especially he is to know
nothing of illness, old age, and death, which might open his eyes to the
misery and unreality of life. After a time, however, the prince receives
permission to drive out; and then follow the four drives,45 so
famous in Buddhist history. The places where these drives took place
were commemorated by towers still standing in the time of Fa Hian’s
visit to India, early in the fifth century after Christ, and even in the
time of Hiouen Thsang, in the seventh century. I shall read you a
short account of the three drives:46—
“One day when the prince with a large retinue was driving through the
eastern gate of the city, on the way to one of his parks, he met on the
road an old man, broken and decrepit. One could see the veins and
muscles over the whole of his body, his teeth chattered, he was covered
with wrinkles, bald, and hardly able to utter hollow and unmelodious
sounds. He was bent on his stick, and all his limbs and joints trembled.
‘Who is that man?’ said the prince to his coachman. ‘He is small and
weak, his flesh and his blood are dried up, his muscles stick to his
skin, his head is white, his teeth chatter, his body is wasted away;
leaning on his stick, he is hardly able to walk, stumbling at every
step. Is there something peculiar in his family, or is this the common
lot of all created beings?’
“‘Sir,’ replied the coachman, ‘that man is sinking under old age, his
senses have become obtuse, suffering has destroyed his strength, and he
is despised by his relations. He is without support and useless, and
people have abandoned him, like a dead tree in a forest. But this is not
peculiar to his family.
173
In every creature youth is defeated by old age. Your father, your
mother, all your relations, all your friends, will come to the same
state; this is the appointed end of all creatures.’
“‘Alas!’ replied the prince, ‘are creatures so ignorant, so weak and foolish as to be
proud of the youth by which they are intoxicated, not seeing the old age
which awaits them? As for me, I go away. Coachman, turn my chariot
quickly. What have I, the future prey of old age—what have I to do
with pleasure?’ And the young prince returned to the city without going to
the park.
“Another time the prince was driving through the southern gate to his
pleasure-garden, when he perceived on the road a man suffering from
illness, parched with fever, his body wasted, covered with mud, without
a friend, without a home, hardly able to breathe, and frightened at the
sight of himself, and the approach of death. Having questioned his
coachman, and received from him the answer which he expected, the young
prince said, ‘Alas! health is but the sport of a dream, and the fear of
suffering must take this frightful form. Where is the wise man who,
after having seen what he is, could any longer think of joy and
pleasure?’ The prince turned his chariot, and returned to the city.
“A third time he was driving to his pleasure-garden through the western
gate, when he saw a dead body on the road, lying on a bier and covered
with a cloth. The friends stood about crying, sobbing, tearing their
hair, covering their heads with dust, striking their breasts, and
uttering wild cries. The prince, again, calling his coachman to witness
this painful scene, exclaimed, ‘Oh, woe to youth, which must be
destroyed by old age! Woe to health, which must be destroyed by so many
diseases! Woe to this life, where a man remains so short a time! If
there were no old age, no disease, no death; if these could be made
captive forever!’ Then, betraying for the first time his intentions, the
young prince said, ‘Let us turn back, I must think how to
accomplish deliverance.’
“A last meeting put an end to hesitation. He was driving through the
northern gate on the way to his pleasure-gardens, when he saw a
mendicant, who appeared outwardly calm, subdued, looking downwards,
wearing with an air of dignity his religious vestment, and carrying an
alms-bowl.
“‘Who is that man?’ asked the prince.
174
“‘Sir,’ replied the coachman, ‘this man is one of those who are called
Bhikshus, or mendicants. He has renounced all pleasures, all desires,
and leads a life of austerity. He tries to conquer himself. He has
become a devotee. Without passion, without envy, he walks about asking
for alms.’
“‘This is good and well said,’ replied the prince. ‘The life of a
devotee has always been praised by the wise. It will be my refuge, and
the refuge of other creatures; it will lead us to a real life, to
happiness and immortality.’
“With these words the young prince turned his chariot, and returned to
the city.”
If we now compare the story of Joannes of Damascus, we find that the
early life of Josaphat is exactly the same as that of Buddha. His father
is a king, and after the birth of his son, an astrologer predicts that
he will rise to glory; not, however, in his own kingdom, but in a higher
and better one; in fact, that he will embrace the new and persecuted
religion of the Christians. Everything is done to prevent this. He is
kept in a beautiful palace, surrounded by all that is enjoyable; and
great care is taken to keep him in ignorance of sickness, old age, and
death. After a time, however, his father gives him leave to drive out.
On one of his drives he sees two men, one maimed, the other blind. He
asks what they are, and is told that they are suffering from disease. He
then inquires whether all men are liable to disease, and whether it is
known beforehand who will suffer from disease and who will be free; and
when he hears the truth, he becomes sad, and returns home. Another time,
when he drives out, he meets an old man with wrinkled face and shaking
legs, bent down, with white hair, his teeth gone, and his voice
faltering. He asks again what all this means, and is told that this is
what happens
175
to all men; and that no one can escape old age, and that in the end all
men must die. Thereupon he returns home to meditate on death, till at
last a hermit appears,47 and opens before his eyes a
higher view of life, as contained in the Gospel of Christ.
No one, I believe, can read these two stories without feeling
convinced that one was borrowed from the other; and as Fa Hian, three
hundred years before John of Damascus, saw the towers which commemorated
the three drives of Buddha still standing among the ruins of the royal
city of Kapilavastu, it follows that the Greek father borrowed his
subject from the Buddhist scriptures. Were it necessary, it would be
easy to point out still more minute coincidences between the life of
Josaphat and of Buddha, the founder of the Buddhist religion. Both in
the end convert their royal fathers, both fight manfully against the
assaults of the flesh and the devil, both are regarded as saints before
they die. Possibly even a proper name may have been transferred from the
sacred canon of the Buddhists to the pages of the Greek writer. The
driver who conducts Buddha when he flees by night from his palace where
he leaves his wife, his only son, and all his treasures, in order to
devote himself to a contemplative life, is called Chandaka, in Burmese,
Sanna.48 The friend and companion of Barlaam is called
Zardan.49 Reinaud
176
in his “Mémoire sur l’Inde,” p. 91 (1849), was the first, it seems,
to point out that Youdasf, mentioned by Massoudi as the founder of the
Sabæan religion, and Youasaf, mentioned as the founder of Buddhism by
the author of the “Kitáb-al-Fihrist,” are both meant for Bodhisattva,
a corruption quite intelligible with the system of transcribing
that name with Persian letters. Professor Benfey has identified Theudas,
the sorcerer in “Barlaam and Joasaph,” with the Devadatta of the
Buddhist scriptures.50
How palpable these coincidences are between the two stories is best
shown by the fact that they were pointed out, independently of each
other, by scholars in France, Germany, and England. I place France
first, because in point of time M. Laboulaye was the first who called
attention to it in one of his charming articles in the “Debats.”51
A more detailed comparison
177
was given by Dr. Liebrecht.52 And, lastly, Mr. Beal, in his
translation of the “Travels of Fa Hian,”53 called
attention to the same fact—viz., that the story of Josaphat was
borrowed from the “Life of Buddha.” I could mention the names of
two or three scholars besides who happened to read the two books, and
who could not help seeing, what was as clear as daylight, that Joannes
Damascenus took the principal character of his religious novel from the
“Lalita Vistara,” one of the sacred books of the Buddhists; but the
merit of having been the first belongs to M. Laboulaye.
This fact is, no doubt, extremely curious in the history of
literature; but there is another fact connected with it which is more
than curious, and I wonder that it has never been pointed out before. It
is well known that the story of “Barlaam and Josaphat” became a most
popular book during the Middle Ages. In the East it was translated into
Syriac(?), Arabic, Ethiopic, Armenian, and Hebrew; in the West it exists
in Latin, French, Italian, German, English, Spanish, Bohemian, and
Polish. As early as 1204, a King of Norway translated it into
Icelandic, and at a later time it was translated by a Jesuit missionary
into Tagala, the classical language of the Philippine Islands. But this
is not all, Barlaam and Josaphat have actually risen to the rank of
saints, both in the Eastern and in the Western churches. In the Eastern church the
26th of August is the saints’ day of Barlaam and Josaphat; in the
178
Roman Martyrologium, the 27th of November is assigned to them.
There have been from time to time misgivings about the historical
character of these two saints. Leo Allatius, in his “Prolegomena,”
ventured to ask the question, whether the story of “Barlaam and
Josaphat” was more real than the “Cyropædia” of Xenophon, or the
“Utopia” of Thomas More; but, en bon Catholique, he replied, that
as Barlaam and Josaphat were mentioned, not only in the Menæa of the
Greek, but also in the Martyrologium of the Roman Church, he could not
bring himself to believe that their history was imaginary. Billius
thought that to doubt the concluding words of the author, who says that
he received the story of “Barlaam and Josaphat” from men incapable of
falsehood, would be to trust more in one’s own suspicions than in
Christian charity, which believeth all things. Bellarminus thought he
could prove the truth of the story by the fact that, at the end of it,
the author himself invokes the two saints Barlaam and Josaphat! Leo
Allatius admitted, indeed, that some of the speeches and conversations
occurring in the story might be the work of Joannes Damascenus, because
Josaphat, having but recently been converted, could not have quoted so
many passages from the Bible. But he implies that even this could be
explained, because the Holy Ghost might have taught St. Josaphat what to
say. At all events, Leo has no mercy for those “quibus omnia sub
sanctorum nomine prodita male olent, quemadmodum de sanctis Georgio,
Christophoro, Hippolyto, Catarina, aliisque nusquam eos in rerum natura
extitisse impudentissime nugantur.” The Bishop of Avranches had likewise
his doubts;
179
but he calmed them by saying: “Non pas que je veuille soustenir que tout
en soit supposé: il y auroit de la témerité à desavouer qu’il y ait
jamais eû de Barlaam ni de Josaphat. Le témoignage du Martyrologe, qui
les met au nombre des Saints, et leur intercession que Saint Jean
Damascene reclame à la fin de cette histoire ne permettent pas d’en
douter.”54
With us the question as to the historical or purely imaginary
character of Josaphat has assumed a new and totally different aspect. We
willingly accept the statement of Joannes Damascenus that the story of
“Barlaam and Josaphat” was told him by men who came from India. We know
that in India a story was current of a prince who lived in the sixth
century B.C., a prince of whom it was
predicted that he would resign the throne, and devote his life to
meditation, in order to rise to the rank of a Buddha. The story tells us
that his father did everything to prevent this; that he kept him in a
palace secluded from the world, surrounded by all that makes life
enjoyable; and that he tried to keep him in ignorance of sickness, old
age, and death. We know from the same story that at last the young
prince obtained permission to drive into the country, and that, by
meeting an old man, a sick man, and a corpse, his eyes were opened
to the unreality of life, and the vanity of this life’s pleasures; that
he escaped from his palace, and, after defeating the assaults of all
adversaries, became the founder of a new religion. This is the story, it
may be the legendary story, but at all events the recognized story of
Gautama Śâkyamuni, best known to us under the name of
Buddha.
If, then, Joannes Damascenus tells the same story,
180
only putting the name of Joasaph or Josaphat, i.e., Bodhisattva,
in the place of Buddha; if all that is human and personal in the life of
St. Josaphat is taken from the “Lalita Vistara”—what follows? It
follows that, in the same sense in which La Fontaine’s Perrette is the
Brahman of the Pañcatantra, St. Josaphat is the Buddha of the
Buddhist canon. It follows that Buddha has become a saint in the Roman
Church; it follows that, though under a different name, the sage of
Kapilavastu, the founder of a religion which, whatever we may think of
its dogma, is, in the purity of its morals, nearer to Christianity than
any other religion, and which counts even now, after an existence of
2,400 years, 455,000,000 of believers, has received the highest honors
that the Christian Church can bestow. And whatever we may think of the
sanctity of saints, let those who doubt the right of Buddha to a place
among them read the story of his life as it is told in the Buddhist
canon. If he lived the life which is there described, few saints have a
better claim to the title than Buddha; and no one either in the Greek or
in the Roman Church need be ashamed of having paid to Buddha’s memory
the honor that was intended for St. Josaphat, the prince, the hermit,
and the saint.
History, here as elsewhere, is stranger than fiction; and a kind
fairy, whom men call Chance, has here, as elsewhere, remedied the
ingratitude and injustice of the world.
181
I am enabled to add here a short
account of an important discovery made by Professor Benfey with regard
to the Syriac translation of our Collection of Fables. Doubts had been
expressed by Sylvestre de Sacy and others, as to the existence of this
translation, which was mentioned for the first time in Ebedjesu’s
catalogue of Syriac writers published by Abraham Ecchellensis, and again
later by Assemani (“Biblioth. Orient.,” tom. iii. part 1, p. 219).
M. Renan, on the contrary, had shown that the title of this
translation, as transmitted to us, “Kalilag and Damnag,” was a guarantee
of its historical authenticity. As a final k in Pehlevi becomes h in
modern Persian, a title such as “Kalilag and Damnag,” answering to
“Kalilak and Damnak” in Pehlevi, in Sanskrit “Karaṭaka and Damanaka,” could only have been borrowed
from the Persian before the Mohammedan era. Now that the interesting
researches of Professor Benfey on this subject have been rewarded by the
happy discovery of a Syriac translation, there remains but one point to
be cleared up, viz., whether this is really the translation made by Bud
Periodeutes, and whether this same translation was made, as Ebedjesu
affirms, from the Indian text, or, as M. Renan supposes, from a
Pehlevi version. I insert the account which Professor Benfey
himself gave of his discovery in the Supplement to the “Allgemeine
Zeitung” of July 12, 1871, and I may add that both text and translation
are nearly ready for publication (1875).
The oldest MS. of the Pantschatantra.
Göttingen, July
6, 1871.
The account I am about to give will recall the novel of our
celebrated compatriot Freytag (“Die verlorene Handschrift,”
182
or “The Lost MS.”), but with this essential difference, that we are
not here treating of a creation of the imagination, but of a real fact;
not of the MS. of a work of which many other copies exist, but of an
unique specimen; in short, of the MS. of a work which, on the faith of
one single mention, was believed to have been composed thirteen
centuries ago. This mention, however, appeared to many critical scholars
so untrustworthy, that they looked upon it as the mere result of
confusion. Another most important difference is, that this search, which
has lasted three years, has been followed by the happiest results: it
has brought to light a MS. which, even in this century, rich in
important discoveries, deserves to be ranked as of the highest value. We
have acquired in this MS. the oldest specimen preserved to our days of a
work, which, as translated into various languages, has been more widely
disseminated and has had a greater influence on the development of
civilization than any other work, excepting the Bible.
But to the point.
Through the researches, which I have published in my edition of the
Pantschatantra,55 it is known that about the sixth century of our
era, a work existed in India, which treated of deep political
questions under the form of fables, in which the actors were animals. It
contained various chapters, but these subdivisions were not, as had been
hitherto believed, eleven to thirteen in number, but, as the MS. just
found shows most clearly, there were at least twelve, perhaps thirteen
or fourteen. This work was afterwards so entirely altered in India, that
five of these divisions were separated from the other six or nine, and
much enlarged, whilst the remaining ones were entirely set aside. This
apparently curtailed, but really enlarged edition
183
of the old work, is the Sanskrit book so well known as the
Pantschatantra, “The Five Books.” It soon took the place, on its native
soil, of the old work, causing the irreparable loss of the latter in
India.
But before this change of the old work had been effected in its own
land, it had, in the first half of the sixth century, been carried to
Persia, and translated into Pehlevi under King Chosru Nuschirvan
(531–579). According to the researches which I have described in
my book already quoted, the results of which are fully confirmed by the
newly discovered MS., it cannot be doubted that, if this translation had
been preserved, we should have in it a faithful reproduction of the
original Indian work, from which, by various modifications, the
Pantschatantra is derived. But unfortunately this Pehlevi translation,
like its Indian original, is irretrievably lost.
But it is known to have been translated into Arabic in the eighth
century by a native of Persia, by name Abdallah ibn Almokaffa
(d. 760), who had embraced Islamism, and it acquired, partly in
this language, partly in translations and retranslations from it (apart
from the recensions in India, which penetrated to East, North, and South
Asia,) that extensive circulation which has caused it to exercise the
greatest influence on civilization in Western Asia, and throughout
Europe.
Besides this translation into Pehlevi, there was, according to one
account, another, also of the sixth century, in Syriac. This account we
owe to a Nestorian writer, who lived in the thirteenth century. He
mentions in his catalogue of authors56 a certain Bud
Periodeutes, who probably about 570 had to inspect the Nestorian
communities in Persia and India, and who says that, in addition to other
books which he names, “he translated the book ‘Qalîlag and Damnag’ from
the Indian.”
Until three years ago, not the faintest trace of this old
184
Syrian translation was to be found, and the celebrated Orientalist,
Silvestre de Sacy, in the historical memoir which he prefixed to his
edition of the Arabic translation, “Calila and Dimna” (Paris, 1816),
thought himself justified in seeing in this mention a mere confusion
between Barzûyeh, the Pehlevi translator, and a Nestorian Monk.
The first trace of this Syriac version was found in May, 1868. On the
sixth of that month, Professor Bickell of Münster, the diligent promoter
of Syrian philology, wrote to tell me that he had heard from a Syrian
Archdeacon from Urumia, Jochannân bar Bâbisch, who had visited Münster
in the spring to collect alms, and had returned there again in May,
that, some time previously, several Chaldæan priests who had been
visiting the Christians of St. Thomas in India, had brought back with
them some copies of this Syriac translation, and had given them to the
Catholic Patriarch in Elkosh (near Mossul). He had received one of
these.
Though the news appeared so unbelievable and the character of the
Syrian priest little calculated to inspire confidence in his statements,
it still seemed to me of sufficient importance for me to ask my friends
to make further inquiries in India, where other copies ought still to be
in existence. Even were the result but a decided negative, it would be a
gain to science. These inquiries had no effect in proving the truth of
the archdeacon’s assertions; but, at the same time, they did not
disprove them. It would of course have been more natural to make
inquiries among the Syrians. But from want of friends and from other
causes, which I shall mention further on, I could hardly hope for
any certain results, and least of all, that if the MS. really existed,
I could obtain it, or a copy of it.
The track thus appeared to be lost, and not possible to be followed
up, when, after the lapse of nearly two years, Professor Bickell, in a
letter of February 22, 1870, drew my attention to the fact that the
Chaldæan Patriarch, Jussuf Audo, who, according to Jochannân bar
Bâbisch, was in
185
possession of that translation, was now in Rome, as member of the
Council summoned by the Pope.
Through Dr. Schöll of Weimar, then in Rome, and one Italian savant,
Signor Ignazio Guidi, I was put into communication with the
Patriarch, and with another Chaldæan priest, Bishop Qajjât, and received
communications, the latest of June 11, 1870, which indeed proved the
information of Jochannân bar Bâbisch to be entirely untrustworthy; but
at the same time pointed to the probable existence of a MS. of the
Syriac translation at Mardîn.
I did not wait for the last letters, which might have saved the
discoverer much trouble, but might also have frustrated the whole
inquiry; but, as soon as I had learnt the place where the MS. might be,
I wrote; May 6, 1870, exactly two years after the first trace of
the MS. had been brought to light, to my former pupil and friend, Dr.
Albert Socin of Basle, who was then in Asia on a scientific expedition,
begging him to make the most careful inquiries in Mardîn about this MS.,
and especially to satisfy himself whether it had been derived from the
Arabian translation, or was independent of and older than the latter. We
will let Dr. Socin, the discoverer of the MS., tell us himself of his
efforts and their results.
“I received your letter of May 6, 1870, a few days ago, by Bagdad and
Mossul, at Yacho on the Chabôras. You say that you had heard that the
book was in the library at Mardîn. I must own that I doubted
seriously the truth of the information, for Oriental Christians always
say that they possess every possible book, whilst in reality they have
but few. I found this on my journey through the ‘Christian
Mountain,’ the Tûr el’ ’Abedîn, where I visited many places and
monasteries but little known. I only saw Bibles in Estrangelo
character, which were of value, nowhere profane books; but the people
are so fanatical, and watch their books so closely, that it is very
difficult to get sight of anything; and one has to keep them in good
humor. Unless after a long sojourn, and with the aid of bribery, there
can
186
never be any thought of buying anything from a monastic library. Arrived
in Mardîn, I set myself to discover the book. I naturally
passed by all Moslem libraries, as Syriac books only exist among the
Christians. I settled at first that the library in question could
only be the Jacobite Cloister, ‘Der ez Zàferân,’ the most important
centre of the Christians of Mardîn. I therefore sent to the
Patriarch of Diarbekir for most particular introductions, and started
for ‘Der ez Zàferân,’ which lies in the mountains, 5½ hours from Mardîn.
The recommendations opened the library to me. I looked through four
hundred volumes, without finding anything; there was not much of any
value. On my return to Mardîn, I questioned people right and left;
no one knew anything about it. At length I summoned up courage one day,
and went to the Chaldæan monastery. The different sects in Mardîn are
most bitter against each other, and as I unfortunately lodged in the
house of an American missionary, it was very difficult for me to gain
access to these Catholics, who were unknown to me. Luckily my servant
was a Catholic, and could state that I had no proselytizing schemes.
After a time I asked about their books; Missals and Gospels were placed
before me; I asked if they had any books of Fables. ‘Yes, there was
one there.’ After a long search in the dust, it was found and brought to
me. I opened it, and saw at the first glance, in red letters,
‘Qalîlag and Damnag,’ with the old termination g, which proved to me
that the work was not translated from the Arabic ‘Calila ve Dimnah.’ You
may be certain that I did not show what I felt. I soon laid the
book quietly down. I had indeed before asked the monk specially for
‘Kalila and Dimna,’ and with some persistency, before I inquired
generally for books of fables; but he had not the faintest suspicion
that the book before him was the one so eagerly sought after. After
about a week or ten days, in order to arouse no suspicion, I sent a
trustworthy man to borrow the book; but he was asked at once if it were
for the ‘Fréngi den Prot’ (Protestant), and my
187
confidant was so good as to deny it, ‘No, it was for himself.’
I then examined the book more carefully. Having it safely in my
possession, I was not alarmed at the idea of a little hubbub.
I therefore made inquiries, but in all secret, whether they would
sell it. ‘No, never,’ was the answer I expected and received, and the
idea that I had borrowed it for myself was revived. I therefore
began to have a copy made. But I was obliged to leave Mardîn and even
the neighboring Diarbekir, before I received the copy. In Mardîn itself
the return of the book was loudly demanded, as soon as they knew I was
having it copied. I was indeed delighted when, through the kindness
of friends, post tot discrimina rerum I received the book at
Aleppo.”
So far writes my friend, the fortunate discoverer, who, as early as
the 19th of August, 1870, announced in a letter the happy recovery of
the book. On April 20, 1871, he kindly sent it to me from Basle.
This is not the place to descant on the high importance of this
discovery. It is only necessary to add that there is not the least doubt
that it has put us in possession of the old Syriac translation, of which
Ebedjesu speaks. There is only one question still to be settled, whether
it is derived direct from the Indian, or through the Pehlevi
translation? In either case it is the oldest preserved rendering of the
original, now lost in India, and therefore of priceless value.
The fuller treatment of this and other questions, which spring from
this discovery, will find a place in the edition of the text, with
translation and commentary, which Professor Bickell is preparing in
concert with Dr. Hoffman and myself.
Theodor Benfey.
188
In modern times, too, each poet or
fabulist tells the story as seems best to him. I give three
recensions of the story of Perrette, copied from English
schoolbooks.
The Milkmaid.
A milkmaid who poised a full pail on her head,
Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said:—
Let me see, I should think that this milk will procure
One hundred good eggs or fourscore, to be sure.
Well then, stop a bit, it must not be
forgotten,
Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;
But if twenty for accident should be detached,
It will leave me just sixty sounds eggs to be hatched.
Well, sixty sound eggs—no, sound chickens I
mean:
Of these some may die—we’ll suppose seventeen;
Seventeen, not so many!—say ten at the most,
Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.
But then there’s their barley, how much will they
need?
Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,
So that’s a mere trifle;—now then, let me see,
At a fair market-price how much money there’ll be.
Six shillings a pair, five, four, three-and-six,
To prevent all mistakes that low price I will fix;
Now what will that make? Fifty chickens I said;
Fifty times three-and-six?—I’ll ask brother Ned.
Oh! but stop, three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell
them!
Well, a pair is a couple; now then let us tell them.
A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain),
Why just a score times, and five pairs will remain.
189
Twenty-five pairs of fowls, now how tiresome it
is
That I can’t reckon up such money as this.
Well there’s no use in trying, so let’s give a guess—
I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can be no less.
Twenty pounds I am certain will buy me a cow,
Thirty geese and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow;
Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year
I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, ’tis clear.
Forgetting her burden when this she had said,
The maid superciliously tossed up her head,
When, alas for her prospects! her milkpail descended,
And so all her schemes for the future were ended.
This moral, I think, may be safely
attached—
“Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched!”
Jeffreys Taylor.
Fable.
A country maid was walking with a pail of milk upon her head, when
she fell into the following train of thoughts: “The money for which I
shall sell this milk will enable me to increase my stock of eggs to
three hundred. These eggs will bring at least two hundred and fifty
chickens. The chickens will be fit to carry to market about Christmas,
when poultry always bear a good price; so that by May-day I shall have
money enough to buy me a new gown. Green?—let me
consider—yes, green becomes my complexion best, and green it shall
be. In this dress I will go to the fair, where all the young fellows
will strive to have me for a partner; but I shall perhaps refuse every
one of them, and with an air of distain toss from them.” Charmed with
this thought, she could not forbear acting with her head what thus
passed in her mind, when down came the pail of milk, and with it all her
fancied happiness.—From Guy’s “British Spelling Book.”
Alnasker.
Alnasker was a very idle fellow, that would never set his hand to
work during his father’s life. When his father died he left him to the
value of a hundred pounds in Persian money. In order to make the best of
it he laid it out in glasses and bottles, and the finest china. These he
piled up in a large open basket at his feet, and leaned his back upon
the wall of his shop in the
190
hope that many people would come in to buy. As he sat in this posture,
with his eyes upon the basket, he fell into an amusing train of thought,
and talked thus to himself: “This basket,” says he, “cost me a hundred
pounds, which is all I had in the world. I shall quickly make two
hundred of it by selling in retail. These two hundred shall in course of
trade rise to ten thousand, when I will lay aside my trade of a
glass-man, and turn a dealer in pearls and diamonds, and all sorts of
rich stones. When I have got as much wealth as I can desire, I will
purchase the finest house I can find, with lands, slaves, and horses.
Then I shall set myself on the footing of a prince, and will ask the
grand Vizier’s daughter to be my wife. As soon as I have married her,
I will buy her ten black servants, the youngest and best that can
be got for money. When I have brought this princess to my house,
I shall take care to breed her in due respect for me. To this end I
shall confine her to her own rooms, make her a short visit, and talk but
little to her. Her mother will then come and bring her daughter to me,
as I am seated on a sofa. The daughter, with tears in her eyes, will
fling herself at my feet, and beg me to take her into my favor. Then
will I, to impress her with a proper respect for my person, draw up my
leg, and spurn her from me with my foot in such a manner that she shall
fall down several paces from the sofa.” Alnasker was entirely absorbed
with his ideas, and could not forbear acting with his foot what he had
in his thoughts; so that, striking his basket of brittle ware, which was
the foundation of all his grand hopes, he kicked his glasses to a great
distance into the street, and broke them into a thousand
pieces.—“Spectator.” (From the “Sixth Book,” published by
the Scottish School Book Association, W. Collins & Co.,
Edinburgh).
Pertsch, in Benfey’s “Orient und
Occident,” vol. ii. p. 261. Here the story is told as follows: “Perche
si conta che un certo pouer huomo hauea uicino a doue dormiua, un mulino
& del buturo, & una notte tra se pensando disse, io uenderò
questo mulino, & questo butturo tanto per il meno, che io comprerò
diece capre. Le quali mi figliaranno in cinque mesi altre tante, &
in cinque anni multiplicheranno fino a quattro cento; Le quali barattero
in cento buoi, & con essi seminarò una cãpagna, & insieme da
figliuoli
191
loro, & dal frutto della terra in altri cinque anni, sarò oltre modo
ricco, & farò un palagio quadro, adorato, & comprerò
schiaui una infinità, & prenderò moglie, la quale mi farà un
figliuolo, & lo nominerò Pancalo, & lo farò ammaestrare come
bisogna. Et se vedrò che non si curi con questa bacchetta cosí il
percoterò. Con che prendendo la bacchetta che gli era uicina, &
battendo di essa il vaso doue era il buturo, e lo ruppe, & fuse
il buturo. Dopò gli partorì la moglie un figliuolo, e la moglie un
dì gli disse, habbi un poco cura di questo fanciullo o marito, fino che
io uo e torno da un seruigio. La quale essendo andata fu anco il marito
chiamato dal Signore della terra, & tra tanto auuenne che una serpe
salì sopra il fanciullo. Et vna donzella uicina, corsa là l’uccise.
Tornato il marito uide insanguito l’vscio, & pensando che costei
l’hauesse ucciso, auanti che il uedesse, le diede sul capo, di un
bastone, e l’uccise. Entrato poi, & sano trouando il figliuolo,
& la serpe morta, si fu grandemente pentito, & piāse amaramente.
Cosí adunque i frettolosi in molte cose errano.” (Page 516.)
This and some other extracts, from
books not to be found at Oxford, were kindly copied for me by my late
friend, E. Deutsch, of the British Museum.
“Georgii Pachymeris Michael Palæologus, sive Historia rerum a
M. P. gestarum,” ed. Petr. Possinus. Romæ, 1666.
Appendix ad observationes Pachymerianas, Specimen Sapientiæ Indorum
veterum liber olim ex lingua Indica in Persicam a Perzoe Medico: ex
Persica in Arabicam ab Anonymo: ex Arabica in Græcam a Symeone Seth,
a Petro Possino Societ. Iesu, novissime e Græca in Latinam
translatus.
“Huic talia serio nuganti haud paulo cordatior mulier. Mihi videris,
Sponse, inquit, nostri cujusdam famuli egentissimi hominis similis ista
inani provisione nimis remotarum et incerto eventu pendentrum rerum. Is
diurnis mercedibus mellis ac butyri non magna copia collectâ duobus ista
vasis e terra coctili condiderat. Mox secum ita ratiocinans nocte quadam
dicebat: Mel ego istud ac butyrum quindecim minimum vendam denariis. Ex
his decem Capras emam. Hæ mihi quinto mense totidem alias parient.
Quinque annis gregem Caprarum facile quadringentarum confecero. Has
commutare tunc placet cum bobus centum, quibus
192
exarabo vim terræ magnam et numerum tritici maximum congeram. Ex
fructibus hisce quinquennio multiplicatis, pecuniaæ scilicet tantus
existet modus, ut facile in locupletissimis numerer. Accedit dos uxoris
quam istis opibus ditissiman nansciscar. Nascetur mihi filius quem jam
nunc decerno nominare Panealum. Hunc educabo liberalissime, ut nobilium
nulli concedat. Qui si ubi adoleverit, ut juventus solet, contumacem se
mihi præbeat, haud feret impune. Baculo enim hoc illum hoc modo feriam.
Arreptum inter hæc dicendum lecto vicinum baculum per tenebras jactavit,
casuque incurrens in dolia mellis et butyri juxta posita, confregit
utrumque, ita ut in ejus etiam os barbamque stillæ liquoris prosilirent;
cætera effusa et mixta pulveri prorsus corrumperentur; ac fundamentum
spei tantæ, inopem et multum gementem momento destitueret.” (Page
602.)
“Directorium Humanæ Vitæ alias
Parabolæ Antiquorum Sapientum,” fol. s. l. e. a. k. 4 (circ.
1480?): “Dicitque olim quidam fuit heremita apud quendam regem. Cui rex
providerat quolibet die pro sua vita. Scilicet provisionem de sua
coquina et vasculum de melle. Ille vero comedebat decocta, et reservabat
mel in quodam vase suspenso super suum caput donec esset plenum. Erat
autem mel percarum in illis diebus. Quadam vero die: dum jaceret in suo
lecto elevato capite, respexit vas mellis quod super caput ei pendebat.
Et recordatus quoniam mel de die in diem vendebatur pluris solito seu
carius, et dixit in corde suo. Quum fuerit hoc vas plenum: vendam ipsum
uno talento auri: de quo mihi emam decem oves, et successu temporis he
oves facient filios et filias, et erunt viginti. Postea vero ipsis
multiplicatis cum filiis et filiabus in quatuor annis erunt quatuor
centum. Tunc de quibuslibet quatuor ovibus emam vaccam et bovem et
terram. Et vaccæ multiplicabuntur in filiis, quorum masculos accipiam
mihi in culturam terre, præter id quod percipiam de eis de lacte et
lana, donec non consummatis aliis quinque annis multiplicabuntur in
tantum quod habebo mihi magnas substantias et divitias, et ero a cunctis
reputatus dives et honestus. Et edificabo mihi tunc grandia et
excellentia edificia pre omnibus meis vicinis et consanguinibus, itaque
omnes de meis divitiis loquantur, nonne erit mihi illud jocundum, cum
omnes homines mihi reverentiam in omnibus locis exhibeant.
193
Accipiam postea uxorem de nobilibus terre. Cumque eam cognovero,
concipiet et pariet mihi filium nobilem et delectabilem cum bona fortuna
et dei beneplacito qui crescet in scientia virtute, et relinquam mihi
per ipsum bonam memoriam post mei obitum et castigabo ipsum dietim: si
mee recalcitraverit doctrine; ac mihi in omnibus erit obediens, et si
non: percutiam eum isto baclo et erecto baculo ad percutiendum percussit
vas mellis et fregit ipsum et defluxit mel super caput ejus.”
“Das Buch der Weisheit der alter
Weisen,” Ulm, 1415. Here the story is given as follows:—
“Man sagt es wohnet eins mals ein brůder der dritten regel der got
fast dienet, bei eins künigs hof, den versach der künig alle tag zů auff
enthalt seines lebens ein kuchen speiss und ein fleschlein mit honig.
diser ass alle tag die speiss von der kuchen und den honig behielt er in
ein irden fleschlein das hieng ob seiner petstat so lang biss es voll
ward. Nun kam bald eine grosse teür in den honig und eins morgens früe
lag er in seinem pett und sach das honig in dem fleschlein ob seinem
haubt hangen do fiel ym in sein gedanck die teüre des honigs und fieng
an mit ihm selbs ze reden. wann diss fleschlein gantz vol honigs wirt so
verkauff ich das umb fünff güldin, darum̅ kauff ich mir zehen gůter
schaff und die machen alle des jahrs lember. und dann werden eins jahrs
zweintzig und die und das von yn kummen mag in zehen jaren werden
tausent. dann kauff ich umb fier schaff ein ku und kauff dobei ochsen
und ertrich die meren sich mit iren früchten und do nimb ich dann die
frücht zů arbeit der äcker. von den andern küen und schaffen nimb ich
milich und woll ee das andre fünff jar fürkommen so wird es sich allso
meren das ich ein grosse hab und reichtumb überkumen wird dann will ich
mir selbs knecht und kellerin kauffen und hohe und hübsche bäw ton. und
darnach so nimm ich mir ein hübsch weib von einem edeln geschlecht die
beschlaff ich mit kurtzweiliger lieb. so enpfecht sie und gebirt mir ein
schön glückseligten sun und gottförchtigen. und der wirt wachsen in lere
und künsten und in weissheit. durch den lass ich mir einen gůten leümde
nach meinem tod. aber wird er nit fölgig sein und meiner straff nit
achten so wolt ich yn mit meinem stecken über sein rucken on erbermde
gar hart schlahen. und nam sein stecken da mit man pflag das
194
pet ze machen ym selbs ze zeigen wie frefelich er sein sun schlagen
wölt. und schlůg das irden fass das ob seinem haubt hieng zů stücken
dass ym das honig under sein antlit und in das pet troff und ward ym von
allen sein gedencken nit dann das er sein antlit und pet weschen
můst.”
This translation has lately been
published by Don Pascual de Gayangos in the “Biblioteca de Autores
Españoles,” Madrid, 1860, vol. li. Here the story runs as follows (p. 57):—
“Del religioso que vertió la miel et la manteca sobre su cabeza.
“Dijo la mujer: ‘Dicen que un religioso habia cada dia limosna de
casa de un mercader rico, pan é manteca é miel e otras cosas, et comia
el pan é lo ál condesaba, et ponia la miel é la manteca en un jarra,
fasta quel a finchó, et tenia la jarra colgada á la cabecera de su cama.
Et vino tiempo que encareció la miel é la manteca, et el religioso fabló
un dia consigo mismo, estando asentado en su cama, et dijo así: Venderé
cuanto está en esta jarra por tantos maravedís, é comparé con ellos
diez cabras, et empreñarse-han, é parirán á cabo de cinco meses; et
fizo cuenta de esta guisa, et falló que en cinco años montarian bien
cuatrocientas cabras. Desí dijo: Venderlas-he todas, et con el precio
dellas compraré cien vacas, por cada cuatro cabezas una vaca,
é haberé simiente é sembraré con los bueyes, et aprovecharme-he de
los becerros et de las fembras é de la leche é manteca, é de las
mieses habré grant haber, et labraré muy nobles casas, é compraré
siervos é siervas, et esto fecho casarme-he con una mujer muy rica,
é fermosa, é de grant logar, é empreñarla-he de fijo
varon, é nacerá complido de sus miembros, et criarlo-he como á fijo
de rey, é castigarlo-he con esta vara, si non quisiere ser bueno é
obediente’. E él deciendo esto, alzó la vara que tenia en la mano,
et ferió en la olla que estaba colgada encima dél, é quebróla,
é cayóle la miel é la manteca sobre su cabeza,” etc.
See “Poésies inédites du Moyen Âge,”
par M. Edélstand Du Méril. Paris, 1854. XVI. De Viro et Vase Olei (p. 239):—
All brackets and parentheses are in the original.
195
“Uxor ab antiquo fuit infecunda marito.
Mesticiam (l. mœstitiam) cujus cupiens lenire vix (l. vir) hujus,
His blandimentis solatur tristi[ti]a mentis:
Cur sic tristaris? Dolor est tuus omnis inanis:
Pulchræ prolis eris satis amodo munere felix.
Pro nihilo ducens conjunx hæc verbula prudens,
His verbis plane quod ait vir monstrat inane:
Rebus inops quidam . . . (bone vir, tibi dicam)
Vas oleo plenum, longum quod retro per ævum
Legerat orando, loca per diversa vagando,
Fune ligans ar(c)to, tecto[que] suspendit ab alto.
Sic præstolatur tempus quo pluris ematur[atur]
Qua locupletari se sperat et arte beari.
Talia dum captat, hæc stultus inania jactat:
Ecce potens factus, fuero cum talia nactus,
Vinciar uxori quantum queo nobiliori:
Tunc sobolem gignam, se meque per omnia dignam,
Cujus opus morum genus omne præibit avorum.
Cui nisi tot vitæ fuerint insignia rite,
Fustis hic absque mora feriet caput ejus et [h]ora.
Quod dum narraret, dextramque minando levaret,
Ut percussisset puerum quasi præsto fuisset
Vas in prædictum manus ejus dirigit ictum
Servatumque sibi vas il[l]ico fregit olivi.”
I owe the following extract to the kindness of M. Paul
Meyer:—
Apologi Phædrii ex ludicris I. Regnerii Belnensis doct. Medici,
Divione, apud Petrum Palliot, 1643 in 12, 126 pages et de plus un
index.
Le recueil se divise en deux partis, pars I., pars II. La fable en
question est à la page 32, pars I. fab. xxv.
XXV.
Pagana et eius mercis emptor.
Pagana mulier, lac in olla fictili,
Ova in canistro, rustici mercem penus,
Ad civitatem proximam ibat venditum.
In eius aditu factus huic quidam obvius
196
Quanti rogavit ista quæ fers vis emi?
Et illa tanti. Tantin’? hoc fuerit nimis.
Numerare num me vis quod est æquum? vide
Hac merce quod sit nunc opus mihi plus dabo
Quam præstet illam cede, et hos nummos cape,
Ea quam superbe fœde rusticitas agit,
Hominem reliquit additis conviciis,
Quasi æstimasset vilius mercem optimam.
Aversa primos inde vix tulerat gradus,
Cum lubricato corruit strato viæ:
Lac olla fundit quassa, gallinaceæ
Testæ vitellos congerunt cœno suos
Caput cruorem mittit impingens petræ
Luxata nec fert coxa surgentem solo:
Ridetur ejus non malum, sed mens procax,
Qua merx et ipsa mercis et pretium perit;
Seque illa deflens tot pati infortunia
Nulli imputare quam sibi hanc sortem potest
Dolor sed omnis sæviter recruduit
Curationis danda cum merces fuit.
In re minori cum quis et fragili tumet
Hunc sortis ingens sternit indignatio.
Hulsbach, “Sylva Sermonum,” Basileæ,
1568, p. 28: “In sylva quadam morabatur heremicola jam satis provectæ
ætatis, qui quaque die accedebat civitatem, afferens inde mensuram
mellis, qua donabatur. Hoc recondebat in vase terreo, quod pependerat
supra lectum suum. Uno dierum jacens in lecto, et habens bacalum in manu
sua, hæc apud se dicebat: Quotidie mihi datur vasculum mellis, quod dum
indies recondo, fiet tandem summa aliqua. Jam valet mensura staterem
unum. Corraso autem ita floreno uno aut altero, emam mihi oves, quæ
fœnerabunt mihi plures: quibus divenditis coëmam mihi elegantem
uxorculam, cum qua transigam vitam meam lætanter: ex ea suscitabo mihi
puellam, quam instituam honeste. Si vero mihi noluerit obedire, hoc
baculo eam ita comminuam: atque levato baculo confregit suum vasculum,
et effusum est mel, quare
197
cassatum est suum propositum, et manendum adhuc in suo statu.”
“El Conde Lucanor, compuesto por el
excelentissimo Principe don Iuan Manuel, hijo del Infante don Manuel,
y nieto del Santo Rey don Fernando,” Madrid, 1642; cap. 29,
p. 96. He tells the story as follows: “There was a woman called
Dona Truhana (Gertrude), rather poor than rich. One day she went to the
market carrying a pot of honey on her head. On her way she began to
think that she would sell the pot of honey, and buy a quantity of eggs,
that from those eggs she would have chickens, that she would sell them
and buy sheep; that the sheep would give her lambs, and thus calculating
all her gains, she began to think herself much richer than her
neighbors. With the riches which she imagined she possessed, she thought
how she would marry her sons and daughters, and how she would walk in
the street surrounded by her sons and daughters-in-law; and how people
would consider her happy for having amassed so large a fortune, though
she had been so poor. While she was thinking over all this, she began to
laugh for joy, and struck her head and forehead with her hand. The pot
of honey fell down, was broken, and she shed hot tears because she had
lost all that she would have possessed if the pot of honey had not been
broken.”
Bonaventure des Periers, “Les Contes
ou les Nouvelles.” Amsterdam, 1735. Nouvelle XIV. (vol. i.
p. 141). (First edition, Lyon, 1558): “Et ne les (les Alquemistes)
sçauroiton mieux comparer qu’à une bonne femme qui portoit une potée de
laict au marché, faisant son compte ainsi: qu’elle la vendroit deux
liards: de ces deux liards elle en achepteroit une douzaine d’œufs,
lesquelz elle mettroit couver, et en auroit une douzaine de poussins:
ces poussins deviendroient grands, et les feroit chaponner: ces chapons
vaudroient cinq solz la piece, ce seroit un escu et plus, dont elle
achepteroit deux cochons, masle et femelle: qui deviendroient grands et
en feroient une douzaine d’autres, qu’elle vendroit vingt solz la piece;
apres les avoir
198
nourris quelque temps, ce seroient douze francs, dont elle achepteroit
une iument, qui porteroit un beau poulain, lequel croistroit et
deviendroit tant gentil: il sauteroit et feroit Hin. Et en disant
Hin, la bonne femme, de l’aise qu’elle avoit en son compte, se
print à faire la ruade que feroit son poulain: et en ce faisant sa potée
de laict va tomber, et se respandit toute. Et voila ses œufs, ses
poussins, ses chappons, ses cochons, sa jument, et son poulain, tous par
terre.”
199
IV.
ON THE RESULTS OF THE
SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE.
INAUGURAL LECTURE, DELIVERED IN
THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY OF STRASSBURG, MAY 23, 1872.
You will easily understand that, in
giving my first lecture in a German University, I feel some
difficulty in mastering and repressing the feelings which stir within my
heart. I wish to speak to you, as it becomes a teacher, with
perfect calmness, thinking of nothing but of the subject which 1 have to
treat. But here where we are gathered together to-day, in this old free
imperial town, in this University, full of the brightest recollections
of Alsatian history and German literature, even a somewhat gray-headed
German professor may be pardoned if, for some moments at least, he gives
free vent to the thoughts that are foremost in his mind. You will see,
at least, that he feels and thinks as you all feel and think, and that
in living away from Germany he has not forgotten his German language, or
lost his German heart.
The times in which we live are great, so great, that we can hardly
conceive them great enough; so great that we, old and young, cannot be
great and good and brave and hardworking enough, if we do not wish to
appear quite unworthy of the times in which our lot has been cast.
200
We older people have lived through darker times, when to a German,
learning was the only refuge, the only comfort, the only pride; times
when there was no Germany except in our recollection, and perhaps in our
secret hopes. And those who have lived through those sadder days feel
all the more deeply the blessings of the present. We have a Germany
again, a united, great, and strong country; and I call this a
blessing, not only in a material sense, as giving, at last, to our homes
a real and lasting security against the inroads of our powerful
neighbors, but also in a moral sense, as placing every German under a
greater responsibility, as reminding us of our higher duties, as
inspiring us with courage and energy for the battle of the mind even
more than for the battle of the arm.
That blessing has cost us dear, fearfully dear, dearer than the
friends of humanity had hoped; for, proud as we may be of our victories
and our victors, let us not deceive ourselves in this, that there is in
the history of humanity nothing so inhuman, nothing that makes us so
entirely despair of the genius of mankind, nothing that bows us so low
to the very dust, as war—unless even war becomes ennobled and
sanctified, as it was with us, by the sense of duty, duty towards our
country, duty towards our town, duty towards our home, towards our
fathers and mothers, our wives and children. Thus, and thus only, can
even war become the highest and brightest of sacrifices; thus, and thus
only, may we look history straight in the face, and ask, “Who would have
acted differently?”
I do not speak here of politics in the ordinary sense of the
word,—nay, I gladly leave the groping
201
for the petty causes of the late war to the scrutiny of those foreign
statesmen who have eyes only for the infinitesimally small, but cannot,
or will not, see the powerful handiwork of Divine justice that reveals
itself in the history of nations as in the lives of individuals.
I speak of politics in their true and original meaning, as a branch
of ethics, as Kant has proved them to be, and from this point of view,
politics become a duty from which no one may shrink, be he young or old.
Every nation must have a conscience, like every individual;
a nation must be able to give to itself an account of the moral
justification of a war in which it is to sacrifice everything that is
most dear to man. And that is the greatest blessing of the late war,
that every German, however deep he may delve in his heart, can say
without a qualm or a quiver, “The German people did not wish for war,
nor for conquest. We wanted peace and freedom in our internal
development. Another nation or rather its rulers, claimed the right to
draw for us lines of the Main, if not new frontiers of the Rhine; they
wished to prevent the accomplishment of that German union for which our
fathers had worked and suffered. The German nation would gladly have
waited longer still, if thereby war could have been averted. We knew
that the union of Germany was inevitable, and the inevitable is in no
hurry. But when the gauntlet was thrown in our face, and, be it
remembered, with the acclamation of the whole French nation, then we
knew what, under Napoleonic sway, we might expect from our powerful
neighbor, and the whole German people rose as one man for defense, not
for defiance. The object of our war was peace, and a lasting peace, and
therefore now, after peace has been
202
won, after our often menaced, often violated, western frontier has been
made secure forever by bastions, such as nature only can build, it
becomes our duty to prove to the world that we Germans are the same
after as before the war, that military glory has nothing intoxicating to
us, that we want peace with all the world.”
You know that the world at large does not prophesy well for us. We
are told that the old and simple German manners will go, that the ideal
interests of our life will be forgotten, that, as in other countries, so
with us, our love for the True and the Beautiful will be replaced by
love of pleasure, enjoyment, and vanities. It rests with us with all our
might to confound such evil prophesies, and to carry the banner of the
German mind higher than ever. Germany can remain great only by what has
made her great—by simplicity of manners, contentment, industry,
honesty, high ideals, contempt of luxury, of display, and of vain-glory.
“Non propter vitam vivendi perdere causas,”— “Not for the
sake of life to lose the real objects of life,” this must be our
watchword forever, and the causæ vitæ, the highest objects of
life, are for us to-day, and will, I trust, remain for coming
generations the same as they were in the days of Lessing, of Kant, of
Schiller, and of Humboldt.
And nowhere, methinks, can this return to the work of peace be better
inaugurated than here in this very place, in Strassburg. It was a bold
conception to begin the building of the new temple of learning in the
very midst of the old German frontier fortress. We are summoned here, as
in the days of Nehemiah, when “the builders every one had his sword
girded by his side and so builded.” It rests
203
with us, the young as well as the old, that this bold conception shall
not fail. And therefore I could not resist the voice of my heart, or
gainsay the wish of my friends who believed that I, too, might bring a
stone, however small, to the building of this new temple of German
science. And here I am among you to try and do my best. Though I have
lived long abroad, and pitched my workshop for nearly twenty-five years
on English soil, you know that I have always remained German in heart
and mind. And this I must say for my English friends, that they esteem a
German who remains German far more than one who wishes to pass himself
off as English. An Englishman wishes every man to be what he is.
I am, and I always have been, a German living and working in
England. The work of my life, the edition of the Rig-Veda, the oldest
book of the Indian, aye, of the whole Aryan world, could be carried out
satisfactorily nowhere but in England, where the rich collections of
Oriental MSS., and the easy communications with India, offer to an
Oriental scholar advantages such as no other country can offer. That by
living and working in England I have made some sacrifices, that I have
lost many advantages which the free intercourse with German scholars in
a German university so richly offers, no one knows better than myself.
Whatever I have seen of life, I know of no life more perfect than
that of a German professor in a German school or university. You know
what Niebuhr thought of such a life, even though he was a Prussian
minister and ambassador at Rome. I must read you some of his words,
they sound so honest and sincere: “There is no more grateful, more
serene life than that of a German
204
teacher or professor, none that, through the nature of its duties and
its work, secures so well the peace of our heart and our conscience. How
many times have I deplored it with a sad heart, that I should ever have
left that path of life to enter upon a life of trouble which, even at
the approach of old age, will probably never give me lasting peace. The
office of a schoolmaster, in particular, is one of the most honorable,
and despite of all the evils which now and then disturb its ideal
beauty, it is for a truly noble heart the happiest path of life. It was
the path which I had once chosen for myself, and how I wish I had been
allowed to follow it!”
I could quote to you the words of another Prussian ambassador,
Bunsen. He, too, often complained with sadness that he had missed his
true path in life. He too, would gladly have exchanged the noisy hotel
of the ambassador for the quiet home of a German professor.
From my earliest youth it has been the goal of my life to act as a
professor in a German university, and if this dream of my youth was not
to be fulfilled in its entirety, I feel all the more grateful that,
through the kindness of my friends and German colleagues, I have
been allowed, at least once in my life, to act during the present spring
and summer as a real German professor in a German university.
This was in my heart, and I wanted to say it, in order that you might
know with what purpose I have come, and with what real joy I begin the
work which has brought us together to-day.
I shall lecture during the present term on “The Results of the
Science of Language;” but you will easily understand that to sum up in
one course of
205
lectures the results of researches which have been carried on with
unflagging industry by three generations of scholars, would be a sheer
impossibility. Besides, a mere detailing of results, though it is
possible, is hardly calculated to subserve the real objects of academic
teaching. You would not be satisfied with mere results: you want to know
and to understand the method by which they have been obtained. You want
to follow step by step that glorious progress of discovery which has led
us to where we stand now. What is the use of knowing the Pythagorean
problem, if we cannot prove it? What would be the use of knowing that
the French larme is the same as the German Zähre (tear),
if we could not with mathematical exactness trace every step by which
these two words have diverged till they became what they are?
The results of the Science of Language are enormous. There is no
sphere of intellectual activity which has not felt more or less the
influence of this new science. Nor is this to be wondered at. Language
is the organ of all knowledge, and though we flatter ourselves that we
are the lords of language, that we use it as a useful tool, and no more,
believe me there are but few who can maintain their complete
independence with respect to language, few who can say of her, Ἔχω Λαΐδα, οὐκ
ἔχομαι. To know language historically and genetically, to be able
more particularly to follow up the growth of our technical terms to
their very roots, this is in every science the best means to keep up a
living connection between the past and the present, the only way to make
us feel the ground on which we stand.
Let us begin with what is nearest to us, Philology.
206
Its whole character has been changed as if by magic. The two classical
languages, Greek and Latin, which looked as if they had fallen from the
sky or been found behind the hedge, have now recovered their
title-deeds, and have taken their legitimate place in that old and noble
family which we call the Indo-European, the Indo-Germanic, or by a
shorter, if not a better name, the Aryan. In this way not only have
their antecedents been cleared up, but their mutual relationship, too,
has for the first time been placed in its proper light. The idea that
Latin was derived from Greek, an idea excusable in scholars of the
Scipionic period, or that Latin was a language made up of Italic, Greek,
and Pelasgic elements, a view that had maintained itself to the
time of Niebuhr, all this has now been shown to be a physical
impossibility. Greek and Latin stand together on terms of perfect
equality; they are sisters, like French and Italian:—
“Facies non omnibus
una,
Nec diversa tamen qualem decet esse sororum.”
