*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64834 ***

Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics.

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

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THE ORIGIN OF THOUGHT AND SPEECH

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THE ORIGIN OF THOUGHT AND SPEECH


  BY
  M. MONCALM

  TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
  BY
  G. S. WHITMARSH

  “Language is the autobiography of the human mind.”
    _The Science of Thought_ (MAX MÜLLER).

  “Language is our Rubicon which no brute will dare to cross.”
    _The Science of Language_ (MAX MÜLLER).


  LONDON
  KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., LTD.
  DRYDEN HOUSE, 43 GERRARD STREET, W.
  1905

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With the approval of the Author’s representative, the translator has at
times followed the exact words of Max Müller rather than the literal
translation, where the latter has differed slightly from the former.

The thanks of the translator are due to friends who have kindly revised
the MS. and a portion of the proof sheets.

       *       *       *       *       *

The books used by the Author in this work are:--

MAX MÜLLER.

  _Introduction to the Science of Religion._
  _Origin and Growth of Religion._
  _Chips from a German Workshop._
  _The Science of Language._
  _The Science of Thought._
  _Natural Religion._
  _Physical Religion._
  _Anthropological Religion._
  _Theosophy, or Psychological Religion._

CH. DARWIN.

  _Origin of Species._
  _The Descent of Man._
  _Expression of the Emotions._

L. NOIRÉ.

  _Der Ursprung der Sprache._
  _Die Lehre Kants, und der Ursprung der Vernunft._




CONTENTS


                                               PAGE

                INTRODUCTION                      1

  CHAPTER I     HYPOTHESES                       14

  CHAPTER II    OUR ARYAN ANCESTORS              41

  CHAPTER III   THE PHILOSOPHY OF LANGUAGE       51

  CHAPTER IV    ANIMALS                          57

  CHAPTER V     PRIMITIVE HUMANITY               63

    The 121 Original Concepts                    89

  CHAPTER VI    ANCIENT LANGUAGE                 93

  CHAPTER VII   MYTHS                            99

  CHAPTER VIII  BETWEEN SLEEPING AND WAKING     118

  CHAPTER IX    A DECISIVE STEP                 140

    Kant’s Teaching                             149
    Sensation                                   149
    Space and Time                              152
    Phenomena                                   152
    The Categories of the Understanding         153
    Cause and Effect                            154
    Axioms                                      154
    Metaphysics                                 156

  CHAPTER X     THE VEDIC HYMNS                 173

  CHAPTER XI    MAN’S CONCEPTIONS OF RELIGION   214

    The Sacred Writings of the Hebrews          228
    The Various Names of God                    231
    The Genius of Languages                     234
    Metaphor                                    235
    The Later Name for God amongst the Hebrews  236
    On the Prophets (Nābhī)                     238
    The Views of Spinoza                        242
    Obedience                                   246
    The Law                                     249
    The Law in the Gospel                       251
    Biographical Note                           252
    The Ideas of Plato                          255
    Episodial                                   257
    An Excursion into a Country little known    258
    Anthropomorphism                            261
    The Sacred Codes and the Codes of Laws      262

  CHAPTER XII   OF WORDS                        276

  CHAPTER XIII  OBSERVATIONS AND REFLECTIONS    286

    Physics                                     287
    Comparative Sciences                        288
    Concerning some Authors                     291
    Religion and Religions                      293
    Opposition                                  298
    Abstraction, Inattention                    298
    Speech                                      300
    Résumé                                      303

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THE ORIGIN OF THOUGHT AND SPEECH




INTRODUCTION


When opening my eyes in the morning, and whilst still struggling with
an inclination to sleep, I review the day and what it will have in
store for me; but the pictures drawn are confused, and my will takes no
part in it.

For some time I have been haunted by the impression that the mental
faculties of the generality of men have not succeeded in throwing
off a species of torpor resembling that of a person hardly awake;
the supposition that this torpid condition prevents our minds from
attaining that degree of lucidity to which they have a right to aspire,
is perhaps a hallucination, yet possibly I may be right in thinking it.

