Chips from a German Workshop, Volume 4
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Title: Chips from a German Workshop, Volume 4
Author: F. Max Müller
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This e-text uses characters that require UTF-8 (Unicode) file encoding,
including accented Greek and a number of letters used in Sanskrit
transliteration:
œ [oe ligature]
θεός, Ζεύς, ἐπίῤῥημα [Greek]
ś Ś [s with “acute” accent]
ṭ ḍ ṇ ṛ ḷ ṃ ḥ Ṛ [letters with under-dot]
ấ î́ û́ ṛ́ [letters with multiple diacritics, especially vowels with
both acute and circumflex]
ā ē ī ō ū [vowel with macron or “long” mark]
ă ĕ ĭ ŭ Ĭ [vowel with breve or “short” mark]
[The book generally used circumflex accents to represent long
vowels. Anomalies are individually noted.]
ů [u with small o, used in one Middle High German passage]
ȩ [e with cedilla, used in this e-text to represent an unavailable
Old Norse letter]
† [dagger, used only in a few Index entries]
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make sure your text reader’s “character set” or “file encoding” is set
to Unicode (UTF-8). You may also need to change the default font.
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right of) the main letter; this by itself is not a problem. The text
also contains the single Hebrew word גְּרֵיים [gerim], and one brief passage
uses Devanagari letters:
क (k)
च (c, the voiceless palatal)
ज (j, the voiced palatal)
श (ś)
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[Latin-1: revert to {t} {n} {d} {l} {ri} {s}]
CHIPS FROM A GERMAN WORKSHOP.
VOL. IV.
CHIPS
from
A GERMAN WORKSHOP.
by
F. MAX MÜLLER, M.A.,
Foreign Member of the French Institute, etc.
VOLUME IV.
ESSAYS CHIEFLY ON THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE
With Index to Vols III. and IV.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
1881.
[_Published by arrangement with the Author._]
Riverside, Cambridge:
+Stereotyped and Printed by+
H. O. Houghton and Company.
To
ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY, D.D.,
Dean of Westminster,
as a Token of
Gratitude and Friendship
from
One Who Has for Many Years Admired
His Loyalty to Truth,
His Singleness of Purpose,
His Chivalrous Courage,
and
His Unchanging Devotion to His Friends.
CONTENTS OF FOURTH VOLUME.
PAGE
I. Inaugural Lecture, On the Value of Comparative Philology
as a branch of Academic Study, delivered before the
University of Oxford, 1868 1
Note A. On the Final Dental of the Pronominal Stem _tad_ 43
Note B. Did Feminine Bases in _â_ take _s_ in the
Nominative Singular? 45
Note C. Grammatical Forms in Sanskrit corresponding to
so-called Infinitives in Greek and Latin 47
II. Rede Lecture, Part I. On the Stratification of Language,
delivered before the University of Cambridge, 1868 63
Rede Lecture, Part II. On Curtius’ Chronology of the
Indo-Germanic Languages, 1875 111
III. Lecture on the Migration of Fables, delivered at the
Royal Institution, June 3, 1870 (Contemporary Review,
July, 1870) 139
Appendix. On Professor Benfey’s Discovery of a Syriac
Translation of the Indian Fables 181
Notes 188
IV. Lecture on the Results of the Science of Language,
Delivered before the University of Strassburg, May 23,
1872 (Contemporary Review, June, 1872) 199
Note A. θεός and Deus 227
Note B. The Vocative of Dyaús and Ζεύς 230
Note C. Aryan Words occurring in Zend but not in
Sanskrit 235
V. Lecture on Missions, delivered in Westminster Abbey,
December 3, 1873 238
Note A. Passages shewing the Missionary Spirit of
Buddhism 267
Note B. The Schism in the Brahma-Samâj 269
Note C. Extracts from Keshub Chunder Sen’s Lectures 272
Dr. Stanley’s Introductory Sermon on Christian Missions 276
On the Vitality of Brahmanism, Postscript to the Lecture
on Missions (Fortnightly Review, July, 1874) 296
VI. Address on the Importance of Oriental Studies, delivered
at the International Congress of Orientalists in
London, 1874 317
Notes 355
VII. Life of Colebrooke, with Extracts from his Manuscript
Notes on Comparative Philology (Edinburgh Review,
October, 1872) 359
VIII. Reply to Mr. Darwin (Contemporary Review, January, 1875) 417
IX. In Self-defense 456
Index to Vols. III. and IV. 533
I.
INAUGURAL LECTURE,
ON THE VALUE OF COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY AS A BRANCH OF ACADEMIC STUDY.
Delivered Before the University of Oxford the 27th of October, 1868.
The foundation of a professorial chair in the University of Oxford marks
an important epoch in the history of every new science.[1] There are
other universities far more ready to confer this academical recognition
on new branches of scientific research, and it would be easy to mention
several subjects, and no doubt important subjects, which have long had
their accredited representatives in the universities of France and
Germany, but which at Oxford have not yet received this well-merited
recognition.
If we take into account the study of ancient languages only, we see that
as soon as Champollion’s discoveries had given to the study of
hieroglyphics and Egyptian antiquities a truly scientific character, the
French government thought it its duty to found a chair for this
promising branch of Oriental scholarship. Italy soon followed this
generous example: nor was the Prussian government long behind hand in
doing honor to the newborn science, as soon as in Professor Lepsius it
had found a scholar worthy to occupy a chair of Egyptology at Berlin.
If France had possessed the brilliant genius to whom so much is due in
the deciphering of the cuneiform inscriptions, I have little doubt that
long ago a chair would have been founded at the _Collège de France_
expressly for Sir Henry Rawlinson.
England possesses some of the best, if not the best, of Persian scholars
(alas! he who was here in my mind, Lord Strangford, is no longer
among us), yet there is no chair for Persian at Oxford or Cambridge, in
spite of the charms of its modern literature, and the vast importance of
the ancient language of Persia and Bactria, the Zend, a language full of
interest, not only to the comparative philologist, but also to the
student of Comparative Theology.
There are few of the great universities of Europe without a chair for
that language which, from the very beginning of history, as far as it is
known to us, seems always to have been spoken by the largest number of
human beings,--I mean Chinese. In Paris we find not one, but two chairs
for Chinese, one for the ancient, another for the modern language of
that wonderful empire; and if we consider the light which a study of
that curious form of human speech is intended to throw on the nature and
growth of language, if we measure the importance of its enormous
literature by the materials which it supplies to the student of ancient
religions, and likewise to the historian who wishes to observe the
earliest rise of the principal sciences and arts in countries beyond the
influence of Aryan and Semitic civilization,--if, lastly, we take into
account the important evidence which the Chinese language, reflecting,
like a never-fading photograph, the earliest workings of the human mind,
is able to supply to the student of psychology, and to the careful
analyzer of the elements and laws of thought, we should feel less
inclined to ignore or ridicule the claims of such a language to a chair
in our ancient university.[2]
I could go on and mention several other subjects, well worthy of the
same distinction. If the study of Celtic languages and Celtic
antiquities deserves to be encouraged anywhere, it is surely in
England,--not, as has been suggested, in order to keep English
literature from falling into the abyss of German platitudes, nor to put
Aneurin and Taliesin in the place of Shakespeare and Burns, and to
counteract by their “suavity and brilliancy” the Philistine tendencies
of the Saxon and the Northman, but in order to supply sound materials
and guiding principles to the critical student of the ancient history
and the ancient language of Britain, to excite an interest in what still
remains of Celtic antiquities, whether in manuscripts or in genuine
stone monuments, and thus to preserve such national heir-looms from
neglect or utter destruction. If we consider that Oxford possesses a
Welsh college, and that England possesses the best of Celtic scholars,
it is surely a pity that he should have to publish the results of his
studies in the short intervals of official work at Calcutta, and not in
the more congenial atmosphere of Rytichin.
For those who know the history of the ancient universities of England,
it is not difficult to find out why they should have been less inclined
than their continental sisters to make timely provision for the
encouragement of these and other important branches of linguistic
research. Oxford and Cambridge, as independent corporations, withdrawn
alike from the support and from the control of the state, have always
looked upon the instruction of the youth of England as their proper
work; and nowhere has the tradition of classical learning been handed
down more faithfully from one generation to another than in England;
nowhere has its generous spirit more thoroughly pervaded the minds of
statesmen, poet, artists, and moulded the character of that large and
important class of independent and cultivated men, without which this
country would cease to be what it has been for the last two centuries,
a _res publica_, a commonwealth, in the best sense of the word. Oxford
and Cambridge have supplied what England expected or demanded, and as
English parents did not send their sons to learn Chinese or to study
Cornish, there was naturally no supply where there was no demand. The
professorial element in the university, the true representative of
higher learning and independent research, withered away; the tutorial
assumed the vastest proportions during this and the last centuries.
But looking back to the earlier history of the English universities,
I believe it is a mistake to suppose that Oxford, one of the most
celebrated universities during the Middle Ages and in the modern history
of Europe, could ever have ignored the duty, so fully recognized by
other European universities, of not only handing down intact, and laid
up, as it were, in a napkin, the traditional stock of human knowledge,
but of constantly adding to it, and increasing it fivefold and tenfold.
Nay, unless I am much mistaken, there was really no university in which
more ample provision had been made by founders and benefactors than at
Oxford, for the support and encouragement of a class of students who
should follow up new lines of study, devote their energies to work
which, from its very nature, could not be lucrative or even
self-supporting, and maintain the fame of English learning, English
industry, and English genius in that great and time-honoured republic of
learning which claims the allegiance of the whole of Europe, nay, of the
whole civilized world. That work at Oxford and Cambridge was meant to be
done by the Fellows of Colleges. In times, no doubt, when every kind of
learning was in the hands of the clergy, these fellowships might seem to
have been intended exclusively for the support of theological students.
But when other studies, once mere germs and shoots on the tree of
knowledge, separated from the old stem and assumed an independent
growth, whether under the name of natural science, or history, or
scholarship, or jurisprudence, a fair division ought to have been made
at once of the funds which, in accordance with the letter, it may be,
but certainly not with the spirit of the ancient statutes, have remained
for so many years appropriated to the exclusive support of theological
learning, if learning it could be called. Fortunately, that mistake has
now been remedied, and the funds originally intended, without
distinction, for the support of “true religion and useful learning,” are
now again more equally apportioned among those who, in the age in which
we live, have divided and subdivided the vast intellectual inheritance
of the Middle Ages, in order to cultivate the more thoroughly every nook
and every corner in the boundless field of human knowledge.
Something, however, remains still to be done in order to restore these
fellowships more fully and more efficiently to their original purpose,
and thus to secure to the university not only a staff of zealous
teachers, which it certainly possesses, but likewise a class of
independent workers, of men who, by original research, by critical
editions of the classics, by an acquisition of a scholarlike knowledge
of other languages besides Greek and Latin, by an honest devotion to one
or the other among the numerous branches of physical science, by
fearless researches into the ancient history of mankind, by a careful
collection or revision of the materials for the history of politics,
jurisprudence, medicine, literature, and arts, by a life-long occupation
with the problems of philosophy, and last, not least, by a real study of
theology, or the science of religion, should perform again those duties
which in the stillness of the Middle Ages were performed by learned
friars within the walls of our colleges. Those duties have remained in
abeyance for several generations, and they must now be performed with
increased vigor, in order to retain for Oxford that high position which
it once held, not simply as a place of education, but as a seat of
learning, amid the most celebrated universities of Europe.
“_Noblesse oblige_” is an old saying that is sometimes addressed to
those who have inherited an illustrious name, and who are proud of their
ancestors. But what are the ancestors of the oldest and proudest of
families compared with the ancestors of this university! “_Noblesse
oblige_” applies to Oxford at the present moment more than ever, when
knowledge for its own sake, and a chivalrous devotion to studies which
command no price in the fair of the world, and lead to no places of
emolument in church or state, are looked down upon and ridiculed by
almost everybody.
There is no career in England at the present moment for scholars and
students. No father could honestly advise his son, whatever talent he
might display, to devote himself exclusively to classical, historical,
or physical studies. The few men who still keep up the fair name of
England by independent research and new discoveries in the fields of
political and natural history, do not always come from our universities;
and unless they possess independent means, they cannot devote more than
the leisure hours, left by their official duties in church or state, to
the prosecution of their favorite studies. This ought not to be, nor
need it be so. If only twenty men in Oxford and Cambridge had the will,
everything is ready for a reform, that is, for a restoration of the
ancient glory of Oxford. The funds which are now frittered away in
so-called prize-fellowships, would enable the universities to-morrow to
invite the best talent of England back to its legitimate home. And what
should we lose if we had no longer that long retinue of non-resident
fellows? It is true, no doubt, that a fellowship has been a help in the
early career of many a poor and hard-working man, and how could it be
otherwise? But in many cases I know that it has proved a drag rather
than a spur for further efforts. Students at English universities
belong, as a rule, to the wealthier classes, and England is the
wealthiest country in Europe. Yet in no country in the world would a
young man, after his education is finished, expect assistance from
public sources. Other countries tax themselves to the utmost in order to
enable the largest possible number of young men to enjoy the best
possible education in schools and universities. But when that is done
the community feels that it has fulfilled its duty, and it says to the
young generation, Now swim or drown. A manly struggle against poverty,
it may be even against actual hunger, will form a stronger and sounder
metal than a lotus-eating club-life in London or Paris. Whatever
fellowships were intended to be, they were never intended to be mere
sinecures, as most of them are at present. It is a national blessing
that the two ancient universities of England should have saved such
large funds from the shipwreck that swallowed up the corporate funds of
the continental universities. But, in order to secure their safety for
the future, it is absolutely necessary that these funds should be
utilized again for the advancement of learning. Why should not a
fellowship be made into a career for life, beginning with little, but
rising like the incomes of other professions? Why should the grotesque
condition of celibacy be imposed on a fellowship, instead of the really
salutary condition of--No work, no pay? Why should not some special
literary or scientific work be assigned to each fellow, whether resident
in Oxford or sent abroad on scientific missions? Why, instead of having
fifty young men scattered about in England, should we not have ten of
the best workers in every branch of human knowledge resident at Oxford,
whether as teachers, or as guides, or as examples? The very presence of
such men would have a stimulating and elevating effect: it would show to
the young men higher objects of human ambition than the baton of a
field-marshal, the mitre of a bishop, the ermine of a judge, or the
money bags of a merchant; it would create for the future a supply of new
workers as soon as there was for them, if not an avenue to wealth and
power, at least a fair opening for hard work and proper pay. All this
might be done to-morrow, without any injury to anybody, and with every
chance of producing results of the greatest value to the universities,
to the country, and to the world at large. Let the university continue
to do the excellent work which it does at present as a teacher, but let
it not forget the equally important duty of a university, that of a
worker. Our century has inherited the intellectual wealth of former
centuries, and with it the duty, not only to preserve it or to dole it
out in schools and universities, but to increase it far beyond the
limits which it has reached at present. Where there is no advance, there
is retrogression: rest is impossible for the human mind.
Much of the work, therefore, which in other universities falls to the
lot of the professors, ought, in Oxford, to be performed by a staff of
student-fellows, whose labors should be properly organized as they are
in the Institute of France or in the Academy of Berlin. With or without
teaching, they could perform the work which no university can safely
neglect, the work of constantly testing the soundness of our
intellectual food, and of steadily expanding the realms of knowledge. We
want pioneers, explorers, conquerors, and we could have them in
abundance if we cared to have them. What other universities do by
founding new chairs for new sciences, the colleges of Oxford could do
to-morrow by applying the funds which are not required for teaching
purposes, and which are now spent on sinecure fellowships, for making
either temporary or permanent provision for the endowment of original
research.
It is true that new chairs have, from time to time, been founded in
Oxford also; but if we inquire into the circumstances under which
provision was made for the teaching of new subjects, we shall find that
it generally took place, not so much for the encouragement of any new
branch of scientific research, however interesting to the philosopher
and the historian, as in order to satisfy some practical wants that
could no longer be ignored, whether in church or state, or in the
university itself.
Confining ourselves to the chairs of languages, or, as they used to be
called, “the readerships of tongues,” we find that as early as 1311,
while the Crusades were still fresh in the memory of the people of
Europe, an appeal was made by Pope Clement V. at the Council of Vienne,
calling upon the principal universities in Christendom to appoint
lecturers for the study of Hebrew, Arabic, and Chaldaic. It was
considered at the time a great honor for Oxford to be mentioned by name,
together with Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca, as one of the four great
seats of learning in which the Pope and the Council of Vienne desired
that provision should be made for the teaching of these languages. It is
quite clear, however, from the wording of the resolution of the
Council,[3] that the chief object in the foundation of these readerships
was to supply men capable of defending the interests of the church, of
taking an active part in the controversies with Jews and Mohammedans,
who were then considered dangerous, and of propagating the faith among
unbelievers.
Nor does it seem that this papal exhortation produced much effect, for
we find that Henry VIII. in 1540 had to make new provision in order to
secure efficient teachers of Hebrew and Greek in the University of
Oxford. At that time these two languages, but more particularly Greek,
had assumed not only a theological, but a political importance, and it
was but natural that the king should do all in his power to foster and
spread a knowledge of a language which had been one of the most powerful
weapons in the hands of the reformers. At Oxford itself this new chair
was by no means popular: on the contrary those who studied Greek were
for a long time looked upon with great suspicion and dislike.[4]
Henry VIII. did nothing for the support of Arabic; but a century later
(1636) we find Archbishop Laud, whose attention had been attracted by
Eastern questions, full of anxiety to resuscitate the study of Arabic at
Oxford, partly by collecting Arabic MSS. in the East and depositing them
in the Bodleian Library, partly by founding a new chair of Arabic,
inaugurated by Pococke, and rendered illustrious by such names as
Greaves, Thomas Hyde, John Wallis, and Thomas Hunt.
The foundation of a chair of Anglo-Saxon, too, was due, not so much to a
patriotic interest excited by the ancient national literature of the
Saxons, still less to the importance of that ancient language for
philological studies, but it received its first impulse from the divines
of the sixteenth century, who wished to strengthen the position of the
English Church in its controversy with the Church of Rome. Under the
auspices of Archbishop Parker, Anglo-Saxon MSS. were first collected,
and the Anglo-Saxon translations of the Bible, as well as Anglo-Saxon
homilies, and treatises on theological and ecclesiastical subjects were
studied by Fox, the martyrologist, and others,[5] to be quoted as
witnesses to the purity and simplicity of the primitive church founded
in this realm, free in its origin from the later faults and fancies of
the Church of Rome. Without this practical object, Anglo-Saxon would
hardly have excited so much interest in the sixteenth century, and
Oxford would probably have remained much longer without its professorial
chair of the ancient national language of England, which was founded by
Rawlinson, but was not inaugurated before the end of the last century
(1795).
Of the two remaining chairs of languages, of Sanskrit and of Latin, the
former owes its origin, not to an admiration of the classical literature
of India, nor to a recognition of the importance of Sanskrit for the
purposes of Comparative Philology, but to an express desire on the part
of its founder to provide efficient missionaries for India; while the
creation of a chair of Latin, though long delayed, was at last rendered
imperative by the urgent wants of the university.
Nor does the chair of Comparative Philology, just founded by the
university, form altogether an exception to this general rule. It is
curious to remark that while Comparative Philology has for more than
half a century excited the deepest interest, not only among continental,
but likewise among English scholars, and while chairs of this new
science have been founded long ago in almost every university of France,
Germany, and Italy, the foundation of a new chair of Comparative
Philology at Oxford should coincide very closely with a decided change
that has taken place in the treatment of that science, and which has
given to its results a more practical importance for the study of Greek
and Latin, such as could hardly be claimed for it during the first fifty
years of its growth.
We may date the origin of Comparative Philology, as distinct from the
Science of Language, from the foundation of the Asiatic Society of
Calcutta, in 1784. From that time dates the study of Sanskrit, and it
was the study of Sanskrit which formed the foundation of Comparative
Philology.
It is perfectly true that Sanskrit had been studied before by Italian,
German, and French missionaries; it is likewise perfectly true that
several of these missionaries were fully aware of the close relationship
between Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin. A man must be blind who, after
looking at a Sanskrit grammar, does not see at once the striking
coincidences between the declensions and conjugations of the classical
language of India and those of Greece and Italy.[6]
Filippo Sassetti, who spent some time at Goa, between 1581 and 1588, had
only acquired a very slight knowledge of Sanskrit before he wrote home
to his friends “that it has many words in common with Italian,
particularly in the numerals, in the names for God, serpent, and many
others.” This was in the sixteenth century.
Some of the Jesuit missionaries, however, went far beyond this. A few
among them had acquired a real and comprehensive knowledge of the
ancient language and literature of India, and we see them anticipate in
their letters several of the most brilliant discoveries of Sir W. Jones
and Professor Bopp. The père Cœurdoux,[7] a French Jesuit, writes in
1767 from Pondichery to the French Academy, asking that learned society
for a solution of the question, “_How is it that Sanskrit has so many
words in common with Greek and Latin?_” He presents not only long lists
of words, but he calls attention to the still more curious fact, that
the grammatical forms in Sanskrit show the most startling similarity
with Greek and Latin. After him almost everybody who had looked at
Sanskrit, and who knew Greek and Latin, made the same remark and asked
the same question.
But the fire only smouldered on; it would not burn up, it would not
light, it would not warm. At last, owing to the exertions of the
founders of the Asiatic Society at Calcutta, the necessary materials for
a real study of Sanskrit became accessible to the students of Europe.
The voice of Frederick Schlegel roused the attention of the world at
large to the startling problem that had been thrown into the arena of
the intellectual chivalry of the world, and at last the glove was taken
up, and men like Bopp, and Burnouf, and Pott, and Grimm, did not rest
till some answer could be returned, and some account rendered of
Sanskrit, that strange intruder, and great disturber of the peace of
classical scholarship.
The work which then began, was incessant. It was not enough that some
words in Greek and Latin should be traced in Sanskrit. A kind of silent
conviction began to spread that there must be in Sanskrit a remedy for
all evils; people could not rest till every word in Greek and Latin had,
in some disguise or other, been discovered in Sanskrit. Nor were Greek,
Latin, and Sanskrit enough to satisfy the thirst of the new discoverers.