If it could be a scientific question which of the two is the elder
sister, Greek or Latin, Latin, I believe, could produce better
claims of seniority than Greek. Now, as in the modern history of
language we are able to explain many things that are obscure in French
and Italian by calling in the Provençal, the Spanish, the Portuguese,
nay, even the Wallachian and the Churwälsch, we can do the same in the
ancient history of language, and get light for many things which are
difficult and unintelligible in Greek and Latin, by consulting Sanskrit,
Zend, Gothic, Irish, and even Old Bulgarian. We can hardly form an idea
of the surprise which was occasioned
207
among the scholars of Europe by the discovery of the Aryan family of
languages, reaching with its branches from the Himalayan mountains to
the Pyrenees. Not that scholars of any eminence believed at the end of
the last century that Greek and Latin were derived from Hebrew: that
prejudice had been disposed of once for all, in Germany at least, by
Leibniz. But after that theory had been given up, no new truly
scientific theory had taken its place. The languages of the world, with
the exception of the Semitic, the family type of which was not to be
mistaken, lay scattered about as disjecta membra poëtæ, and no
one thought of uniting them again into one organic whole. It was the
discovery of Sanskrit which led to the reunion of the Aryan languages,
and if Sanskrit had taught us nothing else, this alone would establish
its claim to a place among the academic sciences of our century.
When Greek and Latin had once been restored to their true place in
the natural system of the Aryan languages, their special treatment, too,
became necessarily a different one. In grammar, for instance, scholars
were no longer satisfied to give forms and rules, and to place what was
irregular by the side of what was regular. They wished to know the
reasons of the rules as well as of the exceptions; they asked why the
forms were such as they were, and not otherwise; they required not only
a logical, but also an historical foundation of grammar. People asked
themselves for the first time, why so small a change as mensa and
mensæ could express the difference between one and many tables;
why a single letter, like r, could possess the charm of changing
I love, amo, into I am loved, amor. Instead of indulging
208
in general speculations on the logic of grammar, the riddles of grammar
received their solution from a study of the historical development of
language. For every language there was to be a historical grammar, and
in this way a revolution was produced in philological studies to be
compared only to the revolution produced in chemistry by the discoveries
of Lavoisier, or in geology by the theories of Lyell. For instance,
instead of attempting an explanation why the genitive singular and the
ablative plural of the first and second declensions could express rest
in a place—Romæ, at Rome; Tarenti, at Tarentum;
Athenis, at Athens; Gabiis, at Gabii—one glance at
the past history of these languages showed that these so-called
genitives were not and never had been genitives, but corresponded to the
old locatives in i and su in Sanskrit. No doubt,
a pupil can be made to learn anything that stands in a grammar; but
I do not believe that it can conduce to a sound development of his
intellectual powers if he first learns at school the real meaning of the
genitive and ablative, and then has to accept on trust that, somehow or
other, the same cases may express rest in a place. A well-known
English divine, opposed to reform in spelling, as in everything else,
once declared that the fearful orthography of English formed the best
psychological foundation of English orthodoxy, because a child that had
once been brought to believe that t-h-r-o-u-g-h sounded like “through,”
t-h-o-u-g-h like “though,” r-o-u-g-h like “rough,” would afterwards
believe anything. Be that as it may, I do not consider that
grammatical rules like those just quoted on the genitive and ablative,
assuming the power of the locative, are likely to strengthen the
reasoning powers of any schoolboy.
209
Even more pernicious to the growth of sound ideas was the study of
etymology, as formerly carried on in schools and universities.
Everything here was left to chance or to authority, and it was not
unusual that two or three etymologies of the same word had to be learnt,
as if the same word might have had more than one parent. Yet it is many
years since Otfried Müller told classical scholars that they must either
surrender the whole subject of the historical growth of language,
etymology, and grammatical morphology, or trust in these matters
entirely to the guidance of Comparative Philology. As a student at
Leipzig, I lived to see old Gottfried Hermann quoting the paradigms
of Sanskrit grammar in one of his last Programs; and Boeckh
declared in 1850, at the eleventh meeting of German philologists, that,
in the present state of the science of language, the grammar of the
classical languages cannot dispense with the coöperation of comparative
grammar. And yet there are scholars even now who would exclude the
Science of Language from schools and universities. What gigantic steps
truly scientific etymology has made in Greek and Latin, every scholar
may see in the excellent works of Curtius and Corssen. The essential
difference between the old and the new systems consists here, too, in
this, that while formerly people were satisfied if they knew, or
imagined they knew, from what source a certain word was derived, little
value is now attached to the mere etymology of a word, unless at the
same time it is possible to account, according to fixed phonetic laws,
for all the changes which a word has undergone in its passage through
Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit. How far this conscientiousness may be
carried is shown by the fact
210
that the best comparative philologists decline to admit, on phonetic
grounds, the identity of such words as the Latin Deus, and the
Greek Θεός, although the
strongest internal arguments may be urged in favor of the identity of
these words.1,A
Let us go on to Mythology. If mythology is an old dialect,
outliving itself, and, on the strength of its sacred character, carried
on to a new period of language, it is easy to perceive that the
historical method of the Science of Language would naturally lead here
to most important results. Take only the one fact, which no one at
present would dare to question, that the name of the highest deity among
the Greeks and Romans, Ζεύς,
and Jupiter, is the same as the Vedic Dyaus, the sky,
and the old German Zio, Old Norse Tyr, whose name survives
in the modern names of Dienstag or Tuesday. Does not this
one word prove the union of those ancient races? Does it not show us, at
the earliest dawn of history, the fathers of the Aryan race, the fathers
of our own race, gathered together in the great temple of nature, like
brothers of the same house, and looking up in adoration to the sky as
the emblem of what they yearned for, a father and a God. Nay, can
we not hear in that old name of Jupiter, i.e.,
Heaven-Father, the true key-note which still sounds on in our own
prayer, “Our Father which art in heaven,” and which imparts to these
words their deepest tone, and their fullest import? By an accurate study
of these words we are able to draw the bonds of language and belief even
more closely together. You know that the nom. sing. of Ζεύς has the acute, and so has the nom.
sing. of Dyaus; but the vocative of Ζεύς
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has the circumflex, and so has likewise the vocative of Dyaus
in the Veda.2,B Formerly
the accent might have been considered as something late, artificial, and
purely grammatical: the Science of Language has shown that it is as old
as language itself, and it has rightly called it the very soul of words.
Thus even in these faint pulsations of language, in the changes of
accent in Greek and Sanskrit, may we feel the common blood that runs in
the veins of the old Aryan dialects.
History, too, particularly the most ancient history, has received new
light and life from a comparative study of languages. Nations and
languages were in ancient times almost synonymous, and what constitutes
the ideal unity of a nation lies far more in the intellectual factors,
in religion and language, than in common descent and common blood. But
for that very reason we must here be most cautious. It is but too easily
forgotten that if we speak of Aryan and Semitic families, the ground of
classification is language, and language only. There are Aryan and
Semitic languages, but it is against all rules of logic to speak,
without an expressed or implied qualification, of an Aryan race, of
Aryan blood, of Aryan skulls, and to attempt ethnological classification
on purely linguistic grounds. These two sciences, the Science of
Language and the Science of Man, cannot, at least for the present, be
kept too much asunder; and many misunderstandings, many controversies,
would have been avoided, if scholars had not attempted to draw
conclusions from language to blood, or from blood to language. When each
of these sciences shall have carried out independently its own
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classification of men and of languages, then, and then only, will it be
time to compare their results; but even then, I must repeat, what I
have said many times before, it would be as wrong to speak of Aryan
blood as of dolichocephalic grammar.3
We have all accustomed ourselves to look for the cradle of the Aryan
languages in Asia, and to imagine these dialects flowing like streams
from the centre of Asia to the South, the West, and the North.
I must confess that Professor Benfey’s protest against this theory
seems to me very opportune, and his arguments in favor of a more
northern, if not European, origin of the whole Aryan family of speech,
deserve, at all events, far more attention than they have hitherto
received.
For the same reasons it seems to me at least a premature undertaking
to use the greater or smaller number of coincidences between two or more
of the Aryan languages as arguments in support of an earlier or later
separation of the people who spoke them. First of all, there are few
points on which the opinions of competent judges differ more decidedly
than when the exact degrees of relationship between the single Aryan
languages have to be settled. There is agreement on one point only,
viz., that Sanskrit and Zend are more closely united than any other
languages. But though on this point there can hardly be any doubt, no
satisfactory explanation of this extraordinary agreement has as yet been
given. In fact, it has been doubted whether what I called the “Southern
Division” of the Aryan family could properly be called a division at
all, as
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it consisted only of varieties of one and the same type of Aryan speech.
As soon as we go beyond Sanskrit and Zend, the best authorities are
found to be in open conflict. Bopp maintained that the Slavonic
languages were most closely allied to Sanskrit, an opinion shared by
Pott. Grimm, on the contrary, maintained a closer relationship between
Slavonic and German. In this view he was supported by Lottner,
Schleicher, and others, while Bopp to the last opposed it. After this,
Schleicher (as, before him, Newman in England) endeavored to prove
a closer contact between Celtic and Latin, and, accepting Greek as most
closely united with Latin, he proceeded to establish a Southwestern
European division, consisting of Celtic, Latin, and Greek, and running
parallel with the Northwestern division, consisting of Teutonic and
Slavonic; or, according to Ebel, of Celtic, Teutonic, and Slavonic.
But while these scholars classed Greek with Latin, others, such as
Grassmann and Sonne, pointed out striking peculiarities which Greek
shares with Sanskrit, and with Sanskrit only, as, for instance, the
augment, the voiceless aspirates, the alpha privativum
(a, not an), the mâ and μή prohibitivum, the tara and τερο as the suffix of the comparative, and
some others. A most decided divergence of opinion manifested itself
as touching the real relation of Greek and Latin. While some regarded
these languages not only as sisters, but as twins, others were not
inclined to concede to them any closer relationship than that which
unites all the members of the Aryan family. While this conflict of
opinions lasts (and they are not mere assertions, but opinions supported
by arguments), it is clear that it would be
214
premature to establish any historical conclusions, such, for instance,
as that the Slaves remained longer united with the Indians and Persians
than the Greeks, Romans, Germans, and Celts; or, if we follow Professor
Sonne, that the Greeks remained longer united with the Indians than the
other Aryan nations. I must confess that I doubt whether the whole
problem admits of a scientific solution. If in a large family of
languages we discover closer coincidences between some languages than
between others, this is no more than we should expect, according to the
working of what I call the Dialectic Process. All these languages sprang
up and grew and diverged, before they were finally separated; some
retained one form, others another, so that even the apparently most
distant members of the same family might, on certain points, preserve
relics in common which were lost in all the other dialects, and vice
versâ. No two languages, not even Lithuanian and Old Slavonic, are
so closely united as Sanskrit and Zend, which share together even
technical terms, connected with a complicated sacrificial ceremonial.
Yet there are words occurring in Zend, and absent in Sanskrit, which
crop up again sometimes in Greek, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in
German.4,C As soon
as we attempt to draw from such coincidences and divergences historical
conclusions as to the earlier or later separation of the nations who
developed these languages, we fall into contradictions like those which
I pointed out just now between Bopp, Grimm, Schleicher, Ebel, Grassmann,
Sonne, and others. Much depends, in all scientific researches, on seeing
that the question is properly put. To me the question,
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whether the closer relations between certain independent dialects
furnish evidence as to the successive times of their separation, seems,
by its very nature, fruitless. Nor have the answers been at all
satisfactory. After a number of coincidences between the various members
of the Aryan family have been carefully collected, we know no more in
the end than what we knew at first, viz., that all the Aryan dialects
are closely connected with each other. We know—
1. That Slavonic is most closely united with German (Grimm,
Schleicher);
2. That German is most closely united with Celtic (Ebel,
Lottner);
3. That Celtic is most closely united with Latin (Newman,
Schleicher);
4. That Latin is most closely united with Greek (Mommsen,
Curtius);
5. That Greek is most closely united with Sanskrit (Grassmann, Sonne,
Kern);
6. That Sanskrit is most closely united with Zend (Burnouf).
Let a mathematician draw out the result, and it will be seen that we
know in the end no more than we knew at the beginning. Far be it for me
to use a mere trick in arguing, and to say that none of these
conclusions can be right, because each is contradicted by others. Quite
the contrary. I admit that there is some truth in every one of
these conclusions, and I maintain, for that very reason, that the only
way to reconcile them all is to admit that the single dialects of the
Aryan family did not break off in regular succession, but that, after a
long-continued community, they separated slowly, and, in some cases,
contemporaneously,
216
from their family-circle, till they established at last, under varying
circumstances, their complete national independence. This seems to me
all that at present one may say with a good conscience, and what is in
keeping with the law of development in all dialects.
If now we turn away from the purely philological results of the
Science of Language, in order to glance at the advantages which other
sciences have derived from it, we shall find that they consist mostly in
the light that has been shed on obscure words and old customs. This
advantage is greater than, at first sight, it might seem to be. Every
word has its history, and the beginning of this history, which is
brought to light by etymology, leads us back far beyond its first
historical appearance. Every word, as we know, had originally a
predicative meaning, and that predicative meaning differs often very
considerably from the later traditional or technical meaning. This
predicative meaning, however, being the most original meaning of the
word, allows us an insight into the most primitive ideas of a
nation.
Let us take an instance from jurisprudence. Pœna, in classical
Latin, means simply punishment, particularly what is either paid or
suffered in order to atone for an injury. (Si injuriam faxit
alteri, viginti quinque æris pœnœ sunto, fragm. xii. tab.) The word
agrees so remarkably, both in form and meaning, with the Greek ποινή, that Mommsen assigned to
it a place in what he calls Græco-Italic ideas.5 We might suppose,
therefore, that the ancient Italians took pœna
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originally in the sense of ransom, simply as a civil act, by which he
who had inflicted injury on another was, as far as he and the injured
person were concerned, restored in integrum. The etymology of the
word, however, leads us back into a far more distant past, and shows us
that when the word pœna was first framed, punishment was
conceived from a higher moral and religious point of view, as a
purification from sin; for pœna, as first shown by Professor Pott
(and what has he not been the first to show?) is closely connected with
the root pu, to purify. Thus we read in the “Atharva-veda,” xix. 33, 3:—
“Tvám bhû́mim átyeshi ójasâ
Tvám védyâm sîdasi cấrur adhvaré
Tvấm pavítram ṛshayo bhárantas
Tvám puníhi duritấni asmát.”
“Thou, O God of Fire, goest mightily across the earth; thou sittest
brilliantly on the altar at the sacrifice. The prophets carry Thee as
the Purifier; purify us from all misdeeds.”
From this root pu we have, in Latin, pūrus, and
pŭtus, as in argentum purum putum, fine silver, or in
purus putus est ipse, Plaut. Ps. 4, 2, 31. From it we also have
the verb purgare, for purigare, to purge, used
particularly with reference to purification from crime by means of
religious observances. If this transition from the idea of purging to
that of punishing should seem strange, we have only to think of
castigare, meaning originally to purify, but afterwards in such
expressions as verbis et verberibus castigare, to chide and to
chasten.
I cannot convince myself that the Latin crimen has anything in
common with κρίνειν. The
Greek κρίνειν is no doubt
connected with Latin cer-no, from which cribrum, sieve. It
means to separate, to sift, so that
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κρῖμα may well signify a
judgment, but not a crime or misdeed. Crīmen, as every scholar
knows or ought to know, meant originally an accusation, not a crime,
and, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, has nothing whatever
in common with discrīmen, which means what separates two things,
a difference, a critical point. In crimen venire means
to get into bad repute, to be calumniated; in discrimine esse
means to be in a critical and dangerous position.
It is one of the fundamental laws of etymology that in tracing words
back to their roots, we have to show that their primary, not their
secondary meanings agree with the meaning of the root. Therefore, even
if crīmen had assumed in later times the meaning of judgment, yet
its derivation from the Greek κρίνειν would have to be rejected, because it would
explain the secondary only, but not the primary meaning of
crīmen. Nothing is clearer than the historical development of the
meanings of crīmen, beginning with accusation, and ending with
guilt.
I believe I have proved that crīmen is really and truly the
same word as the German Verleumdung, calumny.6
Verleumdung comes from Leumund, the Old High-German
hliumunt, and this hliumunt is the exact representative of
the Vedic śromata, derived from the root śru, to hear,
cluere, and signifying good report, glory, the Greek κλέος, the Old High-German
hruom. The German word Leumund can be used in a good and a
bad sense, as good or evil report, while the Latin crī-men, for
croe-men (like liber for loeber), is used only
in malam partem. It meant originally what is heard, report, on
dit, gossip, accusation; lastly, the object of an accusation,
a crime, but never judgment, in the technical sense of the
word.
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The only important objection that could be raised against tracing
crīmen back to the root śru, is that this root has in
the Northwestern branch of the Aryan family assumed the form
clu, instead of cru, as in κλέος, cliens, gloria, O.Sl.
slovo, A.S. hlûd, loud, inclutus. I myself
hesitated for a long time on account of this phonetic difficulty, nor do
I think it is quite removed by the fact that Bopp (“Comp. Gr.”
§ 20) identified the German scrir-u-mês, we cry (instead of
scriw-u-mês), with Sk. śrâv-ayâ-mas, we make hear; nor
by the r in in-cre-p-are, in κράζω, as compared with κλάζω, nor even by the r in ἀ-κρο-ά-ομαι, which Curtius seems inclined
to derive from śru. The question is whether this phonetic
difficulty is such as to force us to surrender the common origin of
śromata, hliumunt, and crīmen; but even if this
should be the case, the derivation of crīmen from cerno or
κρίνειν would remain as
impossible as ever.
This will give you an idea in what manner the Science of Language can
open before our eyes a period in the history of law, customs, and
manners, which hitherto was either entirely closed, or reached only by
devious paths. Formerly, for instance, it was supposed that the Latin
word lex, law, was connected with the Greek λόγος. This is wrong, for λόγος never means law in the sense in which
lex does. λόγος,
from λέγειν, to collect,
to gather, signifies, like κατάλογος, a gathering, a collection, an
ordering, be it of words or thoughts. The idea that there is a λόγος, an order or law, for
instance, in nature, is not classical, but purely modern. It is not
improbable that lex is connected with the English word
law, only not by way of the Norman loi. English law
is A.S. lagu (as saw corresponds both to the German
Sage
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and Säge), and it meant originally what was laid down or settled,
with exactly the same conception as the German Gesetz. It has
been attempted to derive the Latin lex, too, from the same root,
though there is this difficulty, that the root of liegen and
legen does not elsewhere occur in Latin. The mere disappearance
of the aspiration would be no serious obstacle. If, however, the Latin
lex cannot be derived from that root, we must, with Corssen,
refer it to the same cluster of words to which ligare, to bind,
obligatio, binding, and the Oscan ablative lig-ud belong,
and assign to it the original meaning of bond. On no account can
it be derived from legere, to read, as if it meant a bill first
read before the people, and afterwards receiving legal sanction by their
approval.
From these considerations we gain at least this negative result,
that, before their separation, the Aryan languages had no settled word
for law; and even such negative results have their importance. The
Sanskrit word for law is dharma, derived from dhar, to
hold fast. The Greek word is νόμος, derived from νέμειν, to dispense, from which Nemesis, the
dispensing deity, and perhaps even Numa, the name of the fabulous
king and lawgiver of Rome.
Other words might easily be added which, by the disclosure of their
original meaning, give us interesting hints as to the development of
legal conceptions and customs, such as marriage, inheritance, ordeals,
and the like. But it is time to cast a glance at theology, which, more
even than jurisprudence, has experienced the influence of the Science of
Language. What was said with regard to mythology, applies with equal
force to theology. Here, too, words harden, and remain unchanged longer
even than in
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other spheres of intellectual life; nay, their influence often becomes
greater the more they harden, and the more their original meaning is
forgotten. Here it is most important that an intelligent theologian
should be able to follow up the historical development of the termini
technici and sacrosancti of his science. Not only words like
priest, bishop, sacrament, or testament,
have to be correctly apprehended in that meaning which they had in the
first century, but expressions like λόγος, πνεῦμα ἅγιον,
δικαιοσύνη have to be traced historically to the beginnings of
Christianity, and beyond, if we wish to gain a conception of their full
purport.
In addition to this, the Philosophy of Religion, which must always
form the true foundation of theological science, owes it to the Science
of Language that the deepest germs of the consciousness of God among the
different nations of the world have for the first time been laid open.
We know now with perfect certainty that the names, that is, the most
original conceptions, of the Deity among the Aryan nations, are as
widely removed from coarse fetichism as from abstract idealism. The
Aryans, as far as the annals of their language allow us to see,
recognized the presence of the Divine in the bright and sunny aspects of
nature, and they, therefore, called the blue sky, the fertile earth, the
genial fire, the bright day, the golden dawn their Devas, that
is, their bright ones. The same word, Deva in Sanskrit,
Deus in Latin, remained unchanged in all their prayers, their
rites, their superstitions, their philosophies, and even to-day it rises
up to heaven from thousands of churches and cathedrals,—a word
which, before there were Brahmans or Germans, had been framed in the
dark workshop of the Aryan mind.
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That the natural sciences, too, should have felt the electric shock
of our new science is not surprising, considering that man is the crown
of nature, the apex to which all other forces of nature point and tend.
But that which makes man man, is language. Homo animal rationale,
quia orationale, as Hobbes said. Buffon called the plant a sleeping
animal; living philosophers speak of the animal as a dumb man. Both,
however, forget that the plant would cease to be a plant if it awoke,
and that the brute would cease to be a brute the moment it began to
speak. There is, no doubt, in language a transition from the material to
the spiritual: the raw material of language belongs to nature, but the
form of language, that which really makes language, belongs to the
spirit. Were it possible to trace human language directly back to
natural sounds, to interjections or imitations, the question whether the
Science of Language belongs to the sphere of the natural or the
historical sciences would at once be solved. But I doubt whether this
crude view of the origin of language counts one single supporter in
Germany. With one foot language stands, no doubt, in the realm of
nature, but with the other in the realm of the spirit. Some years ago,
when I thought it necessary to bring out as clearly as possible the much
neglected natural element in language, I tried to explain in what
sense the Science of Language had a right to be called the last and the
highest of the natural sciences. But I need hardly say that I did not
lose sight, therefore, of the intellectual and historical character of
language; and I may here express my conviction that the Science of
Language will yet enable us to withstand the extreme theories of the
evolutionists, and
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to draw a hard and fast line between spirit and matter, between man and
brute.
This short survey must suffice to show you how omnipresent the
Science of Language has become in all spheres of human knowledge, and
how far its limits have been extended, so that it often seems impossible
for one man to embrace the whole of its vast domain. From this I wish,
in conclusion, to draw some necessary advice.
Whoever devotes himself to the study of so comprehensive a science
must try never to lose sight of two virtues: conscientiousness and
modesty. The older we grow, the more we feel the limits of human
knowledge. “Good care is taken,” as Goethe said, “that trees should not
grow into the sky.” Every one of us can make himself real master of a
small field of knowledge only, and what we gain in extent, we inevitably
lose in depth. It was impossible that Bopp should know Sanskrit like
Colebrooke, Zend like Burnouf, Greek like Hermann, Latin like Lachmann,
German like Grimm, Slavonic like Miklosich, Celtic like Zeuss. That
drawback lies in the nature of all comparative studies. But it follows
by no means that, as the French proverb says, qui trop embrasse, mal
étreint. Bopp’s “Comparative Grammar” will always mark an epoch in
linguistic studies, and no one has accused the old master of
superficiality. There are, in fact, two kinds of knowledge; the one
which we take in as real nourishment, which we convert in succum et
sanguinem, which is always present, which we can never lose; the
other which, if I may say so, we put into our pockets, in order to find
it there whenever it is wanted. For comparative studies the second kind
of knowledge is as
224
important as the first, but in order to use it properly, the greatest
conscientiousness is required. Not only ought we, whenever we have to
use it, to go back to the original sources, to accept nothing on trust,
to quote nothing at second-hand, and to verify every single point before
we rely on it for comparative purposes, but, even after we have done
everything to guard against error, we ought to proceed with the greatest
caution and modesty. I consider, for instance, that an accurate
knowledge of Sanskrit is a conditio sine quâ non in the study of
Comparative Philology. According to my conviction, though I know it is
not shared by others, Sanskrit must forever remain the central point of
our studies. But it is clearly impossible for us, while engaged in a
scholarlike study of Sanskrit, to follow at the same time the gigantic
strides of Latin, Greek, German, Slavonic, and Celtic philology. Here we
must learn to be satisfied with what is possible, and apply for advice
whenever we want it, to those who are masters in these different
departments of philology. Much has of late been said of the antagonism
between comparative and classical philology. To me it seems that these
two depend so much on each other for help and advice that their
representatives ought to be united by the closest ties of fellowship. We
must work on side by side, and accept counsel as readily as we give it.
Without the help of Comparative Philology, for instance, Greek scholars
would never have arrived at a correct understanding of the
Digamma—nay, a freer intercourse with his colleague, Bopp,
would have preserved Bekker from several mistakes in his restoration of
the Digamma in Homer. Latin scholars would have felt far more
225
hesitation in introducing the old d of the ablative in Plautus,
if the analogy of Sanskrit had not so clearly proved its legitimacy.
On the other hand, we, comparative philologists, should readily ask
and gladly accept the advice and help of our classical colleagues.
Without their guidance, we can never advance securely; their warnings
are to us of the greatest advantage, their approval our best reward. We
are often too bold, we do not see all the difficulties that stand in the
way of our speculations, we are too apt to forget that, in addition to
its general Aryan character, every language has its peculiar genius. Let
us all be on our guard against omniscience and infallibility. Only
through a frank, honest, and truly brotherly coöperation can we hope for
a true advancement of knowledge. We all want the same thing; we all are
etymologists—that is, lovers of truth. For this, before all
things, the spirit of truth, which is the living spirit of all science,
must dwell within us. Whoever cannot yield to the voice of truth,
whoever cannot say, “I was wrong,” knows little as yet of the true
spirit of science.
Allow me, in conclusion, to recall to your remembrance another
passage from Niebuhr. He belongs to the good old race of German
scholars. “Above all things,” he writes, “we must in all scientific
pursuits preserve our truthfulness so pure that we thoroughly eschew
every false appearance; that we represent not even the smallest thing as
certain of which we are not completely convinced; that if we have to
propose a conjecture, we spare no effort in representing the exact
degree of its probability. If we do not ourselves, when it is possible,
indicate our errors, even such as no one else is likely to discover;
226
if, in laying down our pen, we cannot say in the sight of God, ‘Upon
strict examination, I have knowingly written nothing that is not
true;’ and if, without deceiving either ourselves or others, we have not
presented even our most odious opponents in such a light only that we
could justify it upon our death-beds—if we cannot do this, study
and literature serve only to make us unrighteous and sinful.”
Few, I fear, could add, with Niebuhr: “In this I am convinced that I
do not require from others anything of which a higher spirit, if He
could read my soul, could convict me of having done the contrary.” But
all of us, young as well as old, should keep these words before our eyes
and in our hearts. Thus, and thus only, will our studies not miss their
highest goal: thus, and thus only, may we hope to become true
etymologists—i.e., true lovers, seekers, and, I trust,
finders of truth.
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That Greek θ does not legitimately
represent a Sanskrit, Latin, Slavonic, and Celtic d is a fact
that ought never to have been overlooked by comparative philologists,
and nothing could be more useful than the strong protest entered by
Windischmann, Schleicher, Curtius, and others, against the favorite
identification of Sk. deva, deus, and θεός. Considering it as one of the first
duties, in all etymological researches, that we should pay implicit
obedience to phonetic laws, I have never, so far as I remember,
quoted θεός as identical
with deus, together with the other derivatives of the root
div, such as Dyaus, Ζεύς, Jupiter, deva, Lith. deva-s,
Irish día.
But with all due respect for phonetic laws, I have never in my own
heart doubted that θεός
belonged to the same cluster of words which the early Aryans employed to
express the brightness of the sky and of the day, and which helped them
to utter their first conception of a god of the bright sky
(Dyaus), of bright beings in heaven, as opposed to the powers
of night and darkness and winter (deva), and, lastly, of deity
in the abstract.7 I have never become an atheist; and though I did
not undervalue the powerful arguments advanced against the identity of
deus and θεός,
I thought that other arguments also possessed their value, and
could not be ignored with impunity. If, with our eyes shut, we submit to
the dictates of phonetic laws, we are forced to believe that while the
Greeks shared with the Hindus, the Italians, and Germans the name for
the bright god of the sky Zeus, Dyaus, Jovis,
Zio, and while they again shared with them such derivatives as
δῖος, heavenly, Sk.
divyas, they threw away the intermediate old Aryan word for
god, deva, deus, and formed
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a new one from a different root, but agreeing with the word which they
had rejected in all letters but one. I suppose that even the
strongest supporters of the atheistic theory would have accepted δεός, if it existed in Greek, as a
correlative of deva and deus; and I ask, would it not be
an almost incredible coincidence, if the Greeks, after giving up the
common Aryan word, which would have been δοιϝός or δειϝός or δεϝός, had coined a new word for god from a different
root, yet coming so near to δεϝός as θεϝός? These internal difficulties seem to me nearly as
great as the external: at all events it would not be right to attempt to
extenuate either.
Now I think that, though much has been said against θεός for δεϝός, something may also be said in support of δεϝός assuming the form of θεός. Curtius is quite right in
repelling all arguments derived from Sk. duhitar = θυγάτηρ, or Sk. dvâr =
θύρ-α; but I think he does
not do full justice to the argument derived from φιάλη and φιαρός. The Greek φιάλη has been explained as originally πιϝάλη, the lost digamma causing the
aspiration of the initial π. Curtius says: “This etymology of φιάλη is wrecked on the fact
that in Homer the word does not mean a vessel for drinking, but a kind
of kettle.” That is true, but the fact remains that in later Greek φιάλη means a drinking cup. Thus
Pindar (“Isthm.,” v. 58) says:—
Ἄνδωκε δ’
αὐτῷ φέρτατος
οἰνοδόκον φιάλαν χρυσῷ πεφρικυῖαν Τελαμών,
which refers clearly to a golden goblet, and not a kettle. Besides,
we have an exactly analogous case in the Sk. pâtram. This, too,
is clearly derived from pâ, to drink, but it is used far more
frequently in the sense of vessel in general, and its etymological
meaning vanishes altogether when it comes to mean a vessel for
something, a fit person. I see no etymology for φιάλη, except πιϝάλη, a drinking vessel.
Secondly, as to φιαρός, which is supposed to be the same as πιαρός, and to represent the Sanskrit
pîvaras, fat, Curtius says that it occurs in Alexandrian poets
only, that it there means bright, resplendent, and is used as an
adjective of the dawn, while πιαρός means fat, and fat only. Against this I venture
to remark, first, that there are passages where φιαρός means sleek, as in Theocr. ii. 21, φιαρωτέρα ὄμφακος
ὠμᾶς, said of a young plump girl, who in Sanskrit would be called
pîvarî; secondly, that
229
while πῖαρ is used for
cream, φιαρός is used as
an adjective of cream; and, thirdly, that the application of φιαρός to the dawn is hardly
surprising, if we remember the change of meaning in λιπαρός in Greek, and the application
in the Veda of such words as ghṛta pratîka,
to the dawn. Lastly, as in φιάλη, I see no etymology for φιαρός, except πιϝαρός.
I think it is but fair therefore to admit that θεός for δεϝός would find some support by the analogy of φιάλη for πιϝάλη, and of φιαρός for πιϝαρός. There still remain difficulties enough to make
us cautious in asserting the identity of θεός and deus; but in forming our own opinion
these difficulties should be weighed impartially against the internal
difficulties involved in placing θεός as a totally independent word, by the side of
deva and deus. And, as in φιάλη and φιαρός, may we not say of θεός also that there is no etymology for it, if we
separate it from Ζεύς and
δῖος, from Dyaus
and divyas? Curtius himself rejects Plato’s and Schleicher’s
derivation of θεός from
θέω, to run: likewise
C. Hoffmann’s from dhava, man; likewise Bühler’s from a
root dhi, to think or to shine; likewise that of Herodotus and
A. Göbel from θες,
a secondary form of θε,
to settle. Ascoli’s analysis is highly sagacious, but it is too
artificial. Ascoli8 identifies θεός, not with deva, but with divyá-s.
Divyás becoming διϝεός (like satya, ἐτεός), the accent on the last syllable would produce
the change to δϝεό-ς, ϝ
would cause aspiration in the preceding consonant and then disappear,
leaving θεός =
divyás. All these changes are just possible phonetically, but,
as Curtius observes, the point for which the theists contend is not
gained, for we should still have to admit that the Greeks lost the
common word for god, deva and deus, and that they alone
replaced it by a derivative divya, meaning heavenly, not
bright.
Curtius himself seems in favor of deriving θεός from θες, to implore, which we have in θεσ-σάμενοι, θέσσαντο,
πολύθεστος, etc. Θεός, taken as a passive derivative, might, he thinks,
have the meaning of ἀρητός
in πολυάρητος, and
mean the implored being. I cannot think that this is a satisfactory
derivation. It might be defended phonetically and etymologically, though
I cannot think of any analogous passive derivatives of a root ending in
s. Where it fails to carry conviction is in leaving unexplained
the loss of the common Aryan word for deity, and in putting in its place
a name that savors of very modern thought.
230
I think the strongest argument against the supposed aspirating power
of medial v, and its subsequent disappearance, lies in the fact
that there are so many words having medial v, which show no trace
of this phonetic process (Curtius, p. 507). On the other hand, it
should be borne in mind, that the Greeks might have felt a natural
objection to the forms which would have rendered deva with real
exactness, I mean δοιός or δέος, the former conveying the meaning of double, the
latter of fear. A mere wish to keep the name for god distinct from
these words might have produced the phonetic anomaly of which we
complain; and, after all, though I do not like to use that excuse, there
are exceptions to phonetic laws. No one can explain how ὄγδοος was derived from ὀκτώ or ἕβδομος from ἑπτά, yet the internal evidence is too strong to be
shaken by phonetic objections. In the case of θεός and deus the internal evidence seems
to me nearly as strong as in ὄγδοος and ἕβδομος, and though unwilling to give a final verdict,
I think the question of the loss in Greek of the Aryan word for god
and its replacement by another word nearly identical in form, but
totally distinct in origin, should be left for the present an open
question in Comparative Philology.
NOTE B.
The Vocative of Dyaús and
Ζεύς.text
The vocative of Dyaus,
having the circumflex, is one of those linguistic gems which one finds
now and then in the Rig-Veda, and which by right ought to have a place
of honor in a Museum of Antiquities. It is a unique form. It occurs but
once in the Rig-Veda, never again, as far as we know at present, in the
whole of Vedic literature, and yet it is exactly that form which a
student of language would expect who is familiar with the working of the
laws of accent in Sanskrit and in Greek. Without a thorough knowledge of
these laws, the circumflexed vocative in Sanskrit, Dyaûs, corresponding to Greek Ζεῦ, would seem a mere anomaly, possibly an
accidental coincidence, whereas in reality it affords the most striking
proof of the organic working of the laws of accent, and at the same time
an unanswerable testimony in favor of the genuineness of the ancient
text of the Rig-Veda.
231
The laws of accent bearing on this circumflexed vocative are so
simple that I thought they would have been understood by everybody. As
this does not seem to have been the case, I add a few explanatory
remarks.
It was Benfey who, as on so many other points, so on the accent of
vocatives, was the first to point out (in 1845) that it was a
fundamental law of the Aryan language to place the acute on the first
syllable of all vocatives, both in the singular, and in the dual and
plural.9 In Sanskrit this law admits of no exception; in Greek
and Latin the rhythmic accent has prevailed to that extent that we only
find a few traces left of the original Aryan accentuation. It is well
known that in vocatives of nouns ending in ius, the ancient
Romans preserved the accent on the first syllable, that they said
Vírgili, Váleri, from Virgílius and
Valérius. This statement of Nigidius Figulus, preserved by
Gellius, though with the remark that in his time no one would say so, is
the only evidence of the former existence of the Aryan law of
accentuation in Latin. In Greek the evidence is more considerable, but
the vocatives with the accent on the first syllable are, by the supreme
law of the rhythmic accent in Greek, reduced to vocatives, drawing back
their accent as far as they can, consistently with the law which
restricts the accent to the last three syllables. Thus while in Sanskrit
a word like Ἀγαμέμνων
would in the vocative retract the accent on the first syllable Ἄγαμεμνον, the Greek could do
no more than say Ἀγάμεμνον with the accent on the antepenultimate. In
the same manner the vocative of Ἀριστοτέλης, can only be Ἀριστότελες, whereas in Sanskrit it would
have been Ἄριστοτελες.
Here, however, the question arises, whether in words like Ἀγαμέμνων10 and Ἀριστοτέλης11 the accent was not
originally on the antepenultimate, but drawn on the penultimate by the
rhythmic law. This is certainly the case in ἥδιον, as the vocative of ἡδίων, for we know that both in Sanskrit and Greek,
comparatives in ιων retract
their accent as far as possible, and have it always on the first
syllable in Sanskrit, always on the penultimate
232
in Greek, if the last syllable is long. But, cessante causâ cessat
effectus, and therefore the accent goes back on the antepenultimate,
not only in the vocative, but likewise in the nom. neuter ἥδιον.
It is possible that the same process may explain the vocative δέσποτα from δεσπότης, if we compare Sanskrit
compounds with pati, such as dâsápati,
gấspati, dámpati, which leave the accent on the first
member of the compound. In Δημήτηρ also all becomes regular, if we admit the
original accentuation to have been Δήμητηρ, changed in Δημήτηρ, but preserved in the genitive Δήμητρος, and the vocative Δήμητερ.12
But there are other words in which this cannot be the case, for
instance, ἄδελφε, πόνηρε, μόχθερε from ἀδελφός, πονηρός,
μοχθηρός. Here the accent is the old Aryan vocatival accent.
Again, in πατήρ,
πατέρα, Sk. pitấ, pitáram, in μήτηρ, μητέρα, Sk.
mâtấ, mâtáram, in θυγάτηρ, θυγατέρα, Sk. duhitấ,
duhitáram, the radical accent was throughout on the suffix
tár, nor would the rules of the rhythmic accent in Greek
prevent it from being on the antepenultimate in the accusative. The fact
therefore that it is retracted on the penultimate and antepenultimate in
the vocative, shows clearly that we have here, too, the last working of
the original Aryan accentuation. The irregular accent in the nom. sing.
of μήτηρ, instead of μητήρ, is probably due to the
frequent use of the vocative (an explanation which I had adopted
before I had seen Benfey’s essay), and the same cause may explain the
apparently irregular accentuation in θύγατρα, by the side of θυγατέρα, in θύγατρες, and θύγατρας. Similar vocatives with retracted accent are
δᾶερ, nom. δαήρ, εἴνατερ, nom. εἰνάτηρ, γύναι, nom. γυνή, σῶτερ,
nom. σωτήρ, ἄνερ, nom. ἀνήρ, Ἄπολλον, nom. Ἀπόλλων, Πόσειδον, nom. Ποσειδῶν, Ἥρακλες, nom. Ἡρακλῆς.
We have thus established the fact that one feature of the primitive
Aryan accentuation, which consisted in the very natural process of
placing the high accent on the first syllable of vocatives, was strictly
preserved in Sanskrit, while in Greek and Latin it only left some
scattered traces of its former existence. Without the light derived from
Sanskrit, the changes in the accent of vocatives in Greek and Latin
would be inexplicable, they would be, what they are in Greek grammar,
mere anomalies; while, if placed by the side of Sanskrit, they are
readily recognized
233
as what they really are, remnants of a former age, preserved by frequent
usage or by an agent whom we do not like to recognize, though we cannot
altogether ignore him,—viz. chance.
Taking our position on the fact that change of accent in the vocative
in Greek is due to the continued influence of an older system of Aryan
accentuation, we now see how the change of nom. Ζεύς into voc. Ζεῦ, and of nom. Dyaús, into voc. Dyaû́s,
rests on the same principle. In Sanskrit the change, though at first
sight irregular, admits of explanation. What we call the circumflex in
Sanskrit, is the combination of a rising and falling of the voice, or,
as we should say in Greek, of an acute and grave accent. As
Dyaús was originally Diaús, and is frequently used as
two syllables in the Veda, the vocative would have been Díaùs,
and this contracted would become Dyaus. Thus we have
paribhvế from paribhûs. In Greek the facts are the
same, but the explanation is more difficult. The general rule in Greek
is that vocatives in ου,
οι, and ευ, from
oxytone or perispome nominatives, are perispome; as πλακοῦ, βοῦ, Λητοῖ,
Πηλεῦ, βασιλεῦ, from πλακοῦς, οῦντος, placenta, βοῦς, Λητώ, Πηλεύς, βασιλεύς. The rationale of that rule has never been
explained, as far as Greek is concerned. Under this rule the vocative of
Ζεύς becomes Ζεῦ; but no Greek grammarian has attempted
to explain the process by which Ζεύς becomes Ζεῦ, and nothing remains for the present but to admit that
we have in it an ancient Aryan relic preserved in Greek long after the
causes which had produced it had ceased to act. It would fall into the
same category as εἶμι and
ἴμεν. Here, too, the
efficient cause of the length and shortness of the radical vowel
i, viz., the change of accent, Sk. émi, but
imás, has disappeared in Greek, while its effect has been
preserved. But whatever explanation may hereafter be adopted, the simple
fact which I had pointed out remains, the motive power which changed the
nom. dyaús into the vocative dyaû́s, is the same which
changed Ζεύς into Ζεῦ. Those who do not understand,
or do not admit this, are bound to produce, from the resources of Greek
itself, another motive power to account for the change of Ζεύς into Ζεῦ; but they must not imagine that a mere reference to a
Greek elementary grammar suffices for explaining that process.
The passage in the Rig-Veda (VI. 51, 5) to which I referred is
unique, and I therefore give it here, though it has in the meantime
234
been most ably discussed by Benfey in his “Essay on the Vocative”
(1872).
“Dyaû́ḥ pítaḥ pṛthivi mấtaḥ ádhruk
Ζεῦ
πάτερ πλατεῖα μῆτερ ἀτρεκ(ές)
Ágne bhrấtaḥ vasavaḥ mṛláta naḥ13
Ignis φράτερ
ϝέΣηϝες μέλδετε nos.”
This passage is clearly one of great antiquity, for it still
recognizes Dyaús, the father, as the supreme god, Earth, the
mother, by his side, and Agni, fire, as the brother, not of Heaven and
Earth, but of man, because living with men on the hearth of their
houses. Vasu, as a general name of the bright gods, like
deva in other hymns, corresponds, I believe, to the Greek
adjective ἐΰς. The genitive
plural ἐάων is likewise
derived from ἐΰς or
vásus, by Benfey (l.c. p. 57), and dâtấ vásûnâm
(Rv. VIII. 51, 5) comes certainly very near to δοτὴρ ἐάων. The only difficulty
would be the ā instead of the η, as in ἐῆος, the gen. sing. of ἐΰς in Homer, a difficulty which might be removed by
tracing the gen. plur. ἐάων
back to a fem. ἐά,
corresponding to a Sk. vasavî or vasavyâ. As to μέλδετε, it is phonetically the nearest
approach to mṛlata, i.e.,
*mardata, though in Greek it means “make mild” rather than “be
mild.” Mild and mollis come from the same root.
What gives to this passage its special value is, that in all other
passages when dyaus occurs as a vocative and as bisyllabic, it
appears simply with the udâtta, thus showing at how early a time
even the Hindus forgot the meaning of the circumflex on dyaû́s,
and its legitimate appearance in that place. Thus in Rv. VIII. 100, 12,
we read,—
“Sákhe Vishṇo vitarám ví kramasva,
Dyaúḥ dehí lokám vájrâya viskábhe
Hánâva vṛtrám riṇácâva síndhûn
Índrasya yantu prasavé vísṛshṭâḥ.”
“Friend Vishṇu, stride further,
Dyaus give room for the lightning to leap,
Let us both kill Vṛtra and free the
rivers,
Let them go, sent forth at the command of Indra.”
Here, I have little doubt, the ancient Rishis pronounced
Dyaû́s, but the later poets, and the still later
Âcâryas were satisfied with the acute, and with the acute the
word is written here in all the MSS. I know.
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NOTE C.
Aryan words occurring in Zend, but not in Sanskrit.text
It has been objected that the three
instances which I had quoted of Zend words, not occurring in Sanskrit,
but preserved in one or the other of the Indo-European languages, were
not sufficient to establish the fact which I wished to establish,
particularly as one of them, kehrp, existed in Sanskrit, or, at
least, in Vedic Sanskrit, as kṛp. I admit
that I ought to have mentioned the Vedic kṛp, rather than the later kalpa; but I doubt
whether the conclusions which I wished to draw would have been at all
affected by this. For what I remarked with regard to kalpa,
applies with equal force to kṛp; it does not
in Sanskrit mean body or flesh, like kehrp, and corpus,
but simply form. But even if kehrp were not a case in point,
nothing would have been easier than to replace it by other words, if at
the time of printing my lecture I had had my collectanea at hand.
I now subjoin a more complete list of words, present in Zend,
absent in Sanskrit, but preserved in Greek, Latin, or German.
Zend ana, prep., upon; Greek ἀνά; Goth, ana, upon.
Zend erezataêna, adj., made of silver; Lat.
argentinus. In Sk. we have rajatam, silver, but no
corresponding adjective.
Zend içi, ice; O.N. îss; A.S. îs; O.H.S.
îs.
Grimm compares the Irish eirr, snow, and he remarks that the
other Aryan languages have each framed their own words for ice, Lith.
ledas, O.S. led, and distantly connected with these,
through the Russian cholodnyi, the Latin glacies, for
gelacies, Greek κρύος, κρυμός, κρύσταλλος.
The root from which these Greek words for ice are derived has left
several derivatives in other languages, such as Lat. cru-s-ta,
and O.N. hrî-m, rime, hoar-frost, and in Zend khrûta,
used as an adjective of zim, winter, originally the hard
winter. In Zend khrûma, and khrûra, Sk.
krûra, as in Greek κρυόεις, the meaning has changed to crudus,
crudelis. In the English raw, O.H.G. hrâo, a
similar change of meaning may be observed.
Another name connected with ice and winter is the Zend zyâo,
frost, from the root hi, which has given us χι-ών, Sk.
236
hi-ma, Lat. hiem-s, O.S. zima, but which in the
simplest form has been preserved in Zend only and in the O.N. gȩ.
Fick quotes gȩ with the doubtful meanings of cold and snow,
Curtius with that of storm, identifying it with Norw. gjö, nix
autumni recens.
There is still another name for snow, absent in Sanskrit, but fully
represented in Zend and the other Aryan languages, viz., Zend
çnizh, to snow, Lat. nix, Goth. snaív-s, Lith.
snig-ti, to snow, Ir. snechta, snow, Gr. νίφ-α (acc).14
Zend aêva, one; Gr. οἶος.
Zend kamara, girdle, vault; Gr. καμάρα, vault, covered carriage; A.S. himil.
Connected with this we find the Zend kameredhe, skull, vault of
head, very nearly connected with κμέλεθρον, μέλαθρον.
Zend kareta, knife; Lith. kalta-s, knife; cf.
culter, Sk. kart-ari, etc. The Slav. korda, O.N.
kordi, Hung. kard, are treated by Justi as words borrowed
from Persian.
Zend cvant, Lat. quantus. Sk. has tâvat,
tantus, and yâvat, but not kâvat.
Zend garaṇh, reverence; Gr. γέρας.
Zend thrâfaṇh, food; Gr. -τρέφες.
Zend da, e.g. vaêçmen-da, towards the house;
Gr. οἶκόν-δε; cf. Goth.
du, to, O.S. do.
Zend daiti, gift; Gr. δόσις, Lat. dôs, dôti-s, Lith.
důti-s.
Zend dâmi, creation; Gr. θέμις, law.
Zend naçu, corpse; Gr. νέκυς; Goth. nau-s.
Zend napo, nom. sing.; A.S. nefa; O.H.G.
nefo.
Zend paithya in qaêpaithya, own; Lat.
sua-pte, ipse; Lith. pati-s, self.
Zend peretu, bridge; Lat. portus.
Zend fraêsta, most, best; Gr. πλεῖστος.
Zend brvat, brow; Gr. ἀβροῦτες (Macedon.); Lat. frons.
Zend madh, to cure; Lat. mederi.
Zend man, in upa-man, to wait; Lat.
manere.
Zend mîzhda; Gr. μισθός; Goth. mizd-ô; O.S. mîzda.
Zend yâre, year; Goth. jer; O.S. jarŭ,
spring.
Zend yâoṇh, yâh, to gird;
yâonha, dress; Gr. ζωσ in ζώννυμι; O.S. po-yasu, girdle.
Zend râçta, straight; Lat. rectus; Goth.
raiht-s.
237
Zend rap, to go; Lat. repere.
Zend varez, to work, vareza, work,
varstva, work; Goth, vaurkjan, to work; Gr. ἔοργα, ῥέζω; Goth.
vaurstv.
Zend vaêti, willow; Lith. vỹti-s, withy; Lat.
vîtis.
Zend çtaman, mouth; Gr. στόμα.
238
V.
WESTMINSTER LECTURE.
ON MISSIONS.1
DELIVERED IN THE NAVE OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY,
ON THE EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1873.
The number of religions which have
attained stability and permanence in the history of the world is very
small. If we leave out of consideration those vague and varying forms of
faith and worship which
239
we find among uncivilized and unsettled races, among races ignorant of
reading and writing, who have neither a literature nor laws, nor even
hymns and prayers handed down by oral teaching from father to son, from
mother to daughter, we see that the number of the real historical
religions of mankind amounts to no more than eight. The Semitic races
have produced three—the Jewish, the Christian, the Mohammedan; the
Aryan, or Indo-European races an equal
240
number—the Brahman, the Buddhist, and the Parsi. Add to these the
two religious systems of China, that of Confucius and Lao-tse, and you
have before you what may be called the eight distinct languages or
utterances of the faith of mankind from the beginning of the world to
the present day; you have before you in broad outlines the religious map
of the whole world.
All these religions, however, have a history, a history more deeply
interesting than the history of language, or literature, or art, or
politics. Religions are not unchangeable; on the contrary, they are
always growing and changing; and if they cease to grow and cease to
change, they cease to live. Some of these religions stand by themselves,
totally independent of all the rest; others are closely united, or have
influenced each other during various stages of their growth and decay.
They must therefore be studied together, if we wish to understand their
real character, their growth, their decay, and their resuscitations.
Thus, Mohammedanism would be unintelligible without Christianity;
Christianity without Judaism: and there are similar bonds that hold
together the great religions of India and Persia—the faith of the
Brahman, the Buddhist, and the Parsi. After a careful study of the
origin and growth of these religions, and after a critical examination
of the sacred books on which all of them profess to be founded, it has
become possible to subject them all to a scientific classification, in
the same manner as languages, apparently unconnected and mutually
unintelligible, have been scientifically arranged and classified; and by
a comparison of those points which all or some of them share in common,
as well as by a determination of
241
those which are peculiar to each, a new science has been called
into life, a science which concerns us all, and in which all who
truly care for religion must sooner or later take their
part—the Science of Religion.
Among the various classifications2 which have been applied to the
religions of the world, there is one that interests us more immediately
to-night, I mean the division into Non-Missionary and Missionary
religions. This is by no means, as might be supposed,
a classification based on an unimportant or merely accidental
characteristic; on the contrary, it rests on what is the very
heart-blood in every system of human faith. Among the six religions of
the Aryan and Semitic world, there are three that are opposed to all
missionary enterprise—Judaism, Brahmanism, and Zoroastrianism; and
three that have a missionary character from their very
beginning—Buddhism, Mohammedanism, and Christianity.
The Jews, particularly in ancient times, never thought of spreading
their religion. Their religion was to them a treasure, a privilege,
a blessing, something to distinguish them, as the chosen people of
God, from all the rest of the world. A Jew must be of the seed of
Abraham: and when in later times, owing chiefly to political
circumstances, the Jews had to admit strangers to some of the privileges
of their theocracy, they looked upon them, not as souls that had been
gained, saved, born again into a new brotherhood, but as strangers גְּרֵיים, as
Proselytes (προσήλυτοι); which means men who have come to
242
them as aliens, not to be trusted, as their saying was, until the
twenty-fourth generation.3
A very similar feeling prevented the Brahmans from ever attempting to
proselytize those who did not by birth belong to the spiritual
aristocracy of their country. Their wish was rather to keep the light to
themselves, to repel intruders; they went so far as to punish those who
happened to be near enough to hear even the sound of their prayers, or
to witness their sacrifices.4
The Parsi, too, does not wish for converts to his religion; he is
proud of his faith, as of his blood; and though he believes in the final
victory of truth and light, though he says to every man, “Be bright as
the sun, pure as the moon,” he himself does very little to drive away
spiritual darkness from the face of the earth, by letting the light that
is within him shine before the world.
But now let us look at the other cluster of religions, at Buddhism,
Mohammedanism, and Christianity. However they may differ from each other
in some of their most essential doctrines, this they share in
common—they all have faith in themselves, they all have life and
vigor, they want to convince, they mean to conquer. From the very
earliest dawn of their existence these three religions were missionary;
their very founders, or their first apostles, recognized
243
the new duty of spreading the truth, of refuting error, of bringing the
whole world to acknowledge the paramount, if not the divine, authority
of their doctrines. This is what gives to them all a common expression,
and lifts them high above the level of the other religions of the
world.
Let us begin with Buddhism. We know, indeed, very little of its
origin and earliest growth, for the earliest beginnings of all religions
withdraw themselves by necessity from the eye of the historian. But we
have something like contemporary evidence of the Great Council, held at
Pâṭaliputra, 246 B.C., in which the sacred canon of the Buddhist
scriptures was settled, and at the end of which missionaries were chosen
and sent forth to preach the new doctrine, not only in India, but far
beyond the frontiers of that vast country.5 We possess inscriptions
containing the edicts of the king who was to Buddhism what Constantine
was to Christianity, who broke with the traditions of the old religion
of the Brahmans, and recognized the doctrines of Buddha as the state
religion of India. We possess the description of the Council of Pâṭaliputra, which was to India what the
Council of Nicæa, 570 years later, was to Europe; and we can still read
there6 the simple story, how the chief elder who had presided
over the Council, an old man, too weak to travel by land, and carried
from his hermitage to the Council in a boat—how that man, when the
Council was over, began to reflect on the future, and found that the
time had come to establish the religion of Buddha in foreign countries.