How many confused ideas traverse my brain in one day, and how seldom
those come of which I follow the thread. We know well that injunction
so often given by parents to children, and by schoolmasters to their
pupils: “Try to concentrate your attention.” It almost seems as if that
which we require of children is beyond my powers, for I have hardly
resolved to disentangle a problem of whatever kind, when, under the
form of useless, futile, inept thoughts, obstacles heap themselves
across my path. I conclude from this that a fatal somnolence paralyses
my faculties.

When a person has to be awakened who is disinclined to be disturbed,
he is violently shaken. What movement would suffice to energise a
man whose mental powers were drowsy? I do not see anything from the
outside; and a personal effort could not be looked for, from an
enervated will.

And yet I am possessed by the desire to penetrate the mystery of my
existence; I ask myself what I am, and why I am on this earth; from the
moment that I put this question to myself I feel that the awakening may
be possible for me. I know two classes of men who never ask it; first
those who do not see that there is any problem to solve; and secondly
those who are content with infantine and superficial teaching; or more
or less elaborate and learned, but coming from one who appears to
himself to be the depository of a collection of supernaturally inspired
truths. I own that I do not belong to the first of these divisions,
since I shall have no rest as long as I am ignorant of what passes in
me and around me; neither do I belong to the second of these classes,
since those who compose it are content to believe; but faith is not
knowledge, and I am anxious to comprehend what has been discovered,
known, and established by evidence. But how shall I submit to this
labour of research, when the habitual condition of my thoughts is to
wander at will amongst my impressions, and when I am so incurably
absent-minded?

We live in an atmosphere of many and varied ideas; ideas true and
false, good and bad; they pulsate in the air we breathe; they are like
the winged antheral seeds which are lifted up by the slightest breeze
of autumn and carried afar; they are little heeded; but should it
happen that these seeds attached themselves to our garments we should
notice how strikingly the one form varied from the other.

Amongst those ideas which wander at large is this aphorism--that we
are ignorant of that of which we know not the commencement, or in
other words of that which we do not examine from the practical point
of view; he who wishes to learn how something is made, whatever it may
be, must know how to begin it. This truth has so ancient a date that
we cannot conceive of a time when it was absent from the mind of man;
only it had the common lot of all truths with which we are so familiar
that apparently there is nothing to learn from them, and this aphorism
appears at first sight to be the ramblings which we hear but to which
we do not listen.

To me it is of value, as it strengthens my conviction that the mist
which obscures my vision will not be dissipated until I have traced
certain problems to their source; I know by experience that few
phenomena are easy of explanation when their appearances only are
examined at any given moment; and close questioning fails to elicit
light, whilst ignorance prevails concerning their beginning.

How does it happen that in spite of such unfavourable circumstances,
often with no clear purpose, and with eyes half shut, humanity can
advance? For the progress is indubitable. The public conscience has
developed; and its actions make themselves felt; civilised nations
have become more humane; they understand better than they did formerly
that peace is more profitable than war; certain social problems are
being seriously discussed, and some are on the point of solution. In
the physical sciences, as well as in mechanical arts, progress is most
marked. But I see that though imagination, observation, and a talent
for invention have had much to do with this progress, the capacity of
imitation has also been a powerful factor. When William Herschel gave
up music for astronomy, he perfected the optical instruments which
were in use at that time, and manufactured some excellent telescopes
at comparatively moderate prices, with the result that his fellow
astronomers and their successors were able to devote themselves to the
study of the heavens with greater ease and readiness; and the discovery
of Uranus was soon followed by that of a large number of celestial
bodies. Again, at one of the National Exhibitions of our time, there
was shown to all comers the model of a recently invented apparatus
for the conveyance of the wounded on battlefields; since which, each
country now produces its own design with various improvements, and the
victims of the barbarism, still lingering in war, were benefited by
these modern appliances, due entirely to the art of imitation.