The Teutonic languages were soon annexed, the Celtic languages yielded
to some gentle pressure, the Slavonic languages clamored for
incorporation, the sacred idiom of ancient Persia, the Zend, demanded
its place by the side of Sanskrit, the Armenian followed in its wake;
and when even the Ossetic from the valleys of Mount Caucasus, and the
Albanian from the ancient hills of Epirus, had proved their birthright,
the whole family, the Aryan family of language, seemed complete, and an
historical fact, the original unity of all these languages, was
established on a basis which even the most skeptical could not touch or
shake. Scholars rushed in as diggers rush into a new gold field, picking
up whatever is within reach, and trying to carry off more than they
could carry, so that they might be foremost in the race, and claim as
their own all that they had been the first to look at or to touch. There
was a rush, and now and then an ugly rush, and when the armfuls of
nuggets that were thrown down before the world in articles, pamphlets,
essays, and ponderous volumes, came to be more carefully examined, it
was but natural that not everything that glittered should turn out to be
gold. Even in the works of more critical scholars, such as Bopp,
Burnouf, Pott, and Benfey, at least in those which were published in the
first enthusiasm of discovery, many things may now be pointed out, which
no assayer would venture to pass. It was the great merit of Bopp that he
called the attention away from this tempting field to the more laborious
work of grammatical analysis, though even in his Comparative Grammar, in
that comprehensive survey of the grammatical outlines of the Aryan
languages, the spirit of conquest and centralization still predominates.
All languages are, if possible, to submit to the same laws; what is
common to all of them is welcome, what is peculiar to each is treated as
anomalous, or explained as the result of later corruption.
This period in the history of Comparative Philology has sometimes been
characterized as _syncretistic_, and to a certain extent that name and
the censure implied in it are justified. But to a very small extent
only. It was in the nature of things that a comparative study of
languages should at first be directed to what is common to all; nay,
without having first become thoroughly acquainted with the general
features of the whole family, it would have been impossible to discover
and fully to appreciate what is peculiar to each of the members.
Nor was it long before a reaction set in. One scholar from the very
first, and almost contemporaneously with Bopp’s first essays on
Comparative Grammar, devoted himself to the study of one branch of
languages only, availing himself, as far as he was able, of the new
light which a knowledge of Sanskrit had thrown on the secret history of
the whole Aryan family of speech, but concentrating his energies on the
Teutonic; I mean, of course, Jacob Grimm, the author of the great
historical grammar of the German language; a work which will live and
last long after other works of that early period shall have been
forgotten, or replaced, at least, by better books.
After a time Grimm’s example was followed by others. Zeuss, in his
“Grammatica Celtica,” established the study of the Celtic languages on
the broad foundations of Comparative Grammar. Miklosich and Schleicher
achieved similar results by adopting the same method for the study of
the Slavonic dialects. Curtius, by devoting himself to an elucidation of
Greek, opened the eyes of classical scholars to the immense advantages
of this new treatment of grammar and etymology; while Corssen, in his
more recent works on Latin, has struck a mine which may well tempt the
curiosity of every student of the ancient dialects of Italy. At the
present moment the reaction is complete; and there is certainly some
danger, lest what was called a _syncretistic_ spirit should now be
replaced by an _isolating_ spirit in the science of language.
It cannot be denied, however, that this isolating, or rather
discriminating, tendency has produced already the most valuable results,
and I believe that it is chiefly due to the works of Curtius and
Corssen, if Greek and Latin scholars have been roused at last from their
apathy and been made aware of the absolute necessity of Comparative
Philology, as a subject to be taught, not only in every university but
in every school. I believe it is due to their works that a conviction
has gradually been gaining ground among the best scholars at Oxford,
also, that Comparative Philology could no longer be ignored as an
important ingredient in the teaching of Greek and Latin; and while a
comparative analysis of Sanskrit, Zend, Armenian, Greek, Latin, Gothic,
High-German, Lithuanian, Slavonic, and Celtic, such as we find it in
Bopp’s “Comparative Grammar,” would hardly be considered as a subject of
practical utility, even in a school of philology, it was recognized at
last that, not only for sound principles of etymology, not only for a
rational treatment of Greek and Latin grammar, not only for a right
understanding of classical mythology, but even for a critical
restoration of the very texts of Homer and Plautus, a knowledge of
Comparative Philology, as applied to Greek and Latin, had become
indispensable.
My chief object, therefore, as Professor of Comparative Philology at
Oxford, will be to treat the classical languages under that new aspect
which they have assumed, as viewed by the microscope of Curtius and
Corssen, rather than by the telescope of Bopp, Pott, and Benfey. I shall
try not only to give results, but to explain what is far more important,
the method by which these results were obtained, so far as this is
possible without, for the present at least, presupposing among my
hearers a knowledge of Sanskrit. Sanskrit certainly forms the only sound
foundation of Comparative Philology, and it will always remain the only
safe guide through all its intricacies. A comparative philologist
without a knowledge of Sanskrit is like an astronomer without a
knowledge of mathematics. He may admire, he may observe, he may
discover, but he will never feel satisfied, he will never feel certain,
he will never feel quite at home.
I hope, therefore, that, besides those who attend my public lectures,
there will be at least a few to form a private class for the study of
the elements of Sanskrit. Sanskrit, no doubt, is a very difficult
language, and it requires the study of a whole life to master its
enormous literature. Its grammar, too, has been elaborated with such
incredible minuteness by native grammarians, that I am not surprised if
many scholars who begin the study of Sanskrit turn back from it in
dismay. But it is quite possible to learn the rules of Sanskrit
declension and conjugation, and to gain an insight into the grammatical
organization of that language, without burdening one’s memory with all
the phonetic rules which generally form the first chapter of every
Sanskrit grammar, or without devoting years of study to the unraveling
of the intricacies of the greatest of Indian, if not of all
grammarians,--Pâṇini. There are but few among our very best comparative
philologists who are able to understand Pâṇini. Professor Benfey, whose
powers of work are truly astounding, stands almost alone in his minute
knowledge of that greatest of all grammarians. Neither Bopp, nor Pott,
nor Curtius, nor Corssen, ever attempted to master Pâṇini’s wonderful
system. But a study of Sanskrit, as taught by European grammarians,
cannot be recommended too strongly to all students of language. A good
sailor may, for a time, steer without a compass, but even he feels safer
when he knows that he may consult it, if necessary; and whenever he
comes near the rocks,--and there are many in the Aryan sea,--he will
hardly escape shipwreck without this magnetic needle.[8]
It will be asked, no doubt, by Greek and Latin scholars who have never
as yet devoted themselves seriously to a study of Comparative Philology,
what is to be gained after all the trouble of learning Sanskrit, and
after mastering the works of Bopp, and Benfey, and Curtius? Would a man
be a better Greek and Latin scholar for knowing Sanskrit? Would he write
better Latin and Greek verse? Would he be better able to read and
compare Greek and Latin MSS., and to prepare a critical edition of
classical authors? To all these questions I reply both _No_ and _Yes_.
If there is one branch of classical philology where the advantages
derived from Comparative Philology have been most readily admitted, it
is etymology. More than fifty years ago, Otfried Müller told classical
scholars that that province at least must be surrendered. And yet it is
strange to see how long it takes before old erroneous derivations are
exploded and finally expelled from our dictionaries; and how, in spite
of all warnings, similarity of sound and similarity of meaning are still
considered the chief criteria of Greek and Latin etymologies. I do not
address this reproach to classical scholars only; it applies equally to
many comparative philologists who, for the sake of some striking
similarity of sound and meaning, will now and then break the phonetic
laws which they themselves have helped to establish.
If we go back to earlier days, we find that Sanskrit scholars who had
discovered that one of the names of the god of love in Bengali was
_Dipuc_, _i.e._ the inflamer, derived from it by inversion the name of
the god of love in Latin, _Cupid_. Sir William Jones identified _Janus_
with the Sanskrit +Gaṇeśa+, _i.e._, lord of hosts,[9] and even later
scholars allowed themselves to be tempted to see the Indian prototype of
_Ganymedes_ in the +Kaṇva-medhâtithi+ or +Kaṇva-mesha+ of the Veda.[10]
After the phonetic laws of each language had been more carefully
elaborated, it was but too frequently forgotten that words have a
history as well as a growth, and that the history of a word must be
explored first, before an attempt is made to unravel its growth. Thus it
was extremely tempting to derive _paradise_ from the Sanskrit
+paradeśa+. The compound +para-deśa+ was supposed to mean the highest or
a distant country, and all the rest seemed so evident as to require no
further elucidation. +Paradeśa+, however, does not mean the highest or a
distant country in Sanskrit, but is always used in the sense of a
foreign country, an enemy’s country. Further, as early as the Song of
Solomon (iv. 13), the word occurs in Hebrew as _pardés_, and how it
could have got there straight from Sanskrit requires, at all events,
some historical explanation. In Hebrew the word might have been borrowed
from Persian, but the Sanskrit word +paradeśa+, if it existed at all in
Persian, would have been _paradaesa_, the _s_ being a guttural, not a
dental sibilant. Such a compound, however, does not exist in Persian,
and therefore the Sanskrit word +paradeśa+ could not have reached Hebrew
_viâ_ Persia.
It is true, nevertheless, that the ancient Hebrew word _pardés_ is
borrowed from Persian, viz.: from the Zend _pairidaêza_, which means
_circumvallatio_, a piece of ground inclosed by high walls, afterwards a
park, a garden.[11] The root in Sanskrit is DIH or DHIH (for Sanskrit
_h_ is Zend _z_), and means originally to knead, to squeeze together, to
shape. From it we have the Sanskrit +dehî+, a wall, while in Greek the
same root, according to the strictest phonetic rules, yielded τοῖχος,
wall. In Latin our root is regularly changed into _fig_, and gives us
_figulus_, a potter, _figura_, form or shape, and _fingere_. In Gothic
it could only appear as _deig-an_, to knead, to form anything out of
soft substances; hence _daig-s_, the English _dough_, German _Deich_.
But the Greek παράδεισος did not come from Hebrew, because here again
there is no historical bridge between the two languages. In Greek we
trace the word to Xenophon, who brought it back from his repeated
journeys in Persia, and who uses it in the sense of pleasure-ground, or
deer park.[12]
Lastly, we find the same word used in the LXX., as the name given to the
garden of Eden, the word having been borrowed either a third time from
Persia, or taken from the Greek, and indirectly from the works of
Xenophon.
This is the real history of the word. It is an Aryan word, but it does
not exist in Sanskrit. It was first formed in Zend, transferred from
thence as a foreign word into Hebrew and again into Greek. Its modern
Persian form is _firdaus_.
All this is matter of history rather than philology. Yet we read in one
of the best classical dictionaries: “The root of παράδεισος appears to
be Semitic, Arab. _firdaus_, Hebr. _pardês_: borrowed, also, in Sanskrit
+paradêśa+.”[13] Nearly every word is wrong.
From the same root DIH springs the Sanskrit word +deha+, body; body,
like figure, being conceived as that which is formed or shaped. Bopp
identified this +deha+ with Gothic _leik_, body, particularly dead body,
the modern German _Leiche_ and _Leichnam_, the English _lich_ in
_lich-gate_. In this case the master of Comparative Philology
disregarded the phonetic laws which he had himself helped to establish.
The transition of _d_ into _l_ is no doubt common enough as between
Sanskrit, Latin, and Greek, but it has never been established as yet on
good evidence as taking place between Sanskrit and Gothic. Besides, the
Sanskrit _h_ ought in Gothic to appear as _g_, as we have it in
_deig-s_, dough, and not by a tenuis.
Another Sanskrit word for body is +kalevara+, and this proved again a
stumbling-block to Bopp, who compares it with the Latin _cadaver_. Here
one might plead that _l_ and _d_ are frequently interchanged in Sanskrit
and Latin words, but, as far as our evidence goes at present, we have no
doubt many cases where an original Sanskrit _d_ is represented in Latin
by _l_, but no really trustworthy instance in which an original Sanskrit
_l_ appears in Latin as _d_. Besides, the Sanskrit diphthong _e_ cannot,
as a rule, in Latin be represented by long _â_.
If such things could happen to Bopp, we must not be too severe on
similar breaches of the peace committed by classical scholars. What
classical scholars seem to find most difficult to learn is that there
are various degrees of certainty in etymologies even in those proposed
by our best comparative scholars, and that not everything that is
mentioned by Bopp, or Pott, or Benfey as possible, as plausible, as
probable, and even as more than probable, ought, therefore, to be set
down, for instance, in a grammar or dictionary, as simply a matter of
fact. With certain qualifications, an etymology may have a scientific
value; without those qualifications, it may become not only unscientific
but mischievous. Again, nothing seems a more difficult lesson for an
etymologist to learn than to say, I do not know. Yet to my mind, nothing
shows, for instance, the truly scholarlike mind of Professor Curtius
better than the very fact for which he has been so often blamed, viz.:
his passing over in silence the words about which he has nothing certain
to say.
Let us take an instance. If we open our best Greek dictionaries, we find
that the Greek αὐγή, light, splendor, is compared with the German word
for eye, _Auge_. No doubt every letter in the two words is the same, and
the meaning of the Greek word could easily be supposed to have been
specialized or localized in German. Sophocles (“Aj.” 70) speaks of
ὀμμάτων αὐγαί, the lights of the eyes, and Euripides (“Andr.” 1180) uses
αὐγαί by itself for eyes, like the Latin _lumina_. The verb αὐγαζω, too,
is used in Greek in the sense of seeing or viewing. Why, then, it was
asked, should αὐγή not be referred to the same source as the German
_Auge_, and why should not both be traced back to the same root that
yielded the Latin _oc-ulus_? As long as we trust to our ears, or to what
is complacently called common sense, it would seem mere fastidiousness
to reject so evident an etymology. But as soon as we know the real
chemistry of vowels and consonants, we shrink instinctly from such
combinations. If a German word has the same sound as a Greek word, the
two words cannot be the same, unless we ignore that independent process
of phonetic growth which made Greek Greek, and German German. Whenever
we find in Greek a media, a _g_, we expect in Gothic the corresponding
tenuis. Thus the root _gan_, which we have in Greek γιγνώσκω, is in
Gothic _kann_. The Greek γόνυ, Lat. _genu_, is in Gothic _kniu_. If,
therefore, αὐγή existed in Gothic it would be _auko_, and not _augo_.
Secondly, the diphthong _au_ in _augo_ would be different from the Greek
diphthong. Grimm supposed that the Gothic _augo_ came from the same
etymon which yields the Latin _oc-ulus_, the Sanskrit +ak-sh-i+, eye,
the Greek ὄσσε for ὄκι-ε, and likewise the Greek stem ὀπ in ὄπ-ωπ-α,
ὄμμα, and ὀφ-θ-αλμός. It is true that the short radical vowel _a_ in
Sanskrit, _o_ in Greek, _u_ in Latin, sinks down to _u_ in Gothic, and
it is equally true, as Grimm has shown, that, according to a phonetic
law peculiar to Gothic, _u_ before _h_ and _r_ is changed to _aú_.
Grimm, therefore, takes the Gothic _aúgô_ for *_aúhô_, and this for
*_uhô_, which, as he shows, would be a proper representative in Gothic
of the Sanskrit +ak-an+, or +aksh-an+.
But here Grimm seems wrong. If the _au_ of _augô_ were this peculiar
Gothic _aú_, which represents an original short _a_, changed to _u_, and
then raised to a diphthong by the insertion of a short _a_, then that
diphthong would be restricted to Gothic; and the other Teutonic dialects
would have their own representatives for an original short _a_. But in
Anglo-Saxon we find _eáge_, in Old High German _augâ_, both pointing to
a labial diphthong, _i.e._ to a radical _u_ raised to _au_.[14]
Professor Ebel,[15] in order to avoid this difficulty, proposed a
different explanation. He supposed that the _k_ of the root _ak_ was
softened to _kv_, and that _augô_ represents an original _agvâ_ or
_ahvâ_, the _v_ of _hvâ_ being inserted before the _h_ and changed to
_u_. As an analogous case he quoted the Sanskrit enclitic particle _ca_,
Latin _que_, Gothic *_hva_, which *_hva_ appears always under the form
of _uh_. Leo Meyer takes the same view, and quotes, as an analogon,
_haubida_ as possibly identical with _caput_, originally *_kapvat_.
These cases, however, are not quite analogous. The enclitic particle
+ca+, in Gothic *_hva_, had to lose its final vowel. It thus became
unpronounceable, and the short vowel _u_ was added simply to facilitate
its pronunciation.[16] There was no such difficulty in pronouncing *_ah_
or *_uh_ in Gothic, still less the derivative form *_ahvô_, if such a
form had ever existed.
Another explanation was therefore attempted by the late Dr. Lottner.[17]
He supposed that the root _ak_ existed also with a nasal as _ank_, and
that _ankô_ could be changed to _aukô_, and _aukô_ to _augô_. In reply
to this we must remark that in the Teutonic dialects the root _ak_ never
appears as _ank_, and that the transition of _an_ into _au_, though
possible under certain conditions, is not a phonetic process of frequent
occurrence.
Besides, in all these derivations there is a difficulty, though not a
serious one, viz.: that an original tenuis, the _k_, is supposed
irregularly to have been changed into _g_, instead of what it ought to
be, an _h_. Although this is not altogether anomalous,[18] yet it has to
be taken into account. Professor Curtius, therefore, though he admits a
possible connection between Gothic _augô_ and the root _ak_, speaks
cautiously on the subject. On page 99 he refers to _augô_ as more
distantly connected with that root, and on p. 457 he simply refers to
the attempts of Ebel, Grassmann, and Lottner to explain the diphthong
_au_, without himself expressing any decided opinion. Nor does he commit
himself to any opinion as to the origin of αὐγή, though, of course, he
never thinks of connecting the two words, Gothic _augô_ and Greek αὐγή,
as coming from the same root.
The etymology of the Greek αὐγή, in the sense of light or splendor, is
not known unless we connect it with the Sanskrit +ojas+, which, however,
means vigor rather than splendor. The etymology of _oculus_, on the
contrary, is clear; it comes from a root _ak_, to be sharp, to point, to
fix, and it is closely connected with the Sanskrit word for eye,
+akshi+, and with the Greek ὄσσε. The etymology of the German word
_Auge_ is, as yet, unknown. All we may safely assert is, that, in spite
of the most favorable appearances, it cannot, for the present, be traced
back to the same source as either the Greek αὐγή or the Latin _oculus_.
If we simply transliterated the Gothic _augô_ into Sanskrit, we should
expect some word like +ohan+, nom. +ohâ+. The question is, may we take
the liberty, which many of the most eminent comparative philologists
allow themselves, of deriving Gothic, Greek, and Latin words from roots
which occur in Sanskrit, only, but which have left no trace of their
former presence in any other language? If so, then there would be little
difficulty in finding an etymology for the Gothic _augô_. There is in
Sanskrit a root +ûh+, which means to watch, to spy, to look. It occurs
frequently in the Veda, and from it we have likewise a substantive,
+oha-s+, look or appearance. If, in Sanskrit itself this root had
yielded a name for eye, such as +ohan+, the instrument of looking,
I should not hesitate for a moment to identify this Sanskrit word +ohan+
with the Gothic _augô_. No objection could be raised on phonetic
grounds. Phonetically the two words would be one and the same. But as in
Sanskrit such a derivation has not been found, and as in Gothic the root
+ûh+ never occurs, such an etymology would not be satisfactory. The
number of words of unknown origin is very considerable as yet in
Sanskrit, in Greek, in Latin, and in every one of the Aryan languages;
and it is far better to acknowledge this fact, than to sanction the
smallest violation of any of those phonetic laws, which some have called
the straight jacket, but which are in reality, the leading strings of
all true etymology.
If we now turn to grammar, properly so called, and ask what Comparative
Philology has done for it, we must distinguish between two kinds of
grammatical knowledge. Grammar may be looked upon as a mere art, and, as
taught at present in most schools, it is nothing but an art. We learn to
play on a foreign language as we learn to play on a musical instrument,
and we may arrive at the highest perfection in performing on any
instrument, without having a notion of thorough bass or the laws of
harmony. For practical purposes this purely empirical knowledge is all
that is required. But though it would be a mistake to attempt in our
elementary schools to replace an empirical by a scientific knowledge of
grammar, that empirical knowledge of grammar ought in time to be raised
to a real, rational, and satisfying knowledge, a knowledge not only of
facts, but of reasons; a knowledge that teaches us not only what grammar
is, but how it came to be what it is. To know grammar is very well, but
to speak all one’s life of gerunds and supines and infinitives, without
having an idea what these formations really are, is a kind of knowledge
not quite worthy of a scholar.
We laugh at people who still believe in ghosts and witches, but a belief
in infinitives and supines is not only tolerated, but inculcated in our
best schools and universities. Now, what do we really mean if we speak
of an infinitive? It is a time-honored name, no doubt, handed down to us
from the Middle Ages; it has its distant roots in Rome, Alexandria, and
Athens;--but has it any real kernel? Has it any more body or substance
than such names as Satyrs and Lamias?
Let us look at the history of the name before we look at the mischief
which it, like many other names, has caused by making people believe
that whenever there is a name there must be something behind it. The
name was invented by Greek philosophers who, in their first attempts at
classifying and giving names to the various forms of language, did not
know whether to class such forms as γράφειν, γράψειν, γράψαι,
γεγραφέναι, γράφεσθαι, γράψεσθαι, γέγραφθαι, γράψασθαι, γραφθῆναι,
γραφθήσεσθαι, as nouns or as verbs. They had established for their own
satisfaction the broad distinction between nouns (ὀνόματα) and verbs
(ῥήματα); they had assigned to each a definition, but, after having done
so, they found that forms like γράφειν would not fit their definition
either of noun or verb.[19] What could they do? Some (the Stoics)
represented the forms in ειν, etc., as a subdivision of the verb, and
introduced for them the name ῥῆμα ἀπαρέμφατον or γενικώτατον. Others
recognized them as a separate part of speech, raising their number from
eight to nine or ten. Others, again, classed them under the adverb
(ἐπιῤῥημα), as one of the eight recognized parts of speech. The Stoics,
taking their stand on Aristotle’s definition of ῥῆμα, could not but
regard the infinitive as ῥῆμα, because it implied time, past, present,
or future, which was with them recognized as the specific characteristic
of the verb (_Zeitwort_). But they went further, and called forms such
as γράφειν, etc., ῥῆμα, in the highest or most general sense,
distinguishing other verbal forms, such as γράφει, etc., by the names of
κατηγόρημα or σύμβαμα. Afterwards, in the progress of grammatical
science, the definition of ῥῆμα became more explicit and complete. It
was pointed out that a verb, besides its predicative meaning (ἔμφασις),
is able to[20] express several additional meanings (παρακολουθήματα or
παρεμφάσεις), viz.: not only time, as already pointed out by Aristotle,
but also person and number. The two latter meanings, however, being
absent in γράφειν, this was now called ῥῆμα ἀπαρέμφατον (without
by-meanings), or γενικώτατον, and, for practical purposes, this ῥῆμα
ἀπαρέμφατον soon became the prototype of conjugation.