He therefore dispatched some of the most eminent priests to Cashmere,
Cabul, and farther west,
244
to the colonies founded by the Greeks in Bactria, to Alexandria on the
Caucasus, and other cities. He sent others northward to Nepal, and to
the inhabited portions of the Himalayan mountains. Another mission
proceeded to the Dekhan, to the people of Mysore, to the Mahrattas,
perhaps to Goa; nay, even Birma and Ceylon are mentioned as among the
earliest missionary stations of Buddhist priests. We still possess
accounts of their manner of preaching. When threatened by infuriated
crowds, one of those Buddhist missionaries said calmly, “If the whole
world, including the Deva heavens, were to come and terrify me, they
would not be able to create in me fear and terror.” And when he had
brought the people to listen, he dismissed them with the simple prayer,
“Do not hereafter give way to anger, as before; do not destroy the
crops, for all men love happiness. Show mercy to all living beings, and
let men dwell in peace.”
No doubt, the accounts of the successes achieved by those early
missionaries are exaggerated, and their fights with snakes and dragons
and evil spirits remind us sometimes of the legendary accounts of the
achievements of such men as St. Patrick in Ireland, or St. Boniface in
Germany. But the fact that missionaries were sent out to convert the
world seems beyond the reach of reasonable doubt;7 and this fact represents
to us at that time a new thought, new, not only in the history of India,
but in the history of the whole world. The recognition of a duty to
preach the truth to every man, woman, and child, was an
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idea opposed to the deepest instincts of Brahmanism; and when, at the
end of the chapter on the first missions, we read the simple words of
the old chronicler, “who would demur, if the salvation of the world is
at stake?” we feel at once that we move in a new world, we see the dawn
of a new day, the opening of vaster horizons—we feel, for the
first time in the history of the world, the beating of the great heart
of humanity.8,A
The Koran breathes a different spirit; it does not invite, it rather
compels the world to come in. Yet there are passages, particularly in
the earlier portions, which show that Mohammed, too, had realized the
idea of humanity, and of a religion of humanity; nay, that at first he
wished to unite his own religion with that of the Jews and Christians,
comprehending all under the common name of Islâm. Islâm meant originally
humility or devotion; and all who humbled themselves before God, and
were filled with real reverence, were called Moslim. “The Islâm,” says
Mohammed, “is the true worship of God. When men dispute with you, say,
‘I am a Moslim.’ Ask those who have sacred books, and ask the
heathen; ‘Are you Moslim?’ If they are, they are on the right path; but if they turn
away, then you have no other task but to deliver the message, to preach
to them the Islâm.”9
As to our own religion, its very soul is missionary, progressive,
world-embracing; it would cease to exist, if it ceased to be
missionary—if it disregarded
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the parting words of its Founder: “Go ye therefore and teach all
nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and
of the Holy Ghost; teaching them to observe all things I have commanded;
and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.”
It is this missionary character, peculiar to these three religions,
Buddhism, Mohammedanism, and Christianity, which binds them together,
and lifts them to a higher sphere. Their differences, no doubt, are
great; on some points they are opposed to each other like day and night.
But they could not be what they are, they could not have achieved what
they have achieved, unless the spirit of truth and the spirit of love
had been alive in the hearts of their founders, their first messengers,
and missionaries.
The spirit of truth is the life-spring of all religion, and where it
exists it must manifest itself, it must plead, it must persuade, it must
convince and convert. Missionary work, however, in the usual sense of
the word, is only one manifestation of that spirit; for the same spirit
which fills the heart of the missionary with daring abroad, gives
courage also to the preacher at home, bearing witness to the truth that
is within him. The religions which can boast of missionaries who left
the old home of their childhood, and parted with parents and
friends—never to meet again in this life—who went into the
wilderness, willing to spend a life of toil among strangers, ready, if
need be, to lay down their life as witnesses to the truth, as martyrs
for the glory of God—the same religions are rich also in those
honest and intrepid inquirers who, at the bidding of the same spirit of
truth,
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were ready to leave behind them the cherished creed of their childhood,
to separate from the friends they loved best, to stand alone among men
that shrug their shoulders, and ask, “What is truth?” and to bear in
silence a martyrdom more galling often than death itself. There are men
who say that, if they held the whole truth in their hand, they would not
open one finger. Such men know little of the working of the spirit of
truth, of the true missionary spirit. As long as there are doubt and
darkness and anxiety in the soul of an inquirer, reticence may be his
natural attitude. But when once doubt has yielded to certainty, darkness
to light, anxiety to joy, the rays of truth will burst forth; and to
close our hand or to shut our lips would be as impossible as for the
petals of a flower to shut themselves against the summons of the sun of
spring.
What is there in this short life that should seal our lips? What
should we wait for, if we are not to speak here and now?
There is missionary work at home as much as abroad; there are thousands
waiting to listen if one man will but speak the truth, and
nothing but the truth; there are thousands starving, because they cannot
find that food which is convenient for them.
And even if the spirit of truth might be chained down by fear or
prudence, the spirit of love would never yield. Once recognize the
common brotherhood of mankind, not as a name or a theory, but as a real
bond, as a bond more binding, more lasting than the bonds of family,
caste, and race, and the questions, Why should I upon my hand? why
should I open my heart? why should I speak to my brother? will never be
asked again. Is it not
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far better to speak than to walk through life silent, unknown,
unknowing? Has any one of us ever spoken to his friend, and opened to
him his inmost soul, and been answered with harshness or repelled with
scorn? Has any one of us, be he priest or layman, ever listened to the
honest questionings of a truth-loving soul, without feeling his own soul
filled with love? aye, without feeling humbled by the very honesty of a
brother’s confession?
If we would but confess, friend to friend, if we would be but honest,
man to man, we should not want confessors or confessionals.
If our doubts and difficulties are self-made, if they can be removed
by wiser and better men, why not give to our brother the opportunity of
helping us? But if our difficulties are not self-made, if they are not
due either to ignorance or presumption, is it not even then better for
us to know that we are all carrying the same burden, the common burden
of humanity, if haply we may find, that for the heavy laden there is but
one who can give them rest?
There may be times when silence is gold, and speech silver: but there
are times also when silence is death, and speech is life—the very
life of Pentecost.
How can man be afraid of man? How can we be afraid of those whom we
love?
Are the young afraid of the old? But nothing delights the older man
more than to see that he is trusted by the young, and that they believe
he will tell them the truth.
Are the old afraid of the young? But nothing sustains the young more
than to know that they do not stand alone in their troubles, and that in
many trials of the soul the father is as helpless as the child.
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Are the women afraid of men? But men are not wiser in the things
appertaining to God than women, and real love of God is theirs far more
than ours.
Are men afraid of women? But though women may hide their troubles
more carefully, their heart aches as much as ours, when they whisper to
themselves, “Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief.”
Are the laity afraid of the clergy? But where is the clergyman who
would not respect honest doubt more than unquestioning faith?
Are the clergy afraid of the laity? But surely we know, in this place
at least, that the clear voice of honesty and humility draws more hearts
than the harsh accents of dogmatic assurance or ecclesiastic
exclusiveness.
“There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.”
A missionary must know no fear; his heart must overflow with
love—love of man, love of truth, love of God; and in this, the
highest and truest sense of the word, every Christian is, or ought to
be, a missionary.
And now, let us look again at the religions in which the missionary
spirit has been at work, and compare them with those in which any
attempt to convince others by argument, to save souls, to bear witness
to the truth, is treated with pity or scorn. The former are alive,
the latter are dying or dead.
The religion of Zoroaster—the religion of Cyrus, of Darius and
Xerxes—which, but for the battles of Marathon and Salamis, might
have become the religion of the civilized world, is now professed by
only 100,000 souls—that is, by about a ten-thousandth part of the
inhabitants of the world. During the
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last two centuries their number has steadily decreased from four to one
hundred thousand, and another century will probably exhaust what is
still left of the worshippers of the Wise Spirit, Ahura-mazda.
The Jews are about thirty times the number of the Parsis, and they
therefore represent a more appreciable portion of mankind. Though it is
not likely that they will ever increase in number, yet such is their
physical vigor and their intellectual tenacity, such also their pride of
race and their faith in Jehovah, that we can hardly imagine that their
patriarchal religion and their ancient customs will soon vanish from the
face of the earth.
But though the religions of the Parsis and Jews might justly seem to
have paid the penalty of their anti-missionary spirit, how, it will be
said, can the same be maintained with regard to the religion of the
Brahmans? That religion is still professed by at least 110,000,000 of
human souls, and, to judge from the last census, even that enormous
number falls much short of the real truth. And yet I do not shrink from
saying that their religion is dying or dead. And why? Because it cannot
stand the light of day. The worship of Śiva, of Vishṇu, and the other popular deities, is of the same,
nay, in many cases of a more degraded and savage character than the
worship of Jupiter, Apollo, and Minerva; it belongs to a stratum of
thought which is long buried beneath our feet: it may live on, like the
lion and the tiger, but the mere air of free thought and civilized life
will extinguish it. A religion may linger on for a long time, it
may be accepted by the large masses of the people, because it is there,
and there is
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nothing better. But when a religion has ceased to produce defenders of
the faith, prophets, champions, martyrs, it has ceased to live, in the
true sense of the word; and in that sense the old, orthodox Brahmanism
has ceased to live for more than a thousand years.
It is true there are millions of children, women, and men in India
who fall down before the stone image of Vishṇu, with his four arms, riding on a creature half
bird, half man, or sleeping on the serpent; who worship Śiva,
a monster with three eyes, riding naked on a bull, with a necklace
of skulls for his ornament. There are human beings who still believe in
a god of war, Kârtikêya, with six faces, riding on a peacock, and
holding bow and arrow in his hands; and who invoke a god of success,
Gaṇeśa, with four hands and an
elephant’s head, sitting on a rat. Nay, it is true that, in the broad
daylight of the nineteenth century, the figure of the goddess Kali is
carried through the streets of her own city, Calcutta,10 her wild
disheveled hair reaching to her feet, with a necklace of human heads,
her tongue protruded from her mouth, her girdle stained with blood. All
this is true; but ask any Hindu who can read and write and think,
whether these are the gods he believes in, and he will smile at your
credulity. How long this living death of national religion in India may
last, no one can tell: for our purposes, however, for gaining an idea of
the issue of the great religious struggle of the future, that religion
too is dead and gone.
The three religions which are alive, and between
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which the decisive battle for the dominion of the world will have to be
fought, are the three missionary religions, Buddhism, Mohammedanism,
and Christianity. Though religious statistics are perhaps the most
uncertain of all, yet it is well to have a general conception of the
forces of our enemies; and it is well to know that, though the number of
Christians is double the number of Mohammedans, the Buddhist religion
still occupies the first place in the religious census of mankind.11
Buddhism rules supreme in Central, Northern, Eastern, and Southern
Asia, and it gradually absorbs whatever there is left of aboriginal
heathenism in that vast and populous area.
Mohammedanism claims as its own Arabia, Persia, great parts of India,
Asia Minor, Turkey, and Egypt; and its greatest conquests by missionary
efforts are made among the heathen population of Africa.
Christianity reigns in Europe and America, and it is conquering the
native races of Polynesia and Melanesia, while its missionary outposts
are scattered all over the world.
Between these three powers, then, the religious battle of the future,
the Holy War of mankind, will have to be fought, and is being fought at
the present moment, though apparently with little effect. To convert a
Mohammedan is difficult; to convert a Buddhist, more difficult still; to
convert a Christian, let us hope, well nigh impossible.
What then, it may be asked, is the use of missionaries? Why should we
spend millions on foreign missions, when there are children in our
cities who
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are allowed to grow up in ignorance? Why should we deprive ourselves of
some of the noblest, boldest, most ardent and devoted spirits and send
them into the wilderness, while so many laborers are wanted in the
vineyard at home.
It is right to ask these questions; and we ought not to blame those
political economists who tell us that every convert costs us £200, and
that at the present rate of progress it would take more than 200,000
years to evangelize the world. There is nothing at all startling in
these figures. Every child born in Europe is as much a heathen as the
child of a Melanesian cannibal; and it costs us more than £200 to turn a
child into a Christian man. The other calculation is totally erroneous;
for an intellectual harvest must not be calculated by adding simply
grain to grain, but by counting each grain as a living seed, that will
bring forth fruit a hundred and a thousand fold.
If we want to know what work there is for the missionary to do, what
results we may expect from it, we must distinguish between two kinds of
work: the one is parental, the other controversial. Among
uncivilized races the work of the missionary is the work of a parent;
whether his pupils are young in years or old, he has to treat them with
a parent’s love, to teach them with a parent’s authority; he has to win
them, not to argue with them. I know this kind of missionary work
is often despised; it is called mere religious kidnapping; and it is
said that missionary success obtained by such means proves nothing for
the truth of Christianity; that the child handed over to a Mohammedan
would grow up a Mohammedan, as much as a child taken by a Christian
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missionary becomes a Christian. All this is true; missionary success
obtained by such means proves nothing for the truth of our creeds: but
it proves, what is far more important, it proves Christian love. Read
only the “Life of Patteson,” the bishop of Melanesia; follow him in his
vessel, sailing from island to island, begging for children, carrying
them off as a mother her new-born child, nursing them, washing and
combing them, clothing them, feeding them, teaching them in his
Episcopal Palace, in which he himself is everything, nurse, and
housemaid, and cook, schoolmaster, physician, and bishop—read
there, how that man who tore himself away from his aged father, from his
friends, from his favorite studies and pursuits, had the most loving of
hearts for these children, how indignantly he repelled for them the name
of savages, how he trusted them, respected them, honored them, and when
they were formed and established, took them back to their island home,
there to be a leaven for future ages. Yes, read the life, the work, the
death of that man, a death in very truth, a ransom for the
sins of others—and then say whether you would like to suppress a
profession that can call forth such self-denial, such heroism, such
sanctity, such love. It has been my privilege to have known some of the
finest and noblest spirits which England has produced during this
century, but there is none to whose memory I look up with greater
reverence, none by whose friendship I feel more deeply humbled than by
that of that true saint, that true martyr, that truly parental
missionary.
The work of the parental missionary is clear, and its success
undeniable, not only in Polynesia and
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Melanesia, but in many parts of India—(think only of the bright
light of Tinnevelly)—in Africa, in China, in America, in Syria, in
Turkey, aye, in the very heart of London.
The case is different with the controversial missionary, who has to
attack the faith of men brought up in other religions, in religions
which contain much truth, though mixed up with much error. Here the
difficulties are immense, the results very discouraging. Nor need we
wonder at this. We know, each of us, but too well, how little argument
avails in theological discussion; how often it produces the very
opposite result of what we expected; confirming rather than shaking
opinions no less erroneous, no less indefensible, than many articles of
the Mohammedan or Buddhist faith.
And even when argument proves successful, when it forces a verdict
from an unwilling judge, how often has the result been disappointing;
because in tearing up the rotten stem on which the tree rested, its
tenderest fibres have been injured, its roots unsettled, its life
destroyed.
We have little ground to expect that these controversial weapons will
carry the day in the struggle between the three great religions of the
world.
But there is a third kind of missionary activity, which has produced
the most important results, and through which alone, I believe, the
final victory will be gained. Whenever two religions are brought into
contact, when members of each live together in peace, abstaining from
all direct attempts at conversion, whether by force or by argument,
though conscious all the time of the fact that they and their religion
are on their trial, that they are being watched, that
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they are responsible for all they say and do—the effect has always
been the greatest blessing to both. It calls out all the best elements
in each, and at the same time keeps under all that is felt to be of
doubtful value, of uncertain truth. Whenever this has happened in the
history of the world, it has generally led either to the reform of both
systems, or to the foundation of a new religion.
When after the conquest of India the violent measures for the
conversion of the Hindus to Mohammedanism had ceased, and Mohammedans
and Brahmans lived together in the enjoyment of perfect equality, the
result was a purified Mohammedanism, and a purified Brahmanism.12 The
worshippers of Vishṇu, Śiva, and other
deities became ashamed of these mythological gods, and were led to admit
that there was, either over and above these individual deities, or
instead of them, a higher divine power (the Para-Brahma), the true
source of all being, the only and almighty ruler of the world. That
religious movement assumed its most important development at the
beginning of the twelfth century, when Râmânuja founded the reformed
sect of the worshippers of Vishṇu; and
again, in the fourteenth century, when his fifth successor, Râmânanda,
imparted a still more liberal character to that powerful sect. Not only
did he abolish many of the restrictions of caste, many of the minute
ceremonial observances in eating, drinking, and bathing, but he replaced
the classical Sanskrit—which was unintelligible to the large
masses of the people—by the living vernaculars, in which he
preached a purer worship of God.
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The most remarkable man of that time was a weaver, the pupil of
Râmânanda, known by the name of Kabir. He indeed deserved the name which
the members of the reformed sect claimed for themselves, Avadhûta, which
means one who has shaken off the dust of superstition. He broke entirely
with the popular mythology and the customs of the ceremonial law, and
addressed himself alike to Hindu and Mohammedan. According to him, there
is but one God, the creator of the world, without beginning and end, of
inconceivable purity, and irresistible strength. The pure man is the
image of God, and after death attains community with God. The
commandments of Kabir are few: Not to injure anything that has life, for
life is of God; to speak the truth; to keep aloof from the world; to
obey the teacher. His poetry is most beautiful, hardly surpassed in any
other language.
Still more important in the history of India was the reform of Nânak,
the founder of the Sikh religion. He, too, worked entirely in the spirit
of Kabir. Both labored to persuade the Hindus and Mohammedans that the
truly essential parts of their creeds were the same, that they ought to
discard the varieties of practical detail, and the corruptions of their
teachers, for the worship of the One Only Supreme, whether he was
termed Allah or Vishṇu.
The effect of these religious reforms has been highly beneficial; it
has cut into the very roots of idolatry, and has spread throughout India
an intelligent and spiritual worship, which may at any time develop into
a higher national creed.
The same effect which Mohammedanism produced on Hinduism is now being
produced, in a much
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higher degree, on the religious mind of India by the mere presence of
Christianity. That silent influence began to tell many years ago, even
at a time when no missionaries were allowed within the territory of the
old East India Company. Its first representative was Ram Mohun Roy, born
just one hundred years ago, in 1772, who died at Bristol in 1833, the
founder of the Brahma-Samâj. A man so highly cultivated and so
highly religious as he was, could not but feel humiliated at the
spectacle which the popular religion of his country presented to his
English friends. He drew their attention to the fact that there was a
purer religion to be found in the old sacred writings of his people, the
Vedas. He went so far as to claim for the Vedas a divine origin, and to
attempt the foundation of a reformed faith on their authority. In this
attempt he failed.
No doubt the Vedas and other works of the ancient poets and prophets
of India, contain treasures of truth, which ought never to be forgotten,
least of all by the sons of India. The late good Bishop Cotton, in his
address to the students of a missionary institution at Calcutta, advised
them to use a certain hymn of the Rig-Veda in their daily prayers.13
Nowhere do we find stronger arguments against idolatry, nowhere has the
unity of the Deity been upheld more strenuously against the errors of
polytheism than by some of the ancient sages of India. Even in the
oldest of their sacred books, the Rig-Veda, composed three or four
thousand years ago—where we find hymns addressed to the different
deities of the sky, the air, the earth, the rivers—the protest of
the human heart against many gods, breaks forth from time to
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time with no uncertain sound. One poet, after he has asked to whom
sacrifice is due, answers, “to Him who is God above all gods.”14 Another
poet, after enumerating the names of many deities, affirms, without
hesitation, that “these are all but names of Him who is One.” And even
when single deities are invoked, it is not difficult to see that, in the
mind of the poet, each one of the names is meant to express the highest
conception of deity of which the human mind was then capable. The
god of the sky is called Father and Mother and Friend; he is the
Creator, the Upholder of the Universe; he rewards virtue and punishes
sin; he listens to the prayers of those who love him.
But granting all this, we may well understand why an attempt to claim
for these books a divine origin, and thus to make them an artificial
foundation for a new religion, failed. The successor of Ram Mohun Roy,
the present head of the Brahma-Samâj, the wise and excellent
Debendranâth Tagore, was for a time even more decided in holding to the
Vedas as the sole foundation of the new faith. But this could not last.
As soon as the true character of the Vedas,15 which but few people
in India can understand, became known, partly through the efforts of
native, partly of European scholars, the Indian reformers relinquished
the claim of divine inspiration in favor of their Vedas, and were
satisfied with a selection of passages from the works of the ancient
sages of India, to express and embody the creed which the members of the
Brahma-Samâj hold in common.16
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The work which these religious reformers have been doing in India is
excellent, and those only who know what it is, in religious matters, to
break with the past, to forsake the established custom of a nation, to
oppose the rush of public opinion, to brave adverse criticism, to submit
to social persecution, can form any idea of what those men have
suffered, in bearing witness to the truth that was within them.
They could not reckon on any sympathy on the part of Christian
missionaries; nor did their work attract much attention in Europe till
very lately, when a schism broke out in the Brahma-Samâj between the old
conservative party and a new party, led by Keshub Chunder Sen. The
former, though willing to surrender all that was clearly idolatrous in
the ancient religion and customs of India, wished to retain all that
might safely be retained: it did not wish to see the religion of India
denationalized. The other party, inspired and led by Keshub Chunder Sen,
went further in their zeal for religious purity. All that smacked of the
old leaven was to be surrendered; not only caste, but even that sacred
cord—the religious riband which makes and marks the Brahman, which
is to remind him at every moment of his life, and whatever work he may
be engaged in, of his God, of his ancestors, and of his
children—even that was to be abandoned; and instead of founding
their creed exclusively on the utterances of the ancient sages of their
own country, all that was best in the sacred books of the whole world
was selected and formed into a new sacred code.17,B
The schism between these two parties is deeply to be deplored; but it
is a sign of life. It augurs success
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rather than failure for the future. It is the same schism which St. Paul
had to heal in the Church of Corinth, and he healed it with the words,
so often misunderstood, “Knowledge puffeth up, but charity
edifieth.”
In the eyes of our missionaries this religious reform in India has
not found much favor: nor need we wonder at this. Their object is to
transplant, if possible, Christianity in its full integrity from England
to India, as we might wish to transplant a full-grown tree. They do not
deny the moral worth, the noble aspirations, the self-sacrificing zeal
of these native reformers; but they fear that all this will but increase
their dangerous influence, and retard the progress of Christianity, by
drawing some of the best minds of India, that might have been gained
over to our religion, into a different current. They feel towards Keshub
Chunder Sen18,C as
Athanasius might have felt towards Ulfilas, the Arian Bishop of the
Goths: and yet, what would have become of Christianity in Europe but for
those Gothic races, but for those Arian heretics, who were considered
more dangerous than downright pagans?
If we think of the future of India, and of the influence which that
country has always exercised on the East, the movement of religious
reform which is now going on appears to my mind the most momentous in
this momentous century. If our missionaries feel constrained to
repudiate it as their own work, history will be more just to them than
they themselves.19
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And if not as the work of Christian missionaries, it will be recognized
hereafter as the work of those missionary Christians who have lived in
India, as examples of a true Christian life, who have approached the
natives in a truly missionary spirit, in the spirit of truth and in the
spirit of love; whose bright presence has thawed the ice, and brought
out beneath it the old soil, ready to blossom into new life. These
Indian puritans are not against us; for all the highest purposes of life
they are with us, and we, I trust, with them. What would the early
Christians have said to men, outside the pale of Christianity, who spoke
of Christ and his doctrine as some of these Indian reformers? Would they
have said to them, “Unless you speak our language and think our
thoughts, unless you accept our Creed and sign our Articles, we can have
nothing in common with you.”
O that Christians, and particularly missionaries, would lay to heart
the words of a missionary Bishop!20 “I have for years thought,”
writes Bishop Patteson, “that we seek in our missions a great deal too
much to make English Christians. . . . .
Evidently the heathen man is not treated fairly, if we encumber our
message with unnecessary requirements. The ancient Church had its
‘selection of fundamentals.’ . . . . Any one can see what
mistakes we have made in India. . . . Few men think
themselves into the state of the Eastern mind. . . . We
seek to denationalize
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these races, as far as I can see; whereas we ought surely to change as
little as possible—only what is clearly incompatible with the
simplest form of Christian teaching and practice. I do not mean
that we are to compromise truth . . . . but do we not
overlay it a good deal with human traditions!”
If we had many such missionaries as Bishop Patteson and Bishop
Cotton, if Christianity were not only preached, but lived in that
spirit, it would then prove itself what it is—the religion of
humanity at large, large enough itself to take in all shades and
diversities of character and race.
And more than that—if this true missionary spirit, this spirit
of truth and love, of forbearance, of trust, of toleration, of humility,
were once to kindle the hearts of all those chivalrous ambassadors of
Christ, the message of the Gospel which they have to deliver would then
become as great a blessing to the giver as to the receiver. Even now,
missionary work unites, both at home and abroad, those who are widely
separated by the barriers of theological sects.21
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It might do so far more still. When we stand before a common enemy,
we soon forget our own small feuds. But why? Often, I fear, from
motives of prudence only and selfishness. Can we not, then, if we stand
in spirit before a common friend—can we not, before the face of
God, forget our small feuds, for very shame? If missionaries admit to
their fold converts who can hardly understand the equivocal abstractions
of our creeds and formulas, is it necessary to exclude those who
understand them but too well to submit the wings of their free spirit to
such galling chains! When we try to think of the majesty of God, what
are all those formulas but the stammerings of children, which only a
loving father can interpret and understand! The fundamentals of our
religion are not in these poor creeds; true Christianity lives, not in
our belief, but in our love—in our love of God, and in our love
of man, founded on our love of God.
That is the whole Law and the Prophets, that is the religion to be
preached to the whole world, that is the Gospel which will conquer all
other religions—even Buddhism and Mohammedanism—which will
win the hearts of all men.
There can never be too much love, though there may be too much
faith—particularly when it leads to the requirement of exactly the
same measure of faith in others. Let those who wish for the true
265
success of missionary work learn to throw in of the abundance of their
faith; let them learn to demand less from others than from themselves.
That is the best offering, the most valuable contribution which they can
make to-day to the missionary cause.
Let missionaries preach the Gospel again as it was preached when it
began the conquest of the Roman Empire and the Gothic nations; when it
had to struggle with powers and principalities, with time-honored
religions and triumphant philosophies, with pride of civilization and
savagery of life—and yet came out victorious. At that time
conversion was not a question to be settled by the acceptance or
rejection of certain formulas or articles; a simple prayer was
often enough: “God be merciful to me a sinner.”
There is one kind of faith that revels in words, there is another
that can hardly find utterance: the former is like riches that come to
us by inheritance; the latter is like the daily bread, which each of us
has to win in the sweat of his brow. We cannot expect the former from
new converts; we ought not to expect it or to exact it, for fear that it
might lead to hypocrisy or superstition. The mere believing of miracles,
the mere repeating of formulas requires no effort in converts, brought
up to believe in the Purâṇas of the
Brahmans or the Buddhist Jâtakas. They find it much easier to accept a
legend than to love God, to repeat a creed than to forgive their
enemies. In this respect they are exactly like ourselves. Let
missionaries remember that the Christian faith at home is no longer what
it was, and that it is impossible to have one Creed to preach abroad,
another to preach at home. Much that was formerly
266
considered as essential is now neglected; much that was formerly
neglected is now considered as essential. I think of the laity more
than of the clergy; but what would the clergy be without the laity?
There are many of our best men, men of the greatest power and influence
in literature, science, art, politics, aye even in the Church itself,
who are no longer Christian in the old sense of the word. Some imagine
they have ceased to be Christians altogether, because they feel that
they cannot believe as much as others profess to believe. We cannot
afford to lose these men, nor shall we lose them if we learn to be
satisfied with what satisfied Christ and the Apostles, with what
satisfies many a hard-working missionary. If Christianity is to retain
its hold on Europe and America, if it is to conquer in the Holy War of
the future, it must throw off its heavy armor, the helmet of brass and
the coat of mail, and face the world like David, with his staff, his
stones, and his sling. We want less of creeds, but more of trust; less
of ceremony, but more of work; less of solemnity, but more of genial
honesty; less of doctrine, but more of love. There is a faith, as small
as a grain of mustard-seed, but that grain alone can move mountains, and
more than that, it can move hearts. Whatever the world may say of us, of
us of little faith, let us remember that there was one who accepted the
offering of the poor widow. She threw in but two mites, but that was all
she had, even all her living.
267
Mahâdayassâpi jinassa kaḍḍhanaṃ,
Vihâya pattaṃ amataṃ sukham pi te
Kariṃsu lokassa hitaṃ tahiṃ tahiṃ,
Bhaveyya ko lokahite pamâdavâ?
The first line is elliptical.
(Imitating) the resignation of the all-merciful Conqueror,
They also, resigning the deathless bliss within their reach,
Worked the welfare of mankind in various lands.
What man is there who would be remiss in doing good to mankind?
Hardy, in his “Manual of Buddhism” (p. 187), relates how fifty-four
princes and a thousand fire-worshippers became the disciples of Buddha.
“Whilst Buddha remained at Isipatana, Yasa, the son of Sujatá, who had
been brought up in all delicacy, one night went secretly to him, was
received with affection, became a priest, and entered the first path.
The father, on discovering that he had fled, was disconsolate: but
Buddha delivered to him a discourse, by which he became a rahat. The
fifty-four companions of Yasa went to the monastery to induce him to
return, and play with them as usual; but when they saw him, they were so
struck with his manner and appearance, that they also resolved on
becoming priests. When they went to Buddha, they were admitted, by the
power of irdhi received the pirikara requisites of the
priesthood, and became rahats. Buddha had now sixty disciples who were
rahats, and he commanded them to go by different ways, and proclaim to
all that a supreme Buddha had appeared in the world.”
Mr. Childers has kindly sent me the following extract from Fausböll’s
“Dhammapada” (p. 119), where the same story is told:—
. . . . Yasakulaputtassa upanissayasampattiṃ
disvâ taṃ rattibhâge nibbijjitvâ gehaṃ pahâya nikkhantaṃ “ehi Yasati”
268
pakkositvâ, tasmiñ ñeva rattibhâge sotâpattiphalaṃ punadivase arahattuṃ
pâpesi. Apare pi tassa sahâyake catupaṇṇâsajane ehibhikkhupabbajjâya
pabbâjetvâ arahattuṃ pâpesi. Evaṃ loke ekasaṭṭhiyâ arahantesu jâtesu
vutthavasso pavâretva “caratha bhikkhave cârikan” ti saṭṭhiṃ bhikkhû
disâsu pesetvâ. . . . . “Seeing that the
young nobleman Yasa was ripe for conversion, in the night, when weary
with the vanities of the world he had left his home and embraced the
ascetic life,—he called him, saying, ‘Follow me, Yasa,’ and that
very night he caused him to obtain the fruition of the first path, and
on the following day arhatship. And fifty-four other persons, who were
friends of Yasa’s, he ordained with the formula, ‘Follow me, priest,’
and caused them to attain arhatship. Thus when there were sixty-one
arhats in the world, having passed the period of seclusion during the
rains and resumed active duties, he sent forth the sixty priests in all
directions, saying, ‘Go forth, priests, on your rounds
(or travels).’”
Another passage, too, showing Buddha’s desire to see his doctrine
preached in the whole world, was pointed out to me by Mr. Childers from
the “Mahâparinibbâna Sutta,” which has since been published by this
indefatigable scholar in the “Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society,”
vol. vii., p. 77:—
“Three months before his death, when Gautama’s health and strength is
fast failing, he is tempted by Mâra, who comes to him and urges him to
bring his life and mission at once to a close by attaining Nirvâṇa (dying). Buddha replies that he will not die
until his disciples are perfect on all points, and able to maintain the
Truth with power against all unbelievers. Mâra replies that this is
already the case, whereupon Buddha uses these striking words: Na tâvâhaṃ pâpima parinibbayissâmi yâva me imaṃ
brahmacariyaṃ na iddhañ c’ eva bhavissati phîtañ ca vitthârikaṃ
bâhujaññaṃ puthubhûtaṃ, yâvad eva manusschi suppakâsitan ti.
‘O wicked one, I will not die until this my holy religion
thrives and prospers, until it is widely spread, known to many peoples,
and grown great, until it is completely published among men.’ Mara again
asserts that this is already the case, and Buddha replies, ‘Strive no
more, wicked one, the death of the Tathagata is at hand, at the end of
three months from this time, the Tathâgata will attain Nirvâṇa.’”
269
NOTE B.
The Schism in the Brahma-Samâj.22,
text
The present position of the two
parties in the Brahma-Samâj is well described by Rajnarain Bose (the
“Adi Brahmo Samaj,” Calcutta, 1873, p. 11). “The particular
opinions above referred to can be divided into two comprehensive
classes—conservative and progressive. The conservative Brahmos are
those who are unwilling to push religious and social reformation to any
great extreme. They are of opinion that reformation should be gradual,
the law of gradual progress being universally prevalent in nature. They
also say that the principle of Brahmic harmony requires a harmonious
discharge of all our duties, and that, as it is a duty to take a part in
reformation, so there are other duties to perform, namely, those towards
parents and society, and that we should harmonize all these duties as
much as we can. However unsatisfactory such arguments may appear to a
progressive Brahmo, they are such as could not be slighted at first
sight. They are certainly such as to make the conservative Brahmo think
sincerely that he is justified in not pushing religious and social
reformation to any great extreme. The progressive Brahmo cannot
therefore call him a hypocrite. A union of both the conservative
and the progressive elements in the Brahmo church is necessary for its
stability. The conservative element will prevent the progressive from
spoiling the cause of reformation by taking premature and abortive
measures for advancing that cause; the progressive element will prevent
the conservative from proving a stolid obstruction to it. The
conservative element will serve as a link between the progressive
element and the orthodox community, and prevent the progressive Brahmo
from being completely estranged from that community, as the native
Christians are; while the progressive element will prevent the
conservative from remaining inert and being absorbed by the orthodox
community. The common interests of Brahmo Dharma
270
should lead both classes to respect, and be on amicable terms with each
other. It is true the progressive of the present half century will prove
the conservative of the next; but there could never come a time when the
two classes would cease to exist in the bosom of the church. She should,
like a wise mother, make them live in peace with each other, and work
harmoniously together for her benefit.
“As idolatry is intimately interwoven with our social fabric,
conservative Brahmos, though discarding it in other respects, find it
very difficult to do so on the occasion of such very important domestic
ceremonies as marriage, shradh (ancestral sacrifices), and
upanayana (spiritual apprenticing); but they should consider
that Brahmoism is not so imperative on any other point as on the
renunciation of idolatry. It can allow conservatism in other respects,
but not on the point of idolatry. It can consider a man a Brahmo if he
be conservative in other respects than idolatry; but it can never
consider an idolater to be a Brahmo. The conservative Brahmo can do one
thing, that is, observe the old ritual, leaving out only the idolatrous
portion of it, if he do not choose to follow the positive Brahmo ritual
laid down in the ‘Anushthána Paddhati.’ Liberty should be given by the
progressive Brahmo to the conservative Brahmo in judging of the
idolatrous character of the portions of the old ritual rejected by him.
If a progressive Brahmo requires a conservative one to reject those
portions which the former considers to be idolatrous, but the latter
does not, he denies liberty of conscience to a fellow-Brahmo.
“The Adi Brahmo-Samaj is the national Hindu Theistic Church, whose
principles of church reformation we have been describing above. Its
demeanor towards the old religion of the country is friendly, but
corrective and reformative. It is this circumstance which preëminently
distinguishes it from the Brahmo-Samaj of India, whose attitude to that
religion is antagonistic and offensive. The mission of the Adi Samaj is
to fulfill the old religion, and not to destroy it. The attitude of the
Adi Samaj to the old religion is friendly, but it is not at the same
time opposed to progress. It is a mistake to call it a conservative
church. It is rather a conservative-progressive church, or, more
correctly, simply a church or religious body, leaving matters of social
reformation to the judgments of individual members or bodies of such
members. It contains both progressive and conservative
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members. As the ultra-progressive Brahmos, who wanted to eliminate the
conservative element from it, were obliged to secede from it, so if a
high conservative party arise in its bosom which would attempt to do
violence to the progressive element and convert the church into a partly
conservative one, that party also would be obliged to secede from it.
Only men who can be tolerant of each others opinions, and can respect
each others earnest convictions, progressive and conservative, can
remain its members.”
The strong national feeling of the Indian reformers finds expression
in the following passage from “Brahmic Questions,” p. 9:—
“A Samaj is accessible to all. The minds of the majority of our
countrymen are not deeply saturated with Christian sentiments. What
would they think of a Brahmo minister who would quote on the Vedi
(altar) sayings from the Bible? Would they not from that time conceive
an intolerable hatred towards Brahmoism and everything Brahmo? If
quoting a sentence from the Bible or Koran offend our countrymen, we
shall not do so. Truth is as catholic when taken from the Sâstras as
from the Koran or the Bible. True liberality consists, not in quoting
texts from the religious Scriptures of other nations, but in bringing
up, as we advance, the rear who are groveling in ignorance and
superstition. We certainly do not act against the dictates of
conscience, if we quote texts from the Hindu Sâstras only, and not from
all the religious Scriptures of all the countries on the face of the
globe. Moreover, there is not a single saying in the Scriptures of other
nations, which has not its counterpart in the Sâstras.”
And again in “The Adi Brahma-Samaj, its Views and Principles,” p. 1:—
“The members of the Adi Samaj, aiming to diffuse the truths of Theism
among their own nation, the Hindus, have naturally adopted a Hindu mode
of propagation, just as an Arab Theist would adopt an Arabian mode of
propagation, and a Chinese Theist a Chinese one. Such differences in the
aspect of Theism in different countries must naturally arise from the
usual course of things, but they are adventitious, not essential,
national, not sectarian. Although Brahmoism is universal religion, it is
impossible to communicate a universal form to it. It must wear a
particular form in a particular country. A so-called universal
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form would make it appear grotesque and ridiculous to the nation or
religious denomination among whom it is intended to be propagated, and
would not command their veneration. In conformity with such views, the
Adi Samaj has adopted a Hindu form to propagate Theism among Hindus. It
has therefore retained many innocent Hindu usages and customs, and has
adopted a form of divine service containing passages extracted from the
Hindu Sâstras only, a book of Theistic texts containing selections
from those sacred books only, and a ritual containing as much of the
ancient form as could be kept consistently with the dictates of
conscience.”
NOTE C.
text
Extracts from Keshub Chunder Sen’s Lecture on Christ and Christianity,
1870.
“Why have I cherished respect and
reverence for Christ? . . . Why is it that, though I do not take the
name of ‘Christian,’ I still persevere in offering my hearty
thanksgivings to Jesus Christ? There must be something in the life and
death of Christ,—there must be something in his great gospel which
tends to bring comfort and light and strength to a heart heavy-laden
with iniquity and wickedness. . . . I studied Christ
ethically, nay spiritually,—and I studied the Bible also in the
same spirit, and I must acknowledge candidly and sincerely that I owe a
great deal to Christ and to the gospel of
Christ. . . .
“My first inquiry was, What is the creed taught in the Bible?
. . . Must I go through all the dogmas and doctrines which
constitute Christianity in the eye of the various sects, or is there
something simple which I can at once grasp and turn to account?
“I found Christ spoke one language, and Christianity another.
I went to him prepared to hear what he had to say, and was
immensely gratified when he told me: ‘Love the Lord thy God with all thy
heart, with all thy mind, with all thy soul, and with all thy strength,
and love thy neighbor as thyself;’ and then he added, ‘This is the whole
law and the prophets,’ in other words, the whole philosophy, theology,
and ethics of the law and the prophets are concentrated in these two
great doctrines of love to God and love to man; and then elsewhere he
said, ‘This do and
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ye shall inherit everlasting life.’ . . . If we love God and
love man we become Christ-like, and so attain everlasting life.
“Christ never demanded from me worship or adoration that is due to
God, the Creator of the Universe. . . . He places himself
before me as the spirit I must imbibe in order to approach the Divine
Father, as the great Teacher and guide who will lead me to God.
“There are some persons who believe that if we pass through the
ceremony of baptism and sacrament, we shall be accepted by God, but if
you accept baptism as an outward rite, you cannot thereby render your
life acceptable to God, for Christ wants something internal,
a complete conversion of the heart, a giving up the yoke of
mammon and accepting the yoke of religion, and truth, and God. He wants
us to baptize our hearts not with cold water, but with the fire of
religious and spiritual enthusiasm; he calls upon us not to go through
any outward rite, but to make baptism a ceremony of the heart,
a spiritual enkindling of all our energies, of all our loftiest and
most heavenly aspirations and activities. That is true baptism. So with
regard to the doctrine of the sacrament. There are many who eat the
bread and drink the wine at the sacramental table, and go through the
ceremony in the most pious and fervent spirit; but, after all, what does
the sacrament mean? If men simply adopt it as a tribute of respect and
honor to Christ, shall he be satisfied? Shall they themselves be
satisfied? Can we look upon them as Christians simply because they have
gone through this rite regularly for twenty or fifty years of their
lives? I think not. Christ demands of us absolute sanctification
and purification of the heart. In this matter, also, I see Christ
on one side, and Christian sects on the other.
“What is that bread which Christ asked his disciples to eat? what
that wine which he asked them to taste? Any man who has simple
intelligence in him, would at once come to the conclusion that all this
was metaphorical, and highly and eminently spiritual. Now, are you
prepared to accept Christ simply as an outward Christ, an outward
teacher, an external atonement and propitiation, or will you prove true
to Christ by accepting his solemn injunctions in their spiritual
importance and weight? He distinctly says, every follower of his must
eat his flesh and drink his blood. If we eat, bread is converted into
strength and health, and becomes the means of prolonging our life; so,
spiritually,
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if we take truth into our heart, if we put Christ into the soul, we
assimilate the spirit of Christ to our spiritual being, and then we find
Christ incorporated into our existence and converted into spiritual
strength, and health, and joy, and blessedness. Christ wants something
that will amount to self-sacrifice, a casting away of the old man,
and a new growth in the heart. I thus draw a line of demarcation
between the visible and outward Christ, and the invisible and inward
Christ, between bodily Christ and spiritual Christ, between the Christ
of images and pictures, and the Christ that grows in the heart, between
dead Christ and living Christ, between Christ that lived and that was,
and Christ that does live and that is. . . . .
“To be a Christian then is to be Christ-like. Christianity means
becoming like Christ, not acceptance of Christ as a proposition or as an
outward representation, but spiritual conformity with the life and
character of Christ. And what is Christ? By Christ I understand one who
said, ‘Thy will be done;’ and when I talk of Christ, I talk of that
spirit of loyalty to God, that spirit of absolute determinedness and
preparedness to say at all times and in all circumstances, ‘Thy will be
done, not mine.’ . . . .
“This prayer about forgiving an enemy and loving an enemy, this
transcendental doctrine of love of man, is really sweet to me, and when
I think of that blessed Man of God, crucified on the cross, and uttering
those blessed words, ‘Father, forgive them, they know not what they do;’
oh! I feel that I must love that being, I feel that there is
something within me which is touched by these sweet and heavenly
utterances, I feel that I must love Christ, let Christians say what
they like against me; that Christ I must love, for he preached love for
an enemy. . . . .
“When every individual man becomes Christian in
spirit—repudiate the name, if you like—when every individual
man becomes as prayerful as Christ was, as loving and forgiving towards
enemies as Christ was, as self-sacrificing as Christ was, then these
little units, these little individualities, will coalesce and combine
together by the natural affinity of their hearts; and these new
creatures, reformed, regenerated, in the child-like and Christ-like
spirit of devotion and faith, will feel drawn towards each other, and
they shall constitute a real Christian church, a real Christian
nation. Allow me, friends, to say, England is not yet a Christian
nation.”
275
Extracts from a Catechism issued by a member of
the Adi Brahmo-Samaj.
Q. Who is the deity of the Brahmos?
A. The One True God, one only without a second, whom all Hindu
Śâstras proclaim.
Q. What is the divine worship of the Brahmos?
A. Loving God, and doing the works He loveth.
Q. What is the temple of the Brahmos?
A. The pure heart.
Q. What are the ceremonial observances of the Brahmos?
A. Good works.
Q. What is the sacrifice of the Brahmos?
A. Renunciation of selfishness.
Q. What are the austerities of the Brahmos?
A. Not committing sin. The Mahábhárata says, He who does not
commit sin in mind, speech, action, or understanding, performs
austerities; not he who drieth up his body.
Q. What is the place of pilgrimage of the Brahmos?
A. The company of the good.
Q. What is the Veda of the Brahmos?
A. Divine knowledge. It is superior to all Vedas. The Veda
itself says: The inferior knowledge is the Rig Veda, the Yajur Veda, the
Sama Veda, the Atharva Veda, etc.; the superior knowledge is that which
treats of God.
Q. What is the most sacred formula of the Brahmos?
A. Be good and do good.
Q. Who is the true Brahman?
A. He who knows Brahma. The Brihadâraṇyaka-Upanishad says: He who departs from
this world knowing God, is a Brahman. (See “Brahmic Questions of the
Day,” 1869.)
276
A SERMON23 PREACHED BY ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY, D.D., DEAN OF
WESTMINSTER, ON THE DAY OF INTERCESSION FOR MISSIONS, WEDNESDAY,
DECEMBER 3, 1873.
Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Almost thou persuadest me to be a
Christian. And Paul said, I would to God, that, not only thou, but
all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I
am, except these bonds.
Ὁ
δὲ Ἀγρίππας πρὸς τὸν Παῦλον ἔφη·
Ἐν ὀλίγῳ με πείθεις Χριστιανὸν γενέσθαι.
Ὁ δὲ Παῦλος
εἶπεν·
Εὐξαίμην ἂν τῷ
Θεῳ,
καὶ ἐν ὀλίγῳ καὶ ἐν πολλῷ οὐ μόνον σε,
ἀλλὰ καὶ πάντας τοὺς ἀκούοντάς μου σήμερον
γενέσθαι τοιούτους,
ὁποῖος κἀγώ εἰμι παρεκτὸς τῶν δεσμῶν τούτων.
Acts xxvi. 28, 29.
When I preached on a like occasion
last year, I spoke at some length of the prospects of Christian
missions,24 and I ventured to give seven grounds which the
peculiar circumstances of our time afforded for
277
greater confidence in the future. First, the better knowledge of the
Divine nature acquired by the extinction of the once universal belief
that all heathens were everlastingly lost; secondly, the increased
acquaintance with the heathen religions themselves; thirdly, the
instruction which Christian missionaries have gained or may gain from
their actual experience in foreign parts; fourthly, the recognition of
the fact that the main hindrance to the success of Christian missions
arises from the vices and sins of Christendom; fifthly, an
acknowledgment of the indirect influences of Christianity through
legislation and civilization; sixthly, the newly awakened perception of
the duty of making exact, unvarnished, impartial statements on this
subject; seventhly, the testimony borne by missionary experience to the
common elements and essential principles of the Christian religion.
On these—the peculiar grounds for hope and for exertion in this
our generation—I content myself with referring to the observations
which I then made, and which I will not now repeat.
I propose on this occasion to make a few remarks on the End and on
the Means of Christian Missions; remarks which must of necessity be
general in their import, but which for that reason are the more suitable
to be offered by one who cannot speak from personal and special
experience.
The text is taken from a striking incident in the life of the
greatest of apostolic missionaries. It was in the presence of Festus and
Agrippa that Paul had poured forth those few burning utterances which to
Festus seemed like madness, but which Paul himself declared to be words
of truth and soberness. Then it
278
was that the Jewish prince, Agrippa—far better instructed and
seeing deeper into Paul’s mind than the heathen Festus, yet still
unconvinced—broke in upon the conversation with the words which in
the English translation have well nigh passed into a proverb, “Almost
thou persuadest me to be a Christian.” The sense which they thus give
would be in itself perfectly suitable to the halting, fickle character
of the Herodian family, and would accurately describe the numerous
half-converts throughout the world—“Almost,” but not quite, “thou
persuadest me to join the good cause.” But the sense which, by the
nearly universal consent of modern scholars, they really bear in the
original is something still more instructive. The only meaning of which
the Greek words are capable is an exclamation, half in jest and half in
earnest, “It is but a very brief and simple argument that you offer to
work so great a change;” or, if we may venture to bring out the sense
more forcibly, “So few words, and such a vast conclusion!” “So slight a
foundation, and so gigantic a superstructure!” “So scanty an outfit, and
so perilous an enterprise!” The speech breathes something of the spirit
of Naaman, when he was told to wash in the Jordan—“Are not Abana
and Pharpar better than all the waters of Israel?” It is like the
complaint of the popular prophets in the time of Hezekiah, whose taste
demanded stronger flavor than the noble simplicity of Isaiah, “Thou
givest us only line upon line, precept upon precept.” It breathes the
spirit of the Ephesian Christians who, when they heard St. John’s
repeated maxim of “Little children, love one another,” said, “Is this
all that he has to tell us?” It expresses the spirit of many an one
since, who has stumbled at the threshold
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of the genuine Gospel—“So vague, so simple, so universal. Is this
worth the sacrifice that you demand? Give us a demonstrative argument,
a vast ceremonial, a complex system, a uniform
government. Nothing else will satisfy us.”
As Agrippa’s objection, so is Paul’s answer. It would have indeed
borne a good sense had he meant what in our English version he is made
to say, “I would that thou wert converted both ‘almost and
altogether.’ Halfness or wholeness—I admire them both. Half a soul
is better than none at all. To have come half way is better than never
to have started at all; but half is only good, because it leads towards
the whole.” Nevertheless, following the real meaning of Agrippa’s
remark, St. Paul’s retort, in fact, bears a yet deeper
significance—“I would to God, that whether by little or by much,
whether by brief arguments or by long arguments, somehow and somewhere,
the change were wrought. The means to me are comparatively nothing, so
long as the end is accomplished.” It is the same spirit as that which
dictated the noble expression in the Epistle to the Philippians: “Some
preach Christ of envy and strife, some also of good will. The one preach
Christ of contention, the other of love. What then? notwithstanding,
every way, whether in pretence or in truth, Christ is preached.”25
And then he proceeds to vindicate the end which makes him indifferent
as to the means. Agrippa, in his brief taunt, had said, “Such are the
arguments by which you would fain make me a Christian.” It is one
of the few, one of the only three occasions on which that glorious name
is used in the New Testament.
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It is here charged not with the venerable meaning which we now attach to
it, but with the novel and degrading associations which it bore in the
mouth of every Jew and every Roman at that time—of Tacitus or
Josephus, no less than of Festus or Agrippa. “Is it,” so the king meant
to say, “is it that you think to make me a Christian, a member of
that despised, heretical, innovating sect, of which the very name is a
sufficient condemnation?”
It is only by bearing this in mind that we see the force of St.
Paul’s answer. He does not insist on the word; he does not fight even
for this sacred title; he does not take it up as a pugnacious champion
might take up the glove which his adversary had thrown down; he does not
say, “I would that thou wast a Christian.” In his answer he bears
his testimony to one of the gravest, the most fruitful, of all
theological truths—that it is not the name but the thing, not the
form but the reality, on which stress must be laid; and he gives the
most lucid, heart-stirring illustration of what the reality is.
“I would that not only thou, but all those who hear me were
(I ask for no ambiguous catchword or byword, but) what you see
before you; I would that you all were such as I am—such as I
am, upheld by the hopes, filled with the affections, that sustain my
charmed existence;” and then, with that exquisite courtesy which
characterizes so many traits of the Apostle’s history, glancing at the
chains which bound him to the Roman guard—“‘except these bonds.’
This, whether you call it Christian or not, is what I desire to see you
and all the world.” “You see it before you in the life, the character,
the spirit, of one who knows what Christianity is, and who wishes that
all
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his fellow-creatures should partake of the happiness that he has gained,
repose on the same principles that give him strength.” This, then, is
the statement of the greatest of missionaries, both as to the end which
he sought to attain, and the means by which he and we should seek to
attain it.
I. Let us first take the End: “Such as I am, except these bonds.”
That is the state to which St. Paul desired to bring all those who heard
him. That, according to him, was the description of a Christian. No
doubt if he had been pressed yet further, he would have said that he
meant, “Such as Jesus Christ, my Lord.” But he was satisfied with taking
such a living, human, imperfect exemplification as he whom Festus and
Agrippa saw in their presence. “Such as Paul was.” Here is no ambiguous
definition, no obsolete form. What manner of man he was we know even
better than Festus or Agrippa knew. Look at him with all his
characteristic peculiarities; a man passionately devoted to his own
faithful friends, and clinging to the reminiscences of his race and
country, yet with a heart open to embrace all mankind; a man
combining the strongest convictions with an unbounded toleration of
differences, and an unbounded confidence in truth; a man penetrated
with the freedom of the Spirit, but with a profound appreciation of the
value of great existing institutions, whether civil or religious—a
thorough Roman citizen and a thorough Eastern gentleman; embarked on a
career of daring fortitude and endurance, undertaken in the strength of
the persuasion that in Jesus Christ of Nazareth he had seen the highest
perfection of Divine and human goodness—a Master worth living for
and worth dying for, whose Spirit was to be the
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regenerating power of the whole world. This character, this condition it
was to which St. Paul desired that his hearers should be brought. One
only reservation he makes; “except these bonds,” except those
limitations, those circumscriptions, those vexations, those irritations,
which belonged to the suffering, toil-worn circumstances in which he was
at that moment placed.
Such is the aim which, following the example of their most
illustrious predecessor, all missionaries ought to have before their
eyes. To create, to preach, to exhibit those elements of character,
those apostolical graces, those Divine intuitions, which even the hard
Roman magistrate and the superficial Jewish prince recognized in Paul of
Tarsus. Where these are, there is Christianity. In proportion as any of
these are attained, in that proportion has a human being become a
Christian. Wherever and in proportion as these are not, there the
missionary’s labor has failed—there the seed has been sown to no
purpose—there the name of Christian may be, but the reality is
not.