In short, progress exists, but not all along the line. As thought
travels slowly in its own domain, so mental science is behindhand.
A true idea is not mechanically reproduced, it must be tended for
it to bear fruit, but what tendance would avail, if it is only with
difficulty that we discriminate between what we know already, and what
we do not yet know, for this distinction must accompany conscious
progress.

Everything around us tends to keep us in this penumbra, which is
so favourable to inertia, ignorance, sleep. Certain groups of
philosophical ideas become condensed and systematised; in some systems
there are one or two great thoughts only. This suffices--these systems
remain, germinate and direct contemporaneous generations as well as
those of the future. It may also happen that these same ideas invade
brains little prepared to receive them, and thus deviate from their
course, err as they advance, and end by becoming so travestied that
it is no longer possible to know what they were at their origin--a
swerving movement has taken place, which causes suffering to
contemporaries, and, still more, to those who come after. Thus the bulk
increases, the bulk of truth and the bulk of error; and this fatal
expansion of the true and the false, intertwined the one with the
other, pursues its encroaching and troublous way.

This confusion is something impersonal; it is an opaque body which
interposes itself between the truth and ourselves, and prevents us
from contemplating it; but the confusion may also arise directly from
those whose mission it is to guide us. I open a book written by some
grave thinker who, I imagine, knows his subject thoroughly, and I
begin to read in all confidence; at first I think I understand him;
then I am stopped by a word, and I wonder what meaning the author has
attached to it; a little further I come upon the same word, which now
seems invested with another signification; this disconcerts me, and
I close the book. I take another, but the same disagreeable surprise
awaits me, and I find everywhere terms whose meaning varies to suit the
convenience of the author; and what we are to understand by these words
is nowhere explained. These defects arise probably from the fact that
certain philosophers, taking their confused opinions for new ideas,
seek for words in which to express them, and not finding them in their
vocabulary, they coin them, using terms to which no precise meaning is
attached; which terms remain more or less enigmatical to the authors
themselves, and, consequently, unintelligible to the readers; in this
way does the confusion of ideas arise and is propagated. A philosopher,
I think it was Haman, made the following very true and very alarming
statement: “Language is not only the basis of our power of thought, but
also the point from which our misunderstandings and errors spring”; and
Hobbes also says: “It is obvious that truth and falsehood dwell only
with those living creatures who have the use of speech.”

But all that I have just said indicates merely a superficial portion
of my passing impressions; in going below the surface I find in the
past other causes for our present perturbation of mind. For centuries
we have frequented schools in order to learn to distinguish truth
from error, yet it is always a mixture of truth and error that we
are taught. What result had we attained on the eve of the twentieth
century? We are still asking ourselves whether science does or does not
harmonise with religion. After that we cannot but give ourselves up to
the deepest despondency, we cannot but fold our arms in despair and
question whether we shall ever see things clearly.

Amongst our ancestors there were sometimes found men of great
resolution who, in order to punish themselves for cowardice and luxury,
administered discipline to themselves; the idea is not so extravagant
as it appears to some people. A few good strokes of the whip might
result in reviving or strengthening the will, and in forcing it to
resist the moral supineness which is so apt to increase; but physical
discipline is no longer in use amongst us, and in my own case I have
substituted an illustration of which I try never to lose sight. I
picture to myself an ideal potter, whose whole ambition would be to
make good vessels, and, having succeeded in making some of great
solidity, he would choose out those of the finest shape for the market.
He attains success, and his thoughts being occupied with his pottery
only, at last he makes vases of absolute perfection. With what feelings
of envy I contemplate this creature of my imagination, who is to serve
as my model, and yet whom the want of concentration of thought prevents
me from imitating.