So far there was only confusion, arising from a want of precision in
classifying the different forms of the verb. But when the Greek
terminology was transplanted to Rome, real mischief began. Instead of
ῥῆμα γενικώτατον, we now find the erroneous, or, at all events,
inaccurate, translation, _modus infinitus_, and _infinitivus_ by itself.
What was originally meant as an adjective belonging to ῥῆμα, became a
substantive, the infinitive, and though the question arose again and
again what this infinitive really was, whether a noun, or a verb, or an
adverb; whether a mood or not a mood; the real existence of such a thing
as an infinitive could no longer be doubted. One can hardly trust one’s
eyes in reading the extraordinary discussions on the nature of the
infinitive in grammatical works of successive centuries up to the
nineteenth. Suffice it to say that Gottfried Hermann, the great reformer
of classical grammars, treated the infinitive again as an adverb, and,
therefore, as a part of speech belonging to the particles. We ourselves
were brought up to believe in infinitives; and to doubt the existence of
this grammatical entity would have been considered in our younger days a
most dangerous heresy.
And yet, how much confused thought, and how much controversy might have
been avoided, if this grammatical term of infinitive had never been
invented.[21] The fact is that what we call infinitives are nothing more
or less than cases of verbal nouns, and not till they are treated as
what they are shall we ever gain an insight into the nature and the
historical development of these grammatical monsters.
Take the old Homeric infinitive in μεναι, and you find its explanation
in the Sanskrit termination +mane+, _i.e._ +manai+, the native of the
suffix +man+ (not, as others suppose, the locative of a suffix _mana_),
by which a large number of nouns are formed in Sanskrit. From _gnâ_, to
know, we have +(g)nâman+, Latin _(g)nomén_, that by which a thing is
known, its name; from +gan+, to be born, +gán-man+, birth. In Greek this
suffix man is chiefly used for forming masculine nouns, such as γνώ-μων,
γνώ-μονος, literally a knower; τλή-μων, a sufferer; or as μην in
ποι-μήν, a shepherd, literally a feeder. In Latin, on the contrary,
_men_ occurs frequently at the end of abstract nouns in the neuter
gender, such as _teg-men_, the covering, or _tegu-men_ or _tegi-men_;
_solamen_, consolation; _voca-men_, an appellation; _certa-men_, a
contest; and many more, particularly in ancient Latin; while in
classical Latin the fuller suffix _mentum_ predominates. If then we read
in Homer, κύνας ἔτευξε δῶμα φυλασσέμεναι, we may call φυλασσέμεναι an
infinitive, if we like, and translate “he made dogs to protect the
house;” but the form which we have before us, is simply a dative of an
old abstract noun in μεν, and the original meaning was “for the
protection of the house,” or “for protecting the house;” as if we said
in Latin, _tutamini domum_.
The infinitives in μεν may be corruptions of those in μεναι, unless we
take μεν as an archaic accusative, which, though without analogy in
Greek, would correspond to Latin accusatives like _tegmen_, and express
the general object of certain acts or movements. In Sanskrit, at least
in the Veda, infinitives in +mane+ occur, such as +dấ-mane+, to give,
Greek δό-μεναι; +vid-máne+, to know, Greek ϝίδ-μεναι.[22]
The question next arises, if this is a satisfactory explanation of the
infinitives in μεναι, how are we to explain the infinitives in εναι?
We find in Homer, not only ἴμεναι, to go, but also ἰέναι; not only
ἔμμεναι, to be, but also εἶναι, _i.e._, ἔσ-εναι. Bopp simply says
that the _m_ is lost, but he brings no evidence that in Greek an _m_ can
thus be lost without any provocation. The real explanation, here, as
elsewhere, is supplied by the _Beieinander_ (the collateral growth), not
by the _Nacheinander_ (the successive growth) of language. Besides the
suffix _man_, the Aryan languages possessed two other suffixes, _van_
and _an_, which were added to verbal bases just like _man_. By the side
of +dâman+, the act of giving, we find in the Veda +dâ-van+, the act of
giving, and a dative +dâ-váne+, with the accent on the suffix, meaning
for the giving, _i.e._ to give. Now in Greek this _v_ would necessarily
disappear, though its former presence might be indicated by the _digamma
æolicum_. Thus, instead of Sanskrit +dâváne+, we should have in Greek
δοϝέναι, δοέναι, and contracted δοῦναι, the regular form of the
infinitive of the aorist, a form in which the diphthong ου would remain
inexplicable, except for the former presence of the lost syllable ϝε. In
the same manner εἶναι stands for ἐσ-ϝέναι, ἐσ-έναι, ἐέναι, εἶναι. Hence
ἰέναι, stands for ἰϝέναι, and even the accent remains on the suffix
_van_, just as it did in Sanskrit.
As the infinitives in μεναι were traced back to the suffix _man_, and
those in ϝεναι to a suffix _van_, the regular infinitives in εναι after
consonants, and ναι after vowels, must be referred to the suffix _an_,
dat. _ane_. Here, too, we find analogous forms in the Veda. From
+dhûrv+, to hurt, we have +dhû́rv-aṇe+, for the purpose of hurting, in
order to hurt; in Rv. IX. 61, 30, we find +vibhv-áne+, Rv. VI. 61, 13,
in order to conquer, and by the same suffix the Greeks formed their
infinitives of the perfect, λελοιπ-έναι, and the infinitives of the
verbs in μι, τιθέ-ναι, διδο-ναι, ἱστα-ναι, etc.
In order to explain, after these antecedents, the origin of the
infinitive in ειν, as τύπτειν, we must admit either the shortening of
ναι to νι, which is difficult; or the existence of a locative in ι by
the side of a dative in αι. That the locative can take the place of the
dative we see clearly in the Sanskrit forms of the aorist, +parsháṇi+,
to cross, +nesháṇi+, to lead, which, as far as their form, not their
origin, is concerned, would well match Greek forms like λύσειν in the
future. In either case, τύπτε-νι in Greek would have become τύπτειν,
just as τύπτε-σι became τύπτεις. In the Doric dialect this throwing back
of the final ι is omitted in the second person singular, where the
Dorians may say ἀμέλγες for ἀμέλγεις; and in the same Doric dialect the
infinitive, too, occurs in εν instead of ειν; _e.g._, ἀείδεν instead of
ἀείδειν. (Buttman, “Greek Gr.,” § 103, 10, 11.)
In this manner the growth of grammatical forms can be made as clear as
the sequence of any historical events in the history of the world, nay,
I should say far clearer, far more intelligible; and I should think that
even the first learning of these grammatical forms might be somewhat
seasoned and rendered more really instructive by allowing the pupil,
from time to time, a glimpse into the past history of the Greek and
Latin languages. In English what we call the infinitive is clearly a
dative; _to speak_ shows by its very preposition what it was intended
for. How easy, then, to explain to a beginner that if he translates,
“able to speak,” by ἱκανὸς εἰπεῖν, the Greek infinitive is really the
same as the English, and that εἰπεῖν stands for εἴπενι and this for
εἴπεναι, which, to a certain extent, answers the same purpose as the
Greek ἔπει, the dative of ἔπος, and therefore originally ἔπεσι.
And remark, these very datives and locatives of nouns formed by the
suffix ος in Greek, as in Sanskrit, _es_ in Latin, though they yield
no infinitives in Greek, yield the most common form of the infinitive in
Latin, and may be traced also in Sanskrit. As from _genus_ we form a
dative _generi_, and a locative _genere_, which stands for _genese_, so
from _gigno_ an abstract noun would be formed, _gignus_, and from it a
dative, _gigneri_, and a locative, _gignere_. I do not say that the
intermediate form _gignus_ existed in the spoken Latin, I only maintain
that such a form would be analogous to _gen-us_, _op-us_, _fœd-us_, and
that in Sanskrit the process is exactly the same. We form in Sanskrit a
substantive +càkshas+, sight, +càkshus+, eye; and we find the dative of
+càkshas+, _i.e._ +càkshase+, used as what we should call an infinitive,
in order to see. But we also find another so-called infinitive,
+jîvàse+, in order to live, although there is no noun, +jîvas+, life;
we find +áyase+, to go, although there is no noun +áyas+, going. This
Sanskrit +áyase+ explains the Latin _i-re_, as *+i-vane+ explained
the Greek ἰέναι. The intention of the old framers of language is
throughout the same. They differ only in the means which they use, one
might almost say, at random; and the differences between Sanskrit,
Greek, and Latin are often due to the simple fact that out of many
possible forms that might be used and had been used before the Aryan
languages became traditional, settled, and national, one family or clan
or nation fancied one, another another. While this one became fixed and
classical, all others became useless, remained perhaps here and there in
proverbial sayings or in sacred songs, but were given up at last
completely, as strange, obsolete, and unintelligible.
And even then, after a grammatical form has become obsolete and
unintelligible, it by no means loses its power of further development.
Though the Greeks did not themselves, we still imagine that we feel the
infinitive as the case of an abstract noun in many constructions. Thus
χαλεπὸν εὑρεῖν, difficult to find, was originally, difficult in the
finding, or difficult for the act of finding; δεινὸς λέγειν, meant
literally, powerful in speaking; ἄρχομαι λέγειν, I begin to speak,
_i.e._, I direct myself to the act of speaking; κέλεαί με μυθήσασθαι,
you bid me to speak, _i.e._, you order me towards the act of speaking;
φοβοῦμαι διελέγχειν σε, I am afraid of refuting you, _i.e._, I fear in
the act, or, I shrink when brought towards the act, of refuting you; σὸν
ἔργον λέγειν, your business is in or towards speaking, you have to
speak; πᾶσιν ἁδεῖν χαλεπόν, there is something difficult in pleasing
everybody, or, in our endeavor after pleasing everybody. In all these
cases the so-called infinitive can, with an effort, still be felt as a
noun in an oblique case. But in course of time expressions such as
χαλεπὸν ἁδεῖν, it is difficult to please, ἀγαθὸν λέγειν, it is good to
speak, left in the mind of the speaker the impression that ἁδεῖν and
λέγειν were subjects in the nominative, the pleasing is difficult, the
speaking is good; and by adding the article, these oblique cases of
verbal nouns actually became nominatives, τὸ ἁδειν, the act of pleasing,
τὸ λέγειν, the act of speaking, capable of being used in every case,
_e.g._, ἐπιθυμια τοῦ πίειν, _desiderium bibendi_. This regeneration,
this process of creating new words out of decaying and decayed materials
may seem at first sight incredible, yet it is as certain as the change
with which we began our discussion of the infinitive. I mean the change
of the conception of a ῥῆμα γενικώτατον, a _verbum generalissimum_, into
a _generalissimus_ or _infinitivus_. Nor is the process without analogy
in modern languages. The French _l’avenir_, the future (_Zukunft_), is
hardly the Latin _advenire_. That would mean the arriving, the coming,
but not what is to come. I believe _l’avenir_ was (_quod est_) _ad
venire_, what is to come, contracted to _l’avenir_. In Low-German _to
come_ assumes even the character of an adjective, and we can speak not
only of a year to come, but of a to-come year, _de tokum Jahr_.[23]
This process of grammatical vivisection may be painful in the eyes of
classical scholars, yet even they must see how great a difference there
is in the quality of knowledge imparted by our Greek and Latin grammars,
and by comparative grammar. I do not deny that at first children must
learn Greek and Latin mechanically, but it is not right that they should
remain satisfied with mere paradigms and technical terms, without
knowing the real nature and origin of so-called infinitives, gerunds,
and supines. Every child will learn the construction of the accusative
with the infinitive, but I well remember my utter amazement when I first
was taught to say _Miror te ad me nihil scribere_, “I am surprised that
you write nothing to me.” How easy would it have been to explain that
_scribere_ was originally a locative of a verbal noun, and that there
was nothing strange or irrational in saying, “I wonder at thee in the
act of not writing to me.” This first step once taken, everything else
followed by slow degrees, but even in phrases like _Spero te mihi
ignoscere_, we can still see the first steps which led from “I hope or I
desire thee, toward the act of forgiving me,” to “I trust thee to
forgive me.” It is the object of the comparative philologist to gather
up the scattered fragments, to arrange them and fit them, and thus to
show that language is something rational, human, intelligible, the very
embodiment of the mind of man in its growth from the lowest to the
highest stage, and with capabilities for further growth far beyond what
we can at present conceive or imagine.
As to writing Greek and Latin verse, I do not maintain that a knowledge
of Comparative Philology will help us much. It is simply an art that
must be acquired by practice, if in these our busy days it is still
worth acquiring. A good memory will no doubt enable us to say at a
moment’s notice whether certain syllables are long or short. But is it
not far more interesting to know why certain vowels are long and others
short, than to be able to string longs and shorts together in imitation
of Greek and Latin hexameters? Now in many cases the reason why certain
vowels are long or short, can be supplied by Comparative Philology
alone. We may learn from Latin grammar that the _i_ in _fîdus_, trusty,
and in _fîdo_, I trust, is long, and that it is short in _fides_, trust,
and _perfidus_, faithless; but as all these words are derived from the
same root, why should some have a long, others a short vowel?
A comparison of Sanskrit at once supplies an answer. Certain
derivatives, not only in Latin but in Sanskrit and Greek too, require
what is called +Guṇa+ of the radical vowel. In _fîdus_ and _fîdo_, the
_i_ is really a diphthong, and represents a more ancient _ei_ or _oi_,
the former appearing in Greek πείθω, the latter in Latin _foedus_,
a truce.
We learn from our Greek grammars that the second syllable in δείκνῡμι
is long, but in the plural, δείκνῠμεν, it is short. This cannot be by
accident, and we may observe the same change in δάμνημι and δάμναμεν,
and similar words. Nothing, however, but a study of Sanskrit would have
enabled us to discover the reason of this change, which is really the
accent in its most primitive working, such as we can watch it in the
Vedic Sanskrit, where it produces exactly the same change, only with far
greater regularity and perspicuity.
Why, again, do we say in Greek, οἶδα, I know, but ἴσ-μεν, we know? Why
τέτληκα, but τέτλαμεν? Why μέμονα, but μέμαμεν? There is no recollection
in the minds of the Greeks of the motive power that was once at work,
and left its traces in these grammatical convulsions; but in Sanskrit we
still see, as it were, a lower stratum of grammatical growth, and we can
there watch the regular working of laws which required these changes,
and which have left their impress not only on Greek, but on Sanskrit,
and even on German. The same necessity which made Homer say οἶδα and
ἴδμεν, and the Vedic poet +véda+ and +vidmás+, still holds good, and
makes us say in German, _Ich weiss_, I know, but _wir wissen_, we know.
All this becomes clear and intelligible by the light of Comparative
Grammar; anomalies vanish, exceptions prove the rule, and we perceive
more plainly every day how in language, as elsewhere, the conflict
between the freedom claimed by each individual and the resistance
offered by the community at large, establishes in the end a reign of law
most wonderful, yet perfectly rational and intelligible.
These are but a few small specimens to show you what Comparative
Philology can do for Greek and Latin; and how it has given a new life to
the study of languages by discovering, so to say, and laying bare, the
traces of that old life, that prehistoric growth, which made language
what we find it in the oldest literary monuments, and which still
supplies the vigor of the language of our own time. A knowledge of the
mere facts of language is interesting enough; nay, if you ask yourself
what grammars really are--those very Greek and Latin grammars which we
hated so much in our schoolboy days--you will find that they are
store-houses, richer than the richest museums of plants or minerals,
more carefully classified and labeled than the productions of any of the
great kingdoms of nature. Every form of declension and conjugation,
every genitive and every so-called infinitive and gerund, is the result
of a long succession of efforts, and of intelligent efforts. There is
nothing accidental, nothing irregular, nothing without a purpose and
meaning in any part of Greek or Latin grammar. No one who has once
discovered this hidden life of language, no one who has once found out
that what seemed to be merely anomalous and whimsical in language is
but, as it were, a petrification of thought, of deep, curious, poetical,
philosophical thought, will ever rest again till he has descended as far
as he can descend into the ancient shafts of human speech, exploring
level after level, and testing every successive foundation which
supports the surface of each spoken language.
One of the great charms of this new science is that there is still so
much to explore, so much to sift, so much to arrange. I shall not,
therefore, be satisfied with merely lecturing on Comparative Philology,
but I hope I shall be able to form a small philological society of more
advanced students, who will come and work with me, and bring the results
of their special studies as materials for the advancement of our
science. If there are scholars here who have devoted their attention to
the study of Homer, Comparative Philology will place in their hands a
light with which to explore the dark crypt on which the temple of the
Homeric language was erected. If there are scholars who know their
Plautus or Lucretius, Comparative Philology will give them a key to
grammatical forms in ancient Latin, which, even if supported by an
Ambrosian palimpsest, might still seem hazardous and problematical. As
there is no field and no garden that has not its geological antecedents,
there is no language and no dialect which does not receive light from a
study of Comparative Philology, and reflect light in return on more
general problems. As in geology again, so in Comparative Philology, no
progress is possible without a division of labor, and without the most
general coöperation. The most experienced geologist may learn something
from a miner or from a ploughboy; the most experienced comparative
philologist may learn something from a schoolboy or from a child.
I have thus explained to you what, if you will but assist me, I should
like to do as the first occupant of this new chair of Comparative
Philology. In my public lectures I must be satisfied with teaching. In
my private lectures, I hope I shall not only teach, but also learn, and
receive back as much as I have to give.
NOTES.
NOTE A.
ON THE FINAL DENTAL OF THE PRONOMINAL STEM _tad_.
One or two instances may here suffice to show how compassless even the
best comparative philologists find themselves if, without a knowledge of
Sanskrit, they venture into the deep waters of grammatical research.
What can be clearer at first sight than that the demonstrative pronoun
_that_ has the same base in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and German? Bopp
places together (§ 349) the following forms of the neuter:--
Sanskrit Zend Greek Latin Gothic
+tat+ _taḍ._ τό _is-tud_ _thata_
and he draws from them the following conclusions:--
In the Sanskrit +ta-t+ we have the same pronominal element repeated
twice, and this repeated pronominal element became afterwards the
general sign of the neuter after other pronominal stems, such as +ya-t+,
+ka-t+.
Such a conclusion seems extremely probable, particularly when we compare
the masculine form +sa-s+, the old nom. sing., instead of the ordinary
+sa+. But the first question that has to be answered is, whether this is
phonetically possible, and how.
If +tat+ in Sanskrit is +ta+ + +ta+, then we expect in Gothic _tha_ +
_tha_, instead of which we find _tha_ + _ta_. We expect in Latin
_istut_, not _istud_, _illut_, not _illud_, _it_, not _id_, for Latin
represents final _t_ in Sanskrit by _t_, not by _d_. The old Latin
ablative in _d_ is not a case in point, as we shall see afterwards.
Both Gothic _tha-ta_, therefore, and Latin _istud_, postulate a Sanskrit
+tad+, while Zend and Greek at all events do not conflict with an
original final media. Everything therefore depends on what was the
original form in Sanskrit; and here no Sanskrit scholar would hesitate
for one moment between +tat+ and +tad+. Whatever the origin of +tat+ may
have been, it is quite certain that Sanskrit knows only of +tad+, never
of +tat+. There are various ways of testing the original surd or sonant
nature of final consonants in Sanskrit. One of the safest seems to me to
see how those consonants behave before +taddhita+ or secondary suffixes,
which require no change in the final consonant of the base. Thus before
the suffix +îya+ (called +cha+ by Pâṇini) the final consonant is never
changed, yet we find +tad-îya+, like +mad-îya+, +tvad-îya+, +asmad-îya+,
+yushmad-îya+, etc. Again, before the possessive suffix +vat+ final
consonants of nominal bases suffer no change. This is distinctly stated
by Pâṇini, I. 4, 19. Hence we have +vidyut-vân+, from +vidyut+,
lightning, from the root +dyut+; we have +udaśvit-vân+, from
+uda-śvi-t+. In both cases the original final tenuis remains unchanged.
Hence, if we find +tad-vân+, +kad-vân+, our test shows us again that the
final consonant in +tad+ and +kad+ is a media, and that the _d_ of these
words is not a modification of _t_.
Taking our stand therefore on the undoubted facts of Sanskrit grammar,
we cannot recognize _t_ as the termination of the neuter of pronominal
stems, but only _d_;[24] nor can we accept Bopp’s explanation of +tad+
as a compound of +ta+ + t, unless the transition of an original _t_ into
a Sanskrit and Latin _d_ can be established by sufficient evidence. Even
then that transition would have to be referred to a time before Sanskrit
and Gothic became distinct languages, for the Gothic _tha-ta_ is the
counterpart of the Sanskrit +tad+, and not of +tat+.
Bopp endeavors to defend the transition of an original _t_ into Latin
_d_ by the termination of the old ablatives, such as _gnaivod_, etc. But
here again it is certain that the original termination was _d_, and not
_t_. It is so in Latin, it may be so in Zend, where, as Justi points
out, the _d_ of the ablative is probably a media.[25] In Sanskrit it is
certainly a media in such forms as +mad+, +tvad+, +asmad+, which Bopp
considers as old ablatives, and which in +madîya+, etc., show the
original media. In other cases it is impossible in Sanskrit to test the
nature of the final dental in the ablative, because _d_ is always
determined by its position in a sentence. But under no circumstances
could we appeal to Latin _gnaivod_ in order to prove a transition of an
original _t_ into _d_; while on the contrary all the evidence at present
is in favor of a media, as the final letter both of the ablative and of
the neuter bases of pronouns, such as +tad+ and +yad+.
These may seem _minutiæ_, but the whole of Comparative Grammar is made
up of _minutiæ_, which, nevertheless, if carefully joined together and
cemented, lead to conclusions of unexpected magnitude.
NOTE B.