This preëminence of the object of Christian missions—namely,
the formation of heroic, apostolic, and therefore Christian
characters—has a wide practical importance. In these
days—when there is so much temptation to dwell on the scaffolding,
the apparatus, the organization of religion, as though it were religion
itself—it is doubly necessary to bear in mind what true Religion
is, wherein lies the essential superiority of Christianity to all the
other forms of religion on the surface of the earth. It is not merely
the baptism of thousands of infants, such as filled a large part of the
aspirations even of so great a missionary as Francis Xavier; nor the
adoption of the
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name of Christ, as was done on so vast a scale by the ferocious rebels
of China; nor the repetition, with ever so much accuracy, of the
Christian creed, as was done by the pretended converts from
Mahommedanism or Judaism, under the terrible compulsion of the Catholic
sovereigns of Spain. Nor is it the assurance ever so frequently
repeated, that we are saved; nor is it the absolution, ever so solemnly
pronounced by a priest; nor is it the shedding of floods of tears; nor
is it the adoption of voluntary self-degradation or solitary seclusion.
All these may be found in other religions in even greater force than in
Christianity. That which alone, if anything, stamps Christianity as the
supreme religion, is that its essence, its object, is in none of these
things, valuable as some of them may be as signs and symptoms of the
change which every mission is intended to effect. The change itself, the
end itself, Christianity itself, is at once greater and simpler. It is
to be such as Paul was; it is to produce characters, which in
truthfulness, in independence, in mercy, in purity, in charity, may
recall something of the great Apostle, even as he recalled something of
the mind which was in Christ Jesus. It was this clear vision of what he
desired to see as the fruits of his teaching that made St. Paul so ready
to admire whatsoever things were lovely and of good report wherever he
found them. In Gentile or in Jew, in heathen or in Christian, he
recognized at once the spirits kindred to his own, and welcomed them
accordingly. He felt that he could raise them yet higher; but he was
eager to claim them as his brethren even from the first.26 Even in
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the legends which surround his history there has been preserved
something of this genuine apostolic sympathy. It was a fine touch in the
ancient Latin hymn which described how, when he landed at Puteoli, he
turned aside to the hill of Pausilipo to shed a tear over the tomb of
Virgil, and thought how much he might have made of that noble soul if he
had found him still on earth:—
“Ad Maronis mausoleum
Ductus, fudit super eum
Piæ rorem lacrymæ—
‘Quantum,’ dixit, ‘te fecissem
Si te vivum invenissem,
Poetarum maxime.’”
It was this which made him cling with such affectionate interest to
his converts, to his friends, to his sons, as he calls them, in Christ
Jesus. All that he sought, all that he looked for in them, was that they
should show in their characters the seal of the spirit that animated
himself. Whether they derived this character from himself or from
Apollos or Cephas he cared not to ask. He was their pupil as much as
their master. He disclaimed all dominion over their independent faith;
he claimed only to be a helper in their joy.
This reproduction of Paul—this reproduction of all that is best
in ourselves or better than ourselves—in the minds and hearts of
mankind, is the true work of the Christian missionary; and, in order to
do this, he must be himself that which he wishes to impress upon them in
humility, goodness, courtesy, and holiness, except only the straitening
bonds which cramp or confine each separate character, nation, and
church. No disparager of Christian missions can dispute this
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*—no champion of Christian missions need go beyond this. When, in
the last century, the Danish missionary, Schwarz, was pursuing his
labors at Tanjore, and the Rajah Hyder Ali desired to treat with the
English government, he said: “Do not send to me any of your agents, for
I trust neither their words nor their treaties. But send to me the
missionary of whose character I hear so much from every one; him will I
receive and trust.” That was the electrifying, vivifying effect of the
apparition of such an one as Paul—“a man who had indeed done
nothing worthy of bonds or of death”—a man in whose entire
disinterestedness and in whose transparent honor the image and
superscription of his Master was written so that no one could mistake
it. “In every nation, he that feareth God and worketh righteousness” is
the noblest work of God our Creator—the most precious result of
human endeavor. If any such—by missionary efforts, either of
convert or teacher, either direct or indirect—have been produced,
then the prayers uttered, the labors inspired, the hopes expressed in
these and like services have not been altogether in vain. One of the
most striking facts to which our attention has been called as demanding
our thankfulness on this day is the solemn testimony borne by the
Government of India to the fruits of “the blameless lives and
self-denying labors of its six hundred Protestant missionaries.” And
what are those fruits? Not merely the adoption of this or that outward
form of Christianity by this or that section of the Indian community. It
is something which is in appearance less, but in reality far greater
than this. It is something less like the question of Agrippa, but more
like the answer of Paul. It is that they have “infused
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new vigor into the stereotyped life of the vast populations placed under
English rule;” it is that they are “preparing those populations to be in
every way better men and better citizens of the great Empire under which
they dwell.” That is a verdict on which we can rest with the assurance
that it is not likely to be reversed. Individual conversions may
relapse—may be accounted for by special motives; but
long-sustained, wide-reaching changes of the whole tenor and bent of a
man or of a nation are beyond suspicion. When we see the immovable, and,
as the official document says, “the stereotyped” forms of Indian life
re-animated with a vigor unknown to the Oriental races in earlier days,
this is a regeneration as surprising as that which, to a famous
missionary of the past generation, seemed as impossible as the
restoration of a mummy to life—namely, the conversion of a single
Brahmin.
This, then, is the End of Christian missions, whether to heathens or
to Christians, namely, to make better men and better citizens—to
raise the whole of society by inspiring it with a higher view of duty,
with a stronger sense of truth; with a more powerful conviction that
only by goodness and truth can God be approached or Christ be
served—that God is goodness and truth, and that Christ is the
Image of God, because He is goodness and truth. If this be the
legitimate result of Christianity, no further arguments are needed to
prove that it contains a light which is worth imparting, and which,
wherever it is imparted, vindicates its heavenly origin and its heavenly
tendency.
II. This is the End; and now what are the Means? They are what we
might expect in the view of so
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great an end. Anything (so the Apostle tells us), be it small
or great, short or long, scanty or ample,—the manners of a Jew for
Jews, the manners of a Gentile for Gentiles, “all things for all men,”27—are worth considering if “by any of these means
he might save,” that is, elevate, sanctify, purify any of those to whom
he spoke. When we reflect upon the many various efforts to do good in
this manifold world—the multitude of sermons, societies, agencies,
excitements, which to some seem as futile and fruitless as to others
they seem precious and important—it is a true consolation to bear
in mind the Apostle’s wise and generous maxim, “Whether by little or by
much, whether in pretence or in truth, whether of strife or of good
will, Christ is preached, and I therein do rejoice, yea, and will
rejoice.” It may be by a short, sudden, electric shock, or it may be by
a long course of civilizing, humanizing tendencies. It may be by a
single text, such as that which awoke the conscience of Augustine; or a
single interview like Justin’s with the unknown philosopher; or it may
be by a long systematic treatise—Butler’s “Analogy,” or Lardner’s
“Credibilia,” or the “Institutes” of Calvin, or the “Summa Theologiæ” of
Aquinas. It may be by the sudden flush of victory in battle, such as
convinced Clovis on the field of Tolbiac; or the argument of a peaceful
conference, such as convinced our own Ethelbert. It may be by teachers
steeped in what was by half the Christian world regarded as deadly
heresy, such as the Arian Bishop Ulfilas, by whom were converted to the
faith those mighty Gothic tribes which formed the first elements of
European Christendom, and whose deeds Augustine regarded,
notwithstanding
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their errors, as the glory of the Christian name.28 It may be by teachers
immersed in superstitions as barbarous, as completely repudiated by the
civilized world, as were those of the famous Roman Pontiff who sent the
first missionaries to these shores. Sometimes the change has been
effected by the sight of a single picture, as when Vladimir of Russia
was shown the representation of the Last Judgment; sometimes by a dream
or a sign, known only to those who were affected by it—such as the
vision of the Cross which arrested Constantine on his way to Rome, or
changed Colonel Gardiner’s dissolute youth to a manhood of strict and
sober piety. Sometimes it has been by the earnest preaching of
missionaries, confessedly ill-educated and ill-prepared for the work
which they had to accomplish; sometimes by the slow infiltration of
Christian literature and Christian civilization; the grandeur, in old
days, of Rome and Constantinople; in our days, the superiority of
European genius, the spread of English commerce, the establishment of
just laws, pure homes, merciful institutions.
We do not say that all these means are equally good or equally
efficacious. St. Paul, in his argument with Agrippa, did not mean to say
that “almost and altogether,” that “much and little,” were the same; he
did not mean that it was equally good that Christ should be preached in
strife or in good-will; he did not mean that a good end justified bad
means, or that we may do evil that good may come; he did not
289
mean to justify the falsehoods which are profanely called pious frauds,
nor the persecutions which have been set on foot by those who thought to
do God service, or the attempt to stimulate artificial excitement by
undermining the moral strength and manly independence of the human
spirit. God forbid! But what he meant, and what we mean with him, is
this: In true Christian missions, in the conversion of human souls from
dead works, from sin, from folly, from barbarism, from hardness, from
selfishness, to goodness and purity, justice and truth, the field is so
vast, the diversity of character in men and nations is so infinite, the
enterprise so arduous, the aspects of Divine truth so various, that it
is on the one hand a duty for each one to follow out that particular
means of conversion which seems to him most efficacious, and on the
other hand to acquiesce in the converging use of many means which
cannot, by the nature of the case, appear equally efficacious to every
one. Such a toleration, such an adoption of the different modes of
carrying on what John Bunyan called “the Holy War,” “the Siege of Man’s
Soul,” must indeed be always controlled by the determination to keep the
high, paramount, universal end always in view; by the vigilant endeavor
to repress the exaggeration, to denounce the follies and the falsehoods
which infect even the best attempts of narrow and fallible, though good
and faithful, servants of their Lord. But, if once we have this
principle fixed in our minds, it surely becomes a solace to remember
that the soul of man is won by a thousand different
approaches—that thus the instruments which often seem most
unworthy may yet serve to produce a result far above
themselves—that when “we have toiled all
290
night and taken nothing” by keeping close to the shore, or by throwing
out our nets always on one side, yet if we have courage “to launch out
into the deep, and cast out our nets on the other side of the ship,” we
shall “enclose a great multitude of fishes, so that the net shall
break.”
He is a traitor to the cause who exalts the means above the end, or
who seeks an end altogether different from that to which his allegiance
binds him; but he is not a traitor, but a faithful soldier, who makes
the best use of all the means that are placed in his hands. Long after
the imperfect instruments have perished the results will endure, and in
forms wholly unlike the insufficiency or the meagreness of the first
propelling cause. The preaching of Henry Martyn may have been tinged by
a zeal often not according to knowledge; but the savor of his holy and
self-denying life has passed like a sweet-smelling incense through the
whole framework of Indian society. “Even,” so he said himself, “if I
should never see a native converted, God may design by my patience and
continuance in the work to encourage future missionaries.”
The more profoundly we are impressed with the degradation of the
heathen nations, with the corruption of the Christian churches, the more
thankful should we be for any attempts, however slight and however
various, to quicken the sluggish mass, and enlighten the blackness of
the night, provided only that the mass is permanently quickened, and the
darkness is in any measure dispelled. “I have lived too long,” said
Lord Macaulay on his return from India to England, “I have lived
too long in a country where people worship cows, to think much of the
291
differences which part Christians from Christians.” And, in fact, as the
official report to which I have referred testifies in strong terms, the
presence of the great evils which Indian missionaries have to confront,
has often produced in them a noble and truly Christian indifference to
the trivial divergences between themselves. “Even a one-eyed man,” says
the proverb, “is a king amongst the blind.” Even the shepherd’s sling
may perchance smite down the Goliath of Gath. The rough sledge-hammer of
a rustic preacher may strike home, where the most polished scholar would
plead in vain. The calm judgment of the wise and good, or the silent
example, or the understanding sympathy, or the wide survey of the whole
field of the religions of mankind, may awaken convictions which all the
declamations of all the churches would fail to arouse.
The misery of the war on the coast of Africa, the terrible prospect
of the Indian famine, may furnish the very opening which we most desire.
They may be the very touchstones by which these suffering heathens will
test the practical efficiency of a Christian government and a Christian
nation, of Christian missionaries and Christian people, and, having so
tested it, will judge.
When the first Napoleon suddenly found himself among the quicksands
of the Red Sea he ordered his generals to ride out in so many opposite
directions, and the first who arrived on firm ground to call on the rest
to follow. This is what we may ask of all the various schemes and
agencies—all the various inquiries after truth now at work in all
the different branches and classes of Christendom—“Ride out
amongst those quicksands! Ride out in the most
292
opposite directions, and let him that first finds solid ground call out
to us! It may perchance be the very ground in the midst of this quaking
morass where we shall be able to stand firm and move the world.”
There is one special variety of means which I would venture to name
in conclusion. Ever since the close of the Apostolic age there have been
two separate agencies in the Christian Church by which the work of
conversion has been carried on. The chief, the recognized, the ordinary
agency has been that of the clergy. Every presbyter, every bishop in the
Church of the first ages, and again in the beginning of Christian
Europe, was, in the strict sense of the word, a missionary; and
although their functions have in these latter days been for the most
part best fulfilled by following their stationary, fixed, pastoral
charges, yet it is still from their ranks in all the different churches
that the noble army of missionaries and martyrs in foreign lands has
been, and is and must be recruited. Most unwise and unworthy would be
any word which should underrate the importance of this mighty element in
the work of renewing the face of the earth. But there has always been
recognized, more or less distinctly, the agency of Christian laymen in
this same work of evangelization. Not only in that more general sense in
which I have already indicated the effect of the laws, and literature,
and influence of Christian Europe—not only in that unquestionable
sense in which the best of all missionaries is a high-minded governor,
or an upright magistrate, or a devout and pure-minded soldier, who is
always “trusting in God and doing his duty;” not only in these senses do
we look for the coöperation of laymen, but also in the more direct forms
of instruction,
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of intelligent and far-seeing interest in labors, which, though carried
on mainly by the clergy, must, if they are to be good for anything,
concern all mankind alike. In the early centuries of Christianity the
aid of laymen was freely invoked and freely given in this great cause.
Such was Origen, the most learned and the most gifted of the Fathers,
who preached as a layman in the presence of presbyters and bishops. Such
was one of the first evangelizers of India, Pantænus; such was the
hermit Telemachus, whose earnest protest, aided by his heroic death,
extinguished at Rome the horrors of the gladiatorial games; such was
Antony, the mighty preacher in the wilds of the Thebaid and the streets
of Alexandria; such, in later days, was Francis of Assisi, when first he
began his career as the most famous preacher of the Middle Ages; such,
just before the Reformation, was our own Sir Thomas More.29 In these
instances, as in many others, the influence, the learning, the zeal of
laymen, was directly imported into the work of Christianizing the
nations of Europe. It is for this reason that we in our age also, so far
as the law and order of our churches permit, have frequently received
the assistance of laymen; who, by the weight of their character or their
knowledge, can render a fresh testimony, or throw a fresh light on
subjects where we, the clergy, should perhaps be heard less willingly.
As their voices have been raised on this sacred subject of missions in
many a humble parish church; as also on other sacred topics, such as
Christian art and
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history, their words have often been heard within the consecrated walls
of this and other great abbeys and cathedrals;—so, in the hope
that a more systematic form may thus be given to our knowledge, and a
more concentrated direction to our zeal, we shall have the privilege of
listening this evening in the nave of this church to a scholar renowned
throughout the world, whose knowledge of all heathen religions, ancient
and modern, in their relation to the experience of Christian missions,
probably exceeds that of any other single person in Europe.
I conclude by once more applying the Apostle’s words to the Means and
the End of Christian missions. We would to God that whether by little or
by much, whether by sudden stroke or by elaborate reasoning, whether in
a brief moment or by long process of years, whether by the fervor of
active clergy, or by the learning of impartial laymen, whether by
illiterate simplicity or by wide philosophy—not only those who
hear me, but all on whom the services of this day, far and near, have
any influence, may become, at least in some degree, such as was Paul the
Apostle, such as have been the wisest and best of Christian
missionaries, except only those bonds which belong to time and place,
not to the Eternal Spirit and the Everlasting Gospel of Jesus Christ. We
cannot wish a better wish, or pray a better prayer to God on this day
than that amongst the missionaries who teach, amongst the heathens who
hear, there should be raised up men who should exhibit that type of
Christian truth and of Christian life which was seen by Festus and
Agrippa in Paul of Tarsus. May the Giver of all good gifts give to us
some portion of his cheerful and manly faith, of
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his fearless energy, of his horror of narrowness and superstition, of
his love for God and for mankind, of his absolute faith in the triumph
of his Redeemer’s cause. May God our Father waken in us the sense that
we are all his children; may the whole earth become more and more one
fold under one Good Shepherd, Jesus Christ his Son; may the Holy Spirit
of Heaven
“Our souls inspire,
And lighten with celestial fire.”
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The delivery of a lecture on
Missions in Westminster Abbey by a layman, and that layman a German,
caused great excitement at the time. While some persons of great
experience and authority in Church and State expressed their full
approval of the bold step which the Dean of Westminister had taken, and
while some of the most devoted missionaries conveyed to me their hearty
thanks for what I had said in my lecture, others could not find terms
sufficiently violent to vent their displeasure against the Dean, and to
proclaim their horror at the heretical opinions embodied in my address.
I was publicly threatened with legal proceedings, and an eminent
lawyer informed me in the “Times” of the exact length of imprisonment I
should have to undergo.
I did not reply. I had lived long enough in England to know that no
good cause can ever be served by a breach of the law, and neither the
Dean nor I myself would have acted as we did unless it had been
ascertained beforehand from the highest authorities that, with the
sanction of the Dean, there was nothing illegal in a layman delivering
such a lecture within the precincts of his Abbey. As to the opinions
which I expressed on that occasion, I had expressed them before in
my published “Lectures on the Science of Religion.” Whether they are
orthodox or heretical, others are more competent to determine
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than I am. I simply hold them to be true, and at my time of life,
mere contradictions, abuse, or even threats are not likely to keep me
from expressing opinions which, whether rightly or wrongly, seem to me
founded in truth.
But while I refrained from replying to mere outbursts of anger,
I gladly availed myself of the opportunity offered by an article
published in the “Fortnightly Review” (July, 1874), by Mr. Lyall,
a highly distinguished Indian civilian, in order to explain more
fully some of the views expressed in my lecture which seemed liable to
misapprehension. Unfortunately the writer of the article “On Missionary
Religions” had not the whole of my lecture before him when writing his
criticisms, but had to form his opinion of it from a condensed report
which appeared in the “Times” of December 5th, 1873. The limits of a
lecture are in themselves very narrow, and when so large a subject as
that of which I had to treat in Westminster Abbey had to be condensed
within sixty minutes, not only those who wish to misunderstand, but
those also who try to judge fairly, may discover in what has been said,
or what has not been said, a very different meaning from that which
the lecturer wished to convey. And if a closely-packed lecture is
compressed once more into one column of the “Times,” it is hardly
possible to avoid what has happened in this case. Mr. Lyall has blamed
me for not quoting facts or statements which, as he will have seen by
this time, I had quoted in my lecture. I am reminded by him,
for instance, of the remarks made by Sir George Campbell in his report
upon the government of Bengal in 1871–72, when he wrote, “It is a
great mistake to
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suppose that the Hindu religion is not proselytizing; the system of
castes gives room for the introduction of any number of outsiders; so
long as people do not interfere with existing castes, they may form a
new caste and call themselves Hindus; and the Brahmans are always ready
to receive all who will submit to them and pay them. The process of
manufacturing Rajputs from ambitious aborigines goes on before our
eyes.” “This,” Mr. Lyall observes, “is one recently recorded observation
out of many that might be quoted.”
It is this very passage which I had quoted in my third note, only
that in quoting it from the “Report on the Progress and Condition of
India,” laid before Parliament in 1873, I had added the caution of
the reporter, that “this assertion must be taken with reserve.”
With such small exceptions, however, I have really nothing to
complain of in the line of argument adopted by Mr. Lyall. I believe
that, after having read my paper, he would have modified some portions
of what he has written, but I feel equally certain that it is well that
what he has written should have been written, and should be carefully
pondered both by those who have the interests of the natives, and by
those who have the interests of Christian missions at heart. The few
remarks which I take the liberty of making are made by way of
explanation only; on all truly essential points I believe there is not
much difference of opinion between Mr. Lyall and myself.
As my lecture in Westminister Abbey was delivered shortly after the
publication of my “Introduction to the Science of Religion,”
I ventured to take
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certain points which I had fully treated there as generally known. One
of them is the exact value to be ascribed to canonical books in a
scientific treatment of religion. When Mr. Lyall observes in
limine, that inferences as to the nature and tendency of various
existing religions which are drawn from study and exegetic comparison of
their scriptures, must be qualified by actual observation of these
religions and their popular form and working effects, he expresses an
opinion which I hold as strongly as he holds it himself. After
enumerating the books which are recognized as sacred or authoritative by
large religious communities in India, books of such bulk and such
difficulty that it seems almost impossible for any single scholar to
master them in their entirety, I added (p. 111), “And even
then our eyes would not have reached many of the sacred recesses in
which the Hindu mind has taken refuge, either to meditate on the great
problems of life, or to free itself from the temptations and fetters of
worldly existence by penances and mortifications of the most exquisite
cruelty. India has always been teeming with religious sects, and its
religious life has been broken up into countless local centres which it
required all the ingenuity and perseverance of a priestly caste to hold
together with a semblance of dogmatic uniformity.”
We must take care, however, in all scientific studies, not to render
a task impossible by attaching to it conditions which, humanly speaking,
cannot be fulfilled. It is desirable, no doubt, to study some of the
local varieties of faith and worship in every religion, but it is
impossible to do this with anything like completeness. Were we to wait
till we had examined every Christian sect before trusting ourselves
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to form a general judgment of Christianity, not one of us could honestly
say that he knew his own religion. It seems to me that in studying
religions we must expect to meet with the same difficulties which we
have to encounter in the comparative study of languages. It may, no
doubt, be argued with great force that no one knows English who is
ignorant of the spoken dialects, of the jargon of sailors and miners, or
of the slang of public-houses and prisons. It is perfectly true that
what we call the literary and classical language is never the really
living language of a people, and that a foreigner may know Shakespeare,
Milton, and Byron, and yet fail to understand, if not the debates in
Parliament, at all events the wrangling of sellers and buyers in the
markets of the city. Nevertheless, when we learn English, or German, or
French, or any of the dead languages, such as Latin and Greek, we must
depend on grammars, which grammars are founded on a few classical
writers; and when we speak of these languages in general, when we
subject them to a scientific treatment, analyze them, and attempt to
classify them, we avail ourselves for all such purposes almost
exclusively of classical works, of literary productions of recognized
authority. It is the same, and it can hardly be otherwise, when we
approach the study of religions, whether for practical or for scientific
purposes. Suppose a Hindu wished to know what the Christian religion
really was, should we tell him to go first to Rome, then to Paris, then
to St. Petersburg, then to Athens, then to Oxford, then to Berlin, that
he might hear the sermons of Roman Catholics, Greeks, and Protestants,
or read their so-called religious papers, in order to form out of these
scattered
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impressions an idea of the real nature of the working effects of
Christianity? Or should we not rather tell him to take the Bible, and
the hymns of Christian Churches, and from them to form his ideal of true
Christianity? A religion is much more likely to become
“a mysterious thing,” when it is sought for in the heart of each
individual believer, where alone, no doubt, it truly lives, or in the
endless shibboleths of parties, or in the often contradictory tenets of
sects, than when it is studied in those sacred books which are
recognized as authoritative by all believers, however much they may vary
in their interpretations of certain passages, and still more in the
practical application of the doctrines contained in their sacred codes
to the ordering of their daily life. Let the dialects of languages or
religions be studied by all means, let even the peculiarities in the
utterances of each town, village, or family, be carefully noted; but let
it be recognized at the same time that, for practical purposes, the
immense variety of individual expression has to be merged in one general
type, and that this alone supplies the chance of a truly scientific
treatment.
So much in justification of the principle which I have followed
throughout in my treatment of the so-called Book-religions, holding that
they must be judged, first of all, out of their own mouths, i.e.,
out of their sacred writings. Although each individual believer is
responsible for his religion, no religion can be made responsible for
each individual believer. Even if we adopt the theory of development in
religion, and grant to every thinking man his right of private
interpretation, there remains, and their must always remain, to the
historian of religion, an
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appeal to the statutes of the original code with which each religion
stands and falls, and by which alone it can justly be judged.
It may be, as Mr. Lyall says, an inveterate modern habit to assume
all great historic names to represent something definite, symmetrical,
and organized. It may be that Asiatic institutions, as he asserts, are
incapable of being circumscribed by rules and formal definitions. But
Mr. Lyall, if he directed his attention to European institutions, would
meet with much the same difficulties there. Christianity, in the largest
sense of the word, is as difficult to define as Brahmanism, the English
constitution is as unsymmetrical as the system of caste. Yet, if we mean
to speak and argue about them, we must attempt to define them, and with
regard to any religion, whether Asiatic or European, no definition, it
seems to me, can be fairer than that which we gain from its canonical
books.
I now come to a more important point. I had divided the six great
religions of the world into Missionary and non-Missionary,
including Judaism, Brahmanism, and Zoroastrianism, under the latter;
Buddhism, Christianity, and Mohammedanism, under the former category. If
I had followed the good old rule of always giving a definition of
technical terms, the objections raised by Mr. Lyall and others would
probably never have been urged. I thought, however, that from the
whole tenor of my lecture it would have been clear that by missionary
religions I meant those in which the spreading of the truth and the
conversion of unbelievers are raised to the rank of a sacred duty by the
founder or his immediate successors. In explaining the meaning of
the word proselyte, or
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προσήλυτος, I had
shown that literally it means those who come to us, not those to whom we
go, so that even a religion so exclusive as Judaism might admit
proselytes, might possibly, if we insisted only on the etymological
meaning of the word, be called proselytizing, without having any right
to the name of a missionary religion. But I imagined that I had said
enough to make such a misunderstanding impossible. We may say that the
English nobility grows, but we should never say that it proselytizes,
and it would be a mere playing with words if, because Brahmanism admits
new-comers, we were to claim for it the title of a proselytizing
religion. The Brahmanic Scriptures have not a word of welcome for
converts, quite the contrary; and as long as these Scriptures are
recognized as the highest authority by the Hindus themselves, we have no
right to ascribe to Brahmanism what is in direct contradiction with
their teaching. The burning of widows was not enjoined in the Vedas, and
hence, in order to gain a sanction for it, a passage in the Veda
was falsified. No such necessity was ever felt with regard to gaining
converts for the Brahmanic faith, and this shows that, though admission
to certain Brahmanic privileges may be easier at present than it was in
the days of Viśvâmitra, conversion by persuasion has never become an
integral portion of the Brahmanic law.
However, as Mr. Lyall does not stand alone in his opinions, and as
others have claimed for Judaism and Zoroastrianism the same missionary
character which he claims in the name of Brahmanism, a few
explanations may not be out of place.
Till very lately, an orthodox Jew was rather proud of the fact that
he and his people had never condescended
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to spread their religion among Christians by such means as Christians
use for the conversion of Jews. The Parsi community, too, seemed to
share with the Quakers a prudent reluctance in admitting outsiders to
the advantages conferred by membership of so respectable and influential
a community, while the Brahmans certainly were the very last to compass
heaven and earth for the conversion of Mlecchas or outcasts. Suddenly,
however, all this is changed. The Chief Rabbi in London, stung to the
quick by the reproach of the absence of the missionary spirit in
Judaism, has delivered a sermon to show that I had maligned his people,
and that, though they never had missionaries, they had been the most
proselytizing people in the world. Some strong arguments in support of
the same view have been brought forward by the Rev. Charles Voysey,
whose conception of Judaism, however, is founded rather on what the
great prophets wished it should have been than on what history teaches
us it was. As the facts and arguments advanced by the Jewish advocates
did not modify my judgment of the historical character of Judaism,
I did not think it necessary to reply, particularly as another
eminent Rabbi, the editor of the “Jewish World,” fully endorsed my views
of Judaism, and expressed his surprise at the unorthodox theories
advanced by so high an authority as Dr. Adler. I am informed,
however, that the discussion thus originated will not remain without
practical results, and that something like a Jewish Missionary Society
is actually forming in London, to prove that, if missionary zeal is a
test of life, the Jewish religion will not shrink from such a test. “We
have done something,” the Rev. Charles Voysey remarks, “to
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stir them up; but let us not forget that our reminder was answered, not
by a repulse or expression of surprise, but by an assurance that many
earnest Jews had already been thinking of this very work, and planning
among themselves how they could revive some kind of missionary
enterprise. Before long, I feel sure they will give practical
evidence that the missionary spirit is still alive and striving in their
religion.” And again: “The Jews will soon show whether their religion is
alive or dead, will soon meet the rival religions of the world on more
than equal terms, and will once more take the lead in these days of
enlightened belief, and in search after conceptions worthy of a God,
just as of old Judaism stood on a lofty height, far above all the
religions of mankind.”
What has happened in London seems to have happened in Bombay also.
The Zoroastrians, too, did not like to be told that their religion was
dying, and that their gradual decay was due to the absence of the
missionary spirit among them. We read in the “Oriental” of April, 1874,
“There is a discussion as to whether it is contrary to the creed of
Zoroaster to seek converts to the faith. While conceding that Zoroaster
was himself opposed to proselytizing heathens, most of the Parsis hold
that the great decrease in the number of his followers renders it
absolutely necessary to attempt to augment the sect.”
Lastly, Mr. Lyall stands up for Brahmanism, and maintains that in
India Brahmanism had spread out during the last hundred years, while
Islam and Christianity have contracted. “More persons in India,” he
says, “become every year Brahmanists, than all the converts to all the
other religions in India, put together.” “The number of converts,” he
maintains,
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“added to Brahmanism in the last few generations, especially in this
country, must be immense; and if the word proselyte may be used in
the sense of one that has come, not necessarily being one that has been
invited or persuaded to come, then Brahmanism may lay claim to be by
far the most successful proselytizing religion of modern times in
India.”
The words which I have ventured to put in italics, will show at once
how little difference of opinion there is between Mr. Lyall and myself,
as long as we use the same words in the same sense. If proselytizing
could be used in the etymological sense, here assigned to it by Mr.
Lyall, then, no doubt, Brahmanism would be a proselytizing or missionary
religion. But this is mere playing with words. In English, proselytizing
is never used in that sense. If I meant by missionary religions nothing
more than religions which are capable of increase by admitting those
that wish to be admitted, religions which say to the world at large,
“Knock and it shall be opened unto you,” but no more, then, no doubt,
Brahmanism, or at least some phases of it, might be called by that name.
But what, according to my explanation, constitutes a missionary religion
is something totally different. It is the spirit of truth in the hearts
of believers which cannot rest unless it manifests itself in thought,
word, and deed, which is not satisfied till it has carried its message
to every human soul, till what it believes to be the truth is accepted
as the truth by all members of the human family.
That spirit imparts to certain religions a character of their own,
a character which, if I am not mistaken, constitutes the vital
principle of our own religion, and of the other two which, in that
respect, stand
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nearest to Christianity—Buddhism and Mohammedanism. This is not a
mere outward difference, depending on the willingness of others to join
or not to join; it is an inward difference which stamped Christianity as
a missionary religion, when as yet it counted no more than twelve
apostles, and which lays on every one that calls himself a Christian the
duty of avowing his convictions, whatever they may be, and gaining
others to embrace the truth. In that sense every true Christian is a
missionary. Mr. Lyall is evidently aware of all this, if we may judge by
the expressions which he uses when speaking of the increase of
Brahmanism. He speaks of the clans and races which inhabit the
hill-tracts, the out-lying uplands, and the uncleared jungle districts
of India, as melting into Hinduism. He represents the ethnical
frontier, described by Mr. Hunter in the “Annals of Rural Bengal,” as an
ever-breaking shore of primitive beliefs, which tumble constantly
into the ocean of Brahmanism. And even when he dwells on the fact that
non-Aryans are invited by the Brahmans to enter in, he adds that this is
done for the sake of profit and repute, not from a wish to eradicate
error, to save souls, or to spread the truth. Such instances occurred
even in the ancient history of India; and I had myself, in my “History
of Ancient Sanskrit Literature,” pointed out the case of the Rathakaras
or carpenters who were admitted to the Vedic sacrifices, and who,
probably from a mere similarity of name—their leader being called
Bribu,—had the old Vedic Ribhus assigned to them as their peculiar
deities. But these were exceptions, they were concessions aux
nègres, deviations from traditional rules, entirely owing to the
pressure of circumstances; not
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manifestations springing from religious impulses. If Mr. Lyall remarks
himself, that a religion which thus, half involuntarily, enlarges its
borders, is not, in the strict sense of the word, a missionary
religion, he shows that he is fully aware of the profound difference
between a religion that grows by mere agglomeration and a religion that
grows by its own strength, by its irrepressible missionary zeal. In
answer to his concluding remark, that this ground was not taken
in my lecture, I can only say that it was, nay, that it formed the
very foundation on which the whole argument of my lecture was meant to
rest.
There is more force in the objections which Mr. Lyall raises against
my calling Brahmanism already dead. The word was too strong; at all
events, it was liable to be misunderstood. What I meant to say was that
the popular worship of Śiva and Vishṇu
belongs to the same intellectual stratum as the worship of Jupiter and
Apollo, that it is an anachronism in the nineteenth century, and that,
for our purposes, for prognosticating the issues of the religious
struggles of the future, it may simply be set aside. For settling any of
the questions that may be said to be pending between Christianity,
Mohammedanism, and Buddhism, Brahmanism is dead. For converting any
number of Christians, Mohammedans, and Buddhists back to idolworship, Brahmanism is
dead. It may absorb Sonthals, and Gonds, and Bhils, and other half
savage races, with their rough-hewn jungle deities, it may even raise
them to a higher stage of civilization, and imbue them with the first
principles of a truer faith and a purer worship, but for carrying any of
the strong positions of Buddhism, Mohammedanism, and Christianity,
Brahmanism is powerless
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and dead. In India itself, where it clings to the soil with a thousand
roots, it was beaten by Buddhism, and, if it afterwards recovered its
position, that was due to physical force, not to persuasion and
conversion. The struggle between Mohammedanism and Brahmanism in India
was on both sides a political rather than a religious struggle: still
when a change of religion arose from conviction, we see Brahmanism
yielding to the purer light of Islam, not Islam to Brahmanism.
I did not undervalue the actual power of Brahmanism, particularly its
power of resistance; nor did I prophesy its speedy extinction.
I said on the contrary that “a religion may linger on for a
long time, and be accepted by the large masses of the people, because it
is there, and there is nothing better.” “It is true,” I added,
“there are millions of children, women, and men in India who fall down
before the stone image of Vishṇu, with
his four arms, riding on a creature, half-bird, half-man, or sleeping on
the serpent; who worship Śiva, a monster with three eyes, riding
naked on a bull, with a necklace of skulls for his ornament. There are
human beings who still believe in a god of war, Kârtikeya, with six
faces, riding on a peacock, and holding bow and arrow in his hands; and
who invoke a god of success, Gaṇeśa,
with four hands and an elephant’s head, sitting on a rat. Nay, it is
true that, in the broad daylight of the nineteenth century, the figure
of the goddess Kali is carried through the streets of her own city,
Calcutta, her wild disheveled hair reaching to her feet, with a necklace
of human heads, her tongue protruded from her mouth, her girdle stained
with blood. All this is true; but ask any Hindu who can read
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and write and think, whether these are the gods he believes in, and he
will smile at your credulity. How long this living death of national
religion in India may last, no one can tell: for our purposes, however,
for gaining an idea of the issue of the great religious struggle of the
future, that religion is dead and gone.”
I ask Mr. Lyall, is this true or is it not? He says himself, “that
Brahmanism may possibly melt away of a heap and break up, I would
not absolutely deny.” Would Mr. Lyall say the same of Buddhism,
Mohammedanism, or Christianity? He points himself to the description
which Gibbon gives of the ancient Roman religion in the second century
of the Christian era, and shows how closely applicable it is to the
present state of Brahmanism in India. “The tolerant superstition of the
people, ‘not confined by the claims of any speculative system,’ the
‘devout polytheist, whom fear, gratitude, and curiosity, a dream,
or an omen, a singular disorder, or a distant journey, perpetually
disposed to multiply the articles of his belief, and to enlarge the list
of his protectors;’ the ‘ingenious youth alike instructed in every
school to reject and despise the religion of the multitude;’ the
philosophic class who ‘look with indulgence on the errors of the vulgar,
diligently practice the ceremonies of their fathers, and devoutly
frequent the temples of their gods;’ the ‘magistrates who know and value
the advantages of religion as it is connected with civil
government;’—all these scenes and feelings are represented in
India at this moment, though by no means in all parts of India.” If,
then, in the second century a student of religious pathology had
expressed his conviction that in spite of the number of its professors,
in spite of its antiquity, in spite of its
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indigenous character, in spite of its political, civil, and social
influences, in spite of its temples and priests, in spite of its schools
and philosophers, the ancient religion of Jupiter had lost its vitality,
was sick unto death, nay, for all real purposes was dead, would he have
been far wrong? It may be replied, no doubt, that similar corruptions
have crept into other religions also, that gaudy dolls are carried about
in Christian cathedrals, that people are invited to see tears rolling
down from the eyes of images, or to worship wine changed into blood, to
say nothing of even more terrible hallucinations on the Eucharist
propounded from so-called Protestant pulpits, and that, in spite of all
this, we should not call the Christian religion dying or dead. This is
true, and I thought that by my remarks on the different revivals of
Hinduism from the twelfth to the nineteenth century, I had
sufficiently indicated that new life may spring even from such
apparently hopeless corruption. If it is Brahmanism that lives in the
sects of Râmânuja and Râmânanda, in the poetry of Kabir and the wisdom
of Nànak, in the honest purposes of Ram Mohun Roy and in the high
aspirations of Keshub Chunder Sen, then I quite agree with Mr. Lyall
that Brahmanism is not dead, but lives more intensely than ever.
But here, for some reason or other, Mr. Lyall seems to demur to my
hopeful estimate of Brahmoism. He had expressed his own conviction that
Brahmanism, though it might suddenly collapse and vanish, was more
likely gradually to spiritualize and centralize its Pantheon, reduce its
theology to a compact system, soften down its morals by symbolisms and
interportations, discard “dogmatic extremes,” and generally
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to bring itself into accordance with improved standards of science and
intelligence. He had also quoted with implied approval the remark of
qualified observers, “that we might at any time witness a great
Brahmanic reforming revival in India, if some really gifted and
singularly powerful prophet were to arise among the Hindus.” But when I
hinted that this prophet had actually arisen, and that in Brahmoism, as
preached by Ram Mohun Roy, Debendranath Tagore, and Keshub Chunder Sen,
we ought to recognize a transition from Brahmanism to a purer faith;
when I pointed out that, though Christian missionaries might not wish to
recognize Brahmoism as their work, it was the work of those missionary
Christians who have lived in India as examples of a true Christian life,
who have approached the natives in a truly missionary spirit, in the
spirit of truth and in the spirit of love, Mr. Lyall replies that
“Brahmoism, as propagated by Keshub Chunder Sen, seems to be
Unitarianism of an European type, and, so far as one can understand its
argument, appears to have no logical stability or locus standi
between revelation and pure rationalism; that it propounds either too
much or too little to its hearers.” “A faith,” he continues, “which
contains mere fervent sentiments, and high conceptions of morality, does
not partake of the complexion or nature of those religions which have
encompassed the heart of great nations, nor is it generally supposed in
India that Brahmoism is perceptibly on the increase.”
Mutatis mutandis, this is very much what an orthodox Rabbi
might have said of Christianity. Let us wait. I am not given to
prophecy, but though I am no longer young, I still hold to a belief
that a
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cause upheld with such honesty of purpose, purity, and unselfishness as
Brahmoism has been, must and will meet with ultimate success. Does Mr.
Lyall think that Unitarian Christianity is no Christianity? Does he find
logical stability in Trinitarianism? Does he consider pure rationalism
incompatible with revelation? Does he know of any teacher who might not
be accused of saying either too little or too much? In A.D. 890 the Double Procession was as much a burning
question as the Homoousia in 324,—are, therefore, both Channing
and Dr. Döllinger to be anathematized now? Brahmoism may not be like the
religions of old, but must the religions of the future be like the
religions of the past? However, I do not wish to draw Mr. Lyall
into a theological argument. His estimate of the real value and vitality
of Brahmoism may be right, mine may be wrong. His presence in India, and
his personal intercourse with the Brahmos, may have given him
opportunities of judging which I have not. Only let us not forget that
for watching the movements of a great struggle, and for judging of its
successful issue, a certain distance from the field of battle has
its advantages, and that judges in India have not always proved the best
judges of India.
One point, however, I am quite willing to concede. If Brahmoism and
similar movements may be considered as reforms and resuscitations of
Brahmanism, then I withdraw my expression that Brahmanism is dead. Only
let us remember that we are thus using Brahmanism in two very different
senses, that we are again playing with words. In the one sense it is
stark idolatry, in the other the loftiest spiritual worship. The former
asserts the existence of many personal
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gods, the latter shrinks even from the attribute of personality as too
human a conception of the Highest Spirit. The former makes the priest a
kind of god on earth, the latter proclaims the priesthood of all men;
the former is guided by scriptures which man calls sacred, the latter
knows of no sacred oracles but the still small voice in the heart of
every man. The two are like two opposite poles. What is negative on one
side is positive on the other; what is regarded by the one as the most
sacred truth is anathematized by the other as deadly error.
Mr. Lyall tells us of Ghási Dás, an inspired prophet, who sojourned
in the wilderness for six months, and then issued forth preaching to the
poor and ignorant the creed of the True Name (Satnám). He gathered about
half a million people together before he died in 1850. He borrowed his
doctrines from the well-known Hindu sect of the Satnâmis, and though he
denounced Brahmanic abuses, he instituted caste rules of his own, and
his successor was murdered, not for heresy, but because he aped
Brahmanic insignia and privileges. Mr. Lyall thinks that this community,
if left alone, will relapse into a modified Brahmanism. This may be so,
but it can hardly be said, that a reform, the followers of which are
murdered for aping Brahmanic insignia and privileges, represents
Brahmanism which Mr. Lyall defines as “the broad denomination of what is
recognized by all Hindus as the supreme theological faculty and the
comprehensive scheme of authoritative tradition to which all minor
beliefs are referred for sanction.”
When I spoke of Brahmanism as dead, I meant the popular orthodox
Brahmanism, which is openly patronized by the Brahmans, though scorned
by them in
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secret; I did not, and could not, mean the worship of Bramah as the
Supreme Spirit, which has existed in India from the time of the
Upanishads to the present day, and has lately assumed the name of
Brahmoism,—a worship so pure, so exalted, so deeply human, so
truly divine, that every man can join in it without apostasy, whether he
be born a Jew, a Gentile, or a Christian.
That many antagonistic forms of religious faith, some the most
degraded, others the most exalted, should live on the same soil, among
the same people, is indeed a disheartening truth, enough almost to shake
one’s belief in the common origin and the common destinies of the human
race. And yet we must not shut our eyes to the fact that amongst
ourselves, too, men who call themselves Christians are almost as widely
separated from each other in their conceptions of the Divine and the
Human, in their grounds of belief and in their sense of duty, as, in
India, the worshippers of Gaṇeśa, the
god of success, with four hands and an elephant’s head, sitting on a
rat, on one side, and the believers in the true Brahma on the other.
There is a Christianity that is dead, though it may be professed by
millions of people, but there is also, let us trust, a Christianity
that is alive, though it may count but twelve apostles. As in India, so
in Europe, many would call death what we call life, many would call life
what we call death. Here, as elsewhere, it is high time that men should
define the exact meaning of their words, trusting that definiteness,
frankness, and honesty may offer a better chance of mutual
understanding, and serve as a stronger bond of union between man and
man, than vague formulas, faint-hearted reticence, and what is at the
root of it
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all, want of true love of Man, and of true faith in God.
If Mr. Lyall imagined that the object of my Lecture was to discourage
missionary efforts, he must have found out his mistake, when he came to
read it, as I delivered it in Westminster Abbey. I know of no
nobler life than that of a true missionary. I tried to defend the
labors of the paternal missionary against disparaging criticisms.
I tried to account for the small success of controversial missions,
by showing how little is gained by mere argument and casuistry at home.
And I pointed to the indirect missionary influence, exercised by every
man who leads a Christian life in India or elsewhere, as the most
encouraging sign of the final triumph of a pure and living Christianity.
It is very possible, as Mr. Lyall says somewhat sarcastically, that
“missionaries will even yet hardly agree that the essentials of their
religion are not in the creeds, but in love; because they are sent forth
to propound scriptures which say clearly that what we believe or
disbelieve is literally a burning question.” But those who, with
Mr. Lyall, consider love of man founded on love of God, nothing but
“flat morality,” must have forgotten that a Higher One than they
declared, that on these two hang all the law and the commandments. By
placing abstruse tenets, the handiwork of Popes and Councils, in the
place of Christ’s teaching, and by making a belief in these positive
articles a burning question, weak mortals have driven weak
mortals to ask, “Are we Christians still?” Let them for once “by
observation and experience” try the oldest and simplest and most
positive article of Christianity, real love of man founded on real love
of God, and I believe they will soon ask themselves, “When shall we be
Christians at last?”
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VII.
OPENING ADDRESS.
DELIVERED BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE ARYAN SECTION
AT THE INTERNATIONAL CONGRESS OF ORIENTALISTS,
HELD IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 14–21, 1874.
No one likes to be asked, what
business he has to exist, and yet, whatever we do, whether singly or in
concert with others, the first question which the world never fails to
address to us, is Dic cur hic? Why are you here? or to put it
into French, What is your raison d’être? We have had to submit to
this examination even before we existed, and many a time have I been
asked the question, both by friend and foe, What is the good of an
International Congress of Orientalists?
I shall endeavor, as shortly as possible, to answer that question,
and show that our Congress is not a mere fortuitous congeries of barren
atoms or molecules, but that we are at least Leibnizian monads, each
with his own self, and force and will, and each determined, within the
limits of some preëstablished harmony, to help in working out some
common purpose, and to achieve some real and lasting good.
It is generally thought that the chief object of a scientific
Congress is social, and I am not one of those who are incapable of
appreciating the delights and
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benefits of social intercourse with hard-working and honest-thinking
men. Much as I detest what is commonly called society, I willingly
give up glaciers and waterfalls, cathedrals and picture galleries, for
one half hour of real society, of free, frank, fresh, and friendly
intercourse, face to face, and mind to mind, with a great, and noble,
and loving soul, such as was Bunsen; with a man intrepid in his
thoughts, his words, and his deeds, such as was John Stuart Mill; or
with a scholar who, whether he had been quarrying heavy blocks, or
chiseling the most brittle filigree work, poured out all his treasures
before you with the pride and pleasure of a child, such as was Eugéne
Burnouf. A Congress therefore, and particularly an International
Congress, would certainly seem to answer some worthy purpose, were it
only by bringing together fellow workers of all countries and ages, by
changing what were to us merely great names into pleasant companions,
and by satisfying that very right and rational curiosity which we all
feel, after having read a really good book, of seeing what the man looks
like who could achieve such triumphs.
All this is perfectly true; yet, however pleasant to ourselves this
social intercourse may appear, in the eyes of the world at large it will
hardly be considered a sufficient excuse for our existence. In order
therefore to satisfy that outer world that we are really doing
something, we point of course to the papers which are read at our public
meetings, and to the discussions which they elicit. Much as I value that
feature also in a scientific congress, I confess I doubt, and I
know that many share that doubt, whether the same result might not be
obtained with much less trouble. A paper that contains something
really new
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and valuable, the result, it may be, of years of toil and thought,
requires to be read with care in a quiet corner of our own study, before
the expression of our assent or dissent can be of any weight or value.
There is too much hollow praise, and occasionally too much wrangling and
ill-natured abuse at our scientific tournaments, and the world at large,
which is never without a tinge of malice and a vein of quiet humor, has
frequently expressed its concern at the waste of “oil and vinegar” which
is occasioned by the frequent meetings of our British and Foreign
Associations.
What then is the real use of a Congress, such as that which has
brought us together this week from all parts of the world? What is the
real excuse for our existence? Why are we here, and not in our
workshops?
It seems to me that the real and permanent use of these scientific
gatherings is twofold.
(1) They enable us to take stock, to compare notes, to see where we
are, and to find out where we ought to be going.
(2) They give us an opportunity, from time to time, to tell the world
where we are, what we have been doing for the world, and what, in
return, we expect the world to do for us.
The danger of all scientific work at present, not only among Oriental
scholars, but, as far as I can see, everywhere, is the tendency to
extreme specialization. Our age shows in that respect a decided reaction
against the spirit of a former age, which those with gray heads among us
can still remember, an age represented in Germany by such names as
Humboldt, Ritter, Böckh, Johannes, Müller, Bopp, Bunsen, and others; men
who look to us like giants, carrying a
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weight of knowledge far too heavy for the shoulders of such mortals as
now be; aye, men who were giants, but whose chief strength
consisted in this, that they were never entirely absorbed or bewildered
by special researches, but kept their eye steadily on the highest
objects of all human knowledge; who could trace the vast outlines of the
kosmos of nature or the kosmos of the mind with an unwavering hand, and
to whose maps and guide books we must still recur, whenever we are in
danger of losing our way in the mazes of minute research. At the present
moment such works as Humboldt’s “Kosmos,” or Bopp’s “Comparative
Grammar,” or Bunsen’s “Christianity and Mankind,” would be impossible.
No one would dare to write them, for fear of not knowing the exact depth
at which the Protogenes Haeckelii has lately been discovered or
the lengthening of a vowel in the Saṃhitapâṭha of the Rig-Veda. It is quite right that
this should be so, at least, for a time; but all rivers, all brooks, all
rills, are meant to flow into the ocean, and all special knowledge, to
keep it from stagnation, must have an outlet into the general knowledge
of the world. Knowledge for its own sake, as it is sometimes called, is
the most dangerous idol that a student can worship. We despise the miser
who amasses money for the sake of money, but still more contemptible is
the intellectual miser who hoards up knowledge instead of spending it,
though, with regard to most of our knowledge, we may be well assured and
satisfied that, as we brought nothing into the world so we may carry
nothing out.
Against this danger of mistaking the means for the end, of making
bricks without making mortar, of working for ourselves instead of
working for others,
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meetings such as our own, bringing together so large a number of the
first Oriental scholars of Europe, seem to me a most excellent
safeguard. They draw us out of our shell, away from our common routine,
away from that small orbit of thought in which each of us moves day
after day, and make us realize more fully, that there are other stars
moving all around us in our little universe, that we all belong to one
celestial system, or to one terrestrial commonwealth, and that, if we
want to see real progress in that work with which we are more especially
entrusted, the re-conquest of the Eastern world, we must work with one
another, for one another, like members of one body, like soldiers of one
army, guided by common principles, striving after common purposes, and
sustained by common sympathies. Oriental literature is of such enormous
dimensions that our small army of scholars can occupy certain prominent
positions only; but those points, like the stations of a trigonometrical
survey, ought to be carefully chosen, so as to be able to work in
harmony together. I hope that in that respect our Congress may
prove of special benefit. We shall hear, each of us, from others, what
they wish us to do. “Why don’t you finish this?” “Why don’t you publish
that?” are questions which we have already heard asked by many of our
friends. We shall be able to avoid what happens so often, that two men
collect materials for exactly the same work, and we may possibly hear of
some combined effort to carry out great works, which can only be carried
out viribus unitis, and of which I may at least mention one,
a translation of the “Sacred Books of Mankind.” Important progress
has already been made for setting on foot this great undertaking, an
undertaking which
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I think the world has a right to demand from Oriental scholars, but
which can only be carried out by joint action. This Congress has helped
us to lay the foundation-stone, and I trust that at our next Congress we
shall be able to produce some tangible results.
I now come to the second point. A Congress enables us to tell the
world what we have been doing. This, it seems to me, is particularly
needful with regard to Oriental studies which, with the exception of
Hebrew, still stand outside the pale of our schools and universities,
and are cultivated by the very smallest number of students. And yet,
I make bold to say, that during the last hundred, and still more
during the last fifty years, Oriental studies have contributed more than
any other branch of scientific research to change, to purify, to clear,
and intensify the intellectual atmosphere of Europe, and
to widen our horizon in all that pertains to the Science of Man, in
history, philology, theology, and philosophy. We have not only conquered
and annexed new worlds to the ancient empire of learning, but we have
leavened the old world with ideas that are already fermenting even in
the daily bread of our schools and universities. Most of those here
present know that I am not exaggerating; but as the world is skeptical
while listening to orations pro domo, I shall attempt to make
good my assertions.
At first, the study of Oriental literature was a matter of curiosity
only, and it is so still to a great extent, particularly in England. Sir
William Jones, whose name is the only one among Oriental scholars that
has ever obtained a real popularity in England, represents most worthily
that phase of Oriental studies.
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Read only the two volumes of his life, and they will certainly leave on
your mind the distinct impression that Sir William Jones was not only a
man of extensive learning and refined taste, but undoubtedly a very
great man—one in a million. He was a good classical scholar of the
old school, a well-read historian, a thoughtful lawyer,
a clear-headed politician, and a true gentleman, in the old sense
of the word. He moved in the best, I mean the most cultivated
society, the great writers and thinkers of the day listened to him with
respect, and say what you like, we still live by his grace, we still
draw on that stock of general interest which he excited in the English
mind for Eastern subjects.
Yet the interest which Sir William Jones took in Oriental literature
was purely æsthetic. He chose what was beautiful in Persian and
translated it, as he would translate an ode of Horace. He was charmed
with Kâlidâsa’s play of “Sakuntala”—and who is not?—and he
left us his classical reproduction of one of the finest of Eastern gems.
Being a judge in India, he thought it his duty to acquaint himself with
the native law-books in their original language, and he gave us his
masterly translation of the “Laws of Manu.” Sir William Jones was fully
aware of the startling similarity between Sanskrit, Latin, and Greek.