It would have been perhaps prudent on my part to follow the example
of this workman, and to accustom myself to reflect on subjects less
immeasurably above me than those which have such a powerful attraction
for me; but I yield to the impulse--once given. I often lose myself
when pondering on the world where destiny has placed me; and I ask
myself--How did life first appear on the earth? Was there nothing but
a cellule from whence all that fills space came? Was there one cellule
for the vegetables and another for the animals? If man did not spring
from the cradle of all things that live and grow on the surface of
the globe, was he an individual of his own species at the beginning,
or two individuals, or many? After what fashion did man speak at his
first appearance? What were his thoughts? “How can it be explained,” I
asked myself again, “that of all the members of the animal kingdom, one
only should have marvelled at and pondered on his position with regard
to the universe and himself? That one only should have manifested
the desire to understand his role in life, whilst all the creatures
that surrounded him, lived contentedly in blissful ignorance? It
would be impossible to conceive of a horse, an elephant, or a mammoth
disquieting itself concerning its origin and the end of its being; why
has man only sought a solution of these problems?” The learned scholars
who occupy themselves with these questions are far from agreeing
unanimously concerning them; thus I--I, who am only one link in the
interminable chain of units which composes humanity, past, present and
future; I, in my own individuality must live and die in my ignorance.
I revolt against this prospect, which I yet recognise as inevitable;
I refuse to acknowledge myself beaten, and I feel myself irresistibly
driven to seek for more knowledge; then feeling unable to supply the
lack, I cease to be anxious, and fall asleep again.

Sometimes when led to investigate the inner tribunal, conscience, I
contemplate a phenomenon purely intellectual and moral, which the
uproar raised by the conflict of so many heterogeneous ideas cannot
make me forget, although it does not intrude itself upon me with
violence; on the contrary, it waits with an unparalleled patience and
discretion at my door. It is the phenomenon named religion.

We read in the Bible that Moses, having noticed a burning bush that
yet was not consumed, went up to it, the more closely to investigate
this marvel. For many people religion has borne the same aspect that
the burning bush did for Moses, and those, like Moses, have approached
it in the endeavour to discover what it could be. Religion has always
compelled attention, its metaphysical side has been described in
voluminous theological and philosophical treatises; historians on their
side have made many researches concerning the forms in which it has
clothed itself on earth during a long succession of centuries, and
amongst many peoples; it is even said there are learned men who have
studied all the Bibles and catechisms; and it is added that few amongst
them know what religion really is. It does not on that account play
a less important part in our existence; it is from religion that all
those acts of devotion and charity spring, to which millions of human
creatures give themselves. There are few who ask themselves whence
comes this breath which inspires them so fully, and since when has its
influence extended itself amongst us; to be nourished with its fruits
sufficed. Such is the disposition of soul of the majority of those
for whom religion is more than a name--whatsoever it be--pronounced
in an unknown tongue. Would it not be natural to desire to make its
acquaintance more closely? Apparently not; we accept it as something
known by intuition, without concerning ourselves with its aspect.

This strange fact I have also noticed. When studying history very
attentively, and with an attitude of mind free from all prejudice,
it is possible to fix the exact period at which errors, more or less
generally acknowledged as such, have first crept into the world; but I
have vainly sought in history for the corresponding moment when truths
first made their appearance; truths, which have been accepted, if only
by a few isolated individuals, or by certain groups of individuals, of
whatever race, or of whatever period of the life of humanity they might
be. But as it is acknowledged that amongst the errors which trouble
us, we possess some truths, it is evident that they have manifested
themselves; but when and how? At this I do not arrive.

This silence of history indicates, I think, that the truths of which
we seek the commencement have been revealed to man in prehistoric
days. I do not feel that I know positively concerning the first human
beings who appeared on the earth; I picture them like soft wax ready to
receive a definite form from the hand which created them. These first
comers who knew nothing, never having had any training, and possessing
only their five senses to aid them in arriving at knowledge, were
infinitely better placed than I am to embrace truth, since I should
have to disentangle myself from a vast mass of ideas which disfigure
the natural simplicity of my soul; I should have to forget, even the
truths which I believed myself to possess, and to transform myself
into white plastic blank wax, with no impress whatsoever, and to wait
until my Creator traced the image He wished; this is now not possible.
I should not be now here if I could have been contemporaneous with my
ancestors, and I had been permitted to follow in the steps of their
pilgrimage, this would have pleased me well.

I perceive my friends are uneasy--“Take care,” they say, “an _Idée
fixe_ is dangerous.”