DID FEMININE BASES IN _â_ TAKE _s_ IN THE NOMINATIVE SINGULAR?
I add one other instance to show how a more accurate knowledge of
Sanskrit would have guarded comparative philologists against rash
conclusions. With regard to the nominative singular of feminine bases
ending in derivative _â_, the question arose, whether words like _bona_
in Latin, ἀγαθά in Greek, +sivâ+ in Sanskrit, had originally an _s_
as the sign of the nom. sing., which was afterwards lost, or whether
they never took that termination. Bopp (§ 136), Schleicher (§ 246), and
others seem to believe in the loss of the _s_, chiefly, it would seem,
because the _s_ is added to feminine bases ending in _î_ and _û_.
Benfey[26] takes the opposite view, viz. that feminines in _â_ never
took the _s_ of the nom. sing. But he adds one exception, the Vedic
+gnâ-s+. This remark has caused much mischief. Without verifying
Benfey’s statements, Schleicher (l.c.) quotes the same exception, though
cautiously referring to the Sanskrit dictionary of Boehtlingk and Roth
as his authority. Later writers, for instance Merguet,[27] leave out all
restrictions, simply appealing to this Vedic form +gnâ-s+ in support of
the theory that feminine bases in _â_ too took originally _s_ as sign of
the nom. sing. and afterwards dropped it. Even so careful a scholar as
Büchler[28] speaks of the _s_ as lost.
There is, first of all, no reason whatever why the _s_ should have been
added[29]; secondly, there is none why it should have been lost. But,
whatever opinion we may hold in this respect, the appeal to the Vedic
+gnâ-s+ cannot certainly be sustained, and the word should at all events
be obelized till there is better evidence for it than we possess at
present.[30]
The passage which is always quoted from the Rv. IV. 9, 4, as showing
+gnâ-s+ to be a nom. sing. in _s_, is extremely difficult, and as it
stands at present, most likely corrupt:--
Utá gnấḥ agníḥ adhvaré utó gṛhá-patiḥ dáme, utá brahmấ ní sídati.
This could only be translated:--
“Agni sits down at the sacrifice as a woman, as lord in the house, and
as priest.”
This, however, is impossible, for Agni, the god of fire, is never
represented in the Veda as a woman. If we took +gnâḥ+ as a genitive, we
might translate, “Agni sits down in the sacrifice of the lady of the
house,” but this again would be utterly incongruous in Vedic poetry.
I believe the verse is corrupt, and I should propose to read:--
Utá agnấv agníḥ adhvaré.
“Agni sits down at the sacrifice in the fire, as lord in the house, and
as a priest.”
The ideas that Agni, the god of fire, sits down in the fire, or that
Agni is lighted by Agni, or that Agni is both the sacrificial fire and
the priest, are familiar to every reader of the Veda. Thus we read,
I. 12, 6, agnínâ agníḥ sám idhyate, “Agni is lighted by Agni;” X. 88, 1,
we find Agni invoked as ấ-hutam agnáu, etc.
But whether this emendation be right or wrong, it must be quite clear
how unsafe it would be to support the theory that feminine bases in _â_
ended originally in _s_ by this solitary passage from the Veda.
NOTE C.
GRAMMATICAL FORMS IN SANSKRIT CORRESPONDING TO SO-CALLED INFINITIVES IN
GREEK AND LATIN.
There is no trace of such a term as infinitive in Sanskrit, and yet
exactly the same forms, or, at all events, forms strictly analogous to
those which we call infinitives in Greek and Latin, exist in Sanskrit.
Here, however, they are treated in the simplest way.
Sanskrit grammarians when giving the rules according to which nouns and
adjectives are derived from verbal roots by means of primary suffixes
(Kṛt), mention among the rest the suffixes +tum+ (Pâṇ., III. 3, 10),
+se+, +ase+, +adhyai+, +tavai+, +tave+, +shyai+, e, +am+, +tos+, +as+
(IV. 4, 9-17), defining their meaning in general by that of +tum+ (III.
3, 10). This +tum+ is said to express immediate futurity in a verb, if
governed by another word conveying an intention. An example will make
this clearer. In order to say he goes to cook, where “he goes” expresses
an intention, and “to cook” is the object of that intention which is to
follow immediately, we place the suffix +tum+ at the end of the verb
+pak+, to cook, and say in Sanskrit, vrajati pak-tum. We might also say
pâcako vrajati, he goes as one who means to cook, or vrajati pâkâya, he
goes to the act of cooking, placing the abstract noun in the dative; and
all these constructions are mentioned together by Sanskrit grammarians.
The same takes place after verbs which express a wish (III. 3, 158);
_e.g._, icchati paktum, he wishes to cook, and after such words as
+kâla+, time, +samaya+, opportunity, +velâ+, right moment (III. 3, 167);
_e.g._, kâlaḥ paktum, it is time to cook, etc. Other verbs which govern
forms in +tum+ are (III. 4, 65) +śak+, to be able; +dhṛsh+, to dare;
+jñâ+, to know; +glai+, to be weary; +ghaṭ+, to endeavor; +ârabh+, to
begin; +labh+, to get; +prakram+, to begin; +utsah+, to endure; +arh+,
to deserve; and words like +asti+, there is; _e.g._, asti bhoktum, it is
(possible) to eat; not, it is (necessary) to eat. The forms in +tum+ are
also enjoined (III. 4, 66) after words like +alam+, expressing fitness,
_e.g._, paryâpto bhoktum, alam bhoktum, kuśalo bhoktum, fit or able to
eat.
Here we have everything that is given by Sanskrit grammarians in place
of what we should call the Chapter on the Infinitive in Greek and Latin.
The only thing that has to be added is the provision, understood in
Pâṇini’s grammar, that such suffixes as +tum+, etc., are indeclinable.
And why are they indeclinable? For the simple reason that they are
themselves case terminations. Whether Pâṇini was aware of this, we
cannot tell with certainty. From some of his remarks it would seem to be
so. When treating of the cases, Pâṇini (I. 4, 32) explains what we
should call the dative by +Sampradâna+. +Sampradâna+ means giving
(δοτική), but Pâṇini uses it here as a technical term, and assigns to
it the definite meaning of “he whom one looks to by any act” (not only
the act of giving, as the commentators imply). It is therefore what we
should call “the remote object.” Ex. Brâhmaṇâya dhanam dadâti, he gives
wealth to the Brâhman. This is afterwards extended by several rules
explaining that the +Sampradâna+ comes in after verbs expressive of
pleasure caused to somebody (I. 4, 33); after +ślâgh+, to applaud,
+hnu+, to dissemble, to conceal, +sthâ+,[31] to reveal, +śap+, to curse
(I. 4, 34); after +dhâray+, to owe (I. 4, 35); +spṛh+, to long for
(I. 4, 36); after verbs expressive of anger, ill-will, envy, detraction
(I. 4, 37); after +râdh+ and +îksh+, if they mean to consider concerning
a person (I. 4, 39); after +pratiśru+ and +âśru+, in the sense of
according (I. 4, 40); +anugṛ+ and +pratigṛ+, in the sense of acting in
accordance with (I. 4, 41); after +parikrî+, to buy, to hire (I. 4, 44).
Other cases of +Sampradâna+ are mentioned after such words as +namaḥ+,
salutation to, +svasti+, hail, +svâhâ+, salutation to the gods,
+svadhâ+, salutation to the manes, +alam+, sufficient for, +vashaṭ+,
offered to, a sacrificial invocation, etc. (II. 3, 16); and in such
expressions as na tvam triṇâya manye, I do not value thee a straw
(II. 3, 17); grâmâya gacchati, he goes to the village (II. 2, 12):
where, however, the accusative, too, is equally admissible. Some other
cases of Sampradâna are mentioned in the Vârttikas; _e.g._, I. 4, 44,
muktaye harim bhajati, for the sake of liberation he worships Hari;
vâtâya kapilâ vidyut, a dark red lightning indicates wind. Very
interesting, too, is the construction with the prohibitive +mâ+;
_e.g._ mâ câpalâya, lit. not for unsteadiness, _i.e._, do not act
unsteadily.[32]
In all these cases we easily recognize the identity of +Sampradâna+ with
the dative in Greek and Latin. If therefore we see that Pâṇini in some
of his rules states that +Sampradâna+ takes the place of +tum+, the so
called infinitive, we can hardly doubt that he had perceived the
similarity in the functions of what we call dative and infinitive. Thus
he says that instead of phalâny âhartum yâti, he goes to take the
fruits, we may use the dative and say phalebhyo yâti, he goes for the
fruits; instead of yashṭum yâti, he goes to sacrifice, yâgâya yâti, he
goes to the act of sacrificing (II. 3, 14-15).
But whether Pâṇini recognized this fact or not, certain it is that we
have only to look at the forms which in the Veda take the place of
+tum+, in order to convince ourselves that most of them are datives of
verbal nouns. As far as Sanskrit grammar is concerned, we may safely
cancel the name of infinitive altogether, and speak instead boldly of
datives and other cases of verbal nouns. Whether these verbal nouns
admit of the dative case only, and whether some of those datival
terminations have become obsolete, are questions which do not concern
the grammarian, and nothing would be more unphilosophical than to make
such points the specific characteristic of a new grammatical category,
the infinitive. The very idea that every noun must possess a complete
set of cases, is contrary to all the lessons of the history of language;
and though the fact that some of these forms belong to an antiquated
phase of language has undoubtedly contributed towards their being used
more readily for certain syntactical purposes, the fact remains that in
their origin and their original intention they were datives and nothing
else. Neither could the fact that these datives of verbal nouns may
govern the same case which is governed by the verb, be used as a
specific mark, because it is well known that, in Sanskrit more
particularly, many nouns retain the power of governing the accusative.
We shall now examine some of these so-called infinitives in Sanskrit.
DATIVES IN _E_.
The simplest dative is that in _e_, after verbal bases ending in
consonants or _â_, e.g., +dṛśé+, for the sake of seeing, to see;
+vid-é+, to know, +paribhveê+,[33] to overcome; +śraddhé kám+, to
believe.
DATIVES IN _AI_.
After some verbs ending in _â_, the dative is irregularly (Grammar,
§§ 239, 240) formed in _ai_; Rv. VII. 19, 7, +parâdái+, to surrender.
III. 60, 4, +pratimái+, to compare, and the important form +vayodhái+,
of which more by and by.
ACCUSATIVES IN _AM_. GENITIVES AND ABLATIVES IN _AS_. LOCATIVES IN _I_.
By the side of these datives we have analogous accusatives in _am_,
genitives and ablatives in _as_, locatives in _i_.
Accusative: I. 73, 10, śakéma yámam, May we be able to get. I. 94, 3,
śakéma tvâ samídhan, May we be able to light thee. This may be the Oscan
and Umbrian infinitive in _um_, _om_ (_u_, _o_), if we take +yama+ as a
base in _a_, and _m_ as the sign of the accusative. In Sanskrit it is
impossible to determine this question, for that bases in _a_ also are
used for similar purposes is clearly seen in datives like +dábhâya+;
_e.g._, Rv. V. 44, 2, ná dábhâya, not to conquer; VIII. 96, 1, nṛ́bhyâḥ
tárâya síndhavaḥ su-pârấḥ, the rivers easy to cross for men. Whether
the Vedic imperatives in +âya+ (+śâyac+) admit of a similar explanation
is doubtful on account of the accent.
Genitive: +vilikhaḥ+, in îśvaro vilikhaḥ, cognizant of drawing; and
possibly X. 108, 2, atiskádaḥ bhiyásâ, from fear of crossing.
Ablative: Rv. VIII. 1, 12, purâ âtṛ́daḥ, before striking.
Locative: Rv. V. 52, 12, dṛśí tvishé, to shine in glancing(?)
DATIVES IN _S-E_.
The same termination of the dative is added to verbal bases which have
taken the increment of the aorist, the s. Thus from +ji+, to conquer, we
have +ji-sh+, and +je-sh+, and from both datival forms with infinitival
function. I. 111, 4, té naḥ hinvantu sâtáye dhiyé jishé, May they bring
us to wealth, wisdom, victory!
I. 100, 11, apấm tokásya tánayasya jeshé, May Indra help us for getting
water, children, and descendants. Cf. VI. 44, 18.
Or, after bases ending in consonants, +upaprakshé+; V. 47, 6,
upa-prakshé vṛ́shaṇaḥ - - - vadhvấḥ yanti áccha, the men go towards
their wives to embrace.
These forms correspond to Greek infinitives like λῦσαι and τύψαι,
possibly to Latin infinitives like _ferre_, for _fer-se_, _velle_ for
_vel-se_, and _voluis-se_; for _se_, following immediately on a
consonant, can never represent the Sanskrit +ase+. With regard to
infinitives like _fac-se_, _dic-se_, I do not venture to decide whether
they are primitive forms, or contracted, though _fac-se_ could hardly be
called a contraction of _fecisse_. The 2d pers. sing. of the imperative
of the 1st aorist middle, λῦσαι, is identical with the infinitive in
form, and the transition of meaning from the infinitive to the
imperative is well known in Greek and other languages. (Παῖδα δ’ ἐμοὶ
λῦσαί τε φίλην τά τ’ ἄποινα δέχεσθαι, Deliver up my dear child and
accept the ransom). Several of these aoristic forms are sometimes very
perplexing in Sanskrit. If we find, for instance, +stushé+, we cannot
always tell whether it is the infinitive (λῦσαι); or the 1st pers. sing.
of the aor. Âtmanep. in the subjunctive (for +stushai+), Let me praise
(λύσωμαι); or lastly, the 2d pers. sing. Âtmanep. in the indicative
(λύῃ). If +stushe+ has no accent, we know, of course, that it cannot be
the infinitive, as in X. 93, 9; but when it has the accent on the last,
it may, in certain constructions, be either infinitive, or 1st pers.
sing. aor. Âtm. subj. Here we want far more careful grammatical studies
on the language of the Veda, before we can venture to translate with
certainty. In places, for instance, where as in I. 122, 7 we have a
nominative with +stushé+, it is clear that it must be taken as an
infinitive, stushé sâ vâm - - - râtíḥ, your gift, Varuṇa and Mitra, is
to be praised; but in other places, such as VIII. 5, 4, the choice is
difficult. In VIII. 65, 5, índra griṇîshé u stushé, I should propose to
translate, Indra, thou longest for praising, thou desirest to be
praised, cf. VIII. 71, 15; while in II. 20, 4, tám u stushe índram tám
gṛṇîshe, I translate, Let me praise Indra, let me laud him, admitting
here, the irregular retention of Vikaraṇa in the aorist, which can be
defended by analogous forms such as gṛ́-ṇî-sh-áṇi, stṛ́-ṇî-sh-áṇi, of
which more hereafter. However, all these translations, as every real
scholar knows, are, and can be tentative only. Nothing but a complete
Vedic grammar, such as we may soon expect from Professor Benfey, will
give us safe ground to stand on.
DATIVES IN _ÂYAI_.
Feminine bases in _â_ form their dative in +âyai+, and thus we find
+carâyai+ used in the Veda, VII. 77, 1, as what we should call an
infinitive, in the sense of to go. No other cases of +carâ+ have as yet
been met with. A similar form is +jârâyai+, to praise, I. 38, 13.
DATIVES IN _AYE_.
We have next to consider bases in _i_, forming their dative in +áye+.
Here, whenever we are acquainted with the word in other cases, we
naturally take _aye_ as a simple dative of a noun. Thus in I. 31, 8, we
should translate +sanáye dhánânâm+, for the acquisition of treasures,
because we are accustomed to other cases, such as I. 100, 13, +sanáyas+,
acquisitions, V. 27, 3, +saním+, wealth. But if we find, V. 80, 5,
+dṛśáye naḥ asthât+, she stood to be seen by us, lit., for our seeing,
then we prefer, though wrongly, to look upon such datives as
infinitives, simply because we have not met with other cases of
+dṛśi-s+.
DATIVES IN _TAYE_.
What applies to datives of nouns in _i_, applies with still greater
force to datives of nouns in _ti_. There is no reason why in IX. 96,
4 we should call +áhataye+, to be without hurt, an infinitive, simply
because no other case of +áhati-s+ occurs in the Rig-Veda; while
+ájîtaye+, not to fail, in the same line, is called a dative of
+ájîti-s+, because it occurs again in the accusative +ájîti-m+.
DATIVES IN _TYAI_.
In +ityái+, to go, I. 113, 6; 124, 1, we have a dative of +iti-s+, the
act of going, of which the instrumental +ityâ+ occurs likewise, I. 167,
5. This +tyâ+, shortened to +tya+, became afterwards the regular
termination of the gerund of compound verbs in +tya+ (Grammar § 446),
while +ya+ (§ 445) points to an original +ya+ or +yai+.
DATIVES IN _AS-E_.
Next follow datives from bases in +as+, partly with accent on the first
syllable, like neuter nouns in +as+, partly with the accent on +as+;
partly with Guṇa, partly without. With regard to them it becomes still
clearer how impossible it would be to distinguish between datives of
abstract nouns, and other grammatical forms, to be called infinitives.
Thus Rv. I. 7, 3 we read +dîrghâya cákshase+, Indra made the sun rise
for long glancing, _i.e._, that it might glance far and wide. It is
quite true that no other cases of +cákshas+, seeing, occur, on which
ground modern grammarians would probably class it as an infinitive; but
the qualifying dative +dîrghâya+, clearly shows that the poet felt
+cákshase+ as the dative of a noun, and did not trouble himself, whether
that noun was defective in other cases or not.
These datives of verbal nouns in +as+, correspond exactly to Latin
infinitives in _ĕre_, like _vivere_ (+jîváse+), and explain likewise
infinitives in _âre_, _êre_, and _îre_, forms which cannot be separated.
It has been thought that the nearest approach to an infinitive is to be
found in such forms as +jîváse+, +bhiyáse+, to fear (V. 29, 4), because
in such cases the ordinary nominal form would be +bháyas-e+. There is,
however, the instrumental +bhiyása+, X. 108, 2.
DATIVES IN _MANE_.
Next follow datives from nouns in +man+, +van+, and +an+. The suffix
+man+ is very common in Sanskrit, for forming verbal nouns, such as
+kar-man+, doing, deed, from +kar+. +Van+ is almost restricted to
forming _nomina agentis_, such as +druh-van+, hating; but we find also
substantives like +pat-van+, still used in the sense of flying. +An+
also is generally used like +van+, but we can see traces of its
employment to form _nomina actionis_ in Greek ἀγών, Lat. _turbo_, etc.
Datives of nouns in +man+, used with infinitival functions, are very
common in the Veda; _e.g._ I. 164, 6, pṛccâmi vidmane, I ask to know;
VIII. 93, 8, dâmane kṛtáḥ, made to give. We find also the instrumental
case +vidmánâ+, _e.g._, VI. 14, 5, vidmánâ urushyáti, he protects by his
knowledge. These correspond to Homeric infinitives, like ἴδμεναι,
δόμεναι, etc., old datives and not locatives, as Schleicher and Curtius
supposed; while forms like δόμεν are to be explained either as
abbreviated, or as obsolete accusatives.
DATIVES IN _VANE_.
Of datives in +váne+ I only know +dāvâne+, a most valuable grammatical
relic, by which Professor Benfey was enabled to explain the Greek
δοῦναι, i.e., δοϝέναι.[34]
DATIVES IN _ANE_.
Of datives in +áne+ I pointed out (l.c.) +dhûrv-ane+ and +vibhv-áne+,
VI. 61, 13, taking the latter as synonymous with +vibhvế+, and
translating, +Sarasvatî+, the great, made to conquer, like a chariot.
Professor Roth, _s.v._ +vibhván+, takes the dative for an instrumental,
and translates “made by an artificer.” It is, however, not the chariot
that is spoken of, but +Sarasvatî+, and of her it could hardly be said
that she was made either by or for an artificer.
LOCATIVES IN _SANI_.
As we saw before that aoristic bases in _s_ take the datival _e_, so
that we had +prák-sh-e+ by the side of +pṛ́c-e+, we shall have to
consider here aoristic bases in _s_, taking the suffix +an+, not however
with the termination of the dative, but with that of the locative _i_.
Thus we read X. 126, 3, náyishṭhâḥ u naḥ nesháṇi párshishṭhâḥ u naḥ
parsháṇi áti dvíshaḥ, they who are the best leaders to lead us, the best
helpers to help us to overcome our enemies, lit. in leading us, in
helping us. In VIII. 12, 19, +gṛṇîsháni+, i.e. +gṛ-ṇî-sháṇ-i+ stands
parallel with +turv-án-e+, thus showing how both cases can answer nearly
the same purpose. If these forms existed in Greek, they would, after
consonantal bases, be identical with the infinitives of the future.
CASES OF VERBAL NOUNS IN _TU_.
We next come to a large number of datives, ablatives, or genitives, and
accusatives of verbal nouns in +tu+. This +tu+ occurs in Sanskrit in
abstract nouns such as +gâtú+, going, way, etc., in Latin in
_adven-tus_, etc. As these forms have been often treated, and as some of
them occur frequently in later Sanskrit also, it will suffice to give
one example of each:--
Dative in +tave+: +gántave+, to go, I. 46, 7.
Old form in +ai+: +gántavái+, X. 95, 14.
Genitive in +toḥ+: +dâtoḥ+, governed by +îśe+, VII. 4, 6.
Ablative in +toḥ+: +gántoḥ+, I. 89, 9.
Accusative in +tum+: +gántum+. This is the supine in _tum_ in Latin.
CASES OF VERBAL NOUNS IN _TVA_.
Next follow cases of verbal nouns in +tvá+, the accent being on the
suffix.
Datives in +tvấya+: +hatvấya+, X. 84, 2.
Instrumental in +tvấ+: +hatvấ+, I. 100, 18.
Older form in +tvî́+: +hatvî́+, II. 17, 6; +gatvî́+, IV. 41, 5.
DATIVES IN _DHAI_ AND _DHYAI_.