More than a hundred years ago, in a letter written to Prince Adam
Czartoryski, in the year 1770, he says: “Many learned investigators of
antiquity are fully persuaded, that a very old and almost primeval
language was in use among the northern nations, from which not only the
Celtic dialect, but even Greek and Latin are derived; in fact, we find
πατήρ and μήτηρ in Persian, nor is θυγάτηρ so far removed
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from dockter, or even ὄνομα and nomen from Persian nâm, as to
make it ridiculous to suppose that they sprang from the same root. We
must confess,” he adds, “that these researches are very obscure and
uncertain, and you will allow, not so agreeable as an ode of Hafez, or
an elegy of Amr’alkeis.” In a letter, dated 1787, he says: “You will be
surprised at the resemblance between Sanskrit and both Greek and
Latin.”
Colebrooke also, the great successor of Sir William Jones, was fully
aware of the relationship between Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, German, and
even Slavonic. I possess some curious MS. notes of his, of the year
1801 or 1802, containing long lists of words, expressive of the most
essential ideas of primitive life, and which he proved to be identical
in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, German, and Slavonic.1
Yet neither Colebrooke nor Sir William Jones perceived the full
import of these facts. Sir William Jones died young; Colebrooke’s
energies, marvelous as they were, were partly absorbed by official work,
so that it was left to German and French scholars to bring to light the
full wealth of the mine which those great English scholars had been the
first to open. We know now that in language, and in all that is implied
by language, India and Europe are one; but to prove this, against the
incredulity of all the greatest scholars of the day, was no easy matter.
It could be done effectually in one way only, viz., by giving to
Oriental studies a strictly scientific character, by requiring from
Oriental students not only the devotion
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of an amateur, but the same thoroughness, minuteness, and
critical accuracy which were long considered the exclusive property of
Greek and Latin scholars. I could not think of giving here a
history of the work done during the last fifty years. It has been
admirably described in Benfey’s “History of the Science of Language.”2
Even if I attempted to give merely the names of those who have been most
distinguished by really original discoveries—the names of Bopp,
Pott, Grimm, Burnouf, Rawlinson, Miklosich, Benfey, Kuhn, Zeuss,
Whitley, Stokes—I am afraid my list would be considered very
incomplete.
But let us look at what has been achieved by these men, and many
others who followed their banners! The East, formerly a land of dreams,
of fables, and fairies, has become to us a land of unmistakable reality;
the curtain between the West and the East has been lifted, and our old
forgotten home stands before us again in bright colors and definite
outlines. Two worlds, separated for thousands of years, have been
reunited as by a magic spell, and we feel rich in a past that may well
be the pride of our noble Aryan family. We say no longer vaguely and
poetically Ex Oriente Lux, but we know that all the most vital
elements of our knowledge and civilization,—our languages, our
alphabets, our figures, our weights and measures, our art, our religion,
our traditions, our very nursery stories, come to us from the East; and
we must confess that but for the rays of Eastern light, whether Aryan or
Semitic or Hamitic, that called forth the hidden germs of the dark and
dreary West, Europe, now the very light of the world, might
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have remained forever a barren and forgotten promontory of the primeval
Asiatic continent. We live indeed in a new world; the barrier between
the West and the East, that seemed insurmountable, has vanished. The
East is ours, we are its heirs, and claim by right our share in its
inheritance.
We know what it was for the Northern nations, the old barbarians of
Europe, to be brought into spiritual contact with Rome and Greece, and
to learn that beyond the small, poor world in which they had moved,
there was an older, richer, brighter world, the ancient world of Rome
and Athens, with its arts and laws, its poetry and philosophy, all of
which they might call their own and make their own by claiming the
heritage of the past. We know how, from that time, the Classical and
Teutonic spirits mingled together and formed that stream of modern
thought on whose shores we ourselves live and move. A new stream is
now being brought into the same bed, the stream of Oriental thought, and
already the colors of the old stream show very clearly the influence of
that new tributary. Look at any of the important works published during
the last twenty years, not only on language, but on literature,
mythology, law, religion, and philosophy, and you will see on every page
the working of a new spirit. I do not say that the East can ever
teach us new things, but it can place before us old things, and leave us
to draw from them lessons more strange and startling than anything
dreamt of in our philosophy.
Before all, a study of the East has taught us the same lesson which
the Northern nations once learnt in Rome and Athens, that there are
other worlds beside our own, that there are other religions, other
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mythologies, other laws, and that the history of philosophy from Thales
to Hegel is not the whole history of human thought. In all these
subjects the East has supplied us with parallels, and with all that is
implied in parallels, viz., the possibility of comparing, measuring, and
understanding. The comparative spirit is the truly scientific
spirit of our age, nay of all ages. An empirical acquaintance with
single facts does not constitute knowledge in the true sense of the
word. All human knowledge begins with the Two or the Dyad, the
comprehension of two single things as one. If in these days we may still
quote Aristotle, we may boldly say that “there is no science of that
which is unique.” A single event may be purely accidental, it comes
and goes, it is inexplicable, it does not call for an explanation. But
as soon as the same fact is repeated, the work of comparison begins, and
the first step is made in that wonderful process which we call
generalization, and which is at the root of all intellectual knowledge
and of all intellectual language. This primitive process of comparison
is repeated again and again, and when we now give the title of
Comparative to the highest kind of knowledge in every branch of
science, we have only replaced the old word intelligent
(i.e., interligent) or inter-twining, by a new and more
expressive term, comparative. I shall say nothing about the
complete revolution of the study of languages by means of the
comparative method, for here I can appeal to such names as Mommsen and
Curtius, to show that the best among classical scholars are themselves
the most ready to acknowledge the importance of the results obtained by
the intertwining of Eastern and Western philology.
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But take mythology. As long as we had only the mythology of the
classical nations to deal with, we looked upon it simply as strange,
anomalous, and irrational. When, however, the same strange stories, the
same hallucinations, turned up in the most ancient mythology of India,
when not only the character and achievements, but the very names of some
of the gods and heroes were found to be the same, then every thoughtful
observer saw that there must be a system in that ancient madness, that
there must be some order in that strange mob of gods and heroes, and
that it must be the task of comparative mythology to find out, what
reason there is in all that mass of unreason.
The same comparative method has been applied to the study of religion
also. All religions are Oriental, and with the exception of the
Christian, their sacred books are all written in Oriental languages. The
materials, therefore, for a comparative study of the religious systems
of the world had all to be supplied by Oriental scholars. But far more
important than those materials, is the spirit in which they have been
treated. The sacred books of the principal religions of mankind had to
be placed side by side with perfect impartiality, in order to discern
the points which they share in common as well as those that are peculiar
to each. The results already obtained by this simple juxtaposition are
full of important lessons, and the fact that the truths on which all
religions agree far exceed those on which they differ, has hardly been
sufficiently appreciated. I feel convinced, however, that the time
will come when those who at present profess to be most disquieted by our
studies, will be the most grateful for our support,—for having
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shown by evidence which cannot be controverted, that all religions
spring from the same sacred soil, the human heart; that all are
quickened by the same divine spirit, the still small voice; and that,
though the outward forms of religion may change, may wither and decay,
yet, as long as man is what he is and what he has been, he will
postulate again and again the Infinite as the very condition of the
Finite, he will yearn for something which the world cannot give, he will
feel his weakness and dependence, and in that weakness and dependence
discover the deepest sources of his hope, and trust, and strength.
A patient study of the sacred scriptures of the world is what is
wanted at present more than anything else, in order to clear our own
ideas of the origin, the nature, the purposes of religion. There can be
no science of one religion, but there can be a science of many. We have
learnt already one lesson, that behind the helpless expressions which
language has devised, whether in the East or in the West, for uttering
the unutterable, be it Dyaushpitâ or Ahuramazda, be it
Jehovah or Allah, be it the All or the Nothing, be it the
First Cause or Our Father in heaven, there is the same intention, the
same striving, the same stammering, the same faith. Other lessons will
follow, till in the end we shall be able to restore that ancient bond
which unites not only the East with the West, but all the members of the
human family, and may learn to understand what a Persian poet meant when
he wrote many centuries ago (I quote from Mr. Conway’s “Sacred
Anthology”), “Diversity of worship has divided the human race into
seventy-two nations. From among all their dogmas I have selected
one—the Love of God.”
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Nor is this comparative spirit restricted to the treatment of
language, mythology, and religion. While hitherto we knew the origin and
spreading of most of the ancient arts and sciences in one channel only,
and had to be satisfied with tracing their sources to Greece and Rome,
and thence down the main stream of European civilization, we have now
for many of them one or two parallel histories in India and in China.
The history of geometry, for instance,—the first formation of
geometrical conceptions or technical terms—was hitherto known to
us from Greece only: now we can compare the gradual elaboration of
geometrical principles both in Greece and India, and thus arrive at some
idea of what is natural or inevitable, and what is accidental or purely
personal in each. It was known, for instance, that in Greece the
calculation of solid figures began with the building of altars, and you
will hear to-day from Dr. Thibaut, that in India also the first impulse
to geometric science was given, not by the measuring of fields, as the
name implies, but by the minute observances in building altars.
Similar coincidences and divergences have been brought to light by a
comparative study of the history of astronomy, of music, of grammar,
but, most of all, by a comparative study of philosophic thought. There
are indeed few problems in philosophy which have not occupied the Indian
mind, and nothing can exceed the interest of watching the Hindu and the
Greek, working on the same problems, each in his own way, yet both in
the end arriving at much the same results. Such are the coincidences
between the two, that but lately an eminent German professor,3
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published a treatise to show that the Greeks had borrowed their
philosophy from India, while others lean to the opinion that in
philosophy the Hindus are the pupils of the Greeks. This is the same
feeling which impelled Dugald Stewart, when he saw the striking
similarity between Greek and Sanskrit, to maintain that Sanskrit must
have been put together after the model of Greek and Latin by those
arch-forgers and liars, the Brahmans, and that the whole of Sanskrit
literature was an imposition. The comparative method has put an end to
such violent theories. It teaches us that what is possible in one
country is possible also in another; it shows us that, as there are
antecedents for Plato and Aristotle in Greece, there are antecedents for
the Vedânta and Sânkhya philosophies in India, and that each had its own
independent growth. It is true, that when we first meet in Indian
philosophy with our old friends, the four or five elements, the atoms,
our metaphysics, our logic, our syllogism, we are startled; but we soon
discover that, given the human mind and human language, and the world by
which we are surrounded, the different systems of philosophy of Thales
and Hegel, of Vyâsa and Kapila, are inevitable solutions. They all come
and go, they are maintained and refuted, till at last all philosophy
ends where it ought to begin, with an inquiry into the necessary
conditions and the inevitable forms of knowledge, represented by a
criticism of Pure Reason and, what is more important still, by a
criticism of Language.
Much has been done of late for Indian philosophy, particularly by
Ballantyne and Hall, by Cowell and Gough, by the editors of the
“Bibliotheca Indica,” and the “Pandit.” Yet it is much to be desired,
that
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some young scholars, well versed in the history of European philosophy,
should devote themselves more ardently to this promising branch of
Indian literature. No doubt they would find it a great help, if they
were able to spend some years in India, in order to learn from the last
and fast disappearing representatives of some of the old schools of
Indian philosophy what they alone can teach. What can be done by such a
combination of Eastern and Western knowledge, has lately been shown by
the excellent work done by Dr. Kielhorn, the Professor of Sanskrit at
the Deccan College in Punah. But there is now so much of published
materials, and Sanskrit MSS. also are so easily obtained from India,
that much might be done in England, or in France, or in
Germany—much that would be of interest not only to Oriental
scholars, but to all philosophers whose powers of independent
appreciation are not entirely blunted by their study of Plato and
Aristotle, of Berkeley, Hume, and Kant.
I have so far dwelt chiefly on the powerful influence which the East,
and more particularly India, has exercised on the intellectual life and
work of the West. But the progress of Oriental scholarship in Europe,
and the discovery of that spiritual relationship which binds India and
England together, have likewise produced practical effects of the
greatest moment in the East. The Hindus, in their first intercourse with
English scholars, placed before them the treasures of their native
literature with all the natural pride of a nation that considered itself
the oldest, the wisest, the most enlightened nation in the world. For a
time, but for a short time only, the claims of their literature to a
fabulous antiquity were admitted, and dazzled by the unexpected
discovery of a new classical literature,
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people raved about the beauty of Sanskrit poetry in truly Oriental
strains. Then followed a sudden reaction, and the natives themselves, on
becoming more and more acquainted with European history and literature,
began to feel the childishness of their claims, and to be almost ashamed
of their own classics. This was a national misfortune. A people
that can feel no pride in the past, in its history and literature, loses
the mainstay of its national character. When Germany was in the very
depth of its political degradation, it turned to its ancient literature,
and drew hope for the future from the study of the past. Something of
the same kind is now passing in India. A new taste, not without
some political ingredients, has sprung up for the ancient literature of
the country; a more intelligent appreciation of their real merits
has taken the place of the extravagant admiration for the masterworks of
their old poets; there is a revival in the study of Sanskrit,
a surprising activity in the republication of Sanskrit texts, and
there are traces among the Hindus of a growing feeling, not very
different from that which Tacitus described, when he said of the
Germans: “Who would go to Germany, a country without natural
beauty, with a wretched climate, miserable to cultivate or to look
at—unless it be his fatherland?”
Even the discovery that Sanskrit, English, Greek, and Latin are
cognate languages, has not been without its influence on the scholars
and thinkers, or the leaders of public opinion, in India. They, more
than others, had felt for a time most keenly the intellectual
superiority of the West, and they rose again in their own estimation by
learning that, physically, or at all events, intellectually, they had
been and might be
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again, the peers of Greeks and Romans and Saxons. These silent
influences often escape the eye of the politician and the historian, but
at critical moments they decide the fate of whole nations and empires.4,A
The intellectual life of India at the present moment is full of
interesting problems. It is too much the fashion to look only at its
darker sides, and to forget that such intellectual regenerations as we
are witnessing in India, are impossible without convulsions and
failures. A new race of men is growing up in India, who have
stepped, as it were, over a thousand years, and have entered at once on
the intellectual inheritance of Europe. They carry off prizes at English
schools, take their degrees in English universities, and are in every
respect our equals. They have temptations which we have not, and now and
then they succumb; but we, too, have temptations of our own, and we do
not always resist. One can hardly trust one’s eyes in reading their
writings, whether in English or Bengali, many of which would reflect
credit on our own Quarterlies. With regard to what is of the greatest
interest to us, their scholarship, it is true that the old school of
Sanskrit scholars is dying out, and much will die with it which we shall
never recover; but a new and most promising school of Sanskrit students,
educated by European professors, is springing up, and they will, nay, to
judge from recent controversies, they have already become most
formidable rivals to our own scholars. The essays of Dr. Bhao Daji,
whom, I regret to say, we have lately lost by death, on disputed
points in Indian archæology and literature, are most valuable. The
indefatigable Rajendra Lal Mitra is rendering most excellent service in
the publications of the Asiatic Society at Calcutta,
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and he discusses the theories of European Orientalists with all the ease
and grace of an English reviewer. The Râjah of Besmah,
Giriprasâda-sinha, has just finished his magnificent edition of the
“White Yajurveda.” The Sanskrit books published at Calcutta by
Târânâtha, and others, form a complete library, and Târânâtha’s new
“Dictionary of the Sanskrit Language” will prove most useful and
valuable. The editions of Sanskrit texts published at Bombay by
Professor Bhâṇḍârkar, Shankar Pandurang
Pandit, and others, need not fear comparison with the best work of
European scholars. There is a school of native students at Benares whose
publications, under the auspices of Mr. Griffith, have made their
journal, the “Pandit,” indispensable to every Sanskrit scholar.
Râjârâmasâstrî’s and Bâlaśâstrî’s edition of the “Mahâbhâshya” has
received the highest praise from European students. In the “Antiquary,”
a paper very ably conducted by Mr. Burgess, we meet with
contributions from several learned natives, among them from his Highness
the Prince of Travancore, from Ram Dass Sen, the Zemindar of Berhampore,
from Kâshinâth Trimbak Telang, from Sashagiriśâstrî, and others, which
are read with the greatest interest and advantage by European scholars.
The collected essays of Ram Dass Sen well deserve a translation into
English, and Rajanîkânta’s “Life of the Poet Jajadeva,” just published,
bears witness to the same revival of literary tastes and patriotic
feelings.
Besides this purely literary movement, there is a religious movement
going on in India, the Brahmo-Samâj, which, both in its origin and its
later development, is mainly the result of European influences. It began
with an attempt to bring the modern corrupt
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forms of worship back to the purity and simplicity of the Vedas; and by
ascribing to the Veda the authority of a Divine Revelation, it was hoped
to secure that infallible authority without which no religion was
supposed to be possible. How was that movement stopped, and turned into
a new channel? Simply by the publication of the Veda, and by the works
of European scholars, such as Stevenson, Mill, Rosen, Wilson, and
others, who showed to the natives what the Veda really was, and made
them see the folly of their way.5,B Thus the religion, the literature, the whole
character of the people of India are becoming more and more
Indo-European. They work for us, as we work for them. Many a letter have
I received from native scholars in which they express their admiration
for the wonderful achievements of European ingenuity, for railways, and
telegraphs, and all the rest; and yet what, according to their own
confession, has startled them and delighted them most, is the interest
we have taken in their literature, and the new life which we have
imparted to their ancient history. I know these matters seem small,
when we are near to them, when we are in the very midst of them. Like
the tangled threads hanging on a loom, they look worthless, purposeless.
But history weaves her woof out of all of them, and after a time, when
we see the full and finished design, we perceive that no color, however
quiet, could have been dropped, no shade, however slight, could have
been missed, without spoiling the whole.
And now, after having given this account of our stewardship, let me
say in conclusion a few words on the claims which Oriental studies have
on public sympathy and support.
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Let me begin with the Universities—I mean, of course the
English Universities—and more particularly that University which
has been to me for many years an Alma Mater, Oxford. While we
have there, or are founding there, professorships for every branch of
Theology, Jurisprudence, and Physical Science, we have hardly any
provision for the study of Oriental languages. We have a chair of
Hebrew, rendered illustrious by the greatest living theologian of
England, and we have a chair of Sanskrit, which has left its mark in the
history of Sanskrit literature; but for the modern languages of India,
whether Aryan or Dravidian, for the language and literature of Persia,
both ancient and modern, for the language and antiquities of Egypt and
Babylon, for Chinese, for Turkish, nay even for Arabic, there is nothing
deserving the name of a chair. When in a Report on University Reform,
I ventured to point out these gaps, and to remark that in the
smallest of German Universities most of these subjects were represented
by professors, I was asked whether I was in earnest in maintaining
that Oxford, the first University in what has rightly been called the
greatest Oriental Empire, ought really to support the study of Oriental
languages.
The second claim we prefer is on the Missionary Societies. I have
lately incurred very severe obloquy for my supposed hostility to
missionary enterprise. All I can say is, I wish that there were ten
missionaries for every one we have now. I have always counted
missionaries among my best friends; I have again and again
acknowledged how much Oriental studies and linguistic studies in
general, owe to them, and I am proud to say that, even now,
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while missionaries at home have abused me in unmeasured language,
missionaries abroad, devoted, hard-working missionaries, have thanked me
for what I said of them and their work in my lay-sermon in Westminster
Abbey last December.
Now it seems to me that, first of all, our Universities, and I think
again chiefly of Oxford, might do much more for missions than they do at
present. If we had a sufficient staff of professors for Eastern
languages, we could prepare young missionaries for their work, and
should be able to send out from time to time such men as Patteson, the
Bishop of Melanesia, who was every inch an Oxford man. And in these
missionaries we might have not only apostles of religion and
civilization, but at the same time, the most valuable pioneers of
scientific research. I know there are some authorities at home who
declare that such a combination is impossible, or at least undesirable;
that a man cannot serve two masters, and that a missionary must do his
own work and nothing else. Nothing, I believe, can be more
mistaken. First of all, some of our most efficient missionaries have
been those who have done also the most excellent work as scholars, and
whenever I have conversed on this subject with missionaries who have
seen active service, they all agree that they cannot be converting all
day long, and that nothing is more refreshing and invigorating to them
than some literary or scientific work. Now what I should like to see is
this: I should like to see ten or twenty of our non-resident
fellowships, which at present are doing more harm than good, assigned to
missionary work, to be given to young men who have taken their degree,
and who, whether
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laymen or clergymen, are willing to work as assistant missionaries on
distant stations, with the distinct understanding that they should
devote some of their time to scientific work, whether the study of
languages, or flowers, or stars, and that they should send home every
year some account of their labors. These men would be like scientific
consuls, to whom students at home might apply for information and help.
They would have opportunities of distinguishing themselves by really
useful work, far more than in London, and after ten years, they might
either return to Europe with a well-established reputation, or if they
find that they have a real call for missionary work, devote all their
life to it. Though to my own mind there is no nobler work than that of a
missionary, yet I believe that some such connection with the
Universities and men of science would raise their position, and would
call out more general interest, and secure to the missionary cause the
good-will of those whose will is apt to become law.
Thirdly, I think that Oriental studies have a claim on the colonies
and the colonial governments. The English colonies are scattered all
over the globe, and many of them in localities where an immense deal of
useful scientific work might be done, and would be done with the
slightest encouragement from the local authorities, and something like a
systematic supervision on the part of the Colonial Office at home. Some
years ago I ventured to address the Colonial Secretary of State on this
subject, and a letter was sent out in consequence to all the English
colonies, inviting information on the languages, monuments, customs, and
traditions of the native
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races. Some most valuable reports have been sent home during the last
five or six years, but when it was suggested that these reports should
be published in a permanent form, the expense that would have been
required for printing every year a volume of Colonial Reports, and which
would not have amounted to more than a few hundred pounds for all the
colonies of the British Empire, part of it to be recovered by the sale
of the book, was considered too large.
Now we should bear in mind that at the present moment some of the
tribes living in or near the English colonies in Australia, Polynesia,
Africa, and America, are actually dying out, their languages are
disappearing, their customs, traditions, and religions will soon be
completely swept away. To the student of language, the dialect of a
savage tribe is as valuable as Sanskrit or Hebrew, nay, for the solution
of certain problems, more so; every one of these languages is the growth
of thousands and thousands of years, the workmanship of millions and
millions of human beings. If they were now preserved, they might
hereafter fill the most critical gaps in the history of the human race.
At Rome at the time of the Scipios, hundreds of people might have
written down a grammar and dictionary of the Etruscan language, of
Oscan, or Umbrian; but there were men then, as there are now, who
shrugged their shoulders and said, What can be the use of preserving
these barbarous, uncouth idioms?—What would we not give now for
some such records?
And this is not all. The study of savage tribes has assumed a new
interest of late, when the question of the exact relation of man to the
rest of the animal
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kingdom has again roused the passions not only of scientific inquirers,
but also of the public at large. Now what is wanted for the solution of
this question, are more facts and fewer theories, and these facts can
only be gained by a patient study of the lowest races of mankind. When
religion was held to be the specific character of man, it was asserted
by many travellers that they had seen races without any religious ideas;
when language was seen to be the real frontier line between man and
beast, it was maintained that there were human beings without language.
Now all we want to know are facts, let the conclusions be whatever they
may. It is by no means easy to decide whether savage tribes have a
religion or not; at all events it requires the same discernment, and the
same honesty of purpose as to find out whether men of the highest
intellect among us have a religion or not. I call the Introduction
to Spencer’s “First Principles” deeply religious, but I can well
understand that a missionary, reporting on a tribe of Spencerian
savages, might declare that they had no idea whatsoever of religion.
Looking at a report sent home lately by the indefatigable Governor of
New South Wales, Sir Hercules Robinson, I find the following
description of the religious ideas of the Kamilarois, one of the most
degraded tribes in the Northwestern district of the colony:—
“Bhaiami is regarded by them as the maker of all things. The name
signifies ‘maker,’ or ‘cutter-out,’ from the verb bhai,
baialli, baia. He is regarded as the rewarder and
punisher of men according to their conduct. He sees all, and knows all,
if not directly, through the subordinate deity Turramûlan, who presides
at the Bora. Bhaiami is said to have
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been once on the earth. Turramûlan is mediator in all the operations of
Bhaiami upon man, and in all man’s transactions with Bhaiami. Turramûlan
means ‘leg on one side only,’ ‘one-legged.’”
This description is given by the Rev. C. Greenway, and if there is
any theological bias in it, let us make allowance for it. But there
remains the fact that Bhaiami, their name for deity, comes from a root
bhai, to “make,” to “cut out,” and if we remember that hardly
any of the names for deity, either among the Aryan or Semitic nations,
comes from a root with so abstract a meaning, we shall admit,
I think, that such reports as these should not be allowed to lie
forgotten in the pigeon-holes of the Colonial Office, or in the pages of
a monthly journal.
What applies to religion, applies to language. We have been told
again and again that the Veddahs in Ceylon have no language. Sir Emerson
Tennant wrote “that they mutually make themselves understood by signs,
grimaces, and guttural sounds, which have little resemblance to definite
words or language in general.” When these statements were repeated,
I tried to induce the Government of Ceylon to send a competent man
to settle the question. I did not receive all I wanted, and
therefore postponed the publication of what was sent me. But I may say
so much, that more than half of the words used by the Veddahs, are, like
Singhalese itself, mere corruption of Sanskrit; their very name is the
Sanskrit word for hunter, veddhâ, or, as Mr. Childers supposes,
vyâdha. There is a remnant of words in their language of which
I can make nothing as yet. But so much is certain; either the Veddahs
started with the common inheritance of Aryan words and ideas;
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or, at all events, they lived for a long time in contact with Aryan
people, and adopted from them such words as were wanting in their
language. If they now stand low in the scale of humanity, they once
stood higher, nay they may possibly prove, in language, if not in blood,
the distant cousins of Plato, and Newton, and Goethe.
It is most essential to keep la carrière ouverte for facts,
even more than for theories, and for the supply of such facts the
Colonial Government might render most useful service.
It is but right to state that whenever I have applied to the
Governors of any of the Colonies, I have invariably met with the
greatest kindness and readiness to help. Some of them take the warmest
interest in these researches. Sir George Grey’s services to the science
of language have hardly been sufficiently appreciated as yet, and the
Linguistic Library which he founded at the Cape, places him of right by
the side of Sir Thomas Bodley. Sir Hercules Robinson, Mr. Musgrave in
South Australia, Sir Henry Barkley at the Cape, and several others, are
quite aware of the importance of linguistic and ethnological researches.
What is wanted is encouragement from home, and some systematic guidance.
Dr. Bleek, the excellent librarian of Sir George Grey’s Library at the
Cape, who has devoted the whole of his life to the study of savage
dialects, and whose Comparative Grammar of the South African languages
will hold its place by the side of Bopp’s, Diez’s, and Caldwell’s
Comparative Grammars, is most anxious that there should be a permanent
linguistic and ethnological station established at the Cape; in fact,
that there should be a linguist
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attached to every zoölogical station. At the Cape there are not only the
Zulu dialects to be studied, but two most important languages, that of
the Hottentots and that of the Bushmen. Dr. Bleek has lately been
enabled to write down several volumes of traditional literature from the
mouths of some Bushman prisoners, but he says, “my powers and my life
are drawing to an end, and unless I have some young men to assist me,
and carry on my work, much of what I have done will be lost.” There is
no time to be lost, and I trust therefore that my appeal will not be
considered importunate by the present Colonial Minister.
Last of all, we turn to India, the very cradle of Oriental
scholarship, and here, instead of being importunate and urging new
claims for assistance, I think I am expressing the feelings of all
Oriental scholars in publicly acknowledging the readiness with which the
Indian Government, whether at home or in India, whether during the days
of the old East India Company, or now under the auspices of the
Secretary of State, has always assisted every enterprise tending to
throw light on the literature, the religion, the laws and customs, the
arts and manufactures of that ancient Oriental Empire.
Only last night I received the first volume of a work which will mark
a new era in the history of Oriental typography. Three valuable MSS. of
the Mahâbhâshya have been photolithographed at the expense of the Indian
Government, and under the supervision of one whom many of us will miss
here to-day, the late Professor Goldstücker. It is a magnificent
publication, and as there are only fifty copies printed, it will soon
become more valuable than a real MS.
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There are two surveys carried on at the present moment in India,
a literary and an archæological survey. Many years ago, when Lord
Elgin went to India as Governor-general, I suggested to him the
necessity of taking measures in order to rescue from destruction
whatever could still be rescued of the ancient literature of the
country. Lord Elgin died before any active measures could be taken, but
the plan found a more powerful advocate in Mr. Whitley Stokes, who urged
the Government to appoint some Sanskrit scholars to visit all places
containing collections of Sanskrit MSS., and to publish lists of their
titles, so that we might know, at all events, how much of a literature,
that had been preserved for thousands of years, was still in existence
at the present moment. This work was confided to Dr. Bühler, Dr.
Kielhorn, Mr. Burnell, Rajendralal Mitra, and others. Several of their
catalogues have been published, and there is but one feeling among all
Sanskrit scholars as to the value of their work. But they also feel that
the time has come for doing more. The mere titles of the MSS. whet our
appetite, but do not satisfy it. There are, of course, hundreds of books
where the title, the name of the author, the locus et annus are
all we care to know. But of books which are scarce, and hitherto not
known out of India, we want to know more. We want some information of
the subject and its treatment, and if possible, of the date, of the
author, and of the writers quoted by him. We want extracts,
intelligently chosen, in fact, we want something like the excellent
catalogue which Dr. Aufrecht has made for the Bodleian Library. In Mr.
Burnell, Dr. Bühler, Dr. Kielhorn, the Government possesses scholars who
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could do that work admirably; what they want is more leisure, more
funds, more assistance.
Contemporaneously with the Literary Survey, there is the
Archæological Survey, carried on by that gallant and indefatigable
scholar, General Cunningham. His published reports show the systematic
progress of his work, and his occasional communications in the Journal
of the Asiatic Society of Bengal tell us of his newest discoveries. The
very last number of that journal brought us the news of the discovery of
the wonderful ruins of the Buddhist temple of Bharahut,6 which, with
their representations of scenes from the early Buddhist literature, with
their inscriptions and architectural style, may enable us to find a
terminus a quo for the literary and religious history of India.
We should not forget the services which Mr. Fergusson has rendered to
the history of Indian architecture, both by awakening an interest in the
subject, and by the magnificent publication of the drawings of the
sculptures of Sanchi and Amravati, carried on under the authority of the
Secretary of State for India. Let us hope that these new discoveries may
supply him with materials for another volume, worthy of its
companion.
It was supposed for a time that there was a third survey carried on
in India, ethnological and linguistic, and the volume, published by
Colonel Dalton, “Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal,” with portraits from
photographs, was a most excellent beginning. But the other India
Governments have not hitherto followed the example of the Bengal
Government, and nothing has of late come to my knowledge in this
important line of research. Would not Dr.
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Hunter, who has done so much for a scientific study of the non-Aryan
languages and races of India, take up this important branch of research,
and give us, not only photographs and graphic description, but also,
what is most wanted, scholarlike grammars of the principal races of
India? Lists of words, if carefully chosen, like those in Colonel
Dalton’s work and in Sir George Campbell’s “Specimens,” are, no doubt,
most valuable for preliminary researches, but without grammars, none of
the great questions which are still pending in Indian Ethnology will
ever be satisfactorily and definitely settled. No real advance has been
made in the classification of Indian dialects since the time when I
endeavored, some twenty years ago, to sum up what was then known on that
subject, in my letter to Bunsen “On the Turanian Languages.” What I then
for the first time ventured to maintain against the highest authorities
in Indian linguistic ethnology, viz., that the dialects of the Mundas or
the Koles constituted a third and totally independent class of languages
in India, related neither to the Aryan nor to the Dravidian families,
has since been fully confirmed by later researches, and is now,
I believe, generally accepted. The fact also, on which I then
strongly insisted, that the Uraon Koles, and Rajmahal Koles, might be
Koles in blood, but certainly not in language, their language being,
like that of the Gonds, Dravidian, is now no longer disputed. But beyond
this, all is still as hypothetical as it was twenty years ago, simply
because we can get no grammars of the Munda dialects. Why do not the
German missionaries at Ranchi, who have done such excellent work among
the Koles, publish a grammatical analysis of that
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interesting cluster of dialects? Only a week ago, one of them, Mr.
Jellinghaus, gave me a grammatical sketch of the Mundári language, and
even this, short as it is, was quite sufficient to show that the
supposed relationship between the Munda dialects and the Khasia
language, of which we have a grammar, is untenable. The similarities
pointed out by Mason between the Munda dialects and the Talaing of Pegu,
are certainly startling, but equally startling are the divergences; and
here again no real result will be obtained without a comparison of the
grammatical structure of the two languages. The other classes of Indian
languages, the Taic, the Gangetic, subdivided into Trans-Himalayan and
Sub-Himalayan, the Lohitic, and Tamulic, are still retained, though some
of their names have been changed. Without wishing to defend the names
which I had chosen for these classes, I must say that I look upon
the constant introduction of new technical terms as an unmixed evil.
Every classificatory term is imperfect. Aryan, Semitic, Hamitic,
Turanian, all are imperfect, but, if they are but rightly defined, they
can do no harm, whereas a new term, however superior at first sight,
always makes confusion worse confounded. The chemists do not hesitate to
call sugar an acid rather than part with an old established term; why
should not we in the science of language follow their good example?
Dr. Leitner’s labors in Dardistan should here be mentioned. They date
from the year 1866. Considering the shortness of the time allotted to
him for exploring that country, he has been most successful in
collecting his linguistic materials. We owe him a vocabulary of two
Shinâ dialects (the Ghilghiti and
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Astori), and of the Arnyia, the Khayuna, and the Kalâsha-Mânder. These
vocabularies are so arranged as to give us a fair idea of the systems of
conjugation and declension. Other vocabularies, arranged according to
subjects, allow us an insight into the intellectual life of the Shinas,
and we also receive most interesting information on the customs,
legends, superstitions, and religion of the Dardus. Some of the
important results, obtained by the same enterprising scholar in his
excavations on the Takht-i-bahai hills will be laid before the
Archæological Section of this Congress. It is impossible to look at the
Buddhist sculptures which he has brought home without perceiving that
there is in them a foreign element. They are Buddhist sculptures, but
they differ both in treatment and expression from what was hitherto
known of Buddhist art in various parts of the world. Dr. Leitner thinks
that the foreign element came from Greece, from Greek or Macedonian
workmen, the descendants of Alexander’s companions; others think that
local and individual influences are sufficient to account for apparent
deviations from the common Buddhist type. On this point I feel totally
incompetent to express an opinion, but whatever the judgment of our
archæological colleagues may be, neither they nor we ourselves can have
any doubt that Dr. Leitner deserves our sincere gratitude as an
indefatigable explorer and successful discoverer.
Many of the most valuable treasures of every kind and sort, collected
during these official surveys, and by private enterprise, are now
deposited in the Indian Museum in London, a real mine of literary
and archæological wealth, opened with the greatest liberality to all who
are willing to work in it.
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It is unfortunate, no doubt, that this meeting of Oriental scholars
should have taken place at a time when the treasures of the Indian
Museum are still in their temporary exile; yet, if they share in the
regret felt by every friend of India, at the delay in the building of a
new museum, worthy both of England and of India, they will also carry
away the conviction, that such delay is simply due to a desire to do the
best that can be done, in order to carry out in the end something little
short of that magnificent scheme of an Indian Institute, drawn by the
experienced hand of Mr. Forbes Watson.
And now, in conclusion, I have to express my own gratitude for the
liberality both of the Directors of the old East India Company and of
the present Secretary of State for India in Council, for having enabled
me to publish that work the last sheet of which I am able to present to
this Meeting to-day, the “Rig-Veda, with the Commentary of Sâyaṇâcârya.” It is the oldest book of the Aryan
world, but it is also one of the largest, and its publication would have
been simply impossible without the enlightened liberality of the Indian
Government. For twenty-five years I find, that taking the large and
small editions of the Rig-Veda together, I have printed every year
what would make a volume of about six hundred pages octavo. Such a
publication would have ruined any bookseller, for it must be confessed,
that there is little that is attractive in the Veda, nothing that could
excite general interest. From an æsthetic point of view, no one would
care for the hymns of the Rig-Veda, and I can well understand how, in
the beginning of our century, even so discriminating a scholar as
Colebrooke could express his opinion that,
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“The Vedas are too voluminous for a complete translation, and what they
contain would hardly reward the labor of the reader, much less that of
the translator. The ancient dialect in which they are composed, and
specially that of the three first Vedas, is extremely difficult and
obscure; and, though curious, as the parent of a more polished and
refined language, its difficulties must long continue to prevent such an
examination of the whole Vedas, as would be requisite for extracting all
that is remarkable and important in those voluminous works. But they
well deserve to be occasionally consulted by the Oriental scholar.”
Nothing shows the change from the purely æsthetic to the purely
scientific interest in the language and literature of India more clearly
than the fact that for the last twenty-five years the work of nearly all
Sanskrit scholars has been concentrated on the Veda. When some thirty
years ago I received my first lessons in Sanskrit from Professor
Brockhaus, whom I am happy and proud to see to-day among us, there were
but few students who ventured to dive into the depths of Vedic
literature. To-day among the Sanskrit scholars whom Germany has sent to
us—Professors Stenzler, Spiegel, Weber, Hang, Pertsch,
Windisch—there is not one who has not won his laurels on the field
of Vedic scholarship. In France also a new school of Sanskrit students
has sprung up who have done most excellent work for the interpretation
of the Veda, and who bid fair to rival the glorious school of French
Orientalists at the beginning of this century, both by their persevering
industry and by that “sweetness and light” which seems to be the
birthright of their nation. But, I say again, there is little that
is beautiful, in our sense of the
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word, to be found in the hymns of the Rig-Veda, and what little there
is, has been so often dwelt on, that quite an erroneous impression as to
the real nature of Vedic poetry has been produced in the mind of the
public. My old friend, the Dean of St. Paul’s, for instance, in some
thoughtful lectures which he delivered this year on the “Sacred Poetry
of Early Religions,” has instituted a comparison between the Psalms and
the hymns of the Veda, and he arrives at the conclusion that the Psalms
are superior to the Vedic hymns. No doubt they are, from the point of
view which he has chosen, but the chief value of these hymns lies in the
fact that they are so different from the Psalms, or, if you like, that
they are so inferior to the Psalms. They are Aryan, the Psalms Semitic;
they belong to a primitive and rude state of society, the Psalms, at
least most of them, are contemporaneous with or even later than the
heydays of the Jewish monarchy. This strange misconception of the true
character of the Vedic hymns seemed to me to become so general, that
when some years ago I had to publish the first volume of my translation,
I intentionally selected a class of hymns which should in no way
encourage such erroneous opinions. It was interesting to watch the
disappointment. What, it was said, are these strange, savage, grotesque
invocations of the Storm-gods, the inspired strains of the ancient sages
of India? Is this the wisdom of the East? Is this the primeval
revelation? Even scholars of high reputation joined in the outcry, and
my friends hinted to me that they would not have wasted their life on
such a book.
Now, suppose a geologist had brought to light the bones of a fossil
animal, dating from a period anterior
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to any in which traces of animal life had been discovered before, would
any young lady venture to say by way of criticism, “Yes, these bones are
very curious, but they are not pretty!” Or suppose a new Egyptian statue
had been discovered, belonging to a dynasty hitherto unrepresented by
any statues, would even a school-boy dare to say, “Yes, it is very nice,
but the Venus of Milo is nicer?” Or suppose an old MS. is brought to
Europe, do we find fault with it, because it is not neatly printed? If a
chemist discovers a new element, is he pitied because it is not gold? If
a botanist writes on germs, has he to defend himself, because he does
not write on flowers? Why, it is simply because the Veda is so different
from what it was expected to be, because it is not like the Psalms, not
like Pindar, not like the Bhagavadgîtâ, it is because it stands alone by
itself, and reveals to us the earliest germs of religious thought, such
as they really were; it is because it places before us a language, more
primitive than any we knew before; it is because its poetry is what you
may call savage, uncouth, rude, horrible, it is for that very reason
that it was worth while to dig and dig till the old buried city was
recovered, showing us what man was, what we were, before we had reached
the level of David, the level of Homer, the level of Zoroaster, showing
us the very cradle of our thoughts, our words, and our deeds. I
am not disappointed with the Veda, and I shall conclude my address with
the last verses of the last hymn, which you have now in your
hands,—verses which thousands of years ago may have been addressed
to a similar meeting of Aryan fellow-men, and which are not
inappropriate to our own:—
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Sám gacchadhvam sám vadadhvam sám vaḥ mánâṃsi jànatâm,
Devâh bhâgám yáthâ pû́rve7 saṃjânânấḥ upấsate,
Samânáh mántraḥ sámitiḥ samánî́ samânám mánaḥ sahá cittám eshâm,
Samnám mántram abhí mantraye vaḥ samânéna vaḥ havíshâ juhomi.
Samânî́ vaḥ ấkûtiḥ samânấ hṛdayâni vaḥ,
Samânám astu vaḥ mánaḥ yáthâ vaḥ súsaha ásati.
“Come together! Speak together! Let your minds be
concordant—the gods by being concordant receive their share, one
after the other. Their word is the same, their counsel is the same,
their mind is the same, their thoughts are at one; I address to you
the same word, I worship you with the same sacrifice. Let your
endeavor be the same! Let your hearts be the same! Let your mind be the
same, that it may go well with you.”
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In the “Indian Mirror,” published at
Calcutta, 20 September, 1874, a native writer gave utterance almost
at the same time to the same feelings:—
“When the dominion passed from the Mogul to the hands of Englishmen,
the latter regarded the natives as little better than niggers, having a
civilization perhaps a shade better than that of the
barbarians. . . . The gulf was wide between the
conquerors and the conquered. . . . There was no
affection to lessen the distance between the two
races. . . . The discovery of Sanskrit entirely
revolutionized the course of thought and speculations. It served as the
‘open sesame’ to many hidden treasures. It was then that the position of
India in the scale of civilization was distinctly apprehended. It was
then that our relations with the advanced nations of the world were
fully realized. We were niggers at one time. We now become
brethren. . . . The advent of the English found us a
nation low sunk in the mire of superstitions, ignorance, and political
servitude. The advent of scholars like Sir William Jones found us fully
established in a rank above that of every nation as that from which
modern civilization could be distinctly traced. It would be interesting
to contemplate what would have been our position if the science of
philology had not been discovered. . . . It was only when
the labor of scholars brought to light the treasures of our antiquity
that they perceived how near we were to their races in almost all things
that they held dear in their life. It was then that our claims on their
affection and regard were first established. As Hindus we ought never to
forget the labor of scholars. We owe them our life as a nation, our
freedom as a recognized society, and our position in the scale of races.
It is the fashion with many to decry the labors of those men as dry,
unprofitable, and
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dreamy. We should know that it is to the study of the roots and
inflections of the Sanskrit language that we owe our national
salvation. . . . Within a very few years after the
discovery of Sanskrit, a revolution took place in the history of
comparative science. Never were so many discoveries made at once, and
from the speculations of learned scholars like ——, the
dawnings of many truths are even now visible to the
world. . . . Comparative mythology and comparative
religion are new terms altogether in the world. . . . We
say again that India has no reason to forget the services of
scholars.”
The following letter addressed by me
to the “Academy,” October 17, 1874, p. 433, gives the reasons for
this statement:—
“I was aware of the mission of the four young Brahmans sent to
Benares in 1845, to copy out and study the four Vedas respectively.
I had read of it last in the ‘Historical Sketch of the Brahmo
Samaj,’ which Miss Collet had the kindness to send me. But what I said
in my address before the Oriental Congress referred to earlier times.
That mission in 1845 was, in fact, the last result of much previous
discussion, which gradually weakened and destroyed in the mind of Ram
Mohun Roy and his followers their traditional faith in the Divine origin
of the Vedas. At first Ram Mohun Roy met the arguments of his English
friends by simply saying, ‘If you claim a Divine origin for your sacred
books, so do we;’ and when he was pressed by the argument derived from
internal evidence, he appealed to a few hymns, such as the Gâyatrî, and
to the Upanishads, as by no means inferior to passages in the Bible, and
not unworthy of a divine author. The Veda with him was chiefly in the
Upanishads, and he had hardly any knowledge of the hymns of the
Rig-Veda. I state this on the authority of a conversation that
passed between him and young Rosen, who was then working at the MSS. of
the Rig-Veda-Sanhitâ in the British Museum, and to whom Ram Mohun Roy
expressed his regret at not being able to read his own sacred books.
“There were other channels, too, through which, after Ram Mohun Roy’s
death in 1833, a knowledge of the studies of European scholars may
have reached the still hesitating reformers
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of the Brahma Sabhá. Dvarka Náth Tagore paid a visit to Europe in the
year 1845. I write from memory. Though not a man of deep religious
feelings, he was an enlightened and shrewd observer of all that passed
before his eyes. He was not a Sanskrit scholar; and I well recollect,
when we paid a visit together to Eugène Burnouf, Dvarka Náth Tagore
putting his dark delicate hand on one side of Burnouf’s edition of the
‘Bhagavat Purâṇa,’ containing the French
translation, and saying he could understand that, but not the Sanskrit
original on the opposite page. I saw him frequently at Paris, where
I was then engaged in collecting materials for a complete edition of the
Vedas and the commentary of Sâyaṇâcârya.
Many a morning did I pass in his rooms, smoking, accompanying him on the
pianoforte, and discussing questions in which we took a common interest.
I remember one morning, after he had been singing some Italian,
French, and German music, I asked him to sing an Indian song. He
declined at first, saying that he knew I should not like it; but at last
he yielded, and sang, not one of the modern Persian songs, which
commonly go by the name of Indian, but a genuine native piece of music.
I listened quietly, but when it was over, I told him that it
seemed strange to me, how one who could appreciate Italian and German
music could find any pleasure in what sounded to me like mere noise,
without melody, rhythm, or harmony. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that is exactly like
you Europeans! When I first heard your Italian and German music I
disliked it; it was no music to me at all. But I persevered,
I became accustomed to it, I found out what was good in it,
and now I am able to enjoy it. But you despise whatever is strange to
you, whether in music, or philosophy, or religion; you will not listen
and learn, and we shall understand you much sooner than you will
understand us.’
“In our conversations on the Vedas he never, as far as I recollect,
defended the divine origin of his own sacred writings in the abstract,
but he displayed great casuistic cleverness in maintaining that every
argument that had ever been adduced in support of a supernatural origin
of the Bible could be used with equal force in favor of a divine
authorship of the Veda. His own ideas of the Veda were chiefly derived
from the Upanishads, and he frequently assured me that there was much
more of Vedic literature in India than we imagined. This Dvarka Náth
Tagore was the father of Debendra Náth Tagore, the true founder of
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the Brahmo Samáj, who, in 1845, sent the four young Brahmans to Benares
to copy out and study the four Vedas. Though Dvarka Náth Tagore was so
far orthodox that he maintained a number of Brahmans, yet it was he also
who continued the grant for the support of the Church, founded at
Calcutta by Ram Mohun Roy. One letter written by Dvarka Náth Tagore from
Paris to Calcutta in 1845, would supply the missing link between what
was passing at that time in a room of a hotel on the Place Vendôme, and
the resolution taken at Calcutta to find out, once for all, what the
Vedas really are.
“In India itself the idea of a critical and historical study of the
Veda originated certainly with English scholars. Dr. Mill once showed me
the first attempt at printing the sacred Gâyatrî in Calcutta; and, if I
am not mistaken, he added that unfortunately the gentleman who had
printed it died soon after, thus confirming the prophecies of the
Brahmans that such a sacrilege would not remain unavenged by the gods.
Dr. Mill, Stevenson, Wilson, and others were the first to show to the
educated natives in India that the Upanishads belonged to a later age
than the hymns of the Rig-Veda, and likewise the first to exhibit to Ram
Mohun Roy and his friends the real character of these ancient hymns. On
a mind like Ram Mohun Roy’s the effect was probably much more immediate
than on his followers, so that it took several years before they decided
on sending their commissioners to Benares to report on the Veda and its
real character. Yet that mission was, I believe, the result of a
slow process of attrition produced by the contact between native and
European minds, and as such I wished to present it in my address at the
Oriental Congress.”
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VIII.
LIFE OF COLEBROOKE.1
The name and fame of Henry Thomas
Colebrooke are better known in India, France, Germany, Italy—nay,
even in Russia—than in his own country. He was born in London on
the 15th of June, 1765; he died in London on the 10th of March, 1837;
and if now, after waiting for thirty-six years, his only surviving son,
Sir Edward Colebrooke, has at last given us a more complete account of
his father’s life, the impulse has come chiefly from Colebrooke’s
admirers abroad, who wished to know what the man had been whose works
they know so well. If Colebrooke had simply been a distinguished, even a
highly distinguished, servant of the East India Company, we could well
understand that, where the historian has so many eminent services to
record, those of Henry Thomas Colebrooke should have been allowed to
pass almost unnoticed. The history of British India has still to be
written, and it will be no easy task to write it. Macaulay’s “Lives” of
Clive and Warren Hastings are but two specimens to show how it ought to
be, and yet how it cannot be, written. There is in the annals of the
conquest and administrative tenure of India so much of the bold
generalship of raw recruits, the statesmanship of common
360
clerks, and the heroic devotion of mere adventurers, that even the
largest canvas of the historian must dwarf the stature of heroes; and
characters which, in the history of Greece or England, would stand out
in bold relief, must vanish unnoticed in the crowd. The substance of the
present memoir appeared in the “Journal” of the Royal Asiatic Society
soon after Mr. Colebrooke’s death. It consisted originally of a brief
notice of his public and literary career, interspersed with extracts
from his letters to his family during the first twenty years of
residence in India. Being asked a few years since to allow this notice
to appear in a new edition of his “Miscellaneous Essays,” which Mr.
Fitz-Edward Hall desired to republish, Sir Edward thought it incumbent
on him to render it more worthy of his father’s reputation. The letters
in the present volume are, for the most part, given in full; and some
additional correspondence is included in it, besides a few papers of
literary interest, and a journal kept by him during his residence at
Nagpur, which was left incomplete. Two addresses delivered to the Royal
Asiatic and Astronomical Societies, and the narrative of a journey to
and from the capital of Berar, are given in an appendix and complete the
volume, which is now on the eve of publication.
Although, as we shall see, the career of Mr. Colebrooke, as a servant
of the East India Company, was highly distinguished, and in its
vicissitudes, as here told by his son, both interesting and instructive,
yet his most lasting fame will not be that of the able administrator,
the learned lawyer, the thoughtful financier and politician, but that of
the founder and father of true Sanskrit scholarship in Europe. In
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that character Colebrooke has secured his place in the history of the
world, a place which neither envy nor ignorance can ever take from
him. Had he lived in Germany, we should long ago have seen his statue in
his native place, his name written in letters of gold on the walls of
academies; we should have heard of Colebrooke jubilees and Colebrooke
scholarships. In England, if any notice is taken of the discovery of
Sanskrit—a discovery in many respects equally important, in some
even more important, than the revival of Greek scholarship in the
fifteenth century—we may possibly hear the popular name of Sir
William Jones and his classical translation of Sakuntala; but of the
infinitely more important achievements of Colebrooke, not one word. The
fact is, the time has not yet come when the full importance of the
Sanskrit philology can be appreciated by the public at large. It was the
same with Greek philology. When Greek began to be studied by some of the
leading spirits in Europe, the subject seemed at first one of purely
literary curiosity. When its claims were pressed on the public, they
were met by opposition, and even ridicule; and those who knew least of
Greek were most eloquent in their denunciations. Even when its study had
become more general, and been introduced at universities and schools, it
remained in the eyes of many a mere accomplishment—its true value
for higher than scholastic purposes being scarcely suspected. At present
we know that the revival of Greek scholarship affected the deepest
interests of humanity, that it was in reality a revival of that
consciousness which links large portions of mankind together, connects
the living with the dead, and thus secures to each
362
generation the full intellectual inheritance of our race. Without that
historical consciousness the life of man would be ephemeral and vain.
The more we can see backward, and place ourselves in real sympathy with
the past, the more truly do we make the life of former generations our
own, and are able to fulfill our own appointed duty in carrying on the
work which was begun centuries ago in Athens and at Rome. But while the
unbroken traditions of the Roman world, and the revival of Greek culture
among us, restored to us the intellectual patrimony of Greece and Rome
only, and made the Teutonic race in a certain sense Greek and Roman, the
discovery of Sanskrit will have a much larger influence. Like a new
intellectual spring, it is meant to revive the broken fibres that once
united the Southeastern with the Northwestern branches of the Aryan
family; and thus to rëestablish the spiritual brotherhood, not only of
the Teutonic, Greek, and Roman, but likewise of the Slavonic, Celtic,
Indian, and Persian branches. It is to make the mind of man wider, his
heart larger, his sympathies world-embracing; it is to make us truly
humaniores, richer and prouder in the full perception of what
humanity has been, and what it is meant to be. This is the real object
of the more comprehensive studies of the nineteenth century, and though
the full appreciation of this their true import may be reserved to the
future, no one who follows the intellectual progress of mankind
attentively can fail to see that, even now, the comparative study of
languages, mythologies, and religions has widened our horizon; that much
which was lost has been regained; and that a new world, if it has not
yet been occupied, is certainly in sight. It
363
is curious to observe that those to whom we chiefly owe the discovery of
Sanskrit were as little conscious of the real importance of their
discovery as Columbus was when he landed at St. Salvador. What Mr.
Colebrooke did, was done from a sense of duty, rather than from literary
curiosity; but there was also a tinge of enthusiasm in his character,
like that which carries a traveller to the wastes of Africa or the
icebound regions of the Pole. Whenever there was work ready for him, he
was ready for the work. But he had no theories to substantiate, no
preconceived objects to attain. Sobriety and thoroughness are the
distinguishing features of all his works. There is in them no trace of
haste or carelessness; but neither is there evidence of any
extraordinary effort, or minute professional scholarship. In the same
business-like spirit in which he collected the revenue of his province
he collected his knowledge of Sanskrit literature; with the same
judicial impartiality with which he delivered his judgments he delivered
the results at which he had arrived after his extensive and careful
reading; and with the same sense of confidence with which he quietly
waited for the effects of his political and financial measures, in spite
of the apathy or the opposition with which they met at first, he left
his written works to the judgment of posterity, never wasting his time
in the repeated assertion of his opinions, or in useless controversy,
though he was by no means insensible to his own literary reputation. The
biography of such a man deserves a careful study; and we think that Sir
Edward Colebrooke has fulfilled more than a purely filial duty in giving
to the world a full account of the private, public, and literary life of
his great father.