But is it quite certain that an _Idée fixe_ is always harmful?
Have they never seen a man wandering in a forest without any fixed
determination to quit it? Is it credible that our first parents had no
fixed idea of discovering the import towards themselves, of the vast
world in which they had been placed, knowing nothing of the reason
of their position? Equally ignorant of the reason why the sun, the
moon, fire, hurricanes, storms, thunder, rivers, mountains existed,
always above and around them. The whole of nature itself required to
be interrogated. In what way could this settled determination have
harmed them? It is true that they are all dead, but determination did
not kill them. And their _Idée fixe_ must have been very tenacious and
powerful for this thirst for knowledge to have descended with their
blood into our own veins; their wish to gain information is reproduced
in us; this is the legacy that our fathers have left us, and the
singular feature of the legacy is that unlike others, of which the
parts are subdivided and diminished, this in its entirety has passed
down to each of the milliards and milliards of inheritors.

Must we then feel that we are destined to ask perpetually, and to
receive no answer? That need not be. Many things that our ancestors
could not fathom are clear to us; what was unknown to them is known
to us. That which prevents us from following up this line of progress
through these phases is that each reply brings forth anew fresh
questions, and thus it will be to the end--if the end should ever
arrive. This last question we do not put to ourselves, which is an
indication that we are not careful to arrive at the answer. When I
compare the present state of our knowledge, and of our condition of
mind, to which I have given the epithets of torpor and inertia--and
they are rightly given--to that which held sway in the dark ages when
the earth rested on an elephant, the elephant on a tortoise, and the
tortoise swam in the void, I must acknowledge that we now see things
more truly.

But to start from the point of the sum of our acquired knowledge
in this march of progress would be fatal to us; the ground we have
won will only retain its solidity in proportion as we keep in sight
the path we have trodden, with all its encountered and vanquished
obstacles, and that will only be by pursuing the same path again in
company with our ancestors.

Here my friends interpose--“That would be a vain task, you cannot
picture humanity in its infancy, that is an impossibility.”

Doubtless, and since I am too practical to attempt the impossible,
abstaining from every superhuman effort, and submitting my imagination
to a strict discipline, I will again consult history, but not history
as I know it, nor that history which is written in our days, polished,
cautious, honestly critical, that which notes the old traces of
humanity when they occur on the route mixed with events, and which
treats the eternal truths as though they had no existence, and,
truly, they do not belong to its dominion. I would study the other
history, which at first was related, not written, because speech came
before writing. I should try to collect information from the ancient
literatures of the people concerning the manner in which our ancestors
depicted divinity to themselves, especially with regard to dealings
with mortals at the time when visits between the celestial inhabitants
and those on earth were common.... We possess the Old Testament of the
Hebrews, the sacred books of the Hindoos, and the mythology of the
Aryan family; the mine is rich, so rich that I should have time to die
a thousand times before I should have finished the task of searching in
this mixed medley of historical remains, fantastic recitals, sublime
thoughts, and flagrant falsehoods. Happily this work of digging in the
past in quest of an idea is not the work of one man nor of one epoch,
but that of many men and many epochs, and it never ceases.

Moreover, a short time ago no one imagined that documents very much
more ancient than those I have just named, would have been discovered
in hitherto unexplored regions of the physical and mental world. Two
enterprising men, Darwin and Max Müller, visited and studied them.
Darwin sought to explain what the origin of organic beings might have
been, and in what way they passed through a series of evolutions, from
one form to another of great dissimilarity. He who speaks of evolution
implies researches into the beginnings of things; this was exactly what
I needed. All the world knows Darwin’s name, even those who abstain
from dealing with scientific problems; he has some ardent admirers who
are not careful to define very accurately what it is they admire in
him, and some furious adversaries, who, judging mainly by hearsay, have
formed a conception of him which is either very superficial or very
false.

The development of human reason has been one of the objects of Max
Müller’s researches. This great thinker, who is at the same time the
first philologist of our time, has sought in the science of Language
for the origin of thinking man. Very few amongst the men of the world,
who are nothing more than men of the world, know what the name of Max
Müller represents, even the existence of a science of Language is
unknown to them.