I have left to the end datives in +dhai+ and +dhyai+, which properly
belong to the datives in +ai+, treated before, but differ from them as
being datives of compound nouns. As from +máyaḥ+, delight, we have
+mayaskará+, delight-making, +mayobhú+, delight-causing, and
constructions like +máyo dádhe+, so from +váyas+, life, vigor, we have
+váyaskṛ́t+, life-giving, and constructions like +váyo dhât+. From +dhâ+
we can frame two substantival frame, +dhâ+ and +dhi-s+, _e.g._
+puro-dhâ+, and +puro-dhis+, like +vi-dhi-s+. As an ordinary
substantive, +purodhâ+ takes the feminine termination _â_, and is
declined like +śivâ+. But if the verbal base remains at the end of a
compound without the feminine suffix, a compound like vayodhâ would form
its dative vayodhe (Grammar, § 239); and as in analogous cases we found
old datives in ai, instead of _e_, e.g. +parâdai+, nothing can be said
against +vayodhai+, as a Vedic dative of +vayodhâ+. The dative of
+purodhi+ would be +purodhaye+, but here again, as, besides forms like
dṛśaye, we met with datives, such as +ityai+, +rohishyai+, there is no
difficulty in admitting an analogous dative of +purodhi+, viz.,
+purodhyai+.
The old dative +dhai+ has been preserved to us in one form only, which
for that reason is all the more valuable and important, offering the key
to the mysterious Greek infinitives in θαι, I mean +vayodhái+, which
occurs twice in the Rig-Veda, X. 55, 1, and X. 67, 11. The importance of
this relic would have been perceived long ago, if there had not been
some uncertainty as to whether such a form really existed in the Veda.
By some accident or other, Professor Aufrecht had printed in both
passages +vayodhaiḥ+, instead of +vayodhai+. But for this, no one,
I believe, would have doubted that in this form +vayodhai+ we have not
only the most valuable prototype of the Greek infinitives in (σ)θαι,
but at the same time their full explanation. +Vayodhai+ stands for
+vayas-dhai+, in which composition the first part +vayas+ is a neuter
base in +as+, the second a dative of the auxiliary verb +dhâ+, used as a
substantive. If, therefore, we find corresponding to +vayodhai+ a Greek
infinitive βέεσθαι, we must divide it into βέεσ-θαι, as we divide
ψεύδεσθαι into ψεύδεσ-θαι, and translate it literally by “to do lying.”
It has been common to identify Greek infinitives in σθαι with
corresponding Sanskrit forms ending in +dhyai+. No doubt these forms in
+dhyai+ are much more frequent than forms in +dhai+, but as we can only
take them as old datives of substantives in +dhi+, it would be difficult
to identify the two. The Sanskrit +dhy+ appears, no doubt, in Greek, as
σσ, +dh+ being represented by the surd θ, and then assibilated by _y_;
but we could hardly attempt to explain σθ = θy, because σδ = ζ = δy.
Therefore, unless we are prepared to see with Bopp in the σ before θ, in
this and similar forms, a remnant of the reflexive pronoun, nothing
remains but to accept the explanation offered by the Vedic +vayodhai+,
and to separate ψεύδεσθαι into ψεύδεσ-θαι lying to do. That this
grammatical compound, if once found successful, should have been
repeated in other tenses, giving us not only γράφεσ-θαι, but γράψεσ-θαι,
γράψασ-θαι, and even γραφθήσεσ-θαι, is no more than what we may see
again and again in the grammatical development of ancient and modern
languages. Some scholars have objected on the same ground to Bopp’s
explanation of _ama-mini_, as the nom. plur. of a participle, because
they think it impossible to look upon _amemini_, _amabâmini_, amaremini,
_amabimini_ as participial formations. But if a mould is once made in
language, it is used again and again, and little account is taken of its
original intention. If we object to γράψεσ-θαι, why not to
κελευ-σέ-μεναι or τεθνά-μεναι or μιχθή-μεναι? In Sanskrit, too, we
should hesitate to form a compound of a modified verbal base, such as
+pṛṇa+, with +dhi+, doing; yet as the Sanskrit ear was accustomed to
+yajadhyai+ from +yaja+, +gamadhyai+ from +gama+, it did not protest
against +pṛṇadhyai+, +vâvṛdhadhyai+, etc.
HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE OF THESE GRAMMATICAL FORMS.
And while these ancient grammatical forms which supply the foundation of
what in Greek, Latin, and other languages we are accustomed to call
infinitives are of the highest interest to the grammarian and the
logician, their importance is hardly less in the eyes of the historian.
Every honest student of antiquity, whether his special field be India,
Persia, Assyria, or Egypt, knows how often he is filled with fear and
trembling when he meets with thoughts and expressions which, as he is
apt to say, cannot be ancient. I have frequently confessed to that
feeling with regard to some of the hymns of the Rig-Veda, and I well
remember the time when I felt inclined to throw up the whole work as
modern and unworthy of the time and labor bestowed upon it. At that time
I was always comforted by these so-called infinitives and other relics
of ancient language. They could not have been fabricated in India. They
are unknown in ordinary Sanskrit, they are unintelligible as far as
their origin is concerned in Greek and Latin, and yet in the Vedic
language we find these forms, not only identical with Greek and Latin
forms, but furnishing the key to their formation in Greece and Italy.
The Vedic +vayas-dhái+ compared with Greek βεεσ-θαι, the Vedic +stushe+
compared with λυσαι are to my mind evidence in support of the antiquity
and genuineness of the Veda that cannot be shaken by any arguments.
THE INFINITIVE IN ENGLISH.
I add a few words on the infinitive in English, though it has been well
treated by Dr. March in his “Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Language,” by
Dr. Morris, and others. We find in Anglo-Saxon two forms, one generally
called the infinitive, _nim-an_, to take, the other the gerund, _to
nim-anne_, to take. Dr. March explains the first as identical with
Greek νέμ-ειν and νέμ-εν-αι, _i.e._, as an oblique case, probably the
dative, of a verbal noun in _an_. He himself quotes only the dative of
nominal bases in _a_, e.g. +namanâya+, because he was probably
unacquainted with the nearer forms in _an-e_ supplied by the Veda. This
infinitive exists in Gothic as _nim-an_, in Old Saxon as _nim-an_, in
Old Norse as _nem-a_, in Old High German as _nem-an_. The so-called
gerund, to _nimanne_, is rightly traced back by Dr. March to Old Saxon
_nim-annia_, but he can hardly be right in identifying these old datival
forms with the Sanskrit base +nam-anîya+. In the Second Period of
English (1100-1250)[35] the termination of the infinitive became _en_,
and frequently dropped the final _n_, as _smelle_ = _smellen_; while the
termination of the gerund at the same time became _enne_, (_ende_),
_ene_, _en_, or _e_, so that outwardly the two forms appear to be
identical, as early as the 12th century.[36] Still later, towards the
end of the 14th century, the terminations were entirely lost, though
Spenser and Shakespeare have occasionally to _killen_, _passen_,
_delven_, when they wished to impart an archaic character to their
language. In modern English the infinitive with _to_ is used as a verbal
substantive. When we say, “I wish you to do this,” “you are able to do
this,” we can still perceive the datival function of the infinitive.
Likewise in such phrases, “it is time,” “it is proper,” “it is wrong to
do that,” _to do_ may still be felt as an oblique case. But we have only
to invert these sentences, and say, “to do this is wrong,” and we have a
new substantive in the nom. sing., just as in the Greek τὸ λέγειν.
Expressions like _for to do_, show that the simple _to_ was not always
felt to be sufficiently expressive to convey the meaning of an original
dative.
WORKS ON THE INFINITIVE.
The infinitive has formed the subject of many learned treatises.
I divide them into two classes, those which appeared before and after
Wilhelm’s excellent essay, written in Latin, “De Infinitivi Vi et
Natura,” 1868; and in a new and improved edition, “De Infinitivo
Linguarum Sanscritæ, Bactricæ, Persicæ, Græcæ, Oscæ, Umbricæ, Latinæ,
Goticæ, forma et usu,” Isenaci, 1873. In this essay the evidence
supplied by the Veda was for the first time fully collected, and the
whole question of the nature of the infinitive placed in its true
historical light. Before Wilhelm the more important works were Hofer’s
book, “Vom Infinitiv, besonders im Sanskrit,” Berlin, 1840; Bopp’s
paragraphs in his “Comparative Grammar;” Humboldt’s paper, in Schlegel’s
“Indische Bibliothek” (II. 74), 1824; and his posthumous paper in Kuhn’s
“Zeitschrift” (II. 245), 1853; some dissertations by L. Meyer, Merguet,
and Golenski. Benfey’s “Sanskrit Grammar” (1852), too, ought to be
mentioned, as having laid the first solid foundations for this and all
other branches of grammatical research, as far as Sanskrit is concerned.
After Wilhelm the same subject has been treated with great independence
by Ludwig, “Der Infinitif im Veda,” 1871, and again “Agglutination oder
Adaptation,” 1873; and also by Jolly, “Geschichte des Infinitivs,” 1873.
I had myself discussed some questions connected with the nature of the
infinitive in my “Lectures on the Science of Language,” vol. ii. p. 15
seq., and I had pointed out in Kuhn’s “Zeitschrift,” XV. 215 (1866) the
great importance of the Vedic +vayodhai+ for unraveling the formation of
Greek infinitives in σ-θαι.
THE INFINITIVE IN BENGALI.
At a still earlier time, in 1847, in my “Essay on Bengali,” I said: “As
the infinitives of the Indo-Germanic languages must be regarded as the
absolute cases of a verbal noun, it is probable that in Bengali the
infinitive in _ite_ was also originally a locative, which expressed not
only local situation, but also movement towards some object, as an end,
whether real or imaginary. Thus the Bengali infinitive corresponds
exactly with the English, where the relation of case is expressed by the
preposition _to_. Ex. tâhâke mârite âmi âsiyâchi, means, I came to the
state of beating him, or, I came to beat him; âmâke mârite deo, give me
(permission), let me (go) to the action of beating, _i.e._, allow me to
beat. Now as the form of the participle is the same as that of the
infinitive, it may be doubted if there is really a distinction between
these two forms as to their origin. For instance, the phrase âpan
putrake mârite âmi tâhâka dekhilâm, can be translated, I saw him beating
his own son; but it can be explained also as, what they nonsensically
call in Latin grammar _accusativus cum infinitivo_, that is to say, the
infinitive can be taken for a locative of the verbal noun, and the whole
phrase be translated, I saw him in the action of beating his own son,
(_vidi patrem cædere ipsius filium_). As in every Bengali phrase the
participle in _ite_ can be understood in this manner, I think it
admissible to ascribe this origin to it, and instead of taking it for a
nominative of a verbal adjective, to consider it as a locative of a
verbal noun.”
THE INFINITIVE IN THE DRAVIDIAN LANGUAGES.
I also tried to show that the infinitive in the Dravidian languages is a
verbal noun with or without a case suffix. This view has been confirmed
by Dr. Caldwell, but, in deference to him, I gladly withdraw the
explanation which I proposed in reference to the infinitive in Tamil.
I quote from Dr. Caldwell’s “Comparative Grammar of the Dravidian
Languages,” 2d ed. p. 423: “Professor Max Müller, noticing that the
majority of Tamil infinitives terminate in _ka_, supposed this _ka_ to
be identical in origin with _kô_, the dative-accusative case-sign of the
Hindi, and concluded that the Dravidian infinitive was the accusative of
a verbal noun. It is true that the Sanskrit infinitive and Latin supine
in _tum_ is correctly regarded as an accusative, and that our English
infinitive _to do_, is the dative of a verbal noun; it is also true that
the Dravidian infinitive is a verbal noun in origin, and never
altogether loses that character; nevertheless, the supposition that the
final _ka_ of most Tamil infinitives is in any manner connected with
_ku_, the sign of the Dravidian dative, or of _kô_, the Hindi
dative-accusative, is inadmissible. A comparison of various classes of
verbs and of the various dialects shows that the _kâ_ in question
proceeds from a totally different source.”
[Transcriber’s Note:
In the following section the Devanagari letters were printed without
virama, but they should be read as the consonant alone.]
ON LABIALIZED AND UNLABIALIZED GUTTURALS.
As in my article on _Vayodhai_, published in Kuhn’s “Zeitschrift,” 1866,
p. 215, I had entered a _caveat_ against identifying Greek β with
Sanskrit ज, I take this opportunity of frankly withdrawing it.
Phonetically, no doubt, these two letters represent totally distinct
powers, and to say that Sanskrit ज ever became Greek β is as irrational
to-day as it was ten years ago. But historically I was entirely wrong,
as will be seen from the last edition of Curtius’ “Grundzüge.” The
guttural sonant check was palatalized in the Southeastern Branch, and
there became j and _z_, while in the Northwestern Branch the same g was
frequently labialized and became gv, v, and b. Hence, where we have ज in
Sanskrit, we may and do find β in Greek.
But after withdrawing my former _caveat_, I make bold to propose
another, namely, that the original palatal sonant flatus, which in
Sanskrit is graphically represented by j, can never be represented
in Greek by β. Whether j in Sanskrit represents an original palatal
sonant check or an original palatal sonant flatus can generally be
determined by a reference to Zend, which represents the former by j, the
latter by _z_. We may therefore formulate this phonetic law:--
+“When Sanskrit j is represented by Zend _z_, it cannot be
represented by Greek β.”+
In this manner it is possible, I believe, to utilize Ascoli’s and Fick’s
brilliant discovery as to a twofold, or even threefold, distinction of
the Aryan k, as applied to the Aryan g. They have proved that all Aryan
languages show traces of an original distinction between a guttural surd
check, k, frequently palatalized in the Southeastern Branch (Sk. c,
Zend c) and liable to labialization, in Latin, Greek, Cymric, and
Gothic; and another k, never liable to labialization, but changed into a
flatus, palatal or otherwise, in Sanskrit, Lithuanian, and Old Slavonic.
They showed, in fact,--
[Transcriber’s Note:
The following list has been rotated 90° for space.]
Sanskrit. क (च) श
Lith. k sz
Slav. k, č, c s
Gadh. c c
& Cym. p
Lat. c, qu, v c
Greek. κ, κϝ, κκ, κ
π, ππ,
τ, ττ,
Gothic. hv, h h
In the same manner we ought in future to distinguish between a guttural
sonant check, g, frequently palatalized in the Southeastern Branch
(Sk. j, Zend j), and liable to labialization, like k; and another g,
never liable to labialization, but changed into a flatus, palatal or
otherwise, in Zend, Lithuanian, and Old Slavonic. As we never have
π = श we never have β = ज, if ज in Zend is _z_.
The evidence will be found under Sk. +jan+, +jabh+, +jar+ (to decay, and
to praise), +jush+, +jñâ+, +jñu+, +jâmâtar+; +aj+, +bhrâj+, +marj+,
+yaj+, +raj(atam)+.
Gothic _quinô_, Gadh. _ben_, Bœot. βάνα depend on Zend +jeni+; Gadh.
_baith-is_ on Zend +jaf-ra+. It is wrong to connect σβεσ with +jas+, on
account of Zend +zas+, and +gyâ-ni+ with βία, on account of Zend
+zyâ-ni+.
[Footnote 1: The following statute was approved by the University
of Oxford in 1868 (_Statuta Universitatis Oxoniensis_, iv., i.,
37. §§ 1-3):--
“1. Professor philologiæ comparativæ a Vice-Cancellario, et
professoribus linguarum Hebraicæ, Sanskriticæ, Græcæ, Latinæ, et
Anglo-Saxonicæ eligatur. In æqualitate suffragantium rem decidat
Vice-Cancellarius.
“Proviso tamen ut si vir cl. M. Müller, M.A., hodie linguarum
modernarum Europæ professor Taylorianus, eam professionem intra
mensem post hoc statutum sancitum resignaverit, seque professoris
philologiæ comparativæ munus suscipere paratum esse scripto
Vice-Cancellarium certiorem fecerit, is primus admittatur
professor.
“2. Professor quotannis per sex menses in Universitate incolat et
commoretur inter decimum diem Octobris et primum diem Julii
sequentis.
“3. Professor duas lectionum series in duobus discretis terminis
legat, terminis Paschatis et S. Trinitatis pro uno reputatis;
scilicet per sex septimanas in utroque termino, et bis ad minimum
in unaquaque septimana: atque insuper per sex septimanas unius
alicujus termini bis ad minimum in unaquaque septimana per unius
horæ spatium vacet instruendis auditoribus in iis quæ melius sine
solennitate tradi possunt. Unam porro ad minimum lectionem
quotannis publice habeat ab academicis quibuscunque sine mercede
audiendam. De die hora et loco quibus hæc lectio solennis habenda
sit academiam modo consueto certiorem faciat.”]
[Footnote 2: An offer to found a professorship of Chinese, to be
held by an Englishman whom even Stanislas Julien recognized as the
best Chinese scholar of the day, has lately been received very
coldly by the Hebdomadal Council of the University.]
[Footnote 3: _Liber Sextus Decretalium_ (Lugduni, 1572), p. 1027:
“Ut igitur peritia linguarum hujusmodi possit habiliter per
instructionem efficaciam obtinere, hoc sacro approbante concilio
scholas in subscriptarum linguarum generibus ubicunque Romanam
curiam residere contigerit, necnon in Parisiensi, et Oxoniensi,
Bononiensi, et Salmantino studiis providimus erigendas; statuentes
ut in quolibet locorum ipsorum teneantur viri catholici,
sufficienter habentes Hebraicæ, Arabicæ, et Chaldææ linguarum
notitiam.”]
[Footnote 4: Greaves, _Oratio Oxonii habita_, 1637, p. 19: “Paucos
ultra centum annos numeramus ex quo Græcæ primum literæ oras hasce
appulerunt, antea ignotæ prorsus, nonnullis exosæ etiam et invisæ,
indoctissimis scilicet fraterculis, quibus religio erat graece
scire, et levissimus Atticæ eruditionis gustus hæresin sapiebat.”]
[Footnote 5: See _Biographia Britannica Literaria_, vol. i.
p. 110.]
[Footnote 6: M. M.’s _Lectures on the Science of Language_,
vol. i. p. 171.]
[Footnote 7: Ibid., p. 176.]
[Footnote 8: See Notes A and B, pp. 43, 45.]
[Footnote 9: See M. M., _Science of Religion_, 1873, p. 293.]
[Footnote 10: See Weber, _Indische Studien_, vol. i. p. 38.]
[Footnote 11: See Haug, in Ewald’s _Biblische Jahrbücher_, vol.
vi. p. 162.]
[Footnote 12: _Anab._, i. 2, 7: Ἐνταῦθα Κύρῳ Βασίλεια ἦν καὶ
παράδεισος μέγας, ἀγρίων θηρίων πλήρης, ἅ ἐκεῖνος ἐθήρευεν ἀπὸ
ἵππου, ὁπότε γυμνάσαι βούλοιτο ἑαυτόν τε καὶ τοὺς ἵππους. Διὰ
μέσου δὲ τοῦ παραδείσου ῥεῖ ὁ Μαίανδρος ποταμός κ.τ.λ. _Hell._,
iv. 1, 15: Ἐν περιειργμένοις παραδείσοις κ.τ.λ.]
[Footnote 13: See _Indian Antiquary_, 1874, p. 332.]
[Footnote 14: Grassmann, Kuhn’s _Zeitschrift_, vol. ix. p. 23.]
[Footnote 15: Ebel, Kuhn’s _Zeitschrift_, vol. viii. p. 242.]
[Footnote 16: Schleicher, _Compendium_, § 112.]
[Footnote 17: Lottner, Kuhn’s _Zeitschrift_, vol. ix. p. 319.]
[Footnote 18: Leo Meyer, _Die Gothische Sprache_, § 31.]
[Footnote 19: Choeroboscus, _B. A._, p. 1274, 29: Τὰ ἀπαρέμφατα
ἀμφιβάλλεται εἰ ἄρα εἰσὶ ῥήματα ἢ οὐχί. Schoemann, _Rede-theile_,
p. 49.]
[Footnote 20: Apollonius, _De Constr._, i. c. 8, p. 32: Δυνάμει
αὐτὸ τὸ ῥῆμα οὔτε πρόσωπα ἐπιδέχεται οὔτε ἀριθμούς, ἀλλὰ
ἐγγενόμενον ἐν προσώποις τότε καὶ τὰ πρόσωπα διέστειλεν . . . .
καὶ ψυχικὴν διάθεσιν. Schoemann, l.c. p. 19.]
[Footnote 21: Note C, p. 47.]
[Footnote 22: Benfey, _Orient und Occident_, vol. i. p. 606; vol.
ii. pp. 97, 132.]
[Footnote 23: _Chips_, vol. iii. p. 134.]
[Footnote 24: Dr. Kielhorn in his grammar gives correctly +tad+ as
base, +tat+ as nom. and acc. sing., because in the latter case
phonetic rules either require or allow the change of _d_ into _t_.
Boehtlingk, Roth, and Benfey also give the right forms. Curtius,
like Bopp, gives +yat+, Schleicher +tat+, which he supposes to
have been changed at an early time into +tad+ (§ 203).]
[Footnote 25: Weich ist es (_ṭ_ oder _ḍ_) wohl im abl. sing.,
+gafnâṭ+ (+gafnâdha+). Justi, _Handbuch der Zendsprache_, p. 362.]
[Footnote 26: _Orient und Occident_, vol. i. p. 298.]
[Footnote 27: _Entwickelung der Lateinischen Formenlehre_, 1870,
p. 20.]
[Footnote 28: _Grundriss der Lateinischen Declination_, 1866,
p. 9.]
[Footnote 29: See Benfey, l.c. p. 298.]
[Footnote 30: In the dictionary of Boehtlingk and Roth we read
_s.v._ +gnâ+, “scarce in the singular; nom. sing. seems to be
+gnâs+, according to the passage Rv. IV. 9, 4, and Naigh. I. 11,
in one text, while the other text gives the form +gnâ+.” Against
this, it should be remarked, that it would make no difference
whether the MSS. of the Naighaṇṭuka give +gnâ+ or +gnâs+. +Gnâ+
would be the nom. sing., +gnâs+ would be the form in which the
word occurs most frequently in the Veda. It is easy to see that
the collector of the Naighaṇṭuka allowed himself to quote words
according to either principle.
Devarâja, in his commentary on +gnâ+, explains it: “Gamer dhâtor
dhâpṛ́vasyajyatibhyo naḥ (U. S. III. 6) iti bahulakân napratyayo
bhavati ṭilopaś ca; ṭap. Gatyarthâ buddhyarthâḥ jânanti karmeti
gnâḥ. Yadvâ gacchati yajñeshu; abhí yajñám gṛṇîhi no gnâvaḥ
(patnîvaḥ) Rv. I. 15, 3. Chandâṃsi vai gnâ iti brâhmaṇam iti
Mâdhavaḥ. Asmấ îd u gnấś cid (Rv. I. 61, 8) ity api; gâyatryâdyâ
devapatnya iti sa eva. Tasmâc chandasâm gâyatryâdînâm vâgrûpatvâd
gnâvyapadeśaḥ.”