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Colebrooke was the son of a wealthy London banker, Sir George
Colebrooke, a Member of Parliament, and a man in his time of some
political importance. Having proved himself a successful advocate of the
old privileges of the East India Company, he was invited to join the
Court of Directors, and became in 1769 chairman of the Company. His
chairmanship was distinguished in history by the appointment of Warren
Hastings to the highest office in India, and there are in existence
letters from that illustrious man to Sir George, written in the crisis
of his Indian Administration, which show the intimate and confidential
relations subsisting between them. But when, in later years, Sir George
Colebrooke became involved in pecuniary difficulties, and Indian
appointments were successively obtained for his two sons, James Edward
and Henry Thomas, it does not appear that Warren Hastings took any
active steps to advance them, beyond appointing the elder brother to an
office of some importance on his secretariat. Henry, the younger
brother, had been educated at home, and at the age of fifteen he had
laid a solid foundation in Latin, Greek, French, and particularly in
mathematics. As he never seems to have been urged on, he learned what he
learned quietly and thoroughly, trying from the first to satisfy himself
rather than others. Thus a love of knowledge for its own sake remained
firmly engrained in his mind through life, and explains much of what
would otherwise remain inexplicable in his literary career.
At the age of eighteen he started for India, and arrived at Madras in
1783, having narrowly escaped capture by French cruisers. The times were
anxious times for India, and full of interest to an observer of
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political events. In his very first letter from India Colebrooke thus
sketches the political situation:—
“The state of affairs in India seems to bear a far more favorable aspect
than for a long time past. The peace with the Mahrattas and the death of
Hyder Ally, the intended invasion of Tippoo’s country by the Mahrattas,
sufficiently removed all alarm from the country powers; but there are
likewise accounts arrived, and which seem to be credited, of the defeat
of Tippoo by Colonel Matthews, who commands on the other coast.”
From Madras Colebrooke proceeded, in 1783, to Calcutta, where he met
his elder brother, already established in the service. His own start in
official life was delayed, and took place under circumstances by no
means auspicious. The tone, both in political and private life, was at
that time at its lowest ebb in India. Drinking, gambling, and
extravagance of all kinds were tolerated even in the best society, and
Colebrooke could not entirely escape the evil effects of the moral
atmosphere in which he had to live. It is all the more remarkable that
his taste for work never deserted him, and “that he would retire to his
midnight Sanskrit studies unaffected by the excitement of the
gambling-table.” It was not till 1786—a year after Warren Hastings
had left India—that he received his first official appointment, as
Assistant Collector of Revenue in Tirhut. His father seems to have
advised him from the first to be assiduous in acquiring the vernacular
languages, and we find him at an early period of his Indian career thus
writing on this subject: “The one, and that the most necessary, Moors
(now called Hindustani), by not being written, bars all close
application; the other, Persian, is too dry to entice, and is so seldom
of any use, that I seek its acquisition very leisurely.” He asked his
father
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in turn to send him the Greek and Latin classics, evidently intending to
carry on his old favorite studies, rather than begin a new career as an
Oriental scholar. For a time he seemed, indeed, deeply disappointed with
his life in India, and his prospects were anything but encouraging. But
although he seriously thought of throwing up his position and returning
to England, he was busy nevertheless in elaborating a scheme for the
better regulation of the Indian service. His chief idea was, that the
three functions of the civil service—the commercial, the revenue,
and the diplomatic—should be separated; that each branch should be
presided over by an independent board, and that those who had qualified
themselves for one branch should not be transferred to another.
Curiously enough, he lived to prove by his own example the applicability
of the old system, being himself transferred from the revenue department
to a judgeship, then employed on an important diplomatic mission, and
lastly raised to a seat in Council, and acquitting himself well in each
of these different employments. After a time his discontent seems to
have vanished. He quietly settled down to his work in collecting the
revenue of Tirhut; and his official duties soon became so absorbing,
that he found little time for projecting reforms of the Indian Civil
Service.
Soon also his Oriental studies gave him a new interest in the country
and the people. The first allusions to Oriental literature occur in a
letter dated Patna, December 10, 1786. It is addressed to his father,
who had desired some information concerning the religion of the Hindus.
Colebrooke’s own interest in Sanskrit literature was from the first
scientific rather than literary. His love of mathematics and
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astronomy made him anxious to find out what the Brahmans had achieved in
these branches of knowledge. It is surprising to see how correct is the
first communication which he sends to his father on the four modes of
reckoning time adopted by Hindu astronomers, and which he seems chiefly
to have drawn from Persian sources. The passage (pp. 23–26)
is too long to be given here, but we recommend it to the careful
attention of Sanskrit scholars, who will find it more accurate than what
has but lately been written on the same subject. Colebrooke treated,
again, of the different measures of time in his essay “On Indian Weights
and Measures,” published in the “Asiatic Researches,” 1798; and in
stating the rule for finding the planets which preside over the day,
called Horâ, he was the first to point out the coincidence
between that expression and our name for the twenty-fourth part of the
day. In one of the notes to his Dissertation on the Algebra of the
Hindus he showed that this and other astrological terms were evidently
borrowed by the Hindus from the Greeks, or other external sources; and
in a manuscript note published for the first time by Sir
E. Colebrooke, we find him following up the same subject, and
calling attention to the fact that the word Horâ occurs in the
Sanskrit vocabulary—the Medinî-Kosha, and bears there,
among other significations, that of the rising of a sign of the zodiac,
or half a sign. This, as he remarks, is in diurnal motion one
hour, thus confirming the connection between the Indian and
European significations of the word.
While he thus felt attracted towards the study of Oriental literature
by his own scientific interests, it seems that Sanskrit literature and
poetry by themselves
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had no charms for him. On the contrary, he declares himself repelled by
the false taste of Oriental writers; and he speaks very slightingly of
“the amateurs who do not seek the acquisition of useful
knowledge, but would only wish to attract notice, without the labor of
deserving it, which is readily accomplished by an ode from the Persian,
an apologue from the Sanskrit, or a song from some unheard-of dialect of
Hinduee, of which amateur favors the public with a free
translation, without understanding the original, as you will immediately
be convinced, if you peruse that repository of nonsense, the ‘Asiatic
Miscellany.’” He makes one exception, however, in favor of Wilkins.
“I have never yet seen any book,” he writes, “which can be depended
on for information concerning the real opinions of the Hindus, except
Wilkins’s ‘Bhagvat Geeta.’ That gentleman was Sanskrit mad, and has more
materials and more general knowledge respecting the Hindus than any
other foreigner ever acquired since the days of Pythagoras.” Arabic,
too, did not then find much more favor in his eyes than Sanskrit. “Thus
much,” he writes, “I am induced to believe, that the Arabic
language is of more difficult acquisition than Latin, or even than
Greek; and, although it may be concise and nervous, it will not reward
the labor of the student, since, in the works of science, he can find
nothing new, and, in those of literature, he could not avoid feeling his
judgment offended by the false taste in which they are written, and his
imagination being heated by the glow of their imagery. A few dry
facts might, however, reward the literary
drudge. . . . .”
It may be doubted, indeed, whether Colebrooke would ever have
overcome these prejudices, had it
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not been for his father’s exhortations. In 1789, Colebrooke was
transferred from Tirhut to Purneah; and such was his interest in his new
and more responsible office, that, according to his own expression, he
felt for it all the solicitude of a young author. Engrossed in his work,
a ten years’ settlement of some of the districts of his new
collectorship, he writes to his father in July, 1790:—
“The religion, manners, natural history, traditions, and arts of this
country may, certainly, furnish subjects on which my communications
might, perhaps, be not uninteresting; but to offer anything deserving of
attention would require a season of leisure to collect and digest
information. Engaged in public and busy scenes, my mind is wholly
engrossed by the cares and duties of my station; in vain I seek, for
relaxation’s sake, to direct my thoughts to other subjects; matters of
business constantly recur. It is for this cause that I have occasionally
apologized for a dearth of subjects, having no occurrences to relate,
and the matters which occupy my attention being uninteresting as a
subject of correspondence.”
When, after a time, the hope of distinguishing himself impelled
Colebrooke to new exertions, and he determined to become an author, the
subject which he chose was not antiquarian or philosophical, but purely
practical.
“Translations,” he writes, in 1790, “are for those who rather need to
fill their purses than gratify their ambition. For original compositions
on Oriental history and sciences is required more reading in the
literature of the East than I possess, or am likely to attain. My
subject should be connected with those matters to which my attention is
professionally led. One subject is, I believe, yet
untouched—the agriculture of Bengal. On this I have been curious
of information; and, having obtained some, I am now pursuing
inquiries with some degree of regularity. I wish for your opinion,
whether it would be worth while to reduce into form the information
which may be
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obtained on a subject necessarily dry, and which (curious, perhaps) is,
certainly, useless to English readers.”
Among the subjects of which he wishes to treat in this work we find
some of antiquarian interest, e.g., what castes of Hindus are altogether forbid
cultivating, and what castes have religious prejudices against the
culture of particular articles. Others are purely technical; for
instance, the question of the succession and mixture of crops. He states
that the Hindus have some traditional maxims on the succession of crops
to which they rigidly adhere; and with regard to mixture, he observes
that two, three, or even four different articles are sown in the same
field, and gathered successively, as they ripen; that they are sometimes
all sown on the same day, sometimes at different periods, etc.
His letters now became more and more interesting, and they generally
contain some fragments which show us how the sphere of his inquiries
became more and more extended. We find (p. 39) observations on the
Psylli of Egypt and the snake-charmers of India, on the Sikhs
(p. 45), on human sacrifices in India (p. 46). The spirit of
inquiry which had been kindled by Sir W. Jones, more particularly since
the foundation of the Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1784, had evidently
reached Colebrooke. It is difficult to fix the exact date when he began
the study of Sanskrit. He seems to have taken it up and left it again in
despair several times. In 1793 he was removed from Purneah to Nattore.
From that place he sent to his father the first volumes of the “Asiatic
Researches,” published by the members of the Asiatic Society. He drew
his father’s attention to some articles in them, which would seem to
prove that the
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ancient Hindus possessed a knowledge of Egypt and of the Jews, but he
adds: “No historical light can be expected from Sanskrit literature; but
it may, nevertheless, be curious, if not useful, to publish such of
their legends as seem to resemble others known to European mythology.”
The first glimmering of comparative mythology in 1793!
Again he writes in 1793, “In my Sanskrit studies, I do not confine
myself now to particular subjects, but skim the surface of all their
sciences. I will subjoin, for your amusement, some remarks on
subjects treated in the ‘Researches.’”
What the results of that skimming were, and how far more
philosophical his appreciation of Hindu literature had then become, may
be seen from the end of the same letter, written from Rajshahi,
December, 6, 1793:—
“Upon the whole, whatever may be the true antiquity of this nation,
whether their mythology be a corruption of the pure deism we find in
their books, or their deism a refinement from gross idolatry; whether
their religious and moral precepts have been engrafted on the elegant
philosophy of the Nyâya and Mimânsâ, or this philosophy been refined on
the plainer text of the Veda; the Hindu is the most ancient nation of
which we have valuable remains, and has been surpassed by none in
refinement and civilization; though the utmost pitch of refinement to
which it ever arrived preceded, in time, the dawn of civilization in any
other nation of which we have even the name in history. The further our
literary inquiries are extended here, the more vast and stupendous is
the scene which opens to us; at the same time, that the true and false,
the sublime and the puerile, wisdom and absurdity, are so intermixed,
that, at every step, we have to smile at folly, while we admire and
acknowledge the philosophical truth, though couched in obscure allegory
and puerile fable.”
In 1794, Colebrooke presented to the Asiatic
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Society his first paper, “On the Duties of a Faithful Hindu Widow,” and
he told his father at the same time, that he meant to pursue his
Sanskrit inquiries diligently, and in a spirit which seems to have
guided all his work through life: “The only caution,” he says, “which
occurs to me is, not to hazard in publication anything crude or
imperfect, which would injure my reputation as a man of letters; to
avoid this, the precaution may be taken of submitting my manuscripts to
private perusal.”
Colebrooke might indeed from that time have become altogether devoted
to the study of Sanskrit, had not his political feelings been strongly
roused by the new Charter of the East India Company, which, instead of
sanctioning reforms long demanded by political economists, confirmed
nearly all the old privileges of their trade. Colebrooke was a
free-trader by conviction, and because he had at heart the interests
both of India and of England. It is quite gratifying to find a man,
generally so cold and prudent as Colebrooke, warm with indignation at
the folly and injustice of the policy carried out by England with regard
to her Indian subjects. He knew very well that it was personally
dangerous for a covenanted servant to discuss and attack the privileges
of the Company, but he felt that he ought to think and act, not merely
as the servant of a commercial company, but as the servant of the
British Government. He wished, even at that early time, that India
should become an integral portion of the British Empire, and cease to
be, as soon as possible, a mere appendage, yielding a large
commercial revenue. He was encouraged in these views by Mr. Anthony
Lambert, and the two friends at last decided to embody their
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views in a work, which they privately printed, under the title of
“Remarks on the Present State of the Husbandry and Commerce of Bengal.”
Colebrooke, as we know, had paid considerable attention to the subject
of husbandry, and he now contributed much of the material which he had
collected for a purely didactic work, to this controversial and
political treatise. He is likewise responsible, and he never tried to
shirk that responsibility, for most of the advanced financial theories
which it contains. The volume was sent to England, and submitted to the
Prime Minister of the day and several other persons of influence. It
seems to have produced an impression in the quarters most concerned, but
it was considered prudent to stop its further circulation on account of
the dangerous free-trade principles, which it supported with powerful
arguments. Colebrooke had left the discretion of publishing the work in
England to his friends, and he cheerfully submitted to their decision.
He himself, however, never ceased to advocate the most liberal financial
opinions, and being considered by those in power in Leadenhall Street as
a dangerous young man, his advancement in India became slower than it
would otherwise have been.
A man of Colebrooke’s power, however, was too useful to the Indian
Government to be passed over altogether, and though his career was
neither rapid nor brilliant, it was nevertheless most successful. Just
at the time when Sir W. Jones had died suddenly, Colebrooke was removed
from the revenue to the judicial branch of the Indian service, and there
was no man in India, except Colebrooke, who could carry on the work
which Sir W. Jones had left unfinished, viz.: “The Digest of Hindu and
Mohammedan
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Laws.” At the instance of Warren Hastings, a clause had been
inserted in the Act of 1772, providing that “Maulavies and Pundits
should attend the Courts, to expound the law and assist in passing the
decrees.” In all suits regarding inheritance, marriage, caste, and
religious usages and institutions, the ancient laws of the Hindus were
to be followed, and for that purpose a body of laws from their own books
had to be compiled. Under the direction of Warren Hastings, nine
Brahmans had been commissioned to draw up a code, which appeared in
1776, under the title of “Code of Gentoo Laws.”2 It had been
originally compiled in Sanskrit, then translated into Persian, and from
that into English. As that code, however, was very imperfect, Sir W.
Jones had urged on the Government the necessity of a more complete and
authentic compilation. Texts were to be collected, after the model of
Justinian’s Pandects, from law-books of approved authority, and to be
digested according to a scientific analysis, with references to original
authors. The task of arranging the text-books and compiling the new code
fell chiefly to a learned Pandit, Jagannâtha, and the task of
translating it was now, after the death of Sir W. Jones, undertaken by
Colebrooke. This task was no easy one, and could hardly be carried out
without the help of really learned pandits. Fortunately Colebrooke was
removed at the time when he undertook this work, to Mirzapur, close to
Benares, the seat of Brahmanical learning, in the north of India, and
the seat of a Hindu College. Here Colebrooke found not
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only rich collections of Sanskrit MSS, but likewise a number of law
pandits, who could solve many of the difficulties which he had to
encounter in the translation of Jagannâtha’s Digest. After two years of
incessant labor, we find Colebrooke on January 3, 1797, announcing the completion
of his task, which at once established his position as the best Sanskrit
scholar of the day. Oriental studies were at that time in the ascendant
in India. A dictionary was being compiled, and several grammars
were in preparation. Types also had been cut, and for the first time
Sanskrit texts issued from the press in Devanâgarî letters. Native
scholars, too, began to feel a pride in the revival of their ancient
literature. The Brahmans, as Colebrooke writes, were by no means averse
to instruct strangers; they did not even conceal from him the most
sacred texts of the Veda. Colebrooke’s “Essays on the Religious
Ceremonies of the Hindus,” which appeared in the fifth volume of the
“Asiatic Researches” in the same year as his translation of the
“Digest,” show very clearly that he had found excellent instructors, and
had been initiated in the most sacred literature of the Brahmans. An
important paper on the Hindu schools of law seems to date from the same
period, and shows a familiarity, not only with the legal authorities of
India, but with the whole structure of the traditional and sacred
literature of the Brahmans, which but few Sanskrit scholars could lay
claim to even at the present day. In the fifth volume of the “Asiatic
Researches” appeared also his essay “On Indian Weights and Measures,”
and his “Enumeration of Indian Classes.” A short, but thoughtful
memorandum on the origin of caste, written during that period, and
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printed for the first time in his “Life,” will be read with interest by
all who are acquainted with the different views of living scholars on
this important subject.
Colebrooke’s idea was that the institution of caste was not artificial
or conventional, but that it began with the simple division of freemen
and slaves, which we find among all ancient nations. This division, as
he supposes, existed among the Hindus before they settled in India. It
became positive law after their emigration from the northern mountains
into India, and was there adapted to the new state of the Hindus,
settled among the aborigines. The class of slaves or Śûdras
consisted of those who came into India in that degraded state, and those
of the aborigines who submitted and were spared. Menial offices and
mechanical labor were deemed unworthy of freemen in other countries
besides India, and it cannot therefore appear strange that the class of
the Śûdras comprehended in India both servants and mechanics,
both Hindus and emancipated aborigines. The class of freemen included
originally the priest, the soldier, the merchant, and the husbandman. It
was divided into three orders, the Brâhmaṇas, Kshatriyas, and Vaiśyas,
the last comprehending merchants and husbandmen indiscriminately, being
the yeomen of the country and the citizens of the town. According to
Colebrooke’s opinion, the Kshatriyas consisted originally of
kings and their descendants. It was the order of princes, rather than of
mere soldiers. The Brâhmaṇas comprehended no
more than the descendants of a few religious men who, by superior
knowledge and the austerity of their lives, had gained an ascendency over the
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people. Neither of these orders was originally very numerous, and their
prominence gave no offense to the far more powerful body of the citizens
and yeomen.
When legislators began to give their sanction to this social system,
their chief object seems to have been to guard against too great a
confusion of the four orders—the two orders of nobility, the
sacerdotal and the princely, and the two orders of the people, the
citizens and the slaves, by either prohibiting intermarriage, or by
degrading the offspring of alliances between members of different
orders. If men of superior married women of inferior, but next
adjoining, rank, the offspring of their marriage sank to the rank of
their mothers, or obtained a position intermediate between the two. The
children of such marriages were distinguished by separate titles. Thus,
the son of a Brâhmaṇa by a
Kshatriya woman was called Mûrdhâbhishikta, which
implies royalty. They formed a distinct tribe of princes or military
nobility, and were by some reckoned superior to the Kshatriya.
The son of a Brâhmaṇa by a Vaiśya
woman was a Vaidya or Ambashṭha;
the offspring of a Kshatriya by a Vaisya was a
Mahishya, forming two tribes of respectable citizens. But if a
greater disproportion of rank existed between the parents—if, for
instance, a Brâhmaṇa married a
Śûdra, the offspring of their marriage, the Nishâda,
suffered greater social penalties; he became impure, notwithstanding the
nobility of his father. Marriages, again, between women of superior with
men of inferior rank were considered more objectionable than marriages
of men of superior with women of inferior rank, a sentiment which
continues to the present day.
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What is peculiar to the social system, as sanctioned by Hindu
legislators, and gives it its artificial character, is their attempt to
provide by minute regulations for the rank to be assigned to new tribes,
and to point out professions suitable to that rank. The tribes had each
an internal government, and professions naturally formed themselves into
companies. From this source, while the corporations imitated the
regulations of tribes, a multitude of new and arbitrary tribes
sprang up, the origin of which, as assigned by Manu and other
legislators, was probably, as Colebrooke admits, more or less
fanciful.
In his “Remarks on the Husbandry and Internal Commerce of Bengal,”
the subject of caste in its bearing on the social improvement of the
Indian nation was likewise treated by Colebrooke. In reply to the
erroneous views then prevalent as to the supposed barriers which caste
placed against the free development of the Hindus, he writes:—
“An erroneous doctrine has been started, as if the great population of
these provinces could not avail to effect improvements, notwithstanding
opportunities afforded by an increased demand for particular
manufactures or for raw produce: because, ‘professions are hereditary
among the Hindus; the offspring of men of one calling do not intrude
into any other; professions are confined to hereditary descent; and the
produce of any particular manufacture cannot be extended according to
the increase of the demand, but must depend upon the population of the
caste, or tribe, which works on that manufacture; or, in other words, if
the demand for any article should exceed the ability of the number of
workmen who produce it, the deficiency cannot be supplied by calling in
assistance from other tribes.’
“In opposition to this unfounded opinion, it is necessary that we not
only show, as has been already done, that the population is actually
sufficient for great improvement, but we must also prove, that
professions are not separated by an impassable line, and that the
population affords a sufficient number whose
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religions prejudices permit, and whose inclination leads them to engage
in, those occupations through which the desired improvement may be
effected.
“The Muselmans, to whom the argument above quoted cannot in any manner
be applied, bear no inconsiderable proportion to the whole population.
Other descriptions of people, not governed by Hindu institutions, are
found among the inhabitants of these provinces; in regard to these,
also, the objection is irrelevant. The Hindus themselves, to whom the
doctrine which we combat is meant to be applied, cannot exceed nine
tenths of the population; probably, they do not bear so great a
proportion to the other tribes. They are, as is well known, divided into
four grand classes; but the three first of them are much less numerous
than the Śûdra. The aggregate of Brâhmaṇa, Kshatriya, and Vaiśya may
amount, at the most, to a fifth of the population; and even these are
not absolutely restricted to their own appointed occupations. Commerce and agriculture are
universally permitted; and, under the designation of servants of the
other three tribes, the Śûdras seem to be allowed to prosecute
any manufacture.
“In this tribe are included not only the true Śûdras, but also
the several castes whose origin is ascribed to the promiscuous
intercourse of the four classes. To these, also, their several
occupations were assigned; but neither are they restricted, by rigorous
injunctions, to their own appointed occupations. For any person unable
to procure a subsistence by the exercise of his own profession may earn
a livelihood in the calling of a subordinate caste, within certain
limits in the scale of relative precedence assigned to each; and no
forfeiture is now incurred by his intruding into a superior profession.
It was, indeed, the duty of the Hindu magistrate to restrain the
encroachments of inferior tribes on the occupations of superior castes;
but, under a foreign government, this restraint has no existence.
“In practice, little attention is paid to the limitations to which we
have here alluded: daily observation shows even Brâhmanas exercising the
menial profession of a Sûdra. We are aware that every caste forms itself
into clubs, or lodges, consisting of the several individuals of that
caste residing within a small distance; and that these clubs, or lodges,
govern themselves by particular rules and customs, or by laws. But,
though some restrictions and limitations, not founded on religious
prejudices,
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are found among their by-laws, it may be received, as a general maxim,
that the occupation appointed for each tribe is entitled merely to a
preference. Every profession, with few exceptions, is open to every
description of persons, and the discouragement arising from religious
prejudices is not greater than what exists in Great Britain from the
effects of municipal and corporation laws. In Bengal, the numbers of
people actually willing to apply to any particular occupation are
sufficient for the unlimited extension of any manufacture.
“If these facts and observations be not considered as a conclusive
refutation of the unfounded assertion made on this subject, we must
appeal to the experience of every gentleman who may have resided in the
provinces of Bengal, whether a change of occupation and profession does
not frequently and indefinitely occur? Whether Brâhmanas are not
employed in the most servile offices? And whether the Sûdra is not seen
elevated to situations of respectability and importance? In short,
whether the assertion above quoted be not altogether destitute of
foundation?”
It is much to be regretted that studies so auspiciously begun were
suddenly interrupted by a diplomatic mission, which called Colebrooke
away from Mirzapur, and retained him from 1798 to 1801 at Nagpur, the
capital of Berar. Colebrooke himself had by this time discovered that,
however distinguished his public career might be, his lasting fame must
depend on his Sanskrit studies. We find him even at Nagpur continuing
his literary work, particularly the compilation and translation of a
Supplementary Digest. He also prepared, as far as this was possible in
the midst of diplomatic avocations, some of his most important
contributions to the “Asiatic Researches,” one on Sanskrit prosody,
which did not appear till 1808, and was then styled an essay on Sanskrit
and Prakrit poetry; one on the Vedas, another on Indian Theogonies (not
published), and a critical treatise on Indian plants. At last, in May,
1801, he left Nagpur to
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return to his post at Mirzapur. Shortly afterwards he was summoned to
Calcutta, and appointed a member of the newly constituted Court of
Appeal. He at the same time accepted the honorary post of Professor of
Sanskrit at the college recently established at Fort William, without,
however, taking an active part in the teaching of pupils. He seems to
have been a director of studies rather than an actual professor, but he
rendered valuable service as examiner in Sanskrit, Bengali, Hindustani,
and Persian.
In 1801 appeared his essay on the Sanskrit and Prakrit languages,
which shows how well he had qualified himself to act as professor of
Sanskrit, and how well, in addition to the legal and sacred literature
of the Brahmans, he had mastered the belles lettres of India
also, which at first, as we saw, had rather repelled him by their
extravagance and want of taste.
And here we have to take note of a fact which has never been
mentioned in the history of the science of language, viz., that
Colebrooke at that early time devoted considerable attention to the
study of Comparative Philology. To judge from his papers, which have
never been published, but which are still in the possession of Sir E.
Colebrooke, the range of his comparisons was very wide, and embraced not
only Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin, with their derivatives, but also the
Germanic and Slavonic languages.3
The principal work, however, of this period of his life was his
Sanskrit Grammar. Though it was never finished, it will always keep its
place, like a classical torso, more admired in its unfinished
state than other works which stand by its side; finished, yet less
perfect. Sir E. Colebrooke has endeavored to convey to
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the general reader some idea of the difficulties which had to be
overcome by those who, for the first time, approached the study of the
native grammarians, particularly of Pâṇini. But this grammatical
literature, the 3,996 grammatical sûtras or rules, which
determine every possible form of the Sanskrit language in a manner
unthought of by the grammarians of any other country, the glosses and
commentaries, one piled upon the other, which are indispensable for a
successful unraveling of Pâṇini’s artful web, which start every
objection, reasonable or unreasonable, that can be imagined, either
against Pâṇini himself or against his interpreters, which establish
general principles, register every exception, and defend all forms
apparently anomalous of the ancient Vedic language; all this together is
so completely sui generis, that those only who have themselves
followed Colebrooke’s footsteps can appreciate the boldness of the first
adventurer, and the perseverance of the first explorer of that
grammatical labyrinth. Colebrooke’s own Grammar of the Sanskrit
language, founded on works of native grammarians, has sometimes been
accused of obscurity, nor can it be denied that for those who wish to
acquire the elements of the language, it is almost useless. But those
who know the materials which Colebrooke worked up in his grammar, will
readily give him credit for what he has done in bringing the
indigesta moles which he found before him into something like
order. He made the first step, and a very considerable step it was, in
translating the strange phraseology of Sanskrit grammarians into
something at least intelligible to European scholars. How it could have
been imagined that their extraordinary grammatical phraseology was
borrowed by the Hindus
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from the Greeks, or that its formation was influenced by the grammatical
schools established among the Greeks in Bactria, is difficult to
understand, if one possesses but the slightest acquaintance with the
character of either system, or with their respective historical
developments. It would be far more accurate to say that the Indian and
Greek systems of grammar represent two opposite poles, exhibiting the
two starting-points from which alone the grammar of a language can be
attacked, viz., the theoretical and the empirical. Greek grammar begins
with philosophy, and forces language into the categories established by
logic. Indian grammar begins with a mere collection of facts,
systematizes them mechanically, and thus leads in the end to a system
which, though marvelous for its completeness and perfection, is
nevertheless, from a higher point of view, a mere triumph of
scholastic pedantry.
Colebrooke’s grammar, even in its unfinished state, will always be
the best introduction to a study of the native grammarians—a study
indispensable to every sound Sanskrit scholar. In accuracy of statement
it still holds the first place among European grammars, and it is only
to be regretted that the references to Pânini and other grammatical
authorities, which existed in Colebrooke’s manuscript, should have been
left out when it came to be printed. The modern school of Sanskrit
students has entirely reverted to Colebrooke’s views on the importance
of a study of the native grammarians. It is no longer considered
sufficient to know the correct forms of Sanskrit declension or
conjugation: if challenged, we must be prepared to substantiate their
correctness by giving chapter and verse from Pâṇini, the fountain-head
of
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Indian grammar. If Sir E. Colebrooke says that “Bopp also drew deeply
from the fountain-head of Indian grammar in his subsequent labors,” he
has been misinformed. Bopp may have changed his opinion that “the
student might arrive at a critical knowledge of Sanskrit by an attentive
study of Foster and Wilkins, without referring to native authorities;”
but he himself never went beyond, nor is there any evidence in his
published works that he himself tried to work his way through the
intricacies of Pâṇini.
In addition to his grammatical studies, Colebrooke was engaged in
several other subjects. He worked at the Supplement to the “Digest of
Laws,” which assumed very large proportions; he devoted some of his time
to the deciphering of ancient inscriptions, in the hope of finding some
fixed points in the history of India; he undertook to supply the
Oriental synonymes for Roxburgh’s “Flora Indica”—a most laborious
task, requiring a knowledge of botany as well as an intimate
acquaintance with Oriental languages. In 1804 and 1805, while preparing
his classical essay on the Vedas for the press, we find him approaching
the study of the religion of Buddha. In all these varied researches, it
is most interesting to observe the difference between him and all the
other contributors to the “Asiatic Researches” at that time. They were
all carried away by theories or enthusiasm; they were all betrayed into
assertions or conjectures which proved unfounded. Colebrooke alone, the
most hard-working and most comprehensive student, never allows one word
to escape his pen for which he has not his authority; and when he speaks
of the treatises of Sir W. Jones, Wilford, and others, he
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readily admits that they contain curious matter, but as he expresses
himself, “very little conviction.” When speaking of his own work, as for
instance, what he had written on the Vedas, he says: “I imagine my
treatise on the Vedas will be thought curious; but, like the rest of my
publications, little interesting to the general reader.”
In 1805, Colebrooke became President of the Court of Appeal—a
high and, as it would seem, lucrative post, which made him unwilling to
aspire to any other appointment. His leisure, though more limited than
before, was devoted, as formerly, to his favorite studies; and in 1807
he accepted the presidency of the Asiatic Society—a post never
before or after filled so worthily. He not only contributed himself
several articles to the “Asiatic Researches,” published by the Society,
viz., “On the Sect of Jina,” “On the Indian and Arabic Divisions of the
Zodiack,” and “On the Frankincense of the Ancients;” but he encouraged
also many useful literary undertakings, and threw out, among other
things, an idea which has but lately been carried out, viz.,
a Catalogue raisonné of all that is extant in Asiatic
literature. His own studies became more and more concentrated on the
most ancient literature of India, the Vedas, and the question of their
real antiquity led him again to a more exhaustive examination of the
astronomical literature of the Brahmans. In all these researches, which
were necessarily of a somewhat conjectural character, Colebrooke was
guided by his usual caution. Instead of attempting, for instance,
a free and more or less divinatory translation of the hymns of the
Rig-Veda, he began with the tedious but inevitable work of exploring the
native
386
commentaries. No one who has not seen his MSS., now preserved at the
India Office, and the marginal notes with which the folios of Sâyaṇa’s
commentary are covered, can form any idea of the conscientiousness with
which he collected the materials for his essay. He was by no means a
blind follower of Sâyaṇa, or a believer in the infallibility of
traditional interpretation. The question on which so much useless
ingenuity has since been expended, whether in translating the Veda we
should be guided by native authorities or by the rules of critical
scholarship, must have seemed to him, as to every sensible person,
answered as soon as it was asked. He answered it by setting to work
patiently, in order to find out, first, all that could be learnt from
native scholars, and afterwards to form his own opinion. His experience
as a practical man, his judicial frame of mind, his freedom from
literary vanity, kept him, here as elsewhere, from falling into the pits
of learned pedantry. It will seem almost incredible to later generations
that German and English scholars should have wasted so much of their
time in trying to prove, either that we should take no notice whatever
of the traditional interpretation of the Veda, or that, in
following it, we should entirely surrender our right of private
judgment. Yet that is the controversy which has occupied of late years
some of our best Sanskrit scholars, which has filled our journals with
articles as full of learning as of acrimony, and has actually divided
the students of the history of ancient religion into two hostile camps.
Colebrooke knew that he had more useful work before him than to discuss
the infallibility of fallible interpreters—a question handled with
greater ingenuity by the Maimânsaka
387
philosophers than by any living casuists. He wished to leave substantial
work behind him; and though he claimed no freedom from error for
himself, yet he felt conscious of having done all his work carefully and
honestly, and was willing to leave it, such as it was, to the judgment
of his contemporaries and of posterity. Once only during the whole of
his life did he allow himself to be drawn into a literary controversy;
and here, too, he must have felt what most men feel in the
end—that it would have been better if he had not engaged in it.
The subject of the controversy was the antiquity and originality of
Hindu astronomy. Much had been written for and against it by various
writers, but by most of them without a full command of the necessary
evidence. Colebrooke himself maintained a doubtful attitude. He began,
as usual, with a careful study of the sources at that time available,
with translations of Sanskrit treatises, with astronomical calculations
and verifications; but, being unable to satisfy himself, he abstained
from giving a definite opinion. Bentley, who had published a paper in
which the antiquity and originality of Hindu astronomy were totally
denied, was probably aware that Colebrooke was not convinced by his
arguments. When, therefore, an adverse criticism of his views appeared
in the first number of our Review, Bentley jumped at the conclusion that
it was written or inspired by Colebrooke. Hence arose his animosity,
which lasted for many years, and vented itself from time to time in
virulent abuse of Colebrooke, whom Bentley accused not only of
unintentional error, but of willful misrepresentation and unfair
suppression of the truth. Colebrooke ought to have known that in the
republic of letters scholars are
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sometimes brought into strange society. Being what he was, he need
not—nay, he ought not—to have noticed such literary
rowdyism. But as the point at issue was of deep interest to him, and as
he himself had a much higher opinion of Bentley’s real merits than his
reviewer, he at last vouchsafed an answer in the “Asiatic Journal” of
March, 1826. With regard to Bentley’s personalities, he says:
“I never spoke nor wrote of Mr. Bentley with disrespect, and I gave
no provocation for the tone of his attack on me.” As to the question
itself, he sums up his position with simplicity and dignity.
“I have been no favorer,” he writes, “no advocate of Indian
astronomy. I have endeavored to lay before the public, in an
intelligible form, the fruits of my researches concerning it.
I have repeatedly noticed its imperfections, and have been ready to
admit that it has been no scanty borrower as to theory.”
Colebrooke’s stay in India was a long one. He arrived there in 1782,
when only seventeen years of age, and he left it in 1815, at the age of
fifty. During all this time we see him uninterruptedly engaged in his
official work, and devoting all his leisure to literary labor. The
results which we have noticed so far, were already astonishing, and
quite sufficient to form a solid basis of his literary fame. But we have
by no means exhausted the roll of his works. We saw that a supplement to
the “Digest of Laws” occupied him for several years. In it he proposed
to recast the whole title of inheritance, so imperfectly treated in the
“Digest” which he translated, and supplement it with a series of
compilations on the several heads of Criminal Law, Pleading, and
Evidence, as treated by Indian jurists. In a letter to Sir T.
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Strange he speaks of the Sanskrit text as complete, and of the
translation as considerably advanced; but it was not till 1810 that he
published, as a first installment, his translation of two important
treatises on inheritance, representing the views of different schools on
this subject. Much of the material which he collected with a view of
improving the administration of law in India, and bringing it into
harmony with the legal traditions of the country, remained unpublished,
partly because his labors were anticipated by timely reforms, partly
because his official duties became too onerous to allow him to finish
his work in a manner satisfactory to himself.
But although the bent of Colebrooke’s mind was originally scientific,
and the philological researches which have conferred the greatest lustre
on his name grew insensibly beneath his pen, the services he rendered to
Indian jurisprudence would deserve the highest praise and gratitude if
he had no other title to fame. Among his earlier studies he had applied
himself to the Roman law with a zeal uncommon among Englishmen of his
standing, and he has left behind him a treatise on the Roman Law of
Contracts. When he directed the same powers of investigation to the
sources of Indian law he found everything in confusion. The texts and
glosses were various and confused. The local customs which abound in
India had not been discriminated. Printing was of course unknown to
these texts; and as no supreme judicial intelligence and authority
existed to give unity to the whole system, nothing could be more
perplexing than the state of the law. From this chaos Colebrooke brought
forth order and light. The publication of the “Dhaya-bhâga,” as the
cardinal
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exposition of the law of inheritance, which is the basis of Hindu
society, laid the foundation of no less a work than the revival of Hindu
jurisprudence, which had been overlaid by the Mohammedan conquest. On
this foundation a superstructure has now been raised by the combined
efforts of Indian and English lawyers: but the authority which is to
this day most frequently invoked as one of conclusive weight and
learning is that of Colebrooke. By the collection and revision of the
ancient texts which would probably have been lost without his
intervention, he became in some degree the legislator of India.
In 1807 he had been promoted to a seat in Council—the highest
honor to which a civilian, at the end of his career, could aspire. The
five years’ tenure of his office coincided very nearly with Lord Minto’s
Governor-generalship of India. During these five years the scholar
became more and more merged in the statesman. His marriage also took
place at the same time, which was destined to be happy, but short. Two
months after his wife’s death he sailed for England, determined to
devote the rest of his life to the studies which had become dear to him,
and which, as he now felt himself, were to secure to him the honorable
place of the father and founder of true Sanskrit scholarship in Europe.
Though his earliest tastes still attracted him strongly towards physical
science, and though, after his return to England, he devoted more time
than in India to astronomical, botanical, chemical, and geological
researches, yet, as an author, he remained true to his vocation as a
Sanskrit scholar, and he added some of the most important works to the
long list of his Oriental publications. How high an estimate he enjoyed
among
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the students of physical science is best shown by his election as
President of the Astronomical Society, after the death of Sir John
Herschel in 1822. Some of his published contributions to the scientific
journals, chiefly on geological subjects, are said to be highly
speculative, which is certainly not the character of his Oriental works.
Nay, judging from the tenor of the works which he devoted to
scholarship, we should think that everything he wrote on other subjects
would deserve the most careful and unprejudiced attention, before it was
allowed to be forgotten; and we should be glad to see a complete edition
of all his writings, which have a character at once so varied and so
profound.
We have still to mention some of his more important Oriental
publications, which he either began or finished after his return to
England. The first is his “Algebra, with Arithmetic and Mensuration,
from the Sanskrit of Brahmagupta and Bhâskara, preceded by a
Dissertation on the State of the Sciences as known to the Hindus,”
London, 1817. It is still the standard work on the subject, and likely
to remain so, as an intimate knowledge of mathematics is but seldom
combined with so complete a mastery of Sanskrit as Colebrooke possessed.
He had been preceded by the labors of Burrow and E. Strachey; but
it is entirely due to him that mathematicians are now enabled to form a
clear idea of the progress which the Indians had made in this branch of
knowledge, especially as regards indeterminate analysis. It became
henceforth firmly established that the “Arabian Algebra had real points
of resemblance to that of the Indians, and not to that of the Greeks;
that the Diophantine analysis was only slightly cultivated
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by the Arabs; and that, finally, the Indian was more scientific and
profound than either.” Some of the links in his argument, which
Colebrooke himself designated as weak, have since been subjected to
renewed criticism; but it is interesting to observe how here, too,
hardly anything really new has been added by subsequent scholars. The
questions of the antiquity of Hindu mathematics—of its indigenous
or foreign origin, as well as the dates to be assigned to the principal
Sanskrit writers, such as Bhâskara, Brahmagupta, Aryabhaṭṭa,
etc.,—are very much in the same state as he left them. And
although some living scholars have tried to follow in his footsteps, as
far as learning is concerned, they have never approached him in those
qualities which are more essential to the discovery of truth than mere
reading, viz., caution, fairness, and modesty.
Two events remain still to be noticed before we close the narrative
of the quiet and useful years which Colebrooke spent in England. In 1818
he presented his extremely valuable collection of Sanskrit MSS. to the
East India Company, and thus founded a treasury from which every student
of Sanskrit has since drawn his best supplies. It may be truly said,
that without the free access to this collection—granted to every
scholar, English or foreign—few of the really important
publications of Sanskrit texts, which have appeared during the last
fifty years, would have been possible; so that in this sense also,
Colebrooke deserves the title of the founder of Sanskrit scholarship in
Europe.
The last service which he rendered to Oriental literature was the
foundation of the Royal Asiatic Society. He had spent a year at the Cape
of Good
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Hope, in order to superintend some landed property which he had acquired
there; and after his return to London, in 1822, he succeeded in creating
a society which should do in England the work which the Asiatic Society
of Bengal, founded in 1784 at Calcutta, by Sir W. Jones, had done in
India. Though he declined to become the first president, he became the
director of the new society. His object was not only to stimulate
Oriental scholars living in England to greater exertions, but likewise
to excite in the English public a more general interest in Oriental
studies. There was at that time far more interest shown in France and
Germany for the literature of the East than in England, though England
alone possessed an Eastern Empire. Thus we find Colebrooke writing in
one of his letters to Professor Wilson:—
“Schlegel, in what he said of some of us (English Orientalists) and of
our labors, did not purpose to be uncandid, nor to undervalue what has
been done. In your summary of what he said you set it to the right
account. I am not personally acquainted with him, though in
correspondence. I do think, with him, that as much has not been
done by the English as might have been expected from us. Excepting you
and me, and two or three more, who is there that has done anything! In
England nobody cares about Oriental literature, or is likely to give the
least attention to it.”
And again:—
“I rejoice to learn that your great work on the Indian drama may be soon
expected by us. I anticipate much gratification from a perusal.
Careless and indifferent as our countrymen are, I think,
nevertheless, you and I may derive some complacent feelings from the
reflection that, following the footsteps of Sir W. Jones, we have, with
so little aid of collaborators, and so little encouragement, opened
nearly every avenue, and left it to foreigners, who are taking up the
clue we have furnished, to complete the outline of what we have
sketched. It is some
394
gratification to national pride that the opportunity which the English
have enjoyed has not been wholly unemployed.”
Colebrooke’s last contributions to Oriental learning, which appeared
in the “Transactions” of the newly-founded Royal Asiatic Society,
consist chiefly in his masterly treatises on Hindu philosophy. In 1823
he read his paper on the Sânkhya system; in 1824 his paper on the Nyâya
and Vaiśeshika systems; in 1826 his papers on the Mîmânsâ; and, in 1827,
his two papers on Indian Sectaries and on the Vedânta. These papers,
too, still retain their value, unimpaired by later researches. They are
dry, and to those not acquainted with the subject they may fail to give
a living picture of the philosophical struggles of the Indian mind. But
the statements which they contain can, with very few exceptions, still
be quoted as authoritative, while those who have worked their way
through the same materials which he used for the compilation of his
essays, feel most struck by the conciseness with which he was able to
give the results of his extensive reading in this, the most abstruse
domain of Sanskrit literature. The publication of these papers on the
schools of Indian metaphysics, which anticipated with entire fidelity
the materialism and idealism of Greece and of modern thought, enabled
Victor Cousin to introduce a brilliant survey of the philosophy of India
into his Lectures on the History of Philosophy, first delivered, we
think, in 1828. Cousin knew and thought of Colebrooke exclusively as a
metaphysician. He probably cared nothing for his other labors. But as a
metaphysician he placed him in the first rank, and never spoke of him
without an expression of veneration, very unusual on the eloquent but
somewhat imperious lips of the French philosopher.
395
The last years of Colebrooke’s life were full of suffering, both
bodily and mental. He died, after a lingering illness, on March 10,
1837.
To many even among those who follow the progress of Oriental
scholarship with interest and attention, the estimate which we have
given of Colebrooke’s merits may seem too high; but we doubt whether
from the inner circle of Sanskrit scholars, any dissentient voice will
be raised against our awarding to him the first place among
Sanskritists, both dead and living. The number of Sanskrit scholars has
by this time become considerable, and there is hardly a country in
Europe which may not be proud of some distinguished names. In India,
too, a new and most useful school of Sanskrit students is rising,
who are doing excellent work in bringing to light the forgotten
treasures of their country’s literature. But here we must, first of all,
distinguish between two classes of scholars. There are those who have
learnt enough of Sanskrit to be able to read texts that have been
published and translated, who can discuss their merits and defects,
correct some mistakes, and even produce new and more correct editions.
There are others who venture on new ground, who devote themselves to the
study of MSS., and who by editions of new texts, by translations of
works hitherto untranslated, or by essays on branches of literature not
yet explored, really add to the store of our knowledge. If we speak of
Colebrooke as facile princeps among Sanskrit scholars, we are
thinking of real scholars only, and we thus reduce the number of those
who could compete with him to a much smaller compass.
Secondly, we must distinguish between those who
396
came before Colebrooke and those who came after him, and who built on
his foundations. That among the latter class there are some scholars who
have carried on the work begun by Colebrooke beyond the point where he
left it, is no more than natural. It would be disgraceful if it were
otherwise, if we had not penetrated further into the intricacies of
Pâṇini, if we had not a more complete knowledge of the Indian systems of
philosophy, if we had not discovered in the literature of the Vedic
period treasures of which Colebrooke had no idea, if we had not improved
the standards of criticism which are to guide in the critical
restoration of Sanskrit texts. But in all these branches of Sanskrit
scholarship those who have done the best work are exactly those who
speak most highly of Colebrooke’s labors, They are proud to call
themselves his disciples. They would decline to be considered his
rivals.
There remains, therefore, in reality, only one who could be
considered a rival of Colebrooke, and whose name is certainly more
widely known than his, viz., Sir William Jones. It is by no means
necessary to be unjust to him in order to be just to Colebrooke. First
of all, he came before Colebrooke, and had to scale some of the most
forbidding outworks of Sanskrit scholarship. Secondly, Sir William Jones
died young, Colebrooke lived to a good old age. Were we speaking only of
the two men, and their personal qualities, we should readily admit that
in some respects Sir W. Jones stood higher than Colebrooke. He was
evidently a man possessed of great originality, of a highly cultivated
taste, and of an exceptional power of assimilating the exotic beauty of
Eastern poetry. We may go even further, and
397
frankly admit that, possibly, without the impulse given to Oriental
scholarship through Sir William Jones’s influence and example, we should
never have counted Colebrooke’s name among the professors of Sanskrit.
But we are here speaking not of the men, but of the works which they
left behind; and here the difference between the two is enormous. The
fact is, that Colebrooke was gifted with the critical conscience of a
scholar—Sir W. Jones was not. Sir W. Jones could not wish for
higher testimony in his favor than that of Colebrooke himself.
Immediately after his death, Colebrooke wrote to his father, June,
1794:—
“Since I wrote to you the world has sustained an irreparable loss in the
death of Sir W. Jones. As a judge, as a constitutional lawyer, and for
his amiable qualities in private life, he must have been lost with
heartfelt regret. But his loss as a literary character will be felt in a
wider circle. It was his intention shortly to have returned to Europe,
where the most valuable works might have been expected from his pen. His
premature death leaves the results of his researches unarranged, and
must lose to the world much that was only committed to memory, and much
of which the notes must be unintelligible to those into whose hands his
papers fall. It must be long before he is replaced in the same career of
literature, if he is ever so. None of those who are now engaged in
Oriental researches are so fully informed in the classical languages of
the East; and I fear that, in the progress of their inquiries, none will
be found to have such comprehensive views.”
And again:—
“You ask how we are to supply his place? Indeed, but ill. Our present
and future presidents may preside with dignity and propriety; but who
can supply his place in diligent and ingenious researches? Not even the
combined efforts of the whole Society; and the field is large, and few
the cultivators.”
Still later in life, when a reaction had set in, and
398
the indiscriminate admiration of Sir W. Jones had given way to an
equally indiscriminate depreciation of his merits, Colebrooke, who was
then the most competent judge, writes to his father:—
“As for the other point you mention, the use of a translation by
Wilkins, without acknowledgment, I can bear testimony that Sir W.
Jones’s own labors in Manu sufficed without the aid of a translation. He
had carried an interlineary Latin version through all the difficult
chapters; he had read the original three times through, and he had
carefully studied the commentaries. This I know, because it appears
clearly so from the copies of Manu and his commentators which Sir
William used, and which I have seen. I must think that he paid a
sufficient compliment to Wilkins, when he said, that without his aid he
should never have learned Sanskrit. I observe with regret a growing
disposition, here and in England, to depreciate Sir W. Jones’s merits.
It has not hitherto shown itself beyond private circles and
conversation. Should the same disposition be manifested in print,
I shall think myself bound to bear public testimony to his
attainments in Sanskrit.”
Such candid appreciation of the merits of Sir W. Jones, conveyed in a
private letter, and coming from the pen of the only person then
competent to judge both of the strong and the weak points in the
scholarship of Sir William Jones, ought to caution us against any
inconsiderate judgment. Yet we do not hesitate to declare that, as
Sanskrit scholars, Sir William Jones and Colebrooke cannot be compared.
Sir William had explored a few fields only, Colebrooke had surveyed
almost the whole domain of Sanskrit literature. Sir William was able to
read fragments of epic poetry, a play, and the laws of Manu. But
the really difficult works, the grammatical treatises and commentaries,
the philosophical systems, and, before all, the immense literature of
the Vedic period, were never seriously approached by him. Sir William
399
Jones reminds us sometimes of the dashing and impatient general who
tries to take every fortress by bombardment or by storm, while
Colebrooke never trusts to anything but a regular siege. They will both
retain places of honor in our literary Walhallas. But ask any librarian,
and he will say that at the present day the collected works of Sir W.
Jones are hardly ever consulted by Sanskrit scholars, while Colebrooke’s
essays are even now passing through a new edition, and we hope Sir
Edward Colebrooke will one day give the world a complete edition of his
father’s works.
400
COMPARATIVE VIEW OF SANSKRIT AND OTHER LANGUAGES,
By T. H. Colebrooke.
Oxford, September, 1874.
I mentioned in my Address before the
Aryan section of the Oriental Congress that I possessed some MS. notes
of Colebrooke’s on Comparative Philology. They were sent to me some time
ago by his son, Sir E. Colebrooke, who gave me leave to publish them, if
I thought them of sufficient importance. They were written down, as far
as we know, about the years 1801 or 1802, and contain long lists of
words expressive of some of the most important elements of early
civilization, in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, Teutonic, Celtic, and Slavonic.
Like everything that Colebrooke wrote, these lists are prepared with
great care. They exist in rough notes, in a first, and in a second copy.
I give them from the second copy, in which many words from less
important languages are omitted, and several doubtful comparisons
suppressed. I have purposely altered nothing, for the interest of
these lists is chiefly historical, showing how, long before the days of
Bopp and Grimm, Colebrooke had clearly perceived the relationship of all
the principal branches of the Aryan family, and, what is more important,
how he had anticipated the historical conclusions which a comparison of
the principal words of the great dialects of the Aryan family enables us
to draw with regard to the state of civilization anterior to the first
separation of
401
the Aryan race. No one acquainted with the progress which Comparative
Philology has made during the last seventy years would think of quoting
some of the comparisons here suggested by Colebrooke as authoritative.
The restraints which phonetic laws have since imposed on the comparison
of words were unknown in his days. But with all that, it is most
surprising to see how careful Colebrooke was, even when he had to guess,
and how well he succeeded in collecting those words which form the
earliest common dictionary of our ancestors, and supply the only
trustworthy materials for a history of the very beginnings of the Aryan
race.
Max Muller.
The transliteration system in this section is different from
Müller’s. Note in particular:
c, c’h, ch, j : k, kh, c, j (Müller’s k, kh, k, g)
rĭ : ṛ (Müller’s ri)
ä ï ö ü : dots represent dieresis, not umlaut
The letter ṭ was shown as t́ (t with acute). This has
been regularized because Colebrooke’s form may not display reliably. The
form ń for ṇ has been retained; ḍ does not occur.
Father.
Sans. Pitrĭ (-tá).
Beng. Hind. Pitá. Pers. Pider.
Sans. Janayitrĭ (-tá).
Gr. Geneter, Gennetor. Lat. Genitor.
Sans. Táta. Beng. Tát. Arm. Tat. Wal.
Corn. Tad. Ang. Dad.
Sans. Vaptrĭ (-tá).
Beng. Bápá. Hind. Bábá, Báp. Germ. Vater.
Belg. Vader. Isl. Bader.
Gr. Lat. Pater.
Mother.
Sans. Janayitrí, Jananí. Gr. Gennêteira. Lat.
Genitrix.
Sans. Mátrĭ (-tá).
Beng. Mátá. Lat. Mater. Gr. Meter.
Sclav. Mati. Ir. Mat’hair.
Germ. Mutter. Sax. Moder.
Belg. Isl. Mooder.
N.B. The roots jan and jani (the past tense of which last is jajnyé, pronounced jagyé in
Bengal, Tirhut, etc.) are evidently analogous to the Latin gigno, and Greek gennao.
Son.
Sans. Putra. Hind. Putr, Pút. Támil. Putren.
Ori. Púá.
Sans. Súnu. Hind. Sún, Suän. Goth. Sunus.
Sax. Suna. Belg. Soen, Sone. Sue. Son.
Dalm. Szun. Pol. Boh. Syn.
Scl. Sin, Syn.
402
Grandson.
Sans. Naptrĭ (-tá).