Even if Darwin and Max Müller have not been absolutely the first to
strive to go back, the one to the origin of the organic world, the
other to the dawn of human speech, no others have yet walked in this
darkness so courageously and so perseveringly as these two men.

Not only have the journeys of exploration been much multiplied of
late, but a principle of action has been extracted from beneath the
scaffolding used in the building up of new theories; which is, “If you
have an idea, and you wish to see whither it may lead, take it from its
first commencement, and advance confidently.” This is what I am about
to do.

I am undertaking a long journey; I carry with me but few plans; turning
my eyes away from whatever might attract my curiosity either on the
right hand or the left, I shall still more carefully guard myself
from being dazzled by the mirages which I am told are frequent in
those countries; or frightened by the phantoms which it is possible
I may meet on the road. I shall always remind myself that one hour
of feebleness, indecision, hesitation might cause me to lose my
equilibrium, and that it would only require one moment of dizziness to
cause my retrogression to the elephant and the tortoise. God forbid! It
is to the opposite pole to which I shall direct myself; if truth exist,
reason is here to find it.




CHAPTER I HYPOTHESES


Thinkers of all times have asked themselves the question whence does
this world come on which we live. Curious to know whether the universe
was self-made, or was the work of a great primal ancestor, or personal
Creator; philosophers who considered the matter in its entirety have
left us two hypotheses.

“According to one, chaos reigned at the beginning, or in other words,
the possibility of everything; and from the midst of this chaos certain
realities were evolved,”[1] from an inherent aptitude for development;
this aptitude has been named in many ways, such as “natural selection,”
“survival of the fittest.” The Greek sages were already acquainted
with the thought implied in these terms. Empedocles said that the
fittest would always preponderate, since conservation is an integral
part of their nature; whilst what is unfit, or not in accord with
the surroundings, must disappear. But the partisans of this theory
find themselves confronted by a serious difficulty: if a blind force
has produced the universe, whence comes the order which reigns in
nature? It is freely acknowledged, even by those with small powers of
observation, that the inhabitants of the terrestrial globe are divided
into animal and vegetable, which are again subdivided into distinct
classes, separated by distinct lines of demarcation. If we admitted
that the vegetable and animal kingdoms were not at first so entirely
separated as they are at present, there would always remain a question
awaiting reply: How is it to be accounted for, that two families
issuing from the same source, become so separated, and have remained
distinct ever since?

Amongst the propagators of the second hypothesis, some admit the
existence of a primordial germ possessing the power of infinite
production; others believe in a Personal Creator who formed all things,
whether by the means of pre-existent material or from nothing. In
accepting this theory of a reasonable Being we must at once lay aside
that of pure chance, since to Him is attributed the permanence of the
separation described above, this separation or division is of such a
nature as to induce the impression that thus it is by premeditation
and co-ordination. Certain philosophers putting aside the question
of the origin of the organic world in its entirety, have restricted
their field of investigation, and taken it in detail. Thus: What is
the origin of man? How is it that man thinks and speaks? What is
human thought and human speech? Is it man’s nature that compels him
to speak, or has language been from the first a matter of convention?
The Greeks whilst pursuing their researches amongst the lofty regions
of metaphysics expressed some very subtle theories on this subject,
coupled with vast systems which comprehended the whole of humanity.
By these they weighed the words spoken, their derivation, the ideas
which these words represented, and the primitive source of the
various phenomena exhibited by man, for the ancients recognised man’s
indivisibility.

Heraclitus considered that each object combines in itself a thought
and its expression, emanating from the object, and that man is the
recipient only; that he breathes a spiritual atmosphere; thus it is
that every name necessarily designates the object it denotes.

Plato said that all the objects of the external world have in them
something which constitutes their essence, and that this essence is
capable of being transmitted from objects themselves into the human
mind; that ideas constitute the essence of objects, and that words are
therefore necessarily related to the constituent parts of the objects,
and their impression on the