In his remarks on Nigh. III. 29, it is quite clear that Devarâja
takes +gnâḥ+ as a nom. plur., not as a nom. sing. He says: Menâ
gnâ iti stríṇâm; ubhâv api śabdau vyâkhyâtau vânnâmasu. Mânayanti
hi tâḥ patiśvaśuramátulâdayaḥ, pûjyâ bhûshayitavyâś ceti smaraṇât.
Gacchanty enâḥ patayo patyârthinaḥ. The passage quoted in the
Nirukta III. 29, gnâs tvâkṛntann apaso ’tanvata vayitryo ’vayan,
is taken from the Tâṇḍyabrâhmaṇa I. 8, 9. “O dress! the women cut
thee out, the workers stretched thee out, the weavers wove thee.”
Thus every support which the Nighaṇṭu or the Nirukta was supposed
to give to the form +gnâḥ+ as a nom. sing. vanishes. And if it is
said _s.v._ +gnâspati+, that in this compound +gnâḥ+ might be
taken as a nom. sing., and that the Pada-text separates
+gnâḥ-patiḥ+, it has been overlooked that the separation in Rv.
II. 38, 10, is a mere misprint. See Prâtiśâkhya, 738. The compound
+gnâspatiḥ+ has been correctly explained as standing for
+gnâyâspatiḥ+, and the same old genitive is also found in
+jâspatiḥ+ and +jâspatyam+. See also Vâjasan. Prâtiśâkhya, IV. 39.
It is important to observe that the metre requires us to pronounce
+gnâspati+ either as +gnăāspătĭḥ+ or as +gănāspătĭḥ+.
There is, as far as I know, no passage where +gnâḥ+ in the Veda
can be taken as a nom. sing., and it should be observed that
+gnâḥ+ as nom. plur. is almost always disyllabic in the Rig-veda,
excepting the tenth Maṇḍala; that the acc. sing. (V. 43, 6) is,
however, disyllabic, but the acc. plur. monosyllabic (I. 22, 10).
In V. 43, 13, we must either read +gn̆āḥ+ or +ōshădhī̆ḥ.+]
[Footnote 31: Sthâ, svâbhiprâyabodhanânukûlasthiti, to reveal by
gestures, a meaning not found in our dictionaries. Wilson renders
it wrongly by to stay with, which would govern the instrumental.
+Śap+, cursing, means to use curses in order to convey some
meaning or intention to another person.]
[Footnote 32: Wilson’s _Sanskrit Grammar_, p. 390.]
[Footnote 33: In verbs compounded with prepositions the accent is
on the penultimate: _e.g._, +samídhe+, +atikráme+, etc.]
[Footnote 34: See M. M.’s _Translation of the Rig-Veda_, I.
p. 34.]
[Footnote 35: Morris, _Historic Outlines of English Accidence_,
p. 52.]
[Footnote 36: Morris, l.c. p. 177.]
II.
REDE LECTURE,
DELIVERED IN THE SENATE HOUSE BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, ON
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 1868.[1]
Part I.
ON THE STRATIFICATION OF LANGUAGE.
There are few sensations more pleasant than that of wondering. We have
all experienced it in childhood, in youth, and in our manhood, and we
may hope that even in our old age this affection of the mind will not
entirely pass away. If we analyze this feeling of wonder carefully, we
shall find that it consists of two elements. What we mean by wondering
is not only that we are startled or stunned,--that I should call the
merely passive element of wonder. When we say “I wonder,” we confess
that we are taken aback, but there is a secret satisfaction mixed up
with our feeling of surprise, a kind of hope, nay, almost of certainty,
that sooner or later the wonder will cease, that our senses or our mind
will recover, will grapple with these novel impressions or experiences,
grasp them, it may be, throw them, and finally triumph over them. In
fact we wonder at the riddles of nature, whether animate or inanimate,
with a firm conviction that there is a solution to them all, even though
we ourselves may not be able to find it.
Wonder, no doubt, arises from ignorance, but from a peculiar kind of
ignorance; from what might be called a fertile ignorance: an ignorance
which, if we look back at the history of most of our sciences, will be
found to have been the mother of all human knowledge. For thousands of
years men have looked at the earth with its stratifications, in some
places so clearly mapped out; for thousands of years they must have seen
in their quarries and mines, as well as we ourselves, the imbedded
petrifications of organic creatures: yet they looked and passed on
without thinking more about it--they did not wonder. Not even an
Aristotle had eyes to see; and the conception of a science of the earth,
of Geology, was reserved for the eighteenth century.
Still more extraordinary is the listlessness with which during all the
centuries that have elapsed since the first names were given to all
cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field, men
have passed by what was much nearer to them than even the gravel on
which they trod, namely, the words of their own language. Here, too, the
clearly marked lines of different strata seemed almost to challenge
attention, and the pulses of former life were still throbbing in the
petrified forms imbedded in grammars and dictionaries. Yet not even a
Plato had eyes to see, or ears to hear, and the conception of a science
of language, of Glottology, was reserved for the nineteenth century.
I am far from saying that Plato and Aristotle knew nothing of the
nature, the origin, and the purpose of language, or that we have nothing
to learn from their works. They, and their successors, and their
predecessors too, beginning with Herakleitos and Demokritos, were
startled and almost fascinated by the mysteries of human speech as much
as by the mysteries of human thought; and what we call grammar and the
laws of language, nay, all the technical terms which are still current
in our schools, such as _noun_ and _verb_, _case_ and _number_,
_infinitive_ and _participle_, all this was first discovered and named
by the philosophers and grammarians of Greece, to whom, in spite of all
our new discoveries, I believe we are still beholden, whether
consciously or unconsciously, for more than half of our intellectual
life.
But the interest which those ancient Greek philosophers took in language
was purely philosophical. It was the form, far more than the matter of
speech which seemed to them a subject worthy of philosophical
speculation. The idea that there was, even in their days, an immense
mass of accumulated speech to be sifted, to be analyzed, and to be
accounted for somehow, before any theories on the nature of language
could be safely started, hardly ever entered their minds; or when it
did, as we see here and there in Plato’s “Kratylos,” it soon vanished,
without leaving any permanent impression. Each people and each
generation has its own problems to solve. The problem that occupied
Plato in his “Kratylos” was, if I understand him rightly, the
possibility of a perfect language, a correct, true, or ideal language,
a language founded on his own philosophy, his own system of types or
ideas. He was too wise a man to attempt, like Bishop Wilkins, the actual
construction of a philosophical language. But, like Leibniz, he just
lets us see that a perfect language is conceivable, and that the chief
reason of the imperfections of real language must be found in the fact
that its original framers were ignorant of the true nature of things,
ignorant of dialectic philosophy, and therefore incapable of naming
rightly what they had failed to apprehend correctly. Plato’s view of
actual language, as far as it can be made out from the critical and
negative rather than didactic and positive dialogue of “Kratylos,” seems
to have been very much the same as his view of actual government. Both
fall short of the ideal, and both are to be tolerated only in so far as
they participate in the perfections of an ideal state and an ideal
language.[2] Plato’s “Kratylos” is full of suggestive wisdom. It is one
of those books which, as we read them again from time to time, seem
every time like new books: so little do we perceive at first all that is
pre-supposed in them,--the accumulated mould of thought, if I may say
so, in which alone a philosophy like that of Plato could strike its
roots and draw its support.
But while Plato shows a deeper insight into the mysteries of language
than almost any philosopher that has come after him, he has no eyes for
that marvelous harvest of words garnered up in our dictionaries, and in
the dictionaries of all the races of the earth. With him language is
almost synonymous with Greek, and though in one passage of the
“Kratylos” he suggests that certain Greek words might have been borrowed
from the Barbarians, and, more particularly from the Phrygians, yet that
remark, as coming from Plato, seems to be purely ironical, and though it
contains, as we know, a germ of truth that has proved most fruitful in
our modern science of language, it struck no roots in the minds of Greek
philosophers. How much our new science of language differs from the
linguistic studies of the Greeks; how entirely the interest which Plato
took in language is now supplanted by new interests, is strikingly
brought home to us when we see how the _Société de Linguistique_, lately
founded at Paris, and including the names of the most distinguished
scholars of France, declares in one of its first statutes that “it will
receive no communication concerning the origin of language or the
formation of a universal language,” the very subjects which, in the time
of Herakleitos and Plato, rendered linguistic studies worthy of the
consideration of a philosopher.
It may be that the world was too young in the days of Plato, and that
the means of communication were wanting to enable the ancient
philosopher to see very far beyond the narrow horizon of Greece. With us
it is different. The world has grown older, and has left to us in the
annals of its various literatures the monuments of growing and decaying
speech. The world has grown larger, and we have before us, not only the
relics of ancient civilization in Asia, Africa, and America, but living
languages in such number and variety that we draw back almost aghast at
the mere list of their names. The world has grown wiser too, and where
Plato could only see imperfections, the failures of the founders of
human speech, we see, as everywhere else in human life, a natural
progress from the imperfect towards the perfect, unceasing attempts at
realizing the ideal, and the frequent triumphs of the human mind over
the inevitable difficulties of this earthly condition,--difficulties,
not of man’s own making, but, as I firmly believe, prepared for him, and
not without a purpose, as toils and tasks, by a higher Power and by the
highest Wisdom.
Let us look then abroad and behold the materials which the student of
language has now to face. Beginning with the language of the Western
Isles, we have at the present day, at least 100,000 words, arranged as
on the shelves of a Museum, in the pages of Johnson and Webster. But
these 100,000 words represent only the best grains that have remained in
the sieve, while clouds of chaff have been winnowed off, and while many
a valuable grain too has been lost by mere carelessness. If we counted
the wealth of English dialects, and if we added the treasures of the
ancient language from Alfred to Wycliffe, we should easily double the
herbarium of the linguistic flora of England. And what are these Western
Isles as compared to Europe; and what is Europe, a mere promontory, as
compared to the vast continent of Asia; and what again is Asia, as
compared to the whole inhabitable world? But there is no corner of that
world that is not full of language: the very desert and the isles of the
sea teem with dialects, and the more we recede from the centres of
civilization, the larger the number of independent languages, springing
up in every valley, and overshadowing the smallest island.
Ἴδαν ἐς πολύδενδρον ἀνὴρ ὑλατόμος ἐνθὼν
Παπταίνει, παρέοντος ἄδην, πόθεν ἄρξεται ἔργω.
We are bewildered by the variety of plants, of birds, and fishes, and
insects, scattered with lavish prodigality over land and sea;--but what
is the living wealth of that Fauna as compared to the winged words which
fill the air with unceasing music! What are the scanty relics of fossil
plants and animals, compared to the storehouse of what we call the dead
languages! How then can we explain it that for centuries and centuries,
while collecting beasts, and birds, and fishes, and insects, while
studying their forms, from the largest down to the smallest and almost
invisible creatures, man has passed by this forest of speech, without
seeing the forest, as we say in German, for the very number of its trees
(_Man sah den Wald vor lauter Bäumen nicht_), without once asking how
this vast currency could have been coined, what inexhaustible mines
could have supplied the metal, what cunning hands could have devised the
image and superscription,--without once wondering at the countless
treasure inherited by him from the fathers of the human race?
Let us now turn our attention in a different direction. After it had
been discovered that there was this great mass of material to be
collected, to be classified, to be explained, what has the Science of
Language, as yet, really accomplished? It has achieved much, considering
that real work only began about fifty years ago; it has achieved little,
if we look at what still remains to be done.
The first discovery was that languages admit of classification. Now this
was a very great discovery, and it at once changed and raised the whole
character of linguistic studies. Languages might have been, for all we
know, the result of individual fancy or poetry; words might have been
created here and there at random, or been fixed by a convention, more or
less arbitrary. In that case a scientific classification would have been
as impossible as it is if applied to the changing fashions of the day.
Nothing can be classified, nothing can be scientifically ruled and
ordered, except what has grown up in natural order and according to
rational rule.
Out of the great mass of speech that is now accessible to the student of
language, a number of so-called families have been separated, such as
the _Aryan_, the _Semitic_, the _Ural-Altaic_, the _Indo-Chinese_, the
_Dravidian_, the _Malayo-Polynesian_, the _Kafir_ or _Bâ-ntu_ in Africa,
and the _Polysynthetic_ dialects of America. The only classes, however,
which have been carefully examined, and which alone have hitherto
supplied the materials for what we might call the Philosophy of
Language, are the Aryan and the Semitic, the former comprising the
languages of India, Persia, Armenia, Greece and Italy, and of the
Celtic, Teutonic, and Slavonic races; the latter consisting of the
languages of the Babylonians, the Syrians, the Jews, the Ethiopians, the
Arabs.
These two classes include, no doubt, the most important languages of the
world, if we measure the importance of languages by the amount of
influence exercised on the political and literary history of the world
by those who speak them. But considered by themselves, and placed in
their proper place in the vast realm of human speech, they describe but
a very small segment of the entire circle. The completeness of the
evidence which they place before us in the long series of their literary
treasures, points them out in an eminent degree as the most useful
subjects on which to study the anatomy of speech, and nearly all the
discoveries that have been made as to the laws of language, the process
of composition, derivation, and inflexion, have been gained by Aryan and
Semitic scholars.
Far be it from me, therefore, to underrate the value of Aryan and
Semitic scholarship for a successful prosecution of the Science of
Language. But while doing full justice to the method adopted by Semitic
and Aryan scholars in the discovery of the laws that regulate the growth
and decay of language, we must not shut our eyes to the fact that our
field of observation has been thus far extremely limited, and that we
should act in defiance of the simplest rules of sound induction, were we
to generalize on such scanty evidence. Let us but clearly see what place
these two so-called families, the Aryan and Semitic, occupy in the great
kingdom of speech. They are in reality but two centres, two small
settlements of speech, and all we know of them is their period of decay,
not their period of growth, their descending, not their ascending
career, their Being, as we say in German, not their Becoming (_Ihr
Gewordensein, nicht ihr Werden_). Even in the earliest literary
documents both the Aryan and Semitic speech appear before us as fixed
and petrified. They had left forever that stage during which language
grows and expands, before it is arrested in its exuberant fertility by
means of religious or political concentration, by means of oral
tradition, or finally by means of a written literature. In the natural
history of speech, writing, or, what in early times takes the place of
writing, oral tradition, is something merely accidental. It represents a
foreign influence which, in natural history, can only be compared to the
influence exercised by domestication on plants and animals. Language
would be language still, nay, would be more truly language, if the idea
of a literature, whether oral or written, had never entered men’s minds;
and however important the effects produced by this artificial
domestication of language may be, it is clear that our ideas of what
language is in a natural state, and therefore what Sanskrit and Hebrew,
too, must have been before they were tamed and fixed by literary
cultivation, ought not to be formed from an exclusive study of Aryan and
Semitic speech. I maintain that all that we call Aryan and Semitic
speech, wonderful as its literary representatives may be, consists of
neither more or less than so many varieties which all owe their origin
to only two historical concentrations of wild unbounded speech; nay,
however perfect, however powerful, however glorious in the history of
the world,--in the eyes of the student of language, Sanskrit, Greek, and
Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, and Syriac, are what a student of natural history
would not hesitate to call “_monstra_,” unnatural, exceptional
formations which can never disclose to us the real character of language
left to itself to follow out its own laws without let or hindrance.
For that purpose a study of Chinese and the Turanian dialects, a study
even of the jargons of the savages of Africa, Polynesia, and Melanesia
is far more instructive than the most minute analysis of Sanskrit and
Hebrew. The impression which a study of Greek and Latin and Sanskrit
leaves on our minds is, that language is a work of art, most
complicated, most wonderful, most perfect. We have given so many names
to its outward features, its genders and cases, its tenses and moods,
its participles, gerunds, and supines, that at last we are frightened at
our own devices. Who can read through all the so-called irregular verbs,
or look at the thousands and thousands of words in a Greek Dictionary
without feeling that he moves about in a perfect labyrinth? How then, we
ask, was this labyrinth erected? How did all this come to be? We
ourselves, speaking the language which we speak, move about, as it were,
in the innermost chambers, in the darkest recesses of that primeval
palace, but we cannot tell by what steps and through what passages we
arrived there, and we look in vain for the thread of Ariadne which in
leading us out of the enchanted castle of our language, would disclose
to us the way by which we ourselves, or our fathers and forefathers
before us, entered into it.
The question how language came to be what it is has been asked again and
again. Even a school-boy, if he possesses but a grain of the gift of
wondering must ask himself why _mensa_ means one table, and _mensæ_ many
tables; why I love should be _amo_, I am loved _amor_, I shall love
_amabo_, I have loved _amavi_, I should have loved _amavissem_. Until
very lately two answers only could have been given to such questions.
Both sound to us almost absurd, yet in their time they were supported by
the highest authorities. Either, it was said, language, and particularly
the grammatical framework of language was made by _convention_, by
agreeing to call one table _mensa_, and many tables _mensæ_; or, and
this was Schlegel’s view, language was declared to possess an organic
life, and its terminations, prefixes, and suffixes were supposed to have
sprouted forth from the radicals and stems and branches of language,
like so many buds and flowers. To us it seems almost incredible that
such theories should have been seriously maintained, and maintained by
men of learning and genius. But what better answer could they have
given? What better answer has been given even now? We have learnt
something, chiefly from a study of the modern dialects, which often
repeat the processes of ancient speech, and thus betray the secrets of
the family. We have learnt that in some of the dialects of modern
Sanskrit, in Bengali for instance,[4] the plural is formed, as it is in
Chinese, Mongolian, Turkish, Finnish, Burmese, and Siamese, also in the
Dravidian and Malayo-Polynesian dialects, by adding a word expressive of
plurality, and then appending again the terminations of the singular. We
have learnt from French how a future, _je parlerai_, can be formed by an
auxiliary verb: “I to speak have” coming to mean, I shall speak. We have
learnt from our own language, whether English or German, that suffixes,
such as _head_ in _godhead_, _ship_ in _ladyship_, _dom_ in _kingdom_
were originally substantives, having the meaning of quality, shape, and
state. But I doubt whether even thus we should have arrived at a
thorough understanding of the real antecedents of language, unless, what
happened in the study of the stratification of the earth, had happened
in the study of language. If the formation of the crust of the earth had
been throughout regular and uniform, and if none of the lower strata had
been tilted up, so that even those who run might read, no shaft from the
surface could have been sunk deep enough to bring the geologist from the
tertiary strata down to the Silurian rocks. The same in language. Unless
some languages had been arrested in their growth during their earlier
stages, and had remained on the surface in this primitive state exposed
only to the decomposing influence of atmospheric action, and to the
ill-treatment of literary cultivation, I doubt whether any scholar would
have had the courage to say that at one time Sanskrit was like unto
Chinese, and Hebrew no better than Malay. In the successive strata of
language thus exposed to our view, we have in fact, as in Geology, the
very thread of Ariadne, which, if we will but trust to it, will lead us
out of the dark labyrinth of language in which we live, by the same road
by which we and those who came before us, first entered into it. The
more we retrace our steps, the more we advance from stratum to stratum,
from story to story, the more shall we feel almost dazzled by the
daylight that breaks in upon us; the more shall we be struck, no longer
by the intricacy of Greek or Sanskrit grammar, but by the marvelous
simplicity of the original warp of human speech, as preserved, for
instance, in Chinese; by the child-like contrivances, that are at the
bottom of Paulo-post Futures and Conditional Moods.
Let no one be frightened at the idea of studying a Chinese grammar.
Those who can take an interest in the secret springs of the mind, in the
elements of pure reason, in the laws of thought, will find a Chinese
grammar most instructive, most fascinating. It is the faithful
photograph of man in his leading-strings, trying the muscles of his
mind, groping his way, and so delighted with his first successful grasps
that he repeats them again and again. It is child’s play, if you like,
but it displays, like all child’s play, that wisdom and strength which
are perfect in the mouth of babes and sucklings. Every shade of thought
that finds expression in the highly finished and nicely balanced system
of Greek tenses, moods, and particles can be expressed, and has been
expressed, in that infant language by words that have neither prefix nor
suffix, no terminations to indicate number, case, tense, mood, or
person. Every word in Chinese is monosyllabic, and the same word,
without any change of form, may be used as a noun, a verb, an adjective,
an adverb, or a particle. Thus _ta_, according to its position in a
sentence, may mean great, greatness, to grow, very much, very.[5]
And here a very important observation has been made by Chinese
grammarians, an observation which, after a very slight modification and
expansion, contains indeed the secret of the whole growth of language
from Chinese to English. If a word in Chinese is used with the _bonâ
fide_ signification of a noun or a verb, it is called a _full word_
(_shi-tsé_); if it is used as a particle or with a merely determinative
or formal character, it is called an _empty word_ (_hiu-tsé_[6]). There
is as yet no outward difference between full and empty words in Chinese,
and this renders it all the more creditable to the grammarians of China
that they should have perceived the inward distinction, even in the
absence of any outward signs.
Let us learn then from Chinese grammarians this great lesson, that words
may become empty, and without restricting the meaning of empty words as
they do, let us use that term in the most general sense, as expressive
of the fact that words may lose something of their full original
meaning.
Let us add to this another observation, which the Chinese could not well
have made, but which we shall see confirmed again and again in the
history of language, viz.: that empty words, or, as we may also call
them, dead words, are most exposed to phonetic decay.
It is clear then that, with these two preliminary observations, we can
imagine three conditions of language:--
1. There may be languages in which all words, both empty and full,
retain their independent form. Even words which are used when we should
use mere suffixes or terminations, retain their outward integrity in
Chinese. Thus, in Chinese, _jin_ means man, _tu_ means crowd, _jin-tu_,
man-crowd. In this compound both _jin_ and _tu_ continue to be felt as
independent words, more so than in our own compound _man-kind_; but
nevertheless _tu_ has become empty, it only serves to determine the
preceding word _jin_, man, and tells us the quantity or number in which
_jin_ shall be taken. The compound answers in intention to our plural,
but in form it is wide apart from _men_, the plural of _man_.
2. Empty words may lose their independence, may suffer phonetic decay,
and dwindle down to mere suffixes and terminations. Thus in Burmese the
plural is formed by _to_, in Finnish, Mordvinian, and Ostiakian by _t_.