Lat. Nepos. Hind. Nátí. Mahr. Nátú.
Granddaughter.
Sans. Naptrí. Lat. Neptis. Hind. Natní.
Beng. Nátní. Ori. Nátuni.
Daughter’s Son.
Sans. Dauhitra. Beng. Dauhitro. Hind. Dóhtá.
Gr. Thugatridous.
Son’s Son.
Sans. Pautra. Hind. Pótá. Beng. Pautro.
Daughter.
Sans. Duhitrĭ (-tá).
Beng. Duhitá. Hind. Dóhitá. Goth. Dauhter.
Sax. Dohter. Pers. Dokhter.
Belg. Dochtere. Germ. Tochter.
Gr. Thygater. Sue. Dotter.
Isl. Dooter. Dan. Daater.
Sans. Tócá. Russ. Doke. Hind. Dhíya, Dhí.
Or. Jhíä. Scl. Hzhi. Dalm. Hchii.
Boh. Dey, Deera. Ir. Dear.
Brother.
Sans. Bhrátrĭ (-tá).
Hind. Bhrátá, Bhaï, Bhayá, Bír, Bíran. Pers. Birádar.
Corn. Bredar. Wal. Braud.
Ir. Brathair. Arm. Breur.
Mona. Breyr. Scl. Brat. Russ. Brate.
Dalm. Brath. Boh. Bradr.
Germ. Bruder. Ang.-Sax. Brother.
Sax. Brother. Lat. Frater.
Gall. Frère.
Sister.
Sans. Bhaginí. Hind. Bhagní, Bahin, Bhainá.
Beng. Bhoginí, Boïn. Mahr. Bahin.
Or. Bhauní.
Sans. Swasrĭ (-sá). Ir.
Shiur. Gall. Soeur. Mona. Sywr. Sicil. Suora.
Lat. Soror. Germ. Schwester.
Sax. Sweoster. Goth. Swister.
Holl. Zuster. Wal. C’huaer.
Father-in-law.
Sans. Śwaśura. Beng. Sósur. Mahr. Sasará.
Hind. Susar, Súsrá, Sasúr. Lat. Sócer, Socerus.
Gr. Hecyros.
403
Mother-in-law.
Sans. Śwaśrú. Beng. Sosru, Sásuri. Hind. Sás.
Mahr. Sású. Lat. Socrus. Gr. Hecyra.
Wife’s Brother.
Sans. Syála. Beng. Syáloc. Hind. Sálá.
Or. Salá.
Husband’s Brother.
Sans. Dévrĭ (-vá), Dévara.
Hind. Déwar. Guj. Díyar. Mahr. Dír.
Gr. Daêr. Lat. Levir
(olim Devir).
Son-in-law.
Sans. Jámátrĭ (-tá).
Hind. Jamáí, Jawáí. Pers. Dámád.
Widow.
Sans. Vidhavá. Lat. Vidua. Sax. Widwa.
Holl. Weduwe.
Daughter-in-law.
Sans. Badhú. Hind. Bahú. Beng. Bäú. Gall.
Bru.
Sans. Snushá. Cashm. Nus. Penj. Nuh. Gr.
Nyos. Lat. Nurus.
Sun.
Sans. Heli (-lis). Gr. Helios. Arm. Heol.
Wal. Hayl, Heyluen.
Sans. Mitra. Pehl. Mithra.
Sans. Mihara, Mahira. Pers. Mihr.
Sans. Súra, Súrya. Hind. Súrej. Mahr. Súrj,
Súrya. Ori. Suruy.
Moon.
Sans. Chandra. Hind. Chánd, Chandr, Chandramá.
Sans. Más (máh). Pers. Máh. Boh. Mesyc.
Pol. Miesyac. Dalm. Miszecz.
Star.
Sans. Tárá. Hind. Tárá. Pers. Sitareh.
Gr. Aster. Belg. Sterre. Sax. Steorra.
Germ. Stern. Corn. Arm. Steren.
404
Month.
Sans. Mása (-sas). Hind. Mahiná, Más. Pers. Máh.
Scl. Messcz. Dalm. Miszecz.
Wal. Misguaith. Gr. Mene.
Lat. Mensis. Gall. Mois.
Day.
Sans. Diva. Mahr. Diwas. Lat. Dies. Sax.
Dæg.
Sans. Dina. Hind. Din. Boh. Den. Scl.
Dan. Dalm. Daan. Pol. Dzien. Ang. (Ant.)
Den.
Night.
Sans. Rátri. Hind. Rát. Penj. Rátter.
Sans. Niś, Niśá. Wal. Arm. Nos.
Sans. Nactá. Lat. Nox. Gr. Nyx. Goth.
Nahts, Nauts. Sax. Niht. Isl. Natt.
Boh. Noc. Gall. Nuit.
By Night.
Sans. (adv.) Nactam. Lat. Noctu. Gr. Nyctor.
Sky, Heaven.
Sans. Div, Diva. Beng. Dibi. Liv. Debbes.
Sans. Swar, Swarga. Hind. Swarag. Guz. Sarag.
Cant. Cerua.
Sans. Nabhas. Beng. Nebho. Russ. Nebo.
Scl. Nebu. Boh. Nebe. Pol. Niebo.
God.
Sans. Déva (-vas), Dévatá. Hind. Déwatá. Penj.
Déú. Tamil. Taivam. Lat. Deus. Gr. Theos.
Wal. Diju. Ir. Diu.
Sans. Bhagaván. Dalm. Bogh. Croat. Bog.
Fire.
Sans. Agni. Casm. Agin. Beng. Águn. Hind.
Ag. Scl. Ogein. Croat. Ogayn. Pol. Ogien.
Dalm. Ogany. Lat. Ignis.
Sans. Vahni. Boh. Ohen.
405
Sans. Anala. Beng. Onol. Mona. Aul.
Sans. Śushman (má). Cant. Sua.
Sans. Tanúnapát. Wal. Tân. Ir. Teene.
Sans. Varhis. Sax. Vür. Belg. Vier.
Water.
Sans. Áp. Pers. Áb.
Sans. Páníya. Hind. Pání.
Sans. Udaca. Russ. Ouode. Scl. Voda. Boh.
Woda.
Sans. Níra, Nára. Beng. Nír. Carn. Níra.
Tel. Níllu. Vulg. Gr. Nero.
Sans. Jala. Hind. Jal. Ir. Gil.
Sans. Arńa. Ir. An.
Sans. Vár, Vári. Beng. Bár. Ir. Bir.
Cant. Vra.
Cloud.
Sans. Abhra. Penj. Abhar. Casm. Abar.
Pers. Abr. Gr. Ombros. Lat. Imber.
Man.
Sans. Nara. Pers. Nar. Gr. Aner.
Sans. Mánava, Mánusha. Guz. Mánas. Beng. Mánus.
Dan. Mand. Sax. Man, Men.
Mind.
Sans. Manas. Gr. Menos. Lat. Mens.
Bone.
Sans. Had´d´a. Hind. Hadí.
Sans. Asthi. Lat. Os. Gr. Osteon.
Hand.
Sans. Hasta. Hind. Hát’h. Penj. Hatt’h.
Beng. Hát. Pers. Dest.
Sans. Cara. Gr. Cheir. Vulg. Gr. Chere.
Sans. Páni. Wal. Pawen. Ang. Paw.
406
Knee.
Sans. Jánu. Penj. Jáhnu. Pers. Zánu.
Hind. Gutaná. Gr. Gonu. Lat. Genu.
Gall. Genou. Sax. Cneow.
Foot.
Sans. Páda, Pad. Or. Pád. Beng. Pod, Pá.
Hind. Páú, Payar. Lat. Pes (pedis). Gr. Pous
(podos). Vulg. Gr. Podare. Gall. Pied.
Goth. Fotus. Sax. Fot, Vot.
Sue. Foot.
Sans. Anghri. Beng. Onghri. Scl. Noga.
Pol. Nogi.
Breast.
Sans. Stana. Beng. Stan. (Ang. Pap.) Gr. Sternon. Lat. Sternum. (Ang. Chest.)
Navel.
Sans. Nábhi. Hind. Nábh. Beng. Náï. Or.
Nahi. Pers. Náf. Gr. Omphalos.
Sax. Nafela, Navela.
Ear.
Sans. Carńa. Hind. Cán. Arm. Skuarn.
Corn. Skevam.
Nose.
Sans. Nasicá, Násá, Nasya. Hind. Nác. Penj.
Nacca. Casm. Nast. Lat. Nasus.
Germ. Nase. Belg. Nuese.
Sax. Noese, Nosa. Sue. Nasa.
Boh. Nos. Scl. Nus. Dalm. Nooss.
Tooth.
Sans. Danta. Hind. Dánt. Penj. Dand.
Pers. Dendan. Wal. Dant. Lat. Dens.
Gall. Dent. Gr. Odous (-ontos).
Belg. Tant, Tand. Sax. Toth.
Mouth.
Sans. Muc’ha. Hind. Muc’h, Muh, Munh, Múnh. Penj.
Múh. Guz. Móh. Sax. Muth.
407
Elbow.
Sans. Anka, flank; Anga, membrum. Gr. Agkōn.
Voice.
Sans. Vách (vác). Lat. Vox. Gr. Ossa.
Name.
Sans. Náman (-ma). Hind. Nám, Náon̆. Pers. Nám.
Gr. Onoma. Lat. Nomen. Gall. Nom.
Sax. Nama.
King.
Sans. Ráj (-t´, -d´), Rájan (-já). Hind. Rájá.
Lat. Rex. Gall. Roy. Wal. Rhuy, Rhiydh.
Ir. Righ, Rak.
Kingdom.
Sans. Rájnya (-am). Lat. Regnum.
Town.
Sans. C’héta. Hind. C’hérá. Wal. Kaer.
Arm. Koer.
House.
Sans. Ócas. Gr. Oicos.
Sans. Grĭha. Hind.
Ghar. Casm. Gar.
Ship or Boat.
Sans. Nau (naus). Gr. Naus. Lat. Navis.
Pers. Nau. Hind. Nau, Náú. Or. Ná.
Carn. Náviya.
A Small Boat.
Sans. Plava. Mah. Plav. Gr. Ploion.
Thing, Wealth.
Sans. Rai (rás). Lat. Res.
Mountain.
Sans. Parvata. Hind. Parbat, Pahár. Penj.
Parabat. Carn. Parbatavu.
408
Sans. Adri. Penj. Adari. Ir. Ard.
Sans. Naga, Aga. Ir. Aigh.
Sans. Grávan (-vá), Giri. Lus. Grib. Scl.
Hrib.
Rock or Stone.
Sans. Prastara. Hind. Patt’har. Guz. Pat’har.
Beng. Pat’har. Gr. Petra. Lat. Petra.
Sans. Grávan (-vá). Penj. Garáv.
Tree.
Sans. Dru (drus), Druma (-mas). Gr. Drys (Drymos,
a wood). Epir. Druu. Russ. Dreous.
Scl. Drevu.
Sans. Taru. Goth. Triu, Trie. Sax. Treo, Treow.
Dan. Tree.
Pomegranate.
Sans. Róhita. Gr. Rhoa, Rhoia.
Horse.
Sans. Ghóṭaca. Hind. Ghórá. Guz. Ghóró.
Casm. Guru. Wal. Goruydh, Govar.
Sans. Haya (-yas). Ant. Sans. Arusha. Isl. Hors,
Hestur. Dan. Hest. Sue. Hast.
Sax. Hors.
Sans. Aśva. Penj. Aswa. Pers. Asp.
Ass.
Sans. C’hara. Penj. C’har. Pers. Khar.
Sans. Gardabha. Hind. Gadhá. Tirh. Gadahá.
Mule.
Sans. Aśwatara. Pers. Astar.
Camel.
Sans. Ushṭra. Hind. Unt. Guz. Ut. Penj.
Ustar. Pers. Ushtur, Shutur.
Ox, Cow, Bull.
Sans. Gó (gaus). Hind. Gau, Gáí. Beng. Goru.
Pers. Gau. Sax. Cu. Sue. Koo.
Belg. Koe. Germ. Kue.
409
Sans. Ucshan (-shá). Sax. Oxa.
Dan. Oxe. Isl. Uxe. Boh. Ochse.
Germ. Ochs. Wai. Ychs.
Sans. Vrĭsha, Vrĭshan (-shá). Tirh. Brikh.
Boh. Byk. Pol. Beik. Dalm. Bak.
Lus. Bik. Hung. Bika. Wal. Byuch.
Arm. Biych. Corn. Byuh.
Goat.
Sans. Bucca, Barcara. Hind. Bacrá. Mahr. Bócar.
Guz. Bócaró. Beng. Bócá. Arm. Buch.
Corn. Byk. Sax. Bucca. Gall. Bouc.
Sue. Bock. Belg. Bocke.
Ital. Becco.
Ewe.
Sans. Avi (-vis). Gr. Ois. Lat. Ovis.
Sax. Eowe.
Wool.
Sans. Urńá. Hind. Un. Scl. Volna. Pol.
Welna. Boh. Wlna. Dalm. Vuna. Sue. Ull.
Isl. Ull. Belg. Wul. Germ. Wolle.
A.-Sax. Wulle. Wal. Gulan.
Corn. Gluan. Arm. Gloan.
Ir. Olann.
Hair of the Body.
Sans. Lava. Ir. Lo.
Sans. Lóman (-ma), Róman (-ma). Hind. Róán.
Beng. Lóm, Róm. Casm. Rúm. Mah. Rómé.
Hair of the Head.
Sans. Césa. Hind. Cés. Casm. Cís. Lat.
Crinis.
Sans. Bála. Hind. Bál.
Hog.
Sans. Súcara (fem -rí). Penj. Súr. Hind. Súär,
Súwar, Sú, Suén. Beng. Shúcar, Shúór.
Mahr. Dúcar. Tirh. Súgar.
Nepal. Surún. Dan. Suin. Sue. Swiin.
Lus. Swina. Carn. Swynia, Swine.
Ang. Swine. Sax. Sugn.
Holl. Soeg, Sauwe. Germ. Sauw.
Ang. Sow. Belg. Soch. Lat. Sus.
Gr. Hys, Sys. Lacon. Sika.
Pers. Khuc. Wal. Húkh.
Corn. Hoch, Hoh.
410
Boar.
Sans. Varáha. Hind. Baráh. Oris. Barahá.
Beng. Boráhó, Borá. Corn. Bora, Baedh.
Belg. Beer. Sax. Bar. Ang. Boar.
Span. Berraco. Gall. Verrat.
Ital. Verro.
Mouse.
Sans. Múshaca, Múshá. Hind. Mus, Musá, Musí, Músrí,
Músná. Penj. Múshá. Tirh. Mús. Lat. Mus.
Gr. Mûs. Sax. Mus.
Bear.
Sans. Ricsha. Hind. Rích’h. Penj. Richh.
Guz. Rénchh. Tirh. Rikh.
Sans. Bhalla, Bhallaca, Bhállúca. Hind. Bhál,
Bhálú.
Sans. Ach’ha, Acsha. Gr. Arctos. Wal. Arth.
Wolf.
Sans. Vrĭca. Dalm.
Vuuk. Scl. Vulk. Pol. Wulk.
Insect.
Sans. Crĭmi. Pers.
Cirm. Beng. Crimi. Tamil. Crimi.
Serpent.
Sans. Ahi (ahis). Gr. Ophis. Sans. Sarpa.
Pers. Serp. Lat. Serpens. Hind. Sárp.
Cuckoo.
Sans. Cocila. Hind. Coil. Lat. Cuculus.
Gr. Kokkyx.
Sans. Pica. Lat. Picus.
Crab.
Sans. Carcata. Beng. Cáncŕá, Céncŕá. Hind. Céncrá, Cécrá.
Gr. Carcinos. Lat. Cancer. Wal. Krank.
Corn. Arm. Kankr. Gall. Cancre.
Ir. Kruban. Sax. Crabbe.
Ang. Crab.
Cucumber.
Sans. Carcatí. Beng. Cáncur. Hind. Cácrí.
Lat. Cucumer, Cucumis. Gall. Concombre.
Ang. Cucumber.
411
Sound.
Sans. Swana, Swána. Lat. Sonus. Wal. Sûn, Sôn,
Sain. Sax. Sund.
Sleep.
Sans. Swapna, Śaya, Swápa. Beng. Shóön. Hind.
(Supna) Sona [to sleep]. Gr. Hypnos.
Wal. Heppian [to sleep]. Sax. Sleepan.
Ang. Sleep.
New.
Sans. Nava (m. Navas, f. Navá, n. Navam), Navína. Lat.
Novus. Gr. Neos, Nearos. Pers. Nó.
Hind. Nayá, Nawén. Beng. Niara.
Wal. Corn. Neuydh. Ir. Núadh.
Arm. Nevedh, Noadh. Gall. Neuf.
Ang. New. Sax. Neow.
Young.
Sans. Yuvan (Yuvâ). Lat. Juvenis.
Thin.
Sans. Tanus. Lat. Tenuis.
Great.
Sans. Mahâ. Gr. Megas. Lat. Magnus.
Broad.
Sans. Urus. Gr. Eurus.
Old.
Sans. Jírńas. Gr. Geron.
Other.
Sans. Itaras. Gr. Heteros.
Sans. Anyas. Lat. Alius.
Fool.
Sans. Múd’has, Múrchas. Gr. Moros.
Dry.
Sans. Csháras. Gr. Xeros.
412
Sin.
Sans. Agha. Gr. Hagos (veneratio, scelus).
One.
Sans. Eca. Hind. Beng. etc. Ec. Pers.
Yéc.
Two.
Sans. Dwi (nom. du. Dwau). Hind. Do. Pers. Do.
Gr. Dyo. Lat. Duo. Gall. Deux.
Corn. Deau. Arm. Dou. Ir. Do.
Goth. Twai. Sax. Twu. Ang. Two.
Three.
Sans. Tri (nom. pl. Trayas). Lat. Tres. Gr.
Treis. Gall. Trois. Germ. Drei.
Holl. Dry. Sax. Threo. Ang. Three.
Wal. Arm. Ir. Tri.
Corn. Tre.
Four.
Sans. Chatur (nom. pl. Chatwáras, fem. Chatasras). Lat.
Quatuor. Gall. Quatre. Gr. Tessares.
Pers. Chehár. Hind. Chehár.
And.
Sans. Cha. Lat. Que.
Five.
Sans. Pancha. Hind. Pánch. Pers. Penj.
Gr. Pente. Arm. Corn. Pemp.
Wai. Pymp.
Six.
Sans. Shash. Pers. Shesh. Lat. Sex. Gr.
Hex. Gall. Ang. Six. Wal. Khuêkh.
Corn. Huih. Arm. Huekh.
Ir. She, Seishear.
Seven.
Sans. Sapta. Lat. Septem. Gall. Sept.
Germ. Sieben. Ang. Seven. Sax. Seofon.
Gr. Hepta. Pers. Heft. Hind. Sát.
Wal. Saith. Arm. Corn. Seith.
Ir. Sheakhd.
Eight.
Sans. Asht’a. Pers. Hasht. Hind. Áth.
Gall. Huit. Sax. Eahta. Ang. Eight.
Ir. Okht. Lat. Octo.
413
Nine.
Sans. Nava. Hind. Nó. Lat. Novem. Wal.
Corn. Nau. Arm. Nâo. Ir. Nyi.
Pers. Noh. Gall. Neuf. Sax. Nigon.
Ang. Nine.
Ten.
Sans. Daśa. Hind. Das. Pers. Dah. Lat.
Decem. Ir. Deikh. Arm. Dêk.
Corn. Dêg.
PRONOUNS.
I.
Sans. Aham (acc. Má; poss. and dat. Mé; du. Nau; pl. Nas).
Lat. Gr. Ego, etc. Pers. Men.
Hind. Mai. Ir. Me. Wal. Corn. Mi.
Arm. Ma.
Thou.
Sans. Twam (acc. Twá; poss. and dat. Té; du. Vám; pl. Vas).
Lat. Tu, etc. Gr. Su, etc.
Hind. Tú, Tain. Beng. Tumi, Tui.
Ir. Tu. Pers. To. Arm. Te.
Corn. Ta. Wal. Ti.
PREPOSITIONS, ETC.
Sans. Antar. Lat. Inter. Sans. Upari. Gr.
Hyper. Lat. Super. Sans. Upa. Gr. Hypo.
Lat. Sub. Sans. Apa. Gr. Apo.
Sans. Pari. Gr. Peri. Sans. Pra.
Gr. Lat. Pro. Sans. Pará.
Gr. Pera. Sans. Abhi. Gr. Amphi.
Sans. Ati. Gr. Anti. Sans. Ama.
Gr. Amá. Sans. Anu. Gr. Ana.
TERMINATIONS.
Sans. (terminations of comparatives and superlatives) Taras,
tamas. Gr. Teros, tatos.
Lat. Terus, timus. Sans. Ishṭhas.
Gr. Istos.
Sans. (termin. of nouns of agency) Trĭ. Gr. Tor, ter. Lat. Tor.
Sans. (termin. of participle) Tas. Gr. Tos. Lat.
Tus.
Sans. (termin. of supine) Tum. Lat. Tum.
414
VERBS.
To Be, Root AS.
Sans. Asti, Asi, Asmi, Santi, Stha, Smas.
Gr. Esti, Eîs (Essi), Eimi (D. Emmi), Eisi (D. Enti), Este,
Esmen (D. Eimes).
Lat. Est, Es, Sum, Sunt, Estis, Sumus.
To Go, Root I.
Sans. Éti, Ési. Émi, Yanti, Itha, Imas.
Lat. It, Is, Eo, Eunt, Itis, Imus.
Gr. Eîsi, Eîs, Eîmi, Eîsi, Ite, Imen (D. Imes).
To Eat, Root AD.
Sans. Atti, Atsi, Admi, Adanti, Attha, Admas. Lat.
Edit, Edis, Edo, Edunt, Editis, Edimus. Gr. Esthiei.
Sax. Etan.
To Give, Root DA.
Sans. Dadáti, Dadási, Dadámi. Lat. Dat, Das, Do.
Gr. Didōsi, Didōs, Didōmi.
Hence, Sans. Dánam, Lat. Donum.
To Join, Root YUJ.
Sans. Yunacti, Yunjanti. Lat. Jungit, Jungunt.
Sans. Yunajmi. Gr. Zeugnumi.
Hence, Sans. Yugam. Lat. Yugum.
Gr. Zugos, Zugon. Hind. Juä. Sax. Geoc.
Ang. Yoke. Dutch. Joek.
To Sit, Root SAD.
Sans. Sídati, Sídanti. Lat. Sedet, Sedent.
Hence, Sans. Sadas. Lat. Sedes.
To Subdue, Root DAM.
Sans. Dámayati. Gr. Damaei. Lat. Domat.
Hence, Damanam. Damnum.
To Drink, Root PA or PĪ
Sans. Pibati, Pibanti; Piyaté. Lat. Bibit, Bibunt.
Gr. Pinei, Pinousi.
415
To Die, Root MRĬ.
Sans. Mrĭyaté, Mrĭyanté. Lat. Moritur, Moriuntur.
Hence, Mrĭtis, Mors,
Mrĭtas, Mortuus.
To Know, Root JNYA.
Sans. Jánátí, Jánanti. Gr. Ginosco or Gignosco. Lat. Nosco.
Hence, Jnyátas. Lat. Nótus. Gr.
Gnostos.
To Beget, Root JAN.
Sans. Jáyaté. Pret. Jajnyé (pronounced jagyé). Gr.
Ginomai vel Gignomai.
Lat. Gigno.
To Go, Root SRĬP.
Sans. Sarpati. Lat. Serpit. Gr. Herpei.
To See, Root DRĬS.
Gr. Derco. Sans. Drĭś.
Hind. Dék’h, to see.
To Procreate, Root SU.
Sans. Súyaté (rad. Sú).
Hence, Sans. Súta, son. Hind. Suän̆.
Gr. Huios, Huieus.
To Know, Root VID.
Sans. Vid, to know. Lat. Video, to see.
To Delight, Root TRĬP.
Sans. Trip. Gr. Terpo.
To Strew, Root STRĬ.
Sans. Strĭ. Lat.
Sterno. Ang. To strew. Gr. Stornumi, Stronnumi.
ADVERBS, ETC.
Sans. A. Gr. A priv. (before vowels An).
Sans. Su. Gr. Eû.
416
Sans. Dus. Gr. Dys.
Sans. Cha. Gr. Te. Lat. Que.
Sans. Na, No. Lat. Ne, Non. Ang. No.
Sans. Chit (in comp.). Lat. Quid. Gr. Ti.
Sans. Nanu. Lat. Nonne.
Sans. Prabháte. Gr. Proï.
Sans. Pura, Puratas. Gr. Pro, Proteros, etc.
Sans. Punar. Gr. Palin.
Sans. Pura. Gr. Palai.
Sans. Alam. Gr. Halis.
Sans. Hyas. Gr. Chthes.
Sans. Adya. Hind. Aj. Lat. Hodie.
417
IX.
MY REPLY TO MR. DARWIN.
During the whole of the year that
has just passed away, all my spare time has been required for the
completion of my edition of the Rig-Veda and its Sanskrit commentary.
I had to shut my eyes to everything else. Many a book which I felt
tempted to read was put aside, and hardly a single Review could draw me
away from my purpose. Thus it has come to pass that I did not know, till
a few days ago, that some Lectures which I had delivered at the Royal
Institution on “Mr. Darwin’s Philosophy of Language,” and which had been
fully reported in “Fraser’s Magazine” for May, June, and July, 1873, had
elicited a reply emanating from one who writes if not in, at least with
Mr. Darwin’s name, and who himself would be, no doubt most proud to
acknowledge the influence of “family bias.” I could not have
guessed from the title of the paper, “Professor Whitney on the Origin of
Language: by George H. Darwin,” that it was meant as an answer to the
arguments which I had ventured to advance in my Lectures at the Royal
Institution against Mr. Darwin’s views on language. It was only when
telling a friend that I soon hoped to find time to complete those
Lectures, that I was asked whether I had seen Darwin’s
418
reply. I read it at once in the November number of the
“Contemporary Review;” and, as it will take some time before I can hope
to finish my book on “Language as the true barrier between Man and
Beast,” I determined, in the meantime, to publish a brief rejoinder
to the defense of Mr. Darwin’s philosophy, so ably and chivalrously
conducted by his son.
With regard to the proximate cause of Mr. Darwin’s defense of his
father’s views on language—viz. an article in the “Quarterly
Review,” I may say at once that I knew nothing about it till I saw
Mr. G. Darwin’s article; and if there should be any suspicion in Mr.
Darwin’s mind that the writer in the “Quarterly Review” is in any sense
of the word my alter ego I can completely remove that
impression.
It seems that the writer in the “Quarterly” expressed himself in the
following terms with regard to Mr. Darwin’s competency on linguistic
problems:—
“Few recent intellectual phenomena are more astounding than the
ignorance of these elementary yet fundamental distinctions and
principles (i.e., as to the essence of language) exhibited by
conspicuous advocates of the monistic hypothesis. Mr. Darwin, for
example, does not exhibit the faintest indication of having grasped
them.”
Mr. Darwin, I mean the father, if he has read my lectures, or
anything else I have written, might easily have known that that is not
the tone in which I write, least of all when speaking of men who have
rendered such excellent service to the advancement of science as the
author of the book “On the Origin of Species.” To me, the few pages
devoted to language by Mr. Darwin were full of interest, as showing the
conclusions to which that school of philosophy which he so worthily
represents is driven with regard to the
419
nature and origin of language. If put into more becoming language,
however, I do not think there would be anything offensive in
stating that Mr. Darwin, Sr., knows the results of the Science of
Language at second hand only, and that his opinions on the subject,
however interesting as coming from him, cannot be accepted or quoted as
authoritative. It has often done infinite mischief when men who have
acquired a right to speak with authority on one subject, express
opinions on other subjects with which they are but slightly acquainted.
These opinions, though never intended for that purpose, are sure to be
invested by others, particularly by interested persons, with an
authority to which in themselves they have no right whatever. It is true
it would be difficult to carry on any scientific work, without to some
extent recognizing the authority of those who have established their
claim to a certain amount of infallibility within their own special
spheres of study. But when either the Pope expresses an opinion on
astronomy, or the Duke of Wellington on a work of art, they certainly
ought not to be offended if asked for their reasons, like any other
mortals. No linguistic student, if he had ventured to express an opinion
on the fertilization of orchids, differing from that of Mr. Darwin,
would feel aggrieved by being told that his opinion, though showing
intelligence, did not show that real grasp of the whole bearing of the
problem which can be acquired by a life-long devotion only. If the
linguistic student, who may be fond of orchids, cared only for a
temporary triumph in the eyes of the world, he might easily find, among
the numerous antagonists of Mr. Darwin, one who agreed with himself, and
appeal to him as showing that he, though a
420
mere layman in the Science of Botany, was supported in his opinions by
other distinguished botanists. But no real advance in the discovery of
truth can ever be achieved by such mere cleverness. How can the
soundness and truth of Mr. Darwin’s philosophy of language be
established by an appeal like that with which Mr. Darwin, Jr., opens his
defense of his father?
“Professor Whitney,” he says, “is the first philologist of note who has
professedly taken on himself to combat the views of Professor Max
Müller; and as the opinions of the latter most properly command a vast
deal of respect in England, we think it will be good service to direct
the attention of English readers to this powerful attack, and, as we
think, successful refutation of the somewhat dogmatic views of our
Oxford linguist.”
First of all, nothing would convey a more erroneous impression than
to say that Professor Whitney was the first philologist of note who has
combated my views. There is as much combat in the linguistic as in the
physical camp, though Mr. Darwin may not be aware of it. Beginning with
Professor Pott, I could give a long list of most illustrious
scholars in Germany, France, Italy, and surely in England also, who have
subjected my views on language to a far more searching criticism than
Professor Whitney in America. But even if Professor Whitney were the
only philologist who differed from me, or agreed with Mr. Darwin, how
would that affect the soundness of Mr. Darwin’s theories on language?
Suppose I were to quote in return the opinion of M. Renouvier, the
distinguished author of “Les Principes de la Nature,” who, in his
journal, “La Critique Philosophique,” expresses his conviction that my
criticism of Mr. Darwin’s philosophy contains not a simple
polémique, but
421
has the character of a rédressement; would that dishearten Mr.
Darwin? I must confess that I had never before read Professor
Whitney’s “Lectures on Language,” which were published in America in
1867; and I ought to thank Mr. Darwin for having obliged me to do so
now, for I have seldom perused a book with greater interest and
pleasure,—I might almost say, amusement. It was like walking
through old familiar places, like listening to music which one knows one
has heard before somewhere, and, for that very reason, enjoys all the
more. Not unfrequently I was met by the ipsissima verba of my own
lectures on the Science of Language, though immediately after they
seemed to be changed into an inverted fugue. Often I saw how carefully
the same books and pamphlets which I had waded through had been studied:
and on almost every page there were the same doubts and difficulties,
the same hopes and fears, the same hesitations and misgivings through
which I myself well remembered having passed when preparing my two
series of “Lectures on Language.” Of course, we must not expect in
Professor Whitney’s Lectures, anything like a systematic or exhaustive
treatment. They touch on points which were most likely to interest large
audiences at Washington, and other towns in America. They were meant to
be popular, and nothing would be more unfair than to blame an author for
not giving what he did not mean to give. The only just complaint we have
heard made about these Lectures is that they give sometimes too much of
what is irreverently called “padding.” Professor Whitney had read my own
Lectures before writing his; and though he is quite right in saying the
principal facts on which his reasonings
422
are founded have been for some time past the commonplaces of Comparative
Philology, and required no acknowledgment, he makes an honorable
exception in my favor, and acknowledges most readily having borrowed
here and there an illustration from my Lectures. As to my own views on
the Science of Language, I am glad to find that on all really
important points, he far more frequently indorses them—nay,
corroborates them by new proofs and illustrations—than attempts to
refute them; and even in the latter case he generally does so by simply
pronouncing his decided preference for one out of two opinions, while I
had been satisfied with stating what could be said on either side. He
might here and there have tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, but I
believe there is far more license allowed in America, in the expression
of dissent, than in England; and it is both interesting and instructive
in the study of Dialectic Growth, to see how words which would be
considered offensive in England, have ceased to be so on the other side
of the Atlantic, and are admitted into the most respectable of American
Reviews.
With regard to the question, for instance, on which so much has
lately been written, whether we ought to ascribe to language a natural
growth or historical change, I see not one single argument produced
on either side of the question in Professor Whitney’s Second Lecture,
beyond those which I had discussed in my Second Lecture. After stating
all that could be said in support of extending the name of history to
the gradual development of language, I tried to show that, after
all, that name would not be quite accurate.
“The process,” I said, “through which language is settled
423
and unsettled combines in one the two opposite elements of necessity and
free will. Though the individual seems to be the prime agent in
producing new words and new grammatical forms, he is so only after his
individuality has been merged in the common action of the family, tribe,
or nation to which he belongs. He can do nothing by himself, and the
first impulse to a new formation in language, though given by an
individual, is mostly, if not always, given without premeditation, nay,
unconsciously. The individual, as such, is powerless, and the results,
apparently produced by him, depend on laws beyond his control, and on
the coöperation of all those who form together with him one class, one
body, one organic whole.” (Page 43.)
After going through the whole argument, I summed up in the end by
saying:—
“We cannot be careful enough in the use of our words. Strictly speaking,
neither history nor growth is applicable to the changes of
the shifting surface of the earth. History applies to the actions
of free agents, growth to the natural unfolding of organic
beings. We speak, however, of the growth of the crust of the earth,1 and we know what we mean by it; and it is in this
sense, but not in the sense of growth as applied to a tree, that we have
a right to speak of the growth of language.”
What do we find in Professor Whitney’s Second Lecture? He objects,
like myself, to comparing the growth of language and the growth of a
tree, and like myself, he admits of an excuse, viz., when the metaphor
is employed for the sake of brevity or liveliness of delineation
(p. 35). I had said:—
“Ever since Horace, it has been usual to compare the changes of language
with the growth of trees. But comparisons are treacherous things; and
though we cannot help using metaphorical expressions, we should always
be on our guard,” etc.
So far we are in perfect harmony. But immediately
424
after, the wind begins to blow. One sentence is torn out from the
context, where I had said:—
“That it is not in the power of man (not men) either to produce or to
prevent change in language; that we might think as well of changing the
laws which control the circulation of our blood, or of adding an inch to
our height, as of altering the laws of speech, or inventing new words,
according to our pleasure.”
In order to guard against every possible apprehension as to what I
meant by according to our pleasure, I quoted the well-known
anecdotes of the Emperor Tiberius and of the Emperor Sigismund, and
referred to the attempts of Protagoras, and other purists, as equally
futile. Here the Republican indignation of the American writer is
roused; I, at least, can find no other motive. He tells me that what I
really wanted to say was this:—
“If so high and mighty a personage as an emperor could not do so small a
thing as alter the gender and termination of a single word—much
less can any one of inferior consideration hope to accomplish such a
change.” . . .
He then exclaims:—
“The utter futility of deriving such a doctrine from such a pair of
incidents, or a thousand like them, is almost too obvious to be worth
the trouble of pointing out. . . . High political station
does not confer the right to make or unmake language,” etc.
Now every reader, even though looking only at these short extracts,
will see that the real point of my argument is here entirely missed,
though I do not mean to say that it was intentionally missed. The stress
was laid by me on the words according to our pleasure; and in
order to elucidate that point, I first quoted instances taken from
those who in other matters have the right of saying car tel est mon
plaisir,
425
and then from others. I feel a little guilty in not having
mentioned the anecdote about carrosse; but not being able to
verify it, I thought I might leave it to my opponents. However,
after having quoted the two Emperors, I quoted a more humble
personage, Protagoras, and referred to other attempts at purism in
language; but all that is, of course, passed over by my critic, as not
answering his purpose.
Sometimes, amidst all the loud assertion of difference of opinion on
Professor Whitney’s part, not only the substantial, but strange to say,
the verbal agreement between his and my own Second Lecture is startling.
I had said: “The first impulse to a new formation in language,
though given by an individual, is mostly, if not always, given
without premeditation, nay, unconsciously.” My antagonist
varies this very slightly and says: “The work of each individual is done
unpremeditately, or, as it were, unconsciously” (p. 45).
While I had said that we individually can no more change language,
selon notre plaisir, than we can add an inch to our stature,
Professor Whitney again adopts a slight alteration and expresses himself
as follows: “They (the facts of language) are almost as little the work
of man as is the form of his skull” (p. 52). What is the difference
between us? What is the difference between changing our stature and
changing our skull? Nor does he use the word growth as applied to
language, less frequently than myself; nay, sometimes he uses it so
entirely without the necessary limitations, that even I should have
shrunk from adopting his phraseology. We read—“In this sense
language is a growth” (p. 46); “a language, like an organic
body, is no mere aggregate of similar
426
particles—it is a complex of related and mutually helpful parts”
(p. 46); “language is fitly comparable with an organized body”
(p. 50); “compared with them, language is a real growth”
(p. 51); etc., etc., etc.
In fact, after all has been said by Professor Whitney that had been
said before, the only difference that remains is this—that he,
after making all these concessions, prefers to class the Science of
Language as an historical, not as a physical science. Why should he not?
Everybody who is familiar with such questions, knows that all depends on
a clear and accurate definition of the terms which we employ. The method
of the Science of Language and the physical sciences is admitted, even
by him, to be the same (p. 52). Everything therefore depends on the
wider or narrower definition which we adopt of physical science. Enlarge
the definition of the natural sciences, and the science of language will
enter in freely; narrow it, and it will enter with difficulty, or not at
all. The same with the historical sciences. Enlarge their definition,
and the science of language will enter in freely; narrow it, and it will
enter with difficulty, or not at all. There is hardly a word that is
used in so many different meanings as nature, and that man in many of
his apparently freest acts is under the sway of unsuspected laws of
nature, cannot sound so very novel to a student of Kant’s writings, to
say nothing of later philosophers.2 My principal object in claiming
for the Science of Language the name of a physical science, was to make
it quite clear, once for all, that Comparative Philology was totally
distinct from ordinary Philology, that it treats language
427
not as a vehicle of literature, but for its own sake; that it wants to
explain the origin and development far more than the idiomatic use of
words, and that for all these purposes it must adopt a strictly
inductive method. Many of these views which, when I delivered my first
lectures, met with very determined opposition, are now generally
accepted, and I can well understand, that younger readers should be
surprised at the elaborate and minute arguments by which I tried to show
in what sense the Science of Language may be counted as one of the
physical sciences. Let them but read other books of the same period, and
they will see with how much zeal these questions were then being
discussed, particularly in England. Writing in England, and chiefly for
English readers, I tried as much as possible to adapt myself to the
intellectual atmosphere of that country, and as to the classification of
the inductive sciences, I started from that which was then most
widely known, that of Whewell in his “History of the Inductive
Sciences.” He classes the Science of Language as one of the
palaitiological sciences, but makes a distinction between
palaitiological sciences treating of material things—for instance,
geology, and others respecting the products which result from man’s
imaginative and social endowments—for instance, Comparative
Philology. He still excludes the latter from the circle of the physical
sciences,3 properly so called, but he adds:—
“We have seen that biology leads us to psychology, if we choose to
follow the path; and thus the passage from the
428
material to the immaterial has already unfolded itself at one point; and
we now perceive that there are several large provinces of speculation
which concern subjects belonging to man’s immaterial nature, and which
are governed by the same laws as sciences altogether physical. It is not
our business to dwell on the prospects which our philosophy thus opens
to our contemplation: but we may allow ourselves, in this last stage of
our pilgrimage among the foundations of the physical sciences, to be
cheered and animated by the ray that thus beams upon us, however dimly,
from a higher and brighter region.”
Considering the high position which Dr. Whewell held among the
conflicting parties of philosophic and religious thought in England, we
should hardly have expected that the hope which he expressed of a
possible transition from the material to the immaterial, and the place
which he tentatively, and I more decidedly, assigned to the Science of
Language, could have roused any orthodox animosities. Yet here is the
secret spring of Professor Whitney’s efforts to claim for the Science of
Language, in spite of his own admissions as a scholar, a place
among the moral and historical, as distinct from the physical sciences.
The theological bias, long kept back, breaks through at last, and we are
treated to the following sermon:—
“There is a school of modern philosophers who are trying to materialize
all science, to eliminate the distinction between the physical and the
intellectual and moral, to declare for nought the free action of the
human will, and to resolve the whole story of the fates of mankind into
a series of purely material effects, produced by assignable physical
causes, and explainable in the past, or determinable in the future, by
an intimate knowledge of those causes, by a recognition of the action of
compulsory
429
motives upon the passively obedient nature of man. With such, language
will naturally pass, along with the rest, for a physical product, and
its study for physical science; and, however we may dissent from their
general classification, we cannot quarrel with its application in the
particular instance. But by those who still hold to the grand
distinction,” etc., etc., etc.
At the end of this arguing pro and con., the matter
itself remains exactly where it was before. The Science of Language is a
physical science, if we extend the meaning of nature so far as to
include human nature, in those manifestations at least where the
individual does not act freely, but under reciprocal restraint. The
Science of Language is an historical, or, as Professor Whitney prefers
to call it, a moral science, if we comprehend under history the
acts performed by men “unpremeditately, or, as it were, unconsciously,”
and therefore beyond the reach of moral considerations.
I may seem to have entered more fully into this question than its
real importance requires, but I was anxious, before replying to Mr.
Darwin’s objections, to show to him the general style of argument that
pervades Professor Whitney’s writings, and the character of the armory
from which he has borrowed his weapons against me. I have not been
able to get access to Professor Whitney’s last article, and shall
therefore confine myself here to those arguments only which Mr. Darwin
has adopted as his own, though, even if I had seen the whole of the
American article, I should have preferred not to enter into any
personal controversy with Professor Whitney. I have expressed my
sincere appreciation of the industry and acumen which that scholar
displays in his lectures on the Science of Language. There are some
portions, particularly those on the Semitic and
430
American languages, where he has left me far behind. There are some
illustrations extremely well chosen, and worked out with a touch of
poetic genius; there are whole chapters where by keeping more on the
surface of his subject, he has succeeded in making it far more
attractive and popular than I could have hoped to do. That treatment,
however, entails its dangers, unless an author remembers, at every
moment, that in addressing a popular audience he is in honor bound to be
far more careful than if he writes for his own professional colleagues
only. The comparative portion, I mean particularly the Seventh
Lecture, is hardly what one would have expected from so experienced a
teacher, and it is strange to find (p. 219) the inscription on the
Duilian column referred to about B.C.
263, after Ritschl and Mommsen had pointed out its affected archaisms;
to see (p. 222) the name Ahura-Mazda rendered by “the mighty
spirit;” to meet (p. 258) with “sarvanâman,” the Sanskrit name for
pronoun, translated by “name for everything, universal designation;” to
hear the Phœnician alphabet still spoken of as the ultimate
source of the world’s alphabets, etc. Such mistakes, however, can be
corrected, but what can never be corrected is the unfortunate tone which
Professor Whitney has adopted throughout. His one object seems to be to
show to his countrymen that he is the equal of Bopp, Renan, Schleicher,
Steinthal, Bleek, Hang, and others—aye, their superior. In stating
their opinions, in criticizing their work, in suggesting motives, he
shrinks from nothing, evidently trusting to the old adage, semper
aliquid hœret. I have often asked myself, why should Professor
Whitney have assumed this exceptional position
431
among Comparative Philologists. It is not American to attack others,
simply in order to acquire notoriety. America has possessed, and still
possesses, some excellent scholars, whom every one of these German and
French savants would be proud to acknowledge as his peers. Mr.
Marsh’s “Lectures on the English Language” are a recognized standard
work in England; Professor’s March’s “Anglo-Saxon Grammar” has been
praised by everybody. Why is there no trace of self-assertion or
personal abuse in any of their works? It is curious to observe in
Professor Whitney’s works, that the less he has thought on certain
subjects, the louder he speaks, and where arguments fail him,
epitheta ornantia, such as worthless, futile,
absurd, ridiculous, superficial, unsound,
high-flown, pretentious, disingenuous,
false, are poured out in abundance. I believe there is not
one of these choice counters with which, at some time or other, he has
not presented me; nay, he has even poured the soothing oil of praise
over my bruised head. Quand on se permet tout, on peut faire quelque
chose. But what has been the result? It has actually become a
distinction to belong to the noble army of his martyrs, while, whenever
one is praised by him, one feels inclined to say with Phocion, οὐ δὴ
πού τι κακὸν λέγων ἐμαυτὸν λέληθα.
What such behavior may lead to, we have lately seen in an encounter
between the same American savant and Professor Steinthal, of
Berlin.4 In his earlier writings Professor Whitney spoke of
Professor Steinthal as an eminent master in linguistic science, from
whose writings he had derived the greatest instruction and
enlightenment. Afterwards the
432
friendly relations between the Yale and Berlin professors seem to have
changed, and at last Professor Steinthal became so exasperated by the
misrepresentations and the overbearing tone of the American linguist,
that he, in a moment of irritation, forgot himself so far as to
retaliate with the same missiles with which he had been assailed. What
the missiles used in such encounters are, may be seen from a few
specimens. One could hardly quote them all in an English Review. While
dwelling on the system of bold misrepresentation adopted by Professor
Whitney, Professor Steinthal calls him—“That vain man who only
wants to be named and praised;” “that horrible humbug;” “that scolding
flirt;” “that tricky attorney;” “wherever I read him, hollow vacuity
yawns in my face; arrogant vanity grins at me.” Surely, mere words can
go no further—we must expect to hear of tomahawk and bowie-knife
next. Scholars who object to the use of such weapons, whether for
offensive or defensive purposes, can do nothing but what I have done for
years—remain silent, select what is good in Professor Whitney’s
writings, and try to forget the rest.
Surely, students of language, of all people in the world, ought to
know what words are made of, and how easy it is to pour out a whole
dictionary of abuse without producing the slightest effect. A page
of offensive language weighs nothing—it simply shows the gall of
bitterness and the weakness of the cause; whereas real learning, real
love of truth, real sympathy with our fellow-laborers, manifest
themselves in a very different manner. There were philosophers of old
who held that words must have been produced by nature, not by art,
because curses produced such terrible
433
effects. Professor Whitney holds that language was produced θέσει, not φύσει, and yet he shares the same superstitious faith
in words. He bitterly complains that those whom he reviles, do not
revile him again. He wonders that no one answers his strictures, and he
is gradually becoming convinced that he is unanswerable. Whatever Mr.
Darwin, Jr., may think of Professor Whitney as an ally, I feel
certain that Mr. Darwin, Sr., would be the last to approve the spirit of
his works, and that a few pages of his controversial writings would make
him say: Non tali auxilio.
I now proceed to examine some of the extracts which Mr. Darwin, Jr.,
adopts from Professor Whitney’s article, and even in them we shall see
at once what I may call the spirit of the advocate, though others might
call it by another name.
Instead of examining the facts on which my conclusions were founded,
or showing, by one or two cases, at least, that I had made a mistake or
offended against the strict rules of logic, there appears the following
sweeping exordium, which has done service before in many an opening
address of the counsel for the defendant:—
“It is never entirely easy to reduce to a skeleton of logical statement
a discussion as carried on by Müller, because he is careless of logical
sequence and connection, preferring to pour himself out, as it were,
over his subject, in a gush of genial assertion and interesting
illustration.”
Where is the force of such a sentence? It is a mere pouring out of
assertions, though without any interesting illustration, and not exactly
genial. All we learn from it is, that Professor Whitney does not find it
entirely easy to reduce what I have written to
434
a skeleton of logical sequence, but whether the fault is mine or his,
remains surely to be proved. There may be a very strong logical backbone
in arguments which make the least display of Aldrich, while in others
there is a kind of whited and sepulchral logic which seldom augurs well
for what is behind and beneath.
There is a very simple rule of logic, sometimes called the Law of the
Excluded Middle, according to which either a given proposition or its
contradictory must be true. By selecting passages somewhat freely from
different parts of Professor Whitney’s lectures, nothing would be easier
than to prove, and not simply to assert that he has violated again and
again that fundamental principle. In his earlier Lectures we are told,
that “to ascribe the differences of language and linguistic growth
directly to physical causes, . . . . is wholly
meaningless and futile” (p. 152). When we come to the great variety
of the American languages, we are told that “their differentiation has
been favored by the influence of the variety of climate and mode of
life.” On page 40, we read that a great genius “may now and then coin a
new word!” On page 123, we are told “it is not true that a genius can
impress a marked effect upon language.” On page 177, M. Renan and
myself are told that we have committed a serious error in admitting
dialects as antecedent feeders of national or classical languages, and
that it is hardly worth while to spend any effort in refuting such an
opinion. On page 181, we read, “a certain degree of dialectic
variety is inseparable from the being of any language,” etc., etc.,
etc.
I should not call this a fair way of dealing with any book;
I only give these few specimens to show
435
that the task of changing Professor Whitney’s Lecture into a logical
skeleton would not always be an easy one.
The pleading is now carried on by Mr. G. Darwin:—
“In taking up the cudgels, Müller is clearly impelled by an
overmastering fear lest man should lose ‘his proud position in the
creation’ if his animal descent is proved.”
I should in nowise be ashamed of the fear thus ascribed to me, but
whether it was an overmastering fear, let those judge who have read such
passages in my Lectures, as the following:—
“The question is not whether the belief that animals so distant as a
man, a monkey, an elephant, and a humming bird, a snake,
a frog, and a fish, could all have sprung from the same parents is
monstrous, but simply and solely whether it is true. If it is true, we
shall soon learn to digest it. Appeals to the pride or humility of man,
to scientific courage, or religious piety, are all equally out of
place.”
If this and other passages in my Lectures are inspired by
overmastering fear, then surely Talleyrand was right in saying that
language was intended to disguise our thoughts. And may I not add, that
if such charges can be made with impunity, we shall soon have to say,
with a still more notorious diplomatist, “What is truth?” Such reckless
charges may look heroic, but what applied to the famous charge of
Balaclava, applies to them: C’est magnifique, sans doute, mais ce
n’est pas la guerre.
I am next charged, I do not know whether by the senior or the junior
counsel, with maintaining the extraordinary position that if an
insensible graduation could be established between ape and man, their
minds would be identical.
436
Here all depends on what is meant by mind and by
identical. Does Mr. Darwin mean by “mind” something
substantial—an agent that deals with the impressions received
through the senses, as a builder deals with his bricks? Then, according
to his father’s view, the one builder may build a mere hovel, the other
may erect a cathedral, but through their descent they are substantially
the same. Or does he mean by “mind,” the mode and manner in which
sensations are received and arranged, what one might call, in fact, the
law of sensuous gravitation? Then I say again, according to his father’s
view, that law is substantially the same for animal and man. Nor is this
a conclusion derived from Mr. Darwin’s premises against his will. It is
the opinion strongly advocated by him. He has collected the most
interesting observations on the incipient germs, not only of language,
but of æsthetics and ethics, among animals. If Mr. Darwin, Jr., holds
that the mind of man is not substantially identical with the animal
mind, if he admits a break somewhere in the ascending scale from the
Protogenes to the first Man, then we should be driven to the old
conclusion—viz., that man was formed of the dust of the ground,
but that God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man
became a living soul. Does Mr. Darwin, Jr., accept this?
Next it is said, that by a similar argument the distinction between
black and white, hot and cold, a high and a low note might be
eliminated. This sounds no doubt formidable—it almost looks like a
logical skeleton. But let us not be frightened by words. Black and white
are no doubt as different as possible, so are hot and cold, a high
and a low note.
437
But what is the difference between a high and a low note? It is simply
the smaller or larger number of vibrations in a given time. We can count
these vibrations, and we also know that, from time to time, as the
velocity of the vibrations increases, our dull senses can distinguish
new tones. We have therefore here to deal with differences that used to
be called differences of degree, as opposed to differences in kind. What
applies to a low and a high note, applies to a low and high degree of
heat, and to the various degrees of light which we call by the names of
colors. In all these cases, what philosophers call the substance,
remains the same, just as, according to evolutionists, the substance of
man and animal is the same. Therefore, if man differs from an animal no
more than a high note differs from a low, or, vice versâ, if a
high note differs no more from a low than man differs from an ape, my
argument would seem to stand in spite of the shower of words poured over
it.
I myself referred to the difference between a high and a low note for
a totally different purpose, viz., in order to call attention to those
strange lines and limits in nature which, in spite of insensible
graduation, enable us to distinguish broad degrees of sound which we
call keys; broad degrees of light, which we call colors; broad degrees
of heat, for which our language has a less perfect nomenclature. These
lines and limits have never been explained, nor the higher limits which
separate sound from light, and light from heat. Why we should derive
pleasure from the exact number of vibrations which yield C, and then
have painful sensations till we come to the exact number of vibrations
which yield C sharp,
438
remains as yet a mystery. But as showing that nature had drawn these
sharp lines across the continuous stream of vibrations, whether of sound
or light, seemed to me an important problem, particularly for
evolutionist philosophers, who see in nature nothing but “insensible
graduation.”
The next charge brought against me is, that I overlook the undoubted
and undisputed fact that species do actually vary in nature. This seems
to me begging the whole question. If terms like species are
fetched from the lumber-room of scholastic philosophy, they must be
defined with logical exactness, particularly at present, when the very
existence of such a thing as a species depends on the meaning
which we assign to it. Nature gives us individuals only, and each
individual differs from the other. But “species” is a thing of human
workmanship,5 and it depends entirely on the disputed
definition of the term, whether species vary or not. In one sense, Mr.
Darwin’s book, “On the Origin of Species,” may be called an attempt to
repeal the term “species,” or, at all events, an attempt at giving a new
definition to that word which it never had before. No one appreciates
more than I do the service he has rendered in calling forth a new
examination of that old and somewhat rusty instrument of thought.6 Only, do not let us take for granted what has to be
proved.
The dust of words grows thicker and thicker as we go on, for I am
next told that the same line of proof would show “that the stature of a
man or boy was identical, because the boy passes through every gradation
439
on attaining the one stature from the other. No one could maintain such
a position who grasped the doctrines of continuity and of the
differential calculus.” It seems to me that even without the help of the
differential calculus, we can, with the help of logic and grammar, put a
stop to this argument. Boy is the subject, stature looks like a subject,
but is merely a predicate, and should have been treated as such by Mr.
