Volume 4 / Part 2 — Part II. ON CURTIUS’ CHRONOLOGY OF THE INDO-GERMANIC LANGUAGES. (continued 6)

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. 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the administration of law in India, and bringing it into harmony with the legal traditions of the country, remained unpublished, partly because his labors were anticipated by timely reforms, partly because his official duties became too onerous to allow him to finish his work in a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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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.

APPENDIX.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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. 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, 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 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:—

“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 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.

“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 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 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 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.”

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?—

“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?”

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 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 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” is the last remnant of the lines dividing the sieve, both hieroglyphics occurring in the name of Chufu or Cheops.