As soon as _to_ ceases to be used as an independent word in the sense of
number, it becomes an empty, or if you like, an obsolete word, that has
no meaning except as the exponent of plurality; nay, at last, it may
dwindle down to a mere letter, which is then called by grammarians the
termination of the plural. In this second stage phonetic decay may
well-nigh destroy the whole body of an empty word, but--and this is
important--no full words, no radicals are as yet attacked by that
disintegrating process.
3. Phonetic decay may advance, and does advance still further. Full
words also may lose their independence, and be attacked by the same
disease that had destroyed the original features of suffixes and
prefixes. In this state it is frequently impossible to distinguish any
longer between the radical and formative elements of words.
If we wished to represent these three stages of language algebraically,
we might represent the first by RR, using R as the symbol of a root
which has suffered no phonetic decay; the second, by R + ρ or ρ + R, or
ρ + R + ρ, representing by ρ an empty word that has suffered phonetic
change; the third, by rρ, or ρr, or ρrρ, when both full and empty words
have been changed, and have become welded together into one
indistinguishable mass through the intense heat of thought, and by the
constant hammering of the tongue.
Those who are acquainted with the works of Humboldt will easily
recognize, in these three stages or strata, a classification of language
first suggested by that eminent philosopher. According to him languages
can be classified as _isolating_, _agglutinative_,[7] and
_inflectional_, and his definition of these three classes agrees in the
main with the description just given of the three strata or stages of
language.
But what is curious is that this threefold classification, and the
consequences to which it leads, should not at once have been fully
reasoned out, nay, that a system most palpably erroneous should have
been founded upon it. We find it repeated again and again in most works
on Comparative Philology, that Chinese belongs to the _isolating_ class,
the Turanian languages to the _combinatory_, the Aryan and Semitic to
the _inflectional_; nay, Professor Pott[8] and his school seem convinced
that no evolution can ever take place from _isolating_ to _combinatory_
and from _combinatory_ to _inflectional_ speech. We should thus be
forced to believe that by some inexplicable grammatical instinct, or by
some kind of inherent necessity, languages were from the beginning
created as _isolating_ or _combinatory_, or _inflectional_, and must
remain so to the end.
It is strange that those scholars who hold that no transition is
possible from one form of language to another, should not have seen that
there is really no language that can be strictly called either
isolating, or combinatory, or inflectional, and that the transition from
one stage to another is in fact constantly taking place under our very
noses. Even Chinese is not free from combinatory forms, and the more
highly developed among the combinatory languages show the clearest
traces of incipient inflection. The difficulty is not to show the
transition of one stratum of speech into another, but rather to draw a
sharp line between the different strata. The same difficulty was felt in
Geology, and led Sir Charles Lyell to invent such pliant names as
_Eocene_, _Meiocene_, and _Pleiocene_, names which indicate a mere dawn,
a minority, or a majority of new formations, but do not draw a fast and
hard line, cutting off one stratum from the other. Natural growth, and
even merely mechanical accumulation and accretion, here as elsewhere,
are so minute and almost imperceptible that they defy all strict
scientific terminology, and force upon us the lesson that we must be
satisfied with an approximate accuracy. For practical purposes
Humboldt’s classification of languages may be quite sufficient, and we
have no difficulty in classing any given language, according to the
prevailing character of its formation, as either isolating, or
combinatory, or inflectional. But when we analyze each language more
carefully we find there is not one exclusively isolating, or exclusively
combinatory, or exclusively inflectional. The power of composition,
which is retained unimpaired through every stratum, can at any moment
place an inflectional on a level with an isolating and a combinatory
language. A compound such as the Sanskrit +go-duh+, cow-milking, differs
little, if at all, from the Chinese _nieou-jou_, _vaccæ lac_, or in the
patois of Canton, _ngau ü_, cow-milk, before it takes the terminations
of the nominative, which is, of course, impossible in Chinese.
So again in English _New-town_, in Greek _Nea-polis_, would be simply
combinatory compounds. Even _Newton_ would still belong to the
combinatory stratum; but _Naples_ would have to be classed as belonging
to the inflectional stage.
Finnish, Hungarian, Turkish, and the Dravidian languages belong in the
main to the combinatory stratum; but having received a considerable
amount of literary cultivation, they all alike exhibit forms which in
every sense of the word are inflectional. If in Finnish, for instance,
we find _käsi_, in the singular, hand, and _kädet_, in the plural,
hands, we see that phonetic corruption has clearly reached the very core
of the noun, and given rise to a plural more decidedly inflectional than
the Greek χεῖρ-ες, or the English _hand-s_. In Tamil, where the suffix
of the plural is +gaḷ+, we have indeed a regular combinatory form in
+kei-gaḷ+, hands; but if the same plural suffix +gaḷ+ is added to +kal+,
stone, the euphonic rules of Tamil require not only a change in the
suffix, which becomes +kaḷ+, but likewise a modification in the body of
the word, +kal+ being changed to +kar+. We thus get the plural +karkaḷ+
which in every sense of the word is an inflectional form. In this plural
suffix +gaḷ+, Dr. Caldwell has recognized the Dravidian +taḷa+ or
+daḷa+, a host, a crowd; and though, as he admits himself in the second
edition (p. 143), the evidence in support of this etymology may not be
entirely satisfactory, the steps by which the learned author of the
Grammar of the Dravidian languages has traced the plural termination
+lu+ in Telugu back to the same original suffix +kaḷ+ admit of little
doubt.
Evidence of a similar kind may easily be found in any grammar, whether
of an isolating, combinatory, or inflectional language, wherever there
is evidence as to the ascending or descending progress of any particular
form of speech. Everywhere amalgamation points back to combination, and
combination back to juxtaposition, everywhere isolating speech tends
towards terminational forms, and terminational forms become
inflectional.
I may best be able to explain the view commonly held with regard to the
strata of language by a reference to the strata of the earth. Here, too,
where different strata have been tilted up, it might seem at first sight
as if they were arranged perpendicularly and side by side, none
underlying the other, none presupposing the other. But as the geologist,
on the strength of more general evidence, has to reverse this
perpendicular position, and to re-arrange his strata in their natural
order, and as they followed each other horizontally, the student of
language too is irresistibly driven to the same conclusion. No language
can by any possibility be inflectional without having passed through the
combinatory and isolating stratum; no language can by any possibility be
combinatory without clinging with its roots to the underlying stratum of
isolation. Unless Sanskrit and Greek and Hebrew had passed through the
combinatory stratum, nay, unless, at some time or other, they had been
no better than Chinese, their present form would be as great a miracle
as the existence of chalk (and the strata associated with it) without an
underlying stratum of oolite (and the strata associated with it;) or a
stratum of oolite unsupported by the trias or system of new red
sandstone. Bunsen’s dictum, that “the question whether a language can
begin with inflections, implies an absurdity,” may have seemed too
strongly worded: but if he took inflections in the commonly received
meaning, in the sense of something that may be added or removed from a
base in order to define or to modify its meaning, then surely the simple
argument _ex nihilo nihil fit_ is sufficient to prove that the
inflections must have been something by themselves, before they became
inflections relatively to the base, and that the base too must have
existed by itself, before it could be defined and modified by the
addition of such inflections.
But we need not depend on purely logical arguments, when we have
historical evidence to appeal to. As far as we know the history of
language, we see it everywhere confined within those three great strata
or zones which we have just described. There are inflectional changes,
no doubt, which cannot as yet be explained, such as the _m_ in the
accusative singular of masculine, feminine, and in the nominative and
accusative of neuter nouns; or the change of vowels between the Hebrew
_Piel_ and _Pual_, _Hiphil_ and _Hophal_, where we might feel tempted to
admit formative agencies different from juxtaposition and combination.
But if we consider how in Sanskrit the Vedic instrumental plural,
+aśvebhis+ (Lat. _equobus_), becomes before our very eyes +aśvais+ (Lat.
_equis_), and how such changes as _Bruder_, brother, and _Brüder_,
brethren, _Ich weiss_, I know, A.S. _wât_, and _Wir wissen_, we know,
A.S. _wit-on_, have been explained as the results of purely mechanical,
_i.e._, combinatory proceedings, we need not despair of further progress
in the same direction. One thing is certain, that, wherever inflection
has yielded to a rational analysis, it has invariably been recognized as
the result of a previous combination, and wherever combination has been
traced back to an earlier stage, that earlier stage has been simple
juxtaposition. The primitive blocks of Chinese and the most perplexing
agglomerates of Greek can be explained as the result of one continuous
formative process, whatever the material elements may be on which it was
exercised; nor is it possible even to imagine in the formation of
language more than these three strata through which hitherto all human
speech has passed.
All we can do is to subdivide each stratum, and thus, for instance,
distinguish in the second stratum the suffixing (R + ρ) from the
prefixing (ρ + R), and from the affixing (ρ + R + ρ) languages.
A fourth class, the infixing or incapsulating languages, are but a
variety of the affixing class, for what in Bask or in the polysynthetic
dialects of America has the appearance of actual insertion of formative
elements into the body of a base can be explained more rationally by the
former existence of simpler bases to which modifying suffixes or
prefixes have once been added, but not so firmly as to exclude the
addition of new suffixes at the end of the base, instead of, as with us,
at the end of the compound. If we could say in Greek δείκ-μι-νυ, instead
of δείκ-νυ-μι, or in Sanskrit +yu-mi-na-j+, instead of +yu-na-j-mi+, we
should have a real beginning of so-called incapsulating formations.[9]
A few instances will place the normal progress of language from stratum
to stratum more clearly before our eyes. We have seen that in Chinese
every word is monosyllabic, every word tells, and there are, as yet, no
suffixes by which one word is derived from another, no case-terminations
by which the relation of one word to another could be indicated. How,
then, does Chinese distinguish between the son of the father, and the
father of the son? Simply by position. _Fú_ is father, _tzé_, son;
therefore _fú tzé_ is son of the father, _tzé fú_, father of the son.
This rule admits of no exception but one. If a Chinese wants to say _a
wine-glass_, he puts _wine_ first and _glass_ last, as in English. If he
wants to say _a glass of wine_, he puts _glass_ first and _wine_ last.
Thus _i-pei thsieou_, a cup of wine; _thsieou pei_, a wine-cup. If,
however, it seems desirable to mark the word which is in the genitive
more distinctly, the word _tchi_ may be placed after it, and we may say,
_fú tchi tzé_, the son of the father. In the Mandarin dialect this
_tchi_ has become _ti_, and is added so constantly to the governed word,
that, to all intents and purposes, it may be treated as what we call the
termination of the genitive. Originally this _tchi_ was a relative, or
rather a demonstrative, pronoun, and it continues to be used as such in
the ancient Chinese.[10]
It is perfectly true that Chinese possesses no derivative suffixes; that
it cannot derive, for instance, _kingly_ from a noun, such as _king_, or
adjectives like _visible_ and _invisible_ from a verb _videre_, to see.
Yet the same idea which we express by invisible, is expressed without
difficulty in Chinese, only in a different way. They say _khan-pu-kien_,
“I-behold-and-do-not-see,” and this to them conveys the same idea as the
English _invisible_, though more exactly _invisible_ might be rendered
by _kien_, to see, _pou-te_, one cannot, _tí_, which.
We cannot in Chinese derive from _ferrum_, iron, a new substantive
_ferrarius_, a man who works in iron, a blacksmith; _ferraria_, an iron
mine, and again _ferrariarius_, a man who works in an iron mine. All
this is possible in an inflectional language only. But it is not to be
supposed that in Chinese there is an independent expression for every
single conception, even for those which are clearly secondary and
derivative. If an arrow in Chinese is _shi_, then a maker of arrows
(in old French _fléchier_, in English _fletcher_) is called an
arrow-man, _shi-jin_. _Shui_ means water, _fu_, man; hence _shui-fu_, a
water man, a water carrier. The same word _shui_, water, if followed by
_sheu_, hand, stands for steersman, literally, water-hand. _Kin_ means
gold, _tsiang_, maker; hence _kin-tsiang_, a goldsmith. _Shou_ means
writing, _sheu_, hand; hence _shou-sheu_, a writer, a copyist,
literally, a writing-hand.
A transition from such compounds to really combinatory speech is
extremely easy. Let _sheu_, in the sense of hand, become obsolete, and
be replaced in the ordinary language by another word for hand; and let
such names as _shu-sheu_, author, _shui-sheu_, boatsman, be retained,
and the people who speak this language will soon accustom themselves to
look upon _sheu_ as a mere derivative, and use it by a kind of false
analogy, even where the original meaning of _sheu_, hand, would not have
been applicable.[11]
We can watch the same process even in comparatively modern languages. In
Anglo-Saxon, for instance, _hâd_ means state, order. It is used as an
independent word, and continued to be so used as late as Spenser, who
wrote:--
“Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good,
So vainly t’ advaunce thy headlesse hood.”
After a time, however, _hâd_, as an independent word, was lost, and its
place taken by more classical expressions, such as _habit_, _nature_, or
_disposition_. But there remained such compounds as _man-hâd_, the state
of man, _God-hâd_, the nature of God; and in these words the last
element, being an empty word and no longer understood, was soon looked
upon as a mere suffix. Having lost its vitality, it was all the more
exposed to phonetic decay, and became both _hood_ and _head_.
Or, let us take another instance, The name given to the fox in ancient
German poetry was _Regin-hart_. _Regin_ in Old High German means thought
or cunning, _hart_, the Gothic _hardu_, means strong. This _hart_[12]
corresponds to the Greek κράτος, which, in its adjectival form of
κρατης, forms as many proper names in Greek as _hart_ in German. In
Sanskrit the same word exists as _kratu_, meaning intellectual rather
than bodily strength, a shade of meaning which is still perceivable even
in the German _hart_, and in the English _hard_ and _hardy_.
_Reginhart_, therefore, was originally a compound, meaning
“thought-strong,” strong in cunning. Other words formed in the same or a
very similar manner are: _Peranhart_ and _Bernhart_, literally,
bear-minded, or bold like a bear; _Eburhart_, boar-minded; _Engil-hart_,
angel-minded; _Gothart_, god-minded; _Egin-hart_, fierce-minded;
_Hugihart_, wise-minded or strong in thought, the English _Hogarth_. In
Low German the second element, _hart_, lost its _h_ and became _ard_.
This _ard_ ceased to convey any definite meaning, and though in some
words which are formed by _ard_ we may still discover its original
power, it soon became a mere derivative, and was added promiscuously to
form new words. In the Low German name for the fox, _Reinaert_, neither
the first nor the second word tells us any longer anything, and the two
words together have become a mere proper name. In other words the first
portion retains its meaning, but the second, _ard_, is nothing but a
suffix. Thus we find the Low German _dronk-ard_, a drunkard; _dick-ard_,
a thick fellow; _rik-ard_, a rich fellow; _gêrard_, a miser. In English
_sweet-ard_, originally a very sweet person, has been changed and
resuscitated as _sweet-heart_,[13] by the same process which changed
_shamefast_ into _shamefaced_. But, still more curious, this suffix
_ard_, which had lost all life and meaning in Low German, was taken over
as a convenient derivative by the Romance languages. After having
borrowed a number of words such as _renard_, fox, and proper names like
_Bernard_, _Richard_, _Gerard_, the framers of the new Romance dialects
used the same termination even at the end of Latin words. Thus they
formed not only many proper names, like _Abeillard_, _Bayard_,
_Brossard_, but appellatives like _leccardo_, a gourmand, _linguardo_,
a talker, _criard_, a crier, _codardo_, Prov. _coart_, Fr. _couard_, a
coward.[14] That a German word _hart_, meaning strong, and originally
strength, should become a Roman suffix may seem strange; yet we no
longer hesitate to use even Hindustani words as English suffixes. In
Hindustani +válá+ is used to form many substantives. If +Dilli+ is
Delhi, then +Dill-vállá+ is a man of Delhi. +Go+ is cow, +go-válá+ a
cow-herd, contracted into +gválá+. Innumerable words can thus be formed,
and as the derivative seemed handy and useful, it was at last added even
to English words, for instance in “Competition wallah.”
These may seem isolated cases, but the principles on which they rest
pervade the whole structure of language. It is surprising to see how
much may be achieved by an application of those principles, how large
results may be obtained by the smallest and simplest means. By means of
the single radical î or +yâ+ (originally +ya+), which in the Aryan
languages means to go or to send, the almost unconscious framers of
Aryan grammar formed not only their neuter, denominative, and causative
verbs, but their passives, their optatives, their futures, and a
considerable number of substantives and adjectives. Every one of these
formations, in Sanskrit as well as in Greek, can be explained, and has
been explained, as the result of a combination between any given verbal
root and the radical _î_ or +yâ+.
There is, for instance, a root +nak+, expressive of perishing or
destruction. We have it in +nak+, night; Latin _nox_, Greek νύξ, meaning
originally the waning, the disappearing, the death of day. We have the
same root in composition, as, for instance, +jîva-nak+, life-destroying;
and by means of suffixes Greek has formed from it νεκ-ρός, a dead body,
νέκ-υς, dead, and νέκ-υ-ες in the plural, the departed. In Sanskrit this
root is turned into a simple verb, +naś-a-ti+, he perishes. But in order
to give to it a more distinctly neuter meaning, a new verbal base is
formed by composition with +ya+, +naś-ya-ti+, he goes to destruction, he
perishes.
By the same or a very similar process denominative verbs are formed in
Sanskrit to a very large extent. From +râjan+, king, we form
+râjâ-ya-te+, he behaves like a king, literally, he goes the king, he
acts the king, _il a l’allure d’un roi_. From +kumârî+, girl,
+kûmârâ-ya-te+, he behaves like a girl, etc.[15]
After raising +naś+ to +nâśa+, and adding the same radical +ya+,
Sanskrit produces a causative verb, +nâśa-ya-ti+, he sends to
destruction, the Latin _nêcare_.
In close analogy to the neuter verb +naśyati+, the regular passive is
formed in Sanskrit by composition with +ya+, but by adding, at the same
time, a different set of personal terminations. Thus +náś-yá-ti+ means
he perishes, while +naś-yá-te+ means he is destroyed.
The usual terminations of the Optative in Sanskrit are:--
yâm, yâs, yât, yâma, yâta, yus,
or, after bases ending in vowels:--
iyam, is, it, ima, ita, iyus.
In Greek:--
ιην, ιης, ιη, ιημεν, ιητε, ιεν,
or, after bases ending in o:--
ιμι, ις, ι, ιμεν, ιτε, ιεν.
In Latin:--
iêm iês iet ---- ---- ient,
îm, îs, it, îmus, îtis, int.
If we add these terminations to the root +AS+, to be, we get the
Sanskrit +s-yâm+ for +as-yâm+:--
syâm, syâs, syât, syâma, syâta, syus.
Greek ἐσ-ίην, contracted to εἴην:--
εἴην, εἴης, εἴη, εἴημεν, εἴητε, εἶεν
Latin _es-iem_, changed to _siêm_, _sîm_, and _erîm_:--
siêm, siês, siet,[16] ---- ---- sient.
sim, sîs, sit,[17] sîmus, sitis, sint.
erîm, erîs, erit, erîmus, erîtis, erint.
If we add the other termination to a verbal base ending in certain
vowels, we get the Sanskrit +bhara-iyam+, contracted to +bháreyam+:--
bharêyam, bharês, bharêt, bharêma, bharêta, bharêyus.
in Greek φέρο-ιμι:--
φέρο-ιμι, φέρο-ις, φέρο-ι, φέρο-ιμεν, φέρο-ιτε, φέρο-ιεν
in Latin _fere-im_, changed to _ferem_, used in the sense of a future,
but replaced[18] in the first person by _feram_, the subjunctive of the
present:--
feram, ferês, feret, ferêmus, ferêtis, ferent.
Perfect Subjunctive:--
tul-erîm, tul-erîs, tul-erit, tul-erimus, tul-eritis,[19] tul-erint.
Here we have clearly the same auxiliary verb, i or +ya+, again, and we
are driven to admit that what we now call an optative or potential mood,
was originally a kind of future, formed by +ya+, to go, very much like
the French _je vais dire_, I am going to say, I shall say, or like the
Zulu
1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4
+ngi-ya-ku-tanda+, I go to love, I shall love.[20]
The future would afterwards assume the character of a civil command, as
“thou wilt go” may be used even by us in the sense of “go;” and the
imperative would dwindle away into a potential, as we may say: “Go and
you will see,” in the same sense as, If you go, you will see.
The terminations of the future are:--
Sanskrit:--
syâmi, syasi, syati, syâmas, syâtha, syanti.
Greek:--
σω, σεις, σει, σομεν, σετε, σοντι.
Latin:--
ero, erĭs, erĭt, erĭmus, erĭtis, erunt.
In these terminations we have really two auxiliary verbs, the verb +as+,
to be, and +ya+, to go, and by adding them to any given root, as, for
instance, +DA+, to give, we have the Sanskrit (+dâ-as-yâ-mi+):--
dâ-s-yâ-mi, dâ-s-ya-si, dâ-s-ya-ti,
dâ-s-yâ-mas, dâ-s-ya-tha, dâ-s-ya-nti,
Greek (δω-εσ-ιω):--
δώ-σ-ω,[21] δώ-σ-εις, δώ-σ-ει,
δώ-σ-ομεν, δώ-σ-ετε, δώ-σ-ουσι
Latin:--
pot-ero, pot-erĭs, pot-erit, pot-erĭmus, pot-erĭtis, pot-erunt.
A verbal form of very frequent occurrence in Sanskrit is the so-called
gerundive participle which signifies that a thing is necessary or proper
to be done. Thus from +budh+, to know, is formed +bodh-ya-s+, one who is
to be known, _cognoscendus_; from +guh+, to hide, +gúh-ya-s+, or
+goh-ya-s+, one who is to be hidden, literally, one who goes to a state
of hiding or being hidden; from +yaj+, to sacrifice, +yâj-ya-s+, one who
is or ought to be worshipped. Here, again, what is going to be becomes
gradually what will be, and lastly, what shall be. In Greek we find but
few analogous forms, such as ἅγιος, holy, στύγ-ι-ος, to be hated; in
Latin _ex-im-i-us_, to be taken out; in Gothic _anda-nêm-ja_, to be
taken on, to be accepted, agreeable, German _angenehm_.[22]
While the gerundive participles in +ya+ are formed on the same principle
as the verbal bases in +ya+ of the passive, a number of substantives in
+ya+ seem to have been formed in close analogy to the bases of
denominative verbs, or the bases of neuter verbs, in all of which the
derivative +ya+ expresses originally the act of going, behaving, and at
last of simple being. Thus from +vid+, to know, we find in Sanskrit
+vid-yâ+, knowing, knowledge; from +śi+, to lie down, +śayyâ+; resting.