Darwin. If a boy arrives by insensible graduation or growth at the
stature of man, the man is substantially the same as the boy. His
stature may be different, the color of his hair may be so likewise; but
what philosophers used to call the substance, or the individuality, or
the personality, or what we may call the man, remains the same. If
evolutionists really maintain that the difference between man and beast
is the same as between a grown-up man and a boy, the whole of my
argument is granted, and granted with a completeness which I had no
right to expect. Will Mr. Darwin, Senior, indorse the concessions thus
made by Mr. Darwin, Junior?
In order to show how the simplest matters can be complicated by a
free use of scholastic terms, I quote the following sentence, which
is meant as an answer to my argument:—
“According to what is called the Darwinian theory, organisms are in fact
precisely the result of a multiple integration of a complex function of
a very great number of variables; many of such variables being bound
together by relationships amongst themselves, an example of one such
relationship being afforded by the law, which has been called
‘correlation of growth.’”
Next follows a rocket from Mr. Whitney’s armory:—
440
“As a linguist,” he says, “Professor Müller claims to have found in
language an endowment which has no analogies, and no preparations in
even the beings nearest to man, and of which, therefore, no process of
transmutation could furnish an explanation. Here is the pivot on which
his whole argument rests and revolves.”
So far, the statement is correct, only that I expressed myself a
little more cautiously. It is well known, that the animals which in
other respects come nearest to man, possess very imperfect phonetic
organs, and that it would be improper, therefore, to refer more
particularly to them. But, however that may be, I expected at all
events some proof that I had made a mistake, that my argument jars, or
my pivot gives. But nothing of the kind. No facts, no arguments, but
simply an assertion that I do not argue the case with moderation and
acuteness, on strict scientific grounds, and by scientific methods in
setting up language as the specific difference between man and animals.
And why? Because many other writers have adduced other differences as
the correct ones.
There is a good deal of purely explosive matter in these vague
charges of want of moderation and acuteness. But what is the kernel?
I represented language as the specific difference between man and
animals, without mentioning other differences which others believe to be
specific. It would seem to show moderation rather than the absence of
it, if I confined myself to language, to the study of which I have
devoted the whole of my life; and perhaps a certain acuteness, in not
touching on questions which I do not pretend to have studied, as they
ought to be. But there were other reasons, too, which made me
441
look upon language as the specific difference. The so-called
specific differences mentioned by others fall into two
classes—those that are implied by language, as I defined the word,
and those which have been proved untenable by Mr. Darwin and others. Let
us read on now, to see what these specific differences are:—
“Man alone is capable of progressive improvement.”
|
Partly denied by Mr. Darwin, partly shown to be the result of
language, through which each successive generation profits by the
experience of its predecessors.
|
“He alone makes use of tools or fire.”
|
The former disproved by Mr. Darwin, the latter true.
|
“He alone domesticates other animals.”
|
Denied, in the case of the ants.
|
“He alone possesses property.”
|
Disproved by every dog in-the-manger.
|
“He alone employs language.”
|
True.
|
“No other animal is self-conscious.”
|
Either right or wrong, according to the definition of the word, and
never capable of direct proof.
|
“He alone comprehends himself.”
|
True, implied by language.
|
“He alone has the power of abstraction.”
|
True, implied by language.
|
“He alone possesses general ideas.”
|
True, implied by language.
|
“He alone has sense of beauty.”
|
Disproved or rendered doubtful by sexual selection.
|
“He alone is liable to caprice.”
|
Disproved by every horse, or monkey, or mule.
|
“He alone has the feeling of gratitude.”
|
Disproved by every dog.
|
“He alone has the feeling of mystery.”
|
Cela me passe.
|
442
“He alone believes in God.”
|
True.
|
“He alone is endowed with a conscience.”
|
Denied by Mr. Darwin.
|
Did it show then such want of moderation or acuteness if I confined
myself to language, and what is implied by language, as the specific
difference between man and beast? Really, one sometimes yearns for an
adversary who can hit straight, instead of these random strokes page
after page.
The next attack is so feeble that I should gladly pass it by, did I
not know from past experience that the very opposite motive would be
assigned to my doing so. I had stated that if there is a terra
incognita which excludes all positive knowledge, it is the mind of
animals. How, then, I am asked, do you know that no animal
possesses the faintest germs of the faculty of abstracting and
generalizing, and that animals receive their knowledge through the
senses only? I still recollect the time when any philosopher who,
even by way of illustration, ventured to appeal to the mind of animals,
was simply tabooed, and I thought every student of the history of
philosophy would have understood what I meant by saying that the whole
subject was transcendent. However, here is my answer: I hold that
animals receive their knowledge through the senses, because I can apply
a crucial test, and show that if I shut their eyes, they cannot see. And
I hold that they are without the faculty of abstracting and
generalizing, because I have here nothing before me but mere assertions,
I know of no crucial test to prove that these assertions are true.
Those who have read my Lectures, and were able to reduce them to a
skeleton of logical statement, might have seen that I had adduced
another
443
reason, viz., the fact that general conceptions are impossible without
language (using language in the widest sense, so as to include
hieroglyphic, numerical, and other signs), and that as no one has yet
discovered any outward traces of language among animals, we are
justified in not ascribing to them, as yet, the possession of abstract
ideas. This seems to me to explain fully “why the same person (viz., my
poor self) should be involved in such profound ignorance, and yet have
so complete a knowledge of the limits of the animal mind.” If I had said
that man has five senses, and no more, would that be wrong? Yet having
myself only five senses, I could not possibly prove that other men
may not have a sixth sense, or at all events a disposition to develop
it. But I am quite willing to carry my agnosticism, with regard to the
inner life of animals, still further, and to say again what I wrote in
my Lectures (p. 46):—
“I say again and again, that according to the strict rules of positive
philosophy, we have no right either to assert or to deny anything with
reference to the so-called mind of animals.”
But there is another piece of Chinese artillery brought out by Mr. G.
Darwin. As if not trusting it himself, he calls on Mr. Whitney to fire
it off—“The minds of our fellow men, too,” we are told, “are a
terra incognita in exactly the same sense as are those of
animals.”
No student of psychology would deny that each individual has
immediate knowledge of his own mind only, but even Mr. G. Darwin reminds
Mr. Whitney that, after all, with man we have one additional source of
evidence—viz., language; nay, he even doubts whether there may not
be others, too. If Mr. Darwin, Jr., grants that, I willingly grant
him that the
444
horse’s impression of green—nay, my friend’s impression of
green—may be totally different from my own, to say nothing of
Daltonism, color-blindness, and all the rest.7
After this, I need hardly dwell on the old attempts at proving, by a
number of anecdotes, that animals possess conceptual knowledge. The
anecdotes are always amusing, and are sure to meet with a grateful
public, but for our purpose they have long been ruled out of court. If
Mr. Darwin, Jr., should ever pass through Oxford, I promise to show
him in my own dog, Waldmann, far more startling instances of sagacity
than any he has mentioned, though I am afraid he will be confirmed all
the more in his anthropomorphic interpretation of canine
intelligence.
Now comes a new appeal ad populum. I had ventured to say that
in our days nothing was more strongly to be recommended to young and old
philosophers than a study of the history of philosophy. There is a
continuity, not only in Nature, but also in the progress of the human
mind; and to ignore that continuity, to begin always like Thales or
Democritus, is like having a special creation every day. Evolutionists
seem to imagine that there is evolution for everything, except for
evolutionism. What would chemists say, if every young student began
again with the theory of a phlogiston, or every geologist with
Vulcanism, or every astronomer with the Ptolemæic system? However,
I did not go back very far; I only claimed a little
consideration for the work done by such giants as Locke, Hume, Berkeley,
and Kant. I expressed a hope that certain questions might be
considered as closed, or, if they were to be
445
re-opened, that at least the controversy should be taken up where it was
left at the end of the last debate. Here, however, I failed to make
any impression. My appeal is stigmatized as “an attempt to crush my
adversaries by a reference to Kant, Hume, Berkeley, and Locke.” And the
popular tribune finishes with the following brave words: “Fortunately we
live in an age, which (except for temporary relapses) does not pay any
great attention to the pious founders, and which tries to judge for
itself.”
I never try to crush my adversaries by deputy. Kant, Hume, Berkeley,
and Locke may all be antiquated for all I know; but I still hold it
would be useful to read them, before we declare too emphatically that we
have left them behind.
I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of quoting on this point the
wise and weighty words of Huxley:—
“It is much easier to ask such questions than to answer them, especially
if one desires to be on good terms with one’s contemporaries: but, if I
must give an answer, it is this: The growth of physical science is now
so prodigiously rapid, that those who are actively engaged in keeping up
with the present, have much ado to find time to look at the past, and even grow into
the habit of neglecting it. But, natural as this result may be, it is
none the less detrimental. The intellect loses, for there is assuredly
no more effectual method of clearing up one’s own mind on any subject
than by talking it over, so to speak, with men of real power and grasp
who have considered it from a totally different point of view. The
parallax of time helps us to the true position of a conception, as the
parallax of space helps us to that of a star. And the moral nature loses
no less. It is well to turn aside from the fretful stir of the present,
and to dwell with gratitude and respect upon the services of those
mighty men of old who have gone down to the grave with their weapons of
war, but who, while they yet lived, won splendid victories over
ignorance.”
446
Next follow some extraordinary efforts on Mr. Whitney’s part to show
that Locke, whose arguments I had simply re-stated, knew very little
about human or animal understanding, and then the threadbare argument of
the deaf and dumb is brushed up once more. Until something new is said
on that old subject, I must be allowed to remain myself deaf and
dumb.8
Then comes the final and decisive charge. I had said that “if the
science of language has proved anything, it has proved that conceptual
or discursive thought can be carried on in words only.” Here again I had
quoted a strong array of authorities—not, indeed, to kill free
inquiry—I am not so bloodthirsty, as my friends imagine—but
to direct it to those channels where it had been carried on before.
I quoted Locke, I quoted Schelling, Hegel, Wilhelm von
Humboldt, Schopenhauer, and Mansel—philosophers diametrically
opposed to each other on many points, yet all agreeing in what seems to
many so strange a doctrine, that conceptual thought is impossible
without language (comprehending by language hieroglyphic, numerical, and
similar symbols). I might have quoted many other thinkers and
poets. Professor Huxley seems clearly to have seen the difference
between trains of thought and trains of feelings. “Brutes,” he says,
“though, from the absence of language, they can have no trains of
thoughts, but only trains of feelings, yet have a consciousness which,
more or less distinctly, foreshadows our own.” And who could express the
right view of language more beautifully than Jean Paul?—
447
“Mich dünkt, der Mensch würde sich, so wie das spracblose Thier, das in
der äussern Welt, wie in einem dunkeln, betäubenden Wellen-Meere
schwimmt, ebenfalls in dem vollgestirnten Himmel der äussern Anschauung
dumpf verlieren, wenn er das verworrene Leuchten nicht durch Sprache in
Sternbilder abtheilte, und sich durch diese das Ganze in Theile für das
Bewusstein auflösete.”
Having discussed that question very fully in my Lectures, I shall
attempt no more at present than to show that the objections raised by
Mr. Darwin, Jr., entirely miss the point. Does he really think that
those men could have spent all their lives in considering that question,
and never have been struck by the palpable objections raised by him? Let
us treat such neighbors, at least like ourselves. I shall, however,
do my best to show Mr. Darwin that even I had not been ignorant of these
objections. I shall follow him through every point, and, for fear
of misrepresenting him, quote his own words:—
“(1) Concepts may be formed, and yet not put before the consciousness of
the conceiver, so that he ‘realizes’ what he is doing.”
Does that mean that the conceiver conceives concepts without
conceiving them? Then, I ask, whom do these concepts belong to,
where are they, and under what conditions were they realized? Is to
conceive an active or a passive verb? May I once more quote Kant without
incurring the suspicion of wishing to strangle free inquiry by
authority? “Concepts,” says the old veteran, “are founded on the
spontaneity of thought, sensuous intuitions on the receptivity of
impressions.”
“(2) Complex thoughts are doubtless impossible without symbols, just as
are the higher mathematics?”
448
Are lower mathematics possible without numerical symbols, and where
is the line which separates complex from simple thought? Everything
would seem to depend on that line which is so often spoken of by our
critics. There ought to be something in that line which would at once
remove the blunders committed by Humboldt and others. It would define
the limit between inarticulate and articulate thought; it might possibly
be the very frontier between the animal and the human mind, and yet that
magic line is simply conceived, spoken of freely, but never realized,
i.e., never traced with logical precision. Till that is done,
that line, though it may exist, is to me as if it did not exist.
“(3) We know that dogs doubt and hesitate, and finally determine to act
without any external determining circumstance.”
How this argument fits in here, is not quite clear to me; but,
whatever its drift may be, a perusal of Professor Huxley’s
excellent paper, “The Hypothesis that Animals are Automata,” will supply
a full answer.
“(4) Professor Whitney very happily illustrates the independence of
thought from language, by calling up our state of mind when casting
about, often in the most open manner, for new designations, for new
forms of knowledge, or when drawing distinctions, and pointing
conclusions, which words are then stretched or narrowed to cover.”
Language with us has become so completely traditional, that we
frequently learn words first and their meaning afterwards. The problem
of the original relation between concepts and words, however, refers to
periods when these words did not yet exist, but had to be framed for the
first time. We are
449
speaking of totally different things; he, of the geology, I, if I may
say so, of the chemistry of speech. But even if we accepted the test
from modern languages, does not the very form of the question supply the
answer? If we want new designations, new forms of
knowledge, do we not confess that we have old designations, though
imperfect ones; old forms of knowledge which no longer answer our
purpose? Our old words, then, become gradually stretched or narrowed,
exactly as our knowledge becomes stretched or narrowed, or we at last
throw away the old word, and borrow another from our own, or even from a
foreign language.
“It is a proof,” Mr. Darwin says, “that we realized and conceived the
idea of the texture and nature of a musical sound before we had a word
for it, that we had to borrow the expressive word “timbre” from
the French.”
But how did we realize and conceive the idea before we had a word for
it? Surely, by old words. We called it quality, texture, nature—we
knew it as the result of the presence and absence of various harmonics.
In German, we stretched an old word, and called it Farbe; in
English, timbre was borrowed from the French, just as we may call
a pound vingt-cinq francs; but the French themselves got their
word by the ordinary process—viz., by stretching the old word,
tympanum.
“(5) If Müller had brought before him some wholly new animal he would
find that he could shut his eyes, and call up the image of it readily
enough without any accompanying name.”
All this is far, far away from the real field of battle. No doubt, if
I look at the sun and shut my eyes, the image remains for a time. By
imagination
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I can also recall other sensuous impressions, and, in an attack of
fever, I have had sensuous impressions resuscitated without my
will. But how does that touch conceptual knowledge? As soon as I want to
know what animal it is which I conjure up or imagine to myself,
I must either have, for shortness’ sake, its scientific name, or I
must conceive and realize its ears, or its legs, or its tail, or
something else, but always something for which there is a name.
I have thus, in spite of the old warning, Ne Hercules contra
duos, gone through the whole string of charges brought against me by
Mr. Darwin and Professor Whitney; and while trying to show them that I
was not entirely unprepared for their combined attack, I hope I
have not been wanting in that respect which is due even to a somewhat
rancorous assailant. I have not returned evil for evil, nor have I
noticed objections which I could not refute without seeming to be
offensive. Is it not mere skirmishing with blank cartridge, when
Professor Whitney assures me that I have never fathomed “the theory of
the antecedency of the idea to the word in the minds of those who hold
that theory?” Surely, that is the theory which everybody holds who forms
his idea of the origin of language from the manner in which we acquire a
traditional language ready made, or, later in life, learn foreign
languages. It has been my object to show that our problem is not, how
languages are learnt, but how language is developed. We might as well
form our ideas of the origin of the alphabet from the manner in which we
learn to write, and then smile when we are told that, in writing “F” we
still draw in the two upper strokes, the two horns of the
cerastes, and that the connecting line in the “H”
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is the last remnant of the lines dividing the sieve, both hieroglyphics
occurring in the name of Chufu or Cheops.
Philosophy is a study as much as philology, and though common sense
is, no doubt, very valuable within its proper limits, I do not
hesitate to say, though I hear already the distant grumbling of
Jupiter tonans, that it is generally the very opposite of
philosophy. One of the most eminent and most learned of living German
philosophers—Professor Carriere, of Munchen—says in a very
friendly review of Professor Whitney’s “Lectures on Language”—
“Philosophical depth and precision in psychological analysis are not his
strong points, and in that respect the reader will hardly find anything
new in his Lectures.”
He goes on to say that—
“The American scholar did not see that language is meant first for
forming, afterwards for communicating thought.” “Wordmaking,” he says
with great truth, “is the first philosophy—the first poetry of
mankind. We can have sensations, desires, intentions, but we cannot
think, in the proper sense of the word, without language. Every word
expresses the general. Mr. Whitney has not understood this, and his
calling language a human institution is very shallow.”
Against Professor Whitney’s view that language is arbitrary and
conventional, and against the opposite view that language is
instinctive, Professor Carriere quotes the happy expression of
M. Renan, “La liaison du sens et du mot n’est jamais nécessaire,
jamais arbitraire, toujours elle est motivée.” Here the nail is hit
on the head. Professor Carriero highly commends Professor Whitney’s
lectures, and he does by no means adopt all my own views; but he felt
452
obliged to enter a protest against certain journalistic proceedings
which in Germany have attracted general attention.
In conclusion, if I may judge from Professor Whitney’s lectures,
unless he has changed very much of late, I doubt whether he would
prove a real ally of Mr. Darwin in his views on the origin of language.
Towards the end of his article, even Mr. Darwin, Jr., becomes
suspicious. Professor Whitney, he says, makes a dangerous assertion when
he says that we shall never know anything of the transitional forms
through which language has passed, and he advises his friend to read a
book lately published by Count G. A. de Goddesand Liancourt and
F. Pincott, called “Primitive and Universal Laws of Language,” in
which he would find much information and enlightenment on the real
origin of roots. There is an unintentional irony in that advice which
Professor Whitney will not fail to appreciate. How any one who cares for
truth can speak of a dangerous assertion, I do not understand. The
Pope may say so, or a barrister; a true friend of truth knows of no
danger.
In his “Lectures on Language,” Professor Whitney protests strongly
against Darwinian materialism. But, as he confesses himself half a
convert to the Bow-wow and Pooh-pooh theories, thus
showing how wrong I was in supposing that those theories had no
advocates among comparative philologists in the nineteenth century; nay,
as now, after he has discovered at last that I am no believer in
Ding-dongism, he seems inclined to say a kind word for the
advocates of that theory—Heyse and Steinthal—who knows
whether, after my Lectures on Darwin’s “Philosophy
453
of Language,” he may not be converted by Bleek and Haeckel, the mad
Darwinian, as he calls him?
All this, no doubt, has its humorous side, and I have tried to answer
it good-humoredly. But it seems to me that it also has a very serious
import. Why is there all this wrangling as to whether man is the
descendant of a lower animal or not? Why cannot people examine the
question in a temper more consonant with a real love of truth? Why look
for artificial barriers between man and beast, if they are not there?
Why try to remove real barriers, if they are there? Surely we shall
remain what we are, whatever befall. When we throw the question back
into a very distant antiquity, all seems to grow confused and out of
focus. Yet time and space make little difference in the solution of
these problems. Let us see what exists to-day. We see to-day that the
lowest of savages—men whose language is said to be no better than
the clucking of hens, or the twittering of birds, and who have been
declared in many respects lower even than animals, possess this one
specific characteristic, that if you take one of their babies, and bring
it up in England, it will learn to speak as well as any English baby,
while no amount of education will elicit any attempts at language from
the highest animals, whether bipeds or quadrupeds. That disposition
cannot have, been formed by definite nervous structures, congenitally
framed, for we are told by the best Agriologists that both father and
mother clucked like hens. This fact, therefore, unless disproved by
experiment, remains, whatever the explanation may be.
Let us suppose, then, that myriads of years ago there was, out of
myriads of animal beings, one, and
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one only, which made that step which in the end led to language, while
the whole rest of the creation remained behind;—what would follow?
That one being then, like the savage baby now, must have possessed
something of his own—a germ very imperfect, it may be, yet found
nowhere else, and that germ, that capacity, that disposition—call
it what you like—is, and always will remain the specific
difference of himself and all his descendants. It makes no difference
whether we say it came of itself, or it was due to environment, or it
was the gift of a Being in whom we live and move. All these are but
different expressions for the Unknown. If that germ of the Logos had to
pass through thousands of forms, from the Protogenes to Adam, before it
was fit to fulfill its purpose, what is that to us? It was there
potentiâ from the beginning; it manifested itself where it was,
in the paulo-post-future man; it never manifested itself where it was
not, in any of the creatures that were animals from the beginning, and
remained so to the end.
Surely, even if all scholastic philosophy must now be swept away, if
to be able to reduce all the wisdom of the past to a tabula rasa
is henceforth to be the test of a true philosopher, a few landmarks
may still be allowed to remain, and we may venture to quote, for
instance, Ex nihilo nihil fit, without being accused of trying to
crush free inquiry by an appeal to authority. Language is something, it
pre-supposes something; and that which it pre-supposes, that from which
it sprang, whatever its pre-historic, pre-mundane, pre-cosmic state may
have been, must have been different from that from which it did not
spring. People ask whether that germ of language
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was “slowly evolved,” or “divinely implanted,” but if they would but lay
a firm grip on their words and thoughts, they would see that these two
expressions, which have been made the watchwords of two hostile camps,
differ from each other dialectically only.
That there is in us an animal—aye, a bestial nature—has
never been denied; to deny it would take away the very foundation of
Psychology and Ethics. We cannot be reminded too often that all the
materials of our knowledge we share with animals; that, like them, we
begin with sensuous impressions, and then, like ourselves, and like
ourselves only, proceed to the General, the Ideal, the Eternal. We
cannot be reminded too often that in many things we are like the beasts
of the field, but that, like ourselves, and like ourselves only, we can
rise superior to our bestial self, and strive after what is Unselfish,
Good, and God-like. The wing by which we soar above the Sensuous, was
called by wise men of old the Logos; the wing which lifts us
above the Sensual, was called by good men of old the Daimonion.
Let us take continual care, especially within the precincts of the
Temple of Science, lest by abusing the gift of speech or doing violence
to the voice of conscience, we soil the two wings of our soul, and fall
back, through our own fault, to the dreaded level of the Gorilla.
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X.
IN SELF-DEFENSE.
PRESENT STATE OF SCIENTIFIC STUDIES.
It has been remarked by many
observers that in all branches of physical as well as historical
learning there is at the present moment a strongly pronounced tendency
towards special researches. No one can hold his own among his
fellow-workers who cannot point to some discovery, however small, to
some observation, to some decipherings, to some edition of a text
hitherto unpublished, or, at least, to some conjectural readings which
are, in the true sense of the word, his property. A man must now
have served from the ranks before he is admitted to act as a general,
and not even Darwin or Mommsen would have commanded general attention
for their theories on the ancient history of Rome, or on the primitive
development of animal life, unless they had been known for years as
sturdy workers in their respective quarries.
On the whole, I believe that this state of public opinion has
produced a salutary effect, but it has also its dangers. An army that
means conquest, cannot always depend on its scouts and pioneers, nor
must it be broken up altogether into single detachments of tirailleurs.
From time to time, it has to make a combined movement in advance, and
for that purpose
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it wants commanders who know the general outlines of the battle-field,
and are familiar with the work that can best be done by each branch of
the service.
EVOLUTIONISM.
If we look upon scholars, historians, students of physical science,
and abstract philosophers, as so many branches of the great army of
knowledge which has been fighting its way for centuries for the conquest
of truth, it might be said, if we may follow up our comparison a little
further, that the light cavalry of physical science had lately made a
quick movement in advance, and detached itself too much from the support
of the infantry and heavy artillery. The charge was made against the old
impregnable fortress, the Origin of Life, and to judge from the
victorious hurrahs of the assaulting squadron, we might have thought
that a breach had at last been effected, and that the keys to the long
hidden secrets of creation and development had been surrendered. As the
general commanding this attack, we all recognize Mr. Darwin, supported
by a brilliant staff of dashing officers, and if ever general was well
chosen for victory, it was the author of the “Origin of Species.”
There was indeed for a time a sanguine hope, shared by many a brave
soldier, that the old warfare of the world would, in our time, be
crowned with success, that we should know at last what we are, whence we
came, and whither we go; that, beginning with the simplest elementary
substances, we should be able to follow the process of combination and
division, leading by numberless and imperceptible changes from the
lowest Bathybios to the highest Hypsibios, and that we should succeed in
establishing
458
by incontrovertible facts what old sages had but guessed, viz., that
there is nowhere anything hard and specific in nature, but all is
flowing and growing, without an efficient cause or a determining
purpose, under the sway of circumstances only, or of a self-created
environment. Πάντα
ῥεῖ.
But that hope is no longer so loudly and confidently expressed as it
was some years ago. For a time all seemed clear and simple. We began
with Protoplasm, which anybody might see at the bottom of the sea,
developing into Moneres, and we ended with the bimanous mammal called
Homo, whether sapiens or insipiens, everything
between the two being matter of imperceptible development.
DIFFICULTIES IN EVOLUTIONISM.
The difficulties began where they generally begin, at the beginning
and at the end. Protoplasm was a name that produced at first a
soothing effect on the inquisitive mind, but when it was asked, whence
that power of development, possessed by the Protoplasm which begins as a
Moneres and ends as Homo, but entirely absent in other Protoplasm, which
resists all mechanical manipulation, and never enters upon organic
growth, it was seen that the problem of development had not been solved,
but only shifted, and that, instead of simple Protoplasm, very peculiar
kinds of Protoplasm were required, which under circumstances might
become and remain a Moneres, and under circumstances might become and
remain Homo forever. That which determined Protoplasm to enter
upon its marvelous career, the first κινοῦν ἀκινητόν, remained as unknown as ever.
It was open to call it an internal and unconscious, or an external and
conscious
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power, or both together: physical, metaphysical, and religious mythology
were left as free as ever. The best proof of this we find in the fact
that Mr. Darwin himself retained his belief in a personal Creator, while
Haeckel denies all necessity of admitting a conscious agent; and Von
Hartmann1 sees in what is called the philosophy of evolutionism
the strongest confirmation of idealism, “all development being in truth
but the realization of the unconscious reason of the creative idea.”
GLOTTOLOGY AND EVOLUTIONISM.
While the difficulty at the beginning consists in this that, after
all, nothing can be developed except what was enveloped, the difficulty
at the end is this that something is supposed to be developed that was
not enveloped. It was here where I thought it became my duty to draw Mr.
Darwin’s attention to difficulties which he had not suspected at all, or
which, at all events, he had allowed himself to under-value. Mr. Darwin
had tried to prove that there was nothing to prevent us from admitting a
possible transition from the brute to man, as far as their physical
structure was concerned, and it was natural that he should wish to
believe that the same applied to their mental capacities. Now, whatever
difference of opinion there might be among philosophers as to the
classification and naming of these capacities, and as to any rudimentary
traces of them to be discovered in animals, there had always been a
universal consent that language was a distinguishing characteristic of
man. Without inquiring what was implied by
460
language, so much was certain, that language was something tangible,
present in every man, absent in every brute. Nothing, therefore, was
more natural than that Mr. Darwin should wish to show that this was an
error: that language was nothing specific in man, but had its
antecedents, however imperfect, in the signs of communication among
animals. Influenced, no doubt, by the works of some of his friends and
relatives on the origin of language, he thought that it had been proved
that our words could be derived directly from imitative and
interjectional sounds. If the Science of Language has proved anything,
it has proved that this is not the case. We know that, with certain
exceptions, about which there can be little controversy, all our words
are derived from roots, and that every one of these roots is the
expression of a general concept. “Without roots, no language; without
concepts, no roots,” these are the two pillars on which our philosophy
of language stands, and with which it falls.
MR. WEDGWOOD’S DICTIONARY.
Any word taken from Mr. Wedgwood’s Dictionary will show the
difference between those who derive words directly from imitative
and interjectional sounds, and those who do not. For instance, s.v.
to plunge, we read:—
“Fr. plonger Du. plotsen, plonssen, plonzen,
to fall into the water—Kil.; plotsen, also to fall suddenly
on the ground. The origin, like that of plump, is a
representation of the noise made by the fall. Swiss bluntschen,
the sound of a thick heavy body falling into the water.” Under
plump we read, “that the radical image is the sound made by a
compact body falling into the water, or of a mass of wet falling to the
ground. He smit den sten in’t water, plump! seg dat, ‘He threw
the stone into the
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water; it cried plump!’ Plumpen, to make the noise represented by
plump, to fall with such a noise, etc., etc., etc.”
All this sounds extremely plausible, and to a man not specially
conversant with linguistic studies, far more plausible than the real
etymology of the word. To plunge is, no doubt, as Mr. Wedgwood says, the
French plonger but the French plonger is
plumbicare, while in Italian piombare is cadere a
piombo, to fall straight like the plummet. To plunge, therefore, has
nothing to do with the splashing sound of heavy bodies falling into the
water, but with the concept of straightness, here symbolized by the
plummet.
This case, however, would only show the disregard of historical facts
with which the onomatopœic school has been so frequently and so justly
charged. But as we cannot trace plumbum, or μόλυβος, or Old Slav. olovo with any
certainty to a root such as mal, to be soft, let us take another
word, such as feather. Here, again, we find that Mr. Wedgwood
connects it with such words as Bav. fledern, Du. vlederen,
to flap, flutter, the loss of the l being explained by such words
as to splutter and to sputter. We have first to note the disregard of
historical facts, for feather is O.H.G. fedara, Sk.
pat-tra, Gr. πτερόν for
πετερον, all derived from
a root pat, to fly, from which we have also penna, old
pesna, πέτ-ομαι,
peto, impetus, etc. The root pat expresses violent
motion, and it is specialized into upward motion, πέτομαι, I fly; downward motion, Sk. patati,
he falls; and onward motion, as in Latin peto, impetus,
etc. Feather, therefore, as derived from this root, was conceived as the
instrument of flying, and was never intended to imitate the noise of Du.
vlederen, to flutter, and to flap.
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MY LECTURES ON MR. DARWIN’S PHILOSOPHY OF LANGUAGE.
As this want of historical treatment among onomatopœic philologists
has frequently been dwelt on by myself and others, these instances may
suffice to mark the difference between the school so ably and powerfully
represented by Mr. Wedgwood, and the school of Bopp, to which I and most
comparative philologists belong. It was in the name of that school that
I ventured to address my protest to the school of evolutionists,
reminding them of difficulties, which they had either ignored
altogether, or, at all events, greatly undervalued, and putting our case
before them in such a form that even philosophers, not conversant with
the special researches of philologists, might gain a clear insight into
the present state of our science, and form their opinion
accordingly.
In doing this I thought I was simply performing a duty which, in the
present state of divided and subdivided labor, has to be performed, if
we wish to prevent a useless waste of life. However different our
pursuits may be, we all belong, as I said before, to the same army, we
all have the same interests at heart, we are bound together by what the
French would call the strongest of all solidarities, the love of truth.
If I had thought only of my own fellow-laborers in the field of the
Science of Language, I should not have considered that there was
any necessity for the three Lectures which I delivered in 1873 at the
Royal Institution. In my first course of Lectures on the Science of
Language (1861), delivered before Evolutionism had assumed its present
dimensions, I had already expressed my conviction that language is
the one great barrier between the brute and man.
463
“Man speaks,” I said, “and no brute has ever uttered a word.
Language is something more palpable than a fold of the brain or an angle
of the skull. It admits of no caviling, and no process of natural
selection will ever distill significant words out of the notes of birds
or the cries of beasts.”
No scholar, so far as I know, has ever controverted any of these
statements. But when Evolutionism became, as it fully deserved, the
absorbing interest of all students of nature, when it was supposed that,
if a Moneres could develop into a Man, Bow-wow and Pooh-pooh might well
have developed by imperceptible degrees into Greek and Latin,
I thought it was time to state the case for the Science of Language
and its bearing on some of the problems of Evolutionism more fully, and
I gladly accepted the invitation to lecture once more on this subject at
the Royal Institution in 1873. My object was no more than a statement of
facts, showing that the results of the Science of Language did not at
present tally with the results of Evolutionism, that words could no
longer be derived directly from imitative and interjectional sounds,
that between these sounds and the first beginnings of language, in the
technical sense of the word, a barrier had been discovered,
represented by what we call Roots, and that, as far as we know, no
attempt, not even the faintest, has ever been made by any animal, except
man, to approach or to cross that barrier. I went one step further.
I showed that Roots were with man the embodiments of general
concepts, and that the only way in which man realized general concepts,
was by means of those roots, and words derived from roots.
I therefore argued as follows: We do not know anything and cannot
possibly know anything of the mind of animals: therefore, the proper
464
attitude of the philosopher with regard to the mental capacities of
animals is one of complete neutrality. For all we know, the mental
capacities of animals may be of a higher order than our own, as their
sensuous capacities certainly are in many cases. All this, however, is
guesswork; one thing only is certain. If we are right that man realizes
his conceptual thought by means of words, derived from roots, and that
no animal possesses words derived from roots, it follows, not indeed,
that animals have no conceptual thought (in saying this,
I went too far), but that their conceptual thought is different in
its realized shape from our own.
From public and private discussions which followed the delivery of my
lectures at the Royal Institution (an abstract of them was
published in “Fraser’s Magazine,” and republished, I believe, in
America), it became clear to me that the object which I had in view had
been fully attained. General attention had been roused to the fact that
at all events the Science of Language had something to say in the matter
of Evolutionism, and I know that those whom it most concerned were
turning their thoughts in good earnest to the difficulties which I had
pointed out. I wanted no more, and I thought it best to let the
matter ferment for a time.
MR. GEORGE DARWIN’S ARTICLE IN THE “CONTEMPORARY REVIEW.”
But what was my surprise when I found that a gentleman who had acquired
considerable notoriety, not indeed by any special and original
researches in Comparative Philology, but by his repeated attempts at
vilifying the works of other scholars, Professor Whitney,
465
had sent a paper to Mr. Darwin, intended to throw discredit on the
statements which I had recommended to his serious consideration.
I did not know of that paper till an abstract of it appeared in the
“Contemporary Review,” signed George Darwin, and written with the avowed
purpose of discrediting the statements which I had made in my Lecture at
the Royal Institution. If Professor Whitney’s appeal had been addressed
to scholars only, I should gladly have left them to judge for
themselves. But as Mr. Darwin, Jr., was prevailed upon to stand sponsor
to Professor Whitney’s last production, and to lend to it, if not the
weight, at least the lustre of his name, I could not, without
appearing uncourteous, let it pass in silence. I am not one of
those who believe that truth is much advanced by public controversy, and
I have carefully eschewed it during the whole of my literary career. But
if I had left Professor Whitney’s assertions unanswered, I could
hardly have complained, if Mr. Darwin, Sr., and the many excellent
savants who share his views, had imagined that I had represented
the difficulties which the students of language feel with regard to
animals developing a language, in a false light; that in fact, instead
of wishing to assist, I had tried to impede the onward march of our
brave army. I have that faith in οἱ περὶ Darwin, that I believe they want honest advice,
from whatever quarter it may come, and I therefore was persuaded to
deviate for once from my usual course, and, by answering seriatim
every objection raised by Professor Whitney, to show that my advice had
been tendered bonâ fide, that I had not spoken in the character
of a special pleader, but simply and solely as a man of truth.
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MY ANSWER TO MR. DARWIN.
My “Answer to Mr. Darwin” appeared in the “Contemporary Review” of
November, 1874, and if it had only elicited the letter which I received
from Mr. Darwin, Sr., I should have been amply repaid for the
trouble I had taken in the matter.
It produced, however, a still more important result, for it elicited
from the American assailant a hasty rejoinder, which opened the eyes
even of his best friends to the utter weakness of his case. Professor
Whitney, himself, had evidently not expected that I should notice his
assault. He had challenged me so often before, and I had never answered
him. Why, then, should I have replied now? My answer is, because, for
the first time, his charges had been countersigned by another.
I had not even read his books before, and he blames me severely for
that neglect, bluntly asking me, why I had not read them. That is indeed
a question extremely difficult to answer without appearing to be rude.
However, I may say this, that to know what books one must read, and
what books one may safely leave unread, is an art which, in these days
of literary fertility, every student has to learn. We know on the whole
what each scholar is doing, we know those who are engaged in special and
original work, and we are in duty bound to read whatever they write.
This in the present state of Comparative Philology, when independent
work is being done in every country of Europe, is as much as any man can
do, nay, often more than I feel able to do. But then, on the other hand,
we claim the liberty of leaving uncut other books in our science, which,
however
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entertaining they may be in other respects, are not likely to contain
any new facts. In doing this, we run a risk, but we cannot help it.
And let me ask Professor Whitney, if by chance he had opened a book
and alighted on the following passage, would he have read much more?
“Take as instances home and homely, scarce and
scarcely, direct and directly, lust and
lusty, naught and naughty, clerk and
clergy, a forge and a forgery, candid and
candidate, hospital and hospitality, idiom
and idiocy, alight and delight, etc.”
Is there any philologist, comparative or otherwise, who does not know
that light, the Gothic liuhath, is connected with the
Latin lucere; that to delight is connected with Latin
delector, Old French deleiter, and with Latin
de-lic-ere; while to alight is of Teutonic origin, and
connected with Gothic leihts, Latin levis, Sanskrit
laghus?
But then, Professor Whitney continues, when at last he had forced me
to read some of his writings, why did I not read them carefully? Why did
I read Mr. Darwin’s article in the “Contemporary Review” only, and not
his own in an American journal?
Now here I feel somewhat guilty: still I can offer some excuse.
I did not read Professor Whitney’s reply in the American original,
first, because I could not get it in time; secondly, because I only felt
bound to answer the arguments which Mr. Darwin had adopted as his own.
Looking at the original article afterwards, I found that I had not
been entirely wrong. I see that Mr. Darwin has used a very wise
discretion in his selection, and I may now tell Professor Whitney that
he ought really to be extremely grateful that nothing except what Mr.
Darwin had approved of, was placed before the English
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readers of the “Contemporary Review,” and therefore answered by me in
the same journal.
THE PHENICIAN ALPHABET.
Other charges, however, of neglect and carelessness on my part in
reading Professor Whitney’s writings, I can meet by a direct
negative. Among the more glaring mistakes of his lectures which I had
pointed out, was this, that fifteen years after Rougé’s discovery,
Professor Whitney still speaks of “the Phenician alphabet as the
ultimate source of the world’s alphabets.” Professor Whitney answers:
“If Professor Müller had read my twelfth lecture he would have found the
derivative nature of the Phenician alphabet fully discussed.” When I
read this, I felt a pang, for it was quite true that I had not read
that lecture. I saw a note to it, in which Professor Whitney states
that the sketch of the history of writing contained in it was based on
Steinthal’s admirable essay on the “Development of Writing,” and being
acquainted with that, I thought I could dispense with lecture No.
12. However, as I thought it strange that there should be so glaring a
contradiction between two lectures of the same course, that in one the
Phenician alphabet should be represented as the ultimate source, in
another as a derivative alphabet, I set to work and read lecture
No. 12. Will it be believed that there is not one word in it about
Rougé’s discovery, published, as I said, fifteen years ago, that the old
explanation that Aleph stood for an ox, Beth for a house,
Gimel for camel, Daleth for door, is simply repeated, and
that similarities are detected between the forms of the letters and the
figures of the objects whose names they bear? Therefore of two
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things one, either Professor Whitney was totally ignorant of what has
been published on this subject during the last fifteen years by Rougé,
father and son, by Brugsch, Lenormant and others, or he thought he might
safely charge me with having misrepresented him, because neither I nor
any one else was likely to read lecture No. 12.
After this instance of what Professor Whitney considers permissible,
I need hardly say more; but having been cited by him before a
tribunal which hardly knows me, to substantiate what I had asserted in
my “Answer to Mr. Darwin,” it may be better to go manfully through a
most distasteful task, to answer seriatim point after point, and
thus to leave on record one of the most extraordinary cases of what I
can only call Literary Daltonism.
LIKE AND UNLIKE.
I am accused by Professor Whitney of having read his lectures
carelessly, because I had only been struck by what seemed to me
repetitions from my own writings, without observing the deeper
difference between his lectures and my own. He therefore advises me to
read his lectures again. I am afraid I cannot do that, nor do I see
any necessity for it, because though I was certainly staggered by a
number of coincidences between his lectures and my own, I was
perfectly aware that they differed from each other more than I cared to
say. I imagined I had conveyed this as clearly as I could, without
saying anything offensive, by observing that in many places his
arguments seemed to me like an inverted fugue on a motive
taken from my lectures. But if I was not sufficiently outspoken on that
point, I am quite willing to make amends for it now.
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AN INVERTED FUGUE.
I must give one instance at least of what I mean by an inverted
fugue.
I had laid great stress on the fact that, though we are accustomed to
speak of language as a thing by itself, language after all is not
something independent and substantial, but, in the first instance, an
act, and to be studied as such. Thus I said (p. 51):—
“To speak of language as a thing by itself, as living a life of its own,
as growing to maturity, producing offspring, and dying away, is sheer
mythology.”
Again (p. 58):—
“Language exists in man, it lives in being spoken, it dies with each
word that is pronounced, and is no longer heard.”
When I came to Professor Whitney’s Second Lecture, and read
(p. 35):—
“Language has, in fact, no existence save in the minds and mouths of
those who use it,”
I felt pleasantly reminded of what I knew I had said somewhere. But
what was my surprise, when a few lines further on I read:—
“This truth is sometimes explicitly denied, and the opposite doctrine is
set up, that language has a life and growth independent of its speakers,
with which men cannot interfere. A recent popular writer (Professor
Max Müller) asserts that, ‘although there is a continuous change in
language, it is not in the power of man either to produce or to prevent
it. We might think as well of changing the laws which control the
circulation of our blood, or of adding an inch to our height, as of
altering the laws of speech, or inventing new words according to our own
pleasure.’”
How is one to fight against such attacks? The very words which
Professor Whitney had paraphrased before, only substituting “skull” for
“height,” and
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by which I had tried to prove “that languages are not the artful
creations of individuals,” are turned against me to show that, because I
denied to any single individual the power of changing language
ad libitum, I had set up the opposite doctrine, viz. that
language has a life and growth independent of its speakers.
Does Professor Whitney believe that any attentive reader can be taken
in by such artifices? Suppose I had said that in a well-organized
republic no individual can change the laws according to his pleasure,
would it follow that I held the opposite doctrine, that laws have a life
and growth independent of the lawgiver? The simile is weak, because an
individual may, under very peculiar circumstances, change a law
according to his pleasure: but weak as it is, I hope it will
convince Professor Whitney that Formal Logic is not altogether a useless
study to a Professor of Linguistics. I only wonder what Professor
Whitney would have said if he had been able to find in my Lectures a
definition of language (p. 46), worthy of Friedrich Schlegel,
viz.:—
“Language, like an organic body, is no mere aggregate of similar
particles; it is a complex of related and mutually helpful parts.”
And again:—
“The rise, development, decline, and extinction of language are like the
birth, increase, decay, and death of a living creature.”
In these poetical utterances of Professor Whitney’s we have an
outbreak of philological mythology of a very serious nature, and this
many years after I had uttered my warning that “to speak of language as
a thing by itself, as living a life of its own, as growing
472
to maturity, producing offspring, and dying away, is sheer mythology”
(I. p. 51).
REPETITIONS AND VARIATIONS.
It is, no doubt, quite natural that in reading Professor Whitney’s
lectures I should have been struck more forcibly than others by
coincidences, which have reference not only to general arguments, but
even to modes of expression and illustrations. I had pointed out
some of these verbal or slightly disguised coincidences in my first
article, but I could add many more. As we open the book, it begins by
stating that the Science of Language is a modern science, that its
growth was analogous to that of other sciences, that from a mere
collection of facts it advanced to classification, and from thence to
inductive reasoning on language. We are told that ancient nations
considered the languages of their neighbors as merely barbarous, that
Christianity changed that view, that a study of Greek, Latin, and Hebrew
widened the horizon of scholars, and that at present no dialect, however
rude, is without importance to the students of the Science of Language.
Next comes the importance of the discovery of Sanskrit, and a challenge
for a place among the recognized sciences in favor of our new
science.
Now I ask any one who may have read my Lectures, whether it was not
very natural that I should be struck with a certain similarity between
my old course of lectures on the Science of Language, and the lectures
delivered soon after on the Science of Language at Washington? But I was
not blind to the differences, and I never wished to claim as my own what
was original in the American book.
473
For instance, when the American Professor says that one of the most
important problems is to find out “How we learn English,” I said at
once, “That’s his ane;” and when after leading us from mother to
grandmother, and great-grandmother, he ends with Adam, and
says:—
“It is only the first man before whom every beast of the field and every
fowl of the air must present itself, to see what he will call it; and
whatever he calls any living creature, that is the name thereof, not to
himself alone, but to his family and descendants, who are content to
style each as their father had done before them.”
I said again, “That’s his ane.”
When afterwards we read about the large and small number of words
used by different ranks and classes, and by different writers, when we
come to the changes in English, the phonetic changes, to phonetics in
general, to changes of meaning, etc., few, I think, will fail to
perceive what I naturally perceived most strongly, “the leaves of memory
rustling in the dark.” I perceived even such accidental
reminiscences as:—
Old Prussian leaving behind a brief catechism (p. 215),
and,
Old Prussian leaving behind an old catechism
(p. 200);
Frisian having a literature of its own (p. 211), and
the
Frisians having a literature of their own (p. 178),
though, of course, no other reader could possibly perceive such
unimportant coincidences. These, no doubt, were mere accidents; but when
we consider that there is perhaps no science which admits of more varied
illustration than the Science of Language,
474
then to find page after page the same instances which one had collected
one’s self, certainly left the impression that the soil from which these
American lectures sprang, was chiefly alluvial. Of course, as Professor
Whitney has acknowledged his indebtedness to me for these illustrations,
I have no complaint to make, I only protest against his
ingratitude in representing such illustrations as mere by-work. For the
purpose of teaching and placing a difficult subject into its proper
light, illustrations, I think, are hardly less important than
arguments. In order to show, for instance, in what sense Chinese may be
called a parler enfantin, I had said:—
“If a child says up, that up is to his mind, noun, verb,
adjective, all in one. It means, I want to get up on my mother’s
lap.”
What has Professor Whitney to say on the same subject?
“It is thus that, even at present, children begin to talk;
a radical word or two means in their mouths a whole sentence;
up signifies ‘Take me up into your lap.’”
Enough of this, if not too much. Perhaps a thousand years hence, if
any of our books survive so long, the question whether my lectures were
written by myself, or by an American scholar settled in Germany, may
exercise the critical acumen of the philologists of the future.
LECTURES PRINTED IN ENGLAND ALSO.
But I see there is one more charge of carelessness brought against
me, and as I promised to answer every one, I must at least mention
it.
“He has not even observed that my Lectures are printed and published in
England, and not only in America.”
475
Why I ought to have observed this, I do not understand. Would it have
served as an advertisement? Should I have said that the author resided
in Canada to secure his book against the imminent danger of piracy in
England? Or does Professor Whitney suspect here too, one of those
sinister influences which he thought had interfered with the sale of his
books in England? However, whatever sin of omission I have committed,
I am quite willing to apologize, in order to proceed to graver
matters.
THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE AS ONE OF THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES.
I stand charged next not only with having read Professor Whitney’s
writings in too cursory a manner, but with actually having
misrepresented his views on the question, so often discussed of late,
whether the Science of Language should be reckoned one of the historical
or one of the physical sciences. Let us look at the facts:—
I had tried to show in my very first Lecture in what sense the
Science of Language might properly be called a physical, and in what
sense it might be called an historical science. I had given full
weight to the arguments on either side, because I felt that, owing to
the twofold nature of man, much might be said with perfect truth for one
or the other view. When I look back on what I wrote many years ago,
after having carefully weighed all that has been written on the subject
during the last fifteen years, I am glad to find that I can repeat
every word I then wrote, without a single change or qualification.
“The process” I said (p. 49), “through which language is
settled and unsettled, combines in one the two opposite elements
476
of necessity and freewill. Though the individual seems to be the prime
mover in producing new words and new grammatical forms, he is so only
after his individuality has been merged in the common action of the
family, tribe, or nation to which he belongs. He can do nothing by
himself, and the first impulse to a new formation in language, though
given by an individual, is mostly, if not always, given without
premeditation, nay, unconsciously. The individual, as such, is
powerless, and the results apparently produced by him, depend on laws
beyond his control, and on the coöperation of all those who form
together with him one class, one body, or one organic whole. But though
it is easy to show that language cannot be changed or moulded by the
taste, the fancy, or genius of man, it is nevertheless through the
instrumentality of man alone that language can be changed.”
Now I ask any reader of Mr. Whitney’s Lectures, whether he has found
in them anything in addition to what I had said on this subject,
anything materially or even in form, differing from it. He speaks indeed
of the actual additions made by individuals to language, but he treats
them, as I did, as rare exceptions (p. 32), and I cannot help
thinking that when he wrote (p. 52):—
“Languages are almost as little the work of man as is the form of his
skull, the outlines of his face, the construction of his arm and
hand,”
he was simply paraphrasing what I had said, though, as will be seen,
far more cautiously than my American colleague, because my remarks
referred to the laws of language only, not to language as a whole
(p. 47):—
“We might think as well of changing the laws which control the
circulation of our blood, or of adding an inch to our height, as of
altering the laws of speech, and inventing new words, according to
our own pleasure.”
I cannot hope to convince Mr. Whitney, for after
477
I had tried to explain to him, why I considered the question whether the
Science of Language is to be classed as a physical or an historical
science, as chiefly a question of technical definition, he
replies:—
“That I should probably consider it as more than a matter of terminology
or technical definition whether our science is an historical science,
because men make language, or a physical science, because men
do not make language.”
Everybody will see that to attempt a serious argument on such
conditions, is simply impossible.
If Professor Whitney can produce one single passage in all my
writings where I said that men do not make language, I promise to
write no more on language at all. I see now that it is Schleicher
who, according to Professor Whitney, at least, held these crude views,
who called languages natural organisms, which, without being
determinable by the will of man, arose, grew, and developed themselves,
in accordance with fixed laws, and then again grow old and die out; who
ascribed to language that succession of phenomena which is wont to be
termed life, and who accordingly classed Glottik, the Science of
Language, as a natural science. These are the very opinions which, with
the exception of the last, are combated in my writings.
I understood perfectly well what Mr. Whitney meant, when he, like
nearly all scholars before him, claimed the Science of Language as an
historical or a moral science. Man is an amphibious creature, and all
the sciences concerning man, will be more or less amphibious sciences.
I did not rush into print, because he took the opposite side to the
one I had taken. On the contrary, having myself laid great stress on the
fact that language was not to be treated
478
as an artful creation of the individual, I was glad that the
artistic element in language, such as it is, should have found so
eloquent an advocate. But I confess, I was disappointed when I saw
that, with the exception of a few purely sentimental protests, there was
nothing in Mr. Whitney’s treatment of the subject that differed from my
own. I proved this, if not to his satisfaction, at least to that of
others, by giving verbatim extracts from his Lectures, and what
is the consequence? As he can no longer deny his own words, he uses the
only defense which remained, he now accuses me of garbling quotations
and thus misrepresenting him. This, of course, may be said of all
quotations, short of reprinting a whole chapter. Yet to my mind the
charge is so serious, that I feel in duty bound to repel it, not by
words, but by facts.
This is the way in which Professor Whitney tries to escape from the
net in which he had entangled himself. In his reply to my argument he
says:—
“He chooses even more than once a sentence, in order to prove that I
maintain an opinion, directly from an argument in support of the
opposite opinion; for instance, in quoting my words, ‘that languages are
almost as little the work of man as is the form of his skull,’ he
overlooks the preceding parts of the same sentence: ‘as opposed
to the objects which he, the linguist, follows in his researches, and
the results which he wishes to attain.’ The whole is a part of a section
which is to prove that the absence of reflection and conscious intent,
takes away from the facts of language the subjective character which
would otherwise belong to them as products of the voluntary action.”
Very well. We now have what Professor Whitney says that he said. Let
us now read what he really said (p. 51):—
479
“The linguistic student feels that he is not dealing with the artful
creations of individuals. So far as concerns the purposes for which
he examines them, and the results he would derive from them, they are
almost as little the work of man as is the form of his skull.”
To render “so far as concerns the purposes” by “Gegenüber den
Zwecken, die er bei seinen Untersuchungen verfolgt,” is a strong
measure. But even thus, the facts remain as I, not as he, had stated
them. There was no garbling on my part, but something worse than
garbling on his, and all this for no purpose whatever, except for one
which I do not like to suggest. As a linguistic student Professor
Whitney feels what I had felt, ‘that we are not dealing with the artful
creations of individuals.’ What Professor Whitney may feel besides about
language, does not concern us, but it does concern us, and it does still
more concern him, that he should not endeavor to impart to scientific
language that character which, as he admits, it has not, viz., that of
being the very artful creation of an individual.
I am quite willing to admit, and I have done so before on several
occasions, that I may have laid too great stress on those
characteristics of the Science of Language by which it belongs to the
physical sciences. I have explained why I did so at the time. In
fact these are not new questions. Because I had said, as Dr. Whewell had
said before me,—
“That there are several large provinces of speculation which concern
subjects belonging to man’s immaterial nature, and which are governed by
the same laws as sciences altogether physical,”
it did not follow, as Professor Whitney seems to think, that I
regarded language as something like a
480
cow or a potato. I cannot defend myself against such
puerilities.
In reviewing Schleicher’s essay, “On Darwinism tested by the Science
of Language,” I had said:—
“It is not very creditable to the students of the Science of Language
that there should have been among them so much wrangling as to whether
that science is to be treated as one of the natural or as one of the
historical sciences. They, if any one, ought to have seen that they were
playing with language, or rather that language was playing with them,
and that unless a proper definition is first given of what is meant by
nature and by natural science, the