Analogous forms in Latin are _gaud-i-um_, _stud-i-um_, or with feminine
terminations, _in-ed-i-a_, _in-vid-i-a_, _per-nic-i-es_, _scab-i-es_; in
Greek, μαν-ί-α, ἁμαρτ-ί-α, or ἁμάρτ-ι-ον; in German, numerous abstract
nouns in _i_ and _e_.[23]
This shows how much can be achieved, and has been achieved, in language
with the simplest materials. Neuter, denominative, causative, passive
verbs, optatives and futures, gerundives, adjectives, and substantives,
all are formed by one and the same process, by means of one and the same
root. It is no inconsiderable portion of grammar which has thus been
explained by this one root +ya+, to go, and we learn again and again how
simple and yet how wonderful are the ways of language, if we follow them
up from stratum to stratum to their original starting-point.
Now what has happened in these cases, has happened over and over again
in the history of language. Everything that is now formal, not only
derivative suffixes, but everything that constitutes the grammatical
framework and articulation of language, was originally material. What we
now call the terminations of cases were mostly local adverbs; what we
call the personal endings of verbs were personal pronouns. Suffixes and
affixes were mostly independent words, nominal, verbal, or pronominal;
there is, in fact, nothing in language that is now empty, or dead, or
formal, that was not originally full, and alive, and material. It is the
object of Comparative Grammar to trace every formal or dead element back
to its life-like form; and though this resuscitating process is by no
means complete, nay, though in several cases it seems hopeless to try to
discover the living type from which proceeded the petrified fragments
which we call terminations or suffixes, enough evidence has been brought
together to establish on the firmest basis this general maxim, that
_Nothing is dead in any language that was not originally alive_; that
nothing exists in a tertiary stratum that does not find its antecedents
and its explanation in the secondary or primary stratum of human speech.
After having explained, as far as it was possible in so short a time,
what I consider to be the right view of the stratification of human
speech, I should have wished to be able to show to you how the aspect of
some of the most difficult and most interesting problems of our science
is changed, if we look at them again with the new light which we have
gained regarding the necessary antecedents of all language. Let me only
call your attention to one of the most contested points in the Science
of Language. The question whether we may assign a common origin to the
Aryan and Semitic languages has been discussed over and over again. No
one thinks now of deriving Sanskrit from Hebrew, or Hebrew from
Sanskrit; the only question is whether at some time or other the two
languages could ever have formed part of one and the same body of
speech. There are scholars, and very eminent scholars, who deny all
similarity between the two, while others have collected materials that
would seem to make it difficult to assign such numerous coincidences to
mere chance. Nowhere, in fact, has Bacon’s observation on this radical
distinction between different men’s dispositions for philosophy and the
sciences been more fully verified than among the students of the Science
of Language:--_Maximum et velut radicale discrimen ingeniorum, quoad
philosophiam et scientias, illud est, quod alia ingenia sint fortiora et
aptiora ad notandas rerum differentias; alia ad notandas rerum
similitudines. . . . . . Utrumque autem ingenium facile labitur in
excessum, prensando aut gradus rerum, aut umbras._[24] Before, however,
we enter upon an examination of the evidence brought forward by
different scholars in support of their conflicting theories, it is our
first duty to ask a preliminary question, viz.: What kind of evidence
have we any right to expect, considering that both Sanskrit and Hebrew
belong, in the state in which we know them, to the inflectional stratum
of speech?
Now it is quite true that Sanskrit and Hebrew had a separate existence
long before they reached the tertiary stratum, before they became
thoroughly inflectional; and that consequently they can share nothing in
common that is peculiar to the inflectional stratum in each, nothing
that is the result of phonetic decay, which sets in after combinatory
formations have become unintelligible and traditional. I mean, supposing
that the pronoun of the first person had been originally the same in the
Semitic and Aryan languages, supposing that in the Hebrew _an-oki_
(Assyrian _an-aku_, Phen. _anak_) the last portion, _oki_, was
originally identical with the Sanskrit +ah+ in +aham+, the Greek ἐγ in
ἐγ-ώ, it would still be useless to attempt to derive the termination
of the first person singular, whether in _kâtal-ti_ or in _ektôl_, from
the same type which in Sanskrit appears as +mi+ or +am+ or +a+, in
+tudâ-mi+, +atud-am+, +tutod-a+. There cannot be between Hebrew and
Sanskrit the same relationship as between Sanskrit and Greek, if indeed
the term of relationship is applicable even to Sanskrit and Greek, which
are really mere dialectic varieties of one and the same type of speech.
The question then arises, Could the Semitic and Aryan languages have
been identical during the second or _combinatory_ period? Here, as
before, the answer must be, I believe, decidedly negative, for not only
are the empty words which are used for derivative purposes different in
each, but, what is far more characteristic, the manner in which they are
added to the stems is different too. In the Aryan languages formative
elements are attached to the ends of words only; in the Semitic
languages they are found both at the end and at the beginning. In the
Aryan languages grammatical compounds are all according to the formula
rρ; in the Semitic we have formations after the formulas rρ, ρr, and
ρrρ.
There remains, therefore, the first or isolating stage only in which
Semitic and Aryan speech might have been identical. But even here we
must make a distinction. All Aryan roots are monosyllabic, all Semitic
roots have been raised to triliteral form. Therefore it is only previous
to the time when the Semitic roots assumed this secondary triliteral
form that any community could possibly be admitted between these two
streams of language. Supposing we knew as an historical fact that at
this early period--a period which transcends the limits of everything we
are accustomed to call historical--Semitic and Aryan speech had been
identical, what evidence of this union could we expect to find in the
actual Semitic and Aryan languages such as we know them in their
inflectional period? Let us recollect that the 100,000 words of English,
nay, the many hundred thousand words in all the dictionaries of the
other Aryan languages, have been reduced to about 500 roots, and that
this small number of roots admits of still further reduction. Let us,
then, bear in mind that the same holds good with regard to the Semitic
languages, particularly if we accept the reduction of all triliteral to
biliteral roots. What, then, could we expect in our comparison of Hebrew
and Sanskrit but a small number of radical coincidences, a similarity in
the form and meaning of about 500 radical syllables, everything else in
Hebrew and Sanskrit being an after-growth, which could not begin before
the two branches of speech were severed once and forever.
But more, if we look at these roots we shall find that their predicative
power is throughout very general, and therefore liable to an infinite
amount of specification. A root that means to fall (Sk. +pat+,
πί-πτ-ω) comes to mean to fly (Sk. +ut-pat+, πέτομαι). The root
+dâ+, which means to give, assumes, after the preposition â, the sense
of taking. The root +yu+, which means to join, means to separate if
preceded by the preposition +vi+. The root +ghar+, which expresses
brightness, may supply, and does supply in different Aryan languages,
derivations expressive of brightness (gleam), warmth (Sk. +gharma+,
heat), joy (χαίρειν), love (χάρις), of the colors of green (Sk.
+hari+), yellow (_gilvus_, _flavus_), and red (Sk. +harit+, _fulvus_),
and of the conception of growing (_ger-men_). In the Semitic languages
this vagueness of meaning in the radical elements forms one of the
principal difficulties of the student, for according as a root is used
in its different conjugations, it may convey the most startling variety
of conception. It is also to be taken into account that out of the very
limited number of roots which at that early time were used in common by
the ancestors of the Aryan and Semitic races, a certain portion may have
been lost by each, so that the fact that there are roots in Hebrew of
which no trace exists in Sanskrit, and _vice versâ_, would again be
perfectly natural and intelligible.
It is right and most essential that we should see all this clearly, that
we should understand how little evidence we are justified in expecting
in support of a common origin of the Semitic and Aryan languages, before
we commit ourselves to any opinion on this important subject. I have by
no means exhausted all the influences that would naturally, nay
necessarily, have contributed towards producing the differences between
the radical elements of Aryan and Semitic speech, always supposing that
the two sprang originally from the same source. Even if we excluded the
ravages of phonetic decay from that early period of speech, we should
have to make ample allowances for the influence of dialectic variety. We
know in the Aryan languages the constant play between gutturals,
dentals, and labials (_quinque_, Sk. +panca+, πέντε, Æol. πέμπε, Goth.
_fimf_). We know the dialectic interchange of Aspirate, Media, and
Tenuis, which, from the very beginning, has imparted to the principal
channels of Aryan speech their individual character (τρεῖς, Goth.
_threis_, High German _drei_).[25] If this and much more could happen
within the dialectic limits of one more or less settled body of speech,
what must have been the chances beyond those limits? Considering how
fatal to the identity of a word the change of a single consonant would
be in monosyllabic languages, we might expect that monosyllabic roots,
if their meaning was so general, vague, and changeable, would all the
more carefully have preserved their consonantal outline. But this is by
no means the case. Monosyllabic languages have their dialects no less
than polysyllabic ones; and from the rapid and decisive divergence of
such dialects, we may learn how rapid and decisive the divergence of
language must have been during the isolating period. Mr. Edkins, who has
paid particular attention to the dialects of Chinese, states that in the
northern provinces the greatest changes have taken place, eight initial
and one final consonant having been exchanged for others, and three
finals lost. Along the southern bank of the Yang-tsï-kiang, and a little
to the north of it, the old initials are all preserved, as also through
Chekiang to Fuh-kien. But among the finals, _m_ is exchanged for _n_;
_t_ and _p_ are lost, and also _k_, except in some country districts.
Some words have two forms, one used colloquially, and one appropriated
to reading. The former is the older pronunciation, and the latter more
near to Mandarin. The cities of Su-cheu, Hang-cheu, Ningpo, and
When-cheu, with the surrounding country, may be considered as having one
dialect, spoken probably by thirty millions of people, _i.e._, by more
than the whole population of Great Britain and Ireland. The city of
Hwei-cheu has a dialect of its own, in which the soft initial consonants
are exchanged for hard and aspirated ones, a process analogous to what
we call _Lautverschiebung_ in the Aryan languages. At Fu-cheu-fu, in the
eastern part of the province of Kiang-si, the soft initials have
likewise been replaced by aspirates. In many parts of the province of
Hunan the soft initials still linger on; but in the city of Chang-sha
the spoken dialect has the five tones of Mandarin, and the aspirated and
other initials distributed in the same manner. In the island of Hai-nan
there is a distinct approach to the form which Chinese words assume in
the language of Annam. Many of the hard consonants are softened, instead
of the reverse taking place as in many other parts of China. Thus _ti_,
_di_, both _ti_ in Mandarin, are both pronounced _di_ in Hai-nan. _B_
and _p_ are both used for many words whose initials are _w_ and _f_ in
Mandarin. In the dialects of the province of Fuhkien the following
changes take place in initial consonants: _k_ is used for _h_; _p_ for
_f_; _m_, _b_, for _w_; _j_ for _y_; _t_ for _ch_; _ch_ for _s_; _ng_
for _i_, _y_, _w_; _n_ for _j_.[26] When we have clearly realized to
ourselves what such changes mean in words consisting of one consonant
and one vowel, we shall be more competent to act as judges, and to
determine what right we have to call for more ample and more definite
evidence in support of the common origin of languages which became
separated during their monosyllabic or isolating stages, and which are
not known to us before they are well advanced in the inflectional stage.
It might be said,--Why, if we make allowance for all this, the evidence
really comes to nothing, and is hardly deserving of the attention of the
scholar. I do not deny that this is, and always has been my own opinion.
All I wish to put clearly before other scholars is, that this is not our
fault. We see why there can be no evidence, and we find there is no
evidence, or very little support of a common origin of Semitic and Aryan
speech. But that is very different from dogmatic assertions, so often
and so confidently repeated, that there can be no kind of relationship
between Sanskrit and Hebrew, that they must have had different
beginnings, that they represent, in fact, two independent species of
human speech. All this is pure dogmatism, and no true scholar will be
satisfied with it, or turn away contemptuously from the tentative
researches of scholars like Ewald, Raumer, and Ascoli. These scholars,
particularly Raumer and Ascoli, have given us, as far as I can judge,
far more evidence in support of a radical relationship between Hebrew
and Sanskrit than, from my point of view, we are entitled to expect.
I mean this as a caution in both directions. If, on one side, we ought
not to demand more than we have a right to demand, we ought, on the
other, not to look for, nor attempt to bring forward, more evidence than
the nature of the case admits of. We know that words which have
identically the same sound and meaning in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and
German, cannot be the same words, because they would contravene those
phonetic laws that made these languages to differ from each other. _To
doom_ cannot have any connection with the Latin _damnare_; _to call_
cannot be the Greek καλεῖν, the Latin _calare_; nor Greek φαῦλος
the German _faul_; the English _care_ cannot be identified with Latin
_cura_, nor the German _Auge_ with the Greek αὐγή. The same applies,
only with a hundred-fold greater force, to words in Hebrew and Sanskrit.
If any triliteral root in Hebrew were to agree with a triliteral word in
Sanskrit, we should feel certain, at once, that they are not the same,
or that their similarity is purely accidental. Pronouns, numerals, and a
few imitative rather than predicative names for father and mother, etc.,
may have been preserved from the earliest stage by the Aryan and Semitic
speakers; but if scholars go beyond, and compare such words as Hebrew
_barak_, to bless, and Latin _precari_; Hebrew _lab_, heart, and the
English _liver_; Hebrew _melech_, king, and the Latin _mulcere_, to
smoothe, to quiet, to subdue, they are in great danger, I believe, of
proving too much.
Attempts have lately been made to point out a number of roots which
Chinese shares in common with Sanskrit. Far be it from me to stigmatize
even such researches as unscientific, though it requires an effort for
one brought up in the very straitest school of Bopp, to approach such
inquiries without prejudice. Yet, if conducted with care and sobriety,
and particularly with a clear perception of the limits within which such
inquiries must be confined, they are perfectly legitimate; far more so
than the learned dogmatism with which some of our most eminent scholars
have declared a common origin of Sanskrit and Chinese as out of the
question. I cannot bring myself to say that the method which Mr.
Chalmers adopts in his interesting work on the “Origin of Chinese” is
likely to carry conviction to the mind of the _bonà fide_ skeptic.
I believe, before we compare the words of Chinese with those of any
other language, every effort should be made to trace Chinese words back
to their most primitive form. Here Mr. Edkins has pointed out the road
that ought to be followed, and has clearly shown the great advantage to
be derived from an accurate study of Chinese dialects. The same scholar
has done still more by pointing out how Chinese should at first be
compared with its nearest relatives, the Mongolian of the
North-Turanian, and the Tibetan of the South-Turanian class, before any
comparisons are attempted with more distant colonies that started during
the monosyllabic period of speech. “I am now seeking to compare,” he
writes, “the Mongolian and Tibetan with the Chinese, and have already
obtained some interesting results:--
“1. A large proportion of Mongol words are Chinese. Perhaps a fifth are
so. The identity is in the first syllable of the Mongol words, that
being the root. The correspondence is most striking in the adjectives,
of which perhaps one half of the most common are the same radically as
in Chinese; e.g., _sain_, good; _begen_, low; _ic‘hi_, right; _sologai_,
left; _c‘hihe_, straight; _gadan_, outside; _c’hohon_, few; _logon_,
green; _hung-gun_, light (not heavy). But the identity is also extensive
in other parts of speech, and this identity of common roots seems to
extend into the Turkish, Tatar, etc.; e.g., _su_, water; _tenri_,
heaven.
“2. To compare Mongol with Chinese it is necessary to go back at least
six centuries in the development of the Chinese language. For we find in
common roots final letters peculiar to the old Chinese, _e.g._, final
_m_. The initial letters also need to be considered from another
standpoint than the Mandarin pronunciation. If a large number of words
are common to Chinese, Mongol, and Tatar, we must go back at least
twelve centuries to obtain a convenient epoch of comparison.
“3. While the Mongol has no traces of tones, they are very distinctly
developed in Tibetan. Csoma de Körös and Schmidt do not mention the
existence of tones, but they plainly occur in the pronunciation of
native Tibetans resident in Peking.
“4. As in the case of the comparison with Mongol, it is necessary in
examining the connection of Tibetan with Chinese to adopt the old form
of the Chinese with its more numerous final consonants, and its full
system of soft, hard, and aspirated initials. The Tibetan numerals
exemplify this with sufficient clearness.
“5. While the Mongol is near the Chinese in the extensive prevalence of
words common to the two languages, the Tibetan is near in phonal
structure, as being tonic and monosyllabic. This being so, it is less
remarkable that there are many words common to Chinese and Tibetan, for
it might have been expected; but that there should be perhaps as many in
the Mongol with its long untoned polysyllables, is a curious
circumstance.”[27]
This is no doubt the right spirit in which researches into the early
history of language should be conducted, and I hope that Mr. Edkins, Mr.
Chalmers, and others, will not allow themselves to be discouraged by the
ordinary objections that are brought against all tentative studies. Even
if their researches should only lead to negative results, they would be
of the highest importance. The criterion by which we test the
relationship of inflectional languages, such as Sanskrit and Greek,
Hebrew and Arabic, cannot, from the nature of the case, be applied to
languages which are still in the combinatory or isolating stratum, nor
would they answer any purpose, if we tried by them to determine whether
certain languages, separated during their inflectional growth, had been
united during their combinatory stage, or whether languages, separated
during their combinatory progress, had started from a common centre in
their monosyllabic age. Bopp’s attempt to work with his Aryan tools on
the Malayo-Polynesian languages, and to discover in them traces of Aryan
forms, ought to serve as a warning example.
However, there are dangers also, and even greater dangers, on the
opposite shore, and if Mr. Chalmers in his interesting work on “the
Origin of Chinese,” compares, for instance, the Chinese _tzé_, child,
with the Bohemian _tsi_, daughter, I know that the indignation of the
Aryan scholars will be roused to a very high pitch, considering how they
have proved most minutely that _tsi_ or _dci_ in Bohemian is the regular
modification of _dugte_, and that _dugte_ is the Sanskrit +duhitar+, the
Greek θυγάτηρ, daughter, originally a pet-name, meaning a milk-maid,
and given by the Aryan shepherds, and by them only, to the daughters of
their house. Such accidents[28] will happen in so comprehensive a
subject as the Science of Language. They have happened to scholars like
Bopp, Grimm, and Burnouf, and they will happen again. I do not defend
haste or inaccuracy, I only say, we must venture on, and not imagine
that all is done, and that nothing remains to conquer in our science.
Our watchword, here as elsewhere, should be Festina lente! but, by all
means, Festina! Festina! Festina!
Part II.
ON CURTIUS’ CHRONOLOGY OF THE INDO-GERMANIC LANGUAGES.
In a former Lecture on the “Stratification of Language” I ventured to
assert that wherever _inflection_ has yielded to a rational analysis, it
has invariably been recognized as the result of a previous
_combination_, and wherever _combination_ has been traced back to an
earlier stage, that earlier stage has been simply _juxtaposition_.
Professor Pott in his “Etymologische Forschungen” (1871, p. 16), a work
which worthily holds its place by the side of Bopp’s “Comparative
Grammar,” questions the correctness of that statement; but in doing so
he seems to me to have overlooked the restrictions which I myself had
introduced, in order to avoid the danger of committing myself to what
might seem too general a statement. I did not say that every form of
inflection had been proved to spring from a previous combination, but I
spoke of those cases only where we have succeeded in a rational analysis
of inflectional forms, and it was in these that I maintained that
inflection had always been found to be the result of previous
combination. What is the object of the analysis of grammatical
inflections, or of Comparative Grammar in general, if not to find out
what terminations originally were, before they had assumed a purely
formal character? If we take the French adverb _sincèrement_, sincerely,
and trace it back to the Latin _sincerâ mente_, we have for a second
time the three stages of juxtaposition, combination, and, to a certain
extent, inflection, repeated before our eyes. I say, inflection, for
_ment_, though originally an independent word, soon becomes a mere
adverbial suffix, the speakers so little thinking of its original
purport, that we may say of a stone that it falls _lourdement_, heavily,
without wishing to imply that it falls _luridâ mente_, with a heavy,
lit., with a lurid mind.
If we take the nom. sing. of a noun in Sanskrit, Greek, or Latin, we
find that masculine nouns end frequently in _s_. We have for instance,
Sk. +veśa-s+, Gr. οἶκο-ς, Lat. _vîcu-s_. These three words are
identical in their termination, in their base, and in their root. The
root is the Sk. +viś+, to settle down, to enter upon or into a thing.
This root, without undergoing any further change, may answer the purpose
both of a verbal and a nominal base. In the precative, for instance, we
have +viś-yâ-t+, he may enter, which yields to a rational analysis into
+viś+, the root +yâ+, to go, and the old pronominal stem of the third
person, _t_, he. We reduplicate the root, and we get the perfect
+vi-viś-us+, they have entered. Here I can understand that objections
might be raised against accepting us as a mere phonetic corruption of
+ant+ and +anti+; but if, as in Greek, we find as the termination of the
third pers. plur. of the perfect ᾶσι, we know that this is a merely
phonetic change of the original +anti+,[29] and this +anti+ has been
traced back by Pott himself (whether rightly or wrongly, we need not
here inquire) to the pronominal stems +ana+, that, and +ti+, he. These
two stems, when joined together, become +anti+,[30] meaning _those_ and
_he_, and are gradually reduced to ᾶσι, and in Sanskrit to +us+ for
+ant+. What we call reduplication has likewise been traced back by Pott
himself to an original repetition of the whole root, so that +vi-viś+
stands for an original or intentional +viś-viś+; thus showing again the
succession of the three stages, juxtaposition, +viś-viś+, combination
+vi-viś+, inflection, the same, +vi-viś+, though liable to further
phonetic modification.
Used as a nominal base the same root +viś+ appears, without any change,
in the nom. plur. +viś-as+, the settlers, the clans, the people. Now
here again Professor Pott himself has endeavored to explain the
inflection +as+ by tracing it back to the pronominal base +as+, in
+asau+, _ille_. He therefore takes the plural +viś-as+ as a compound,
meaning “man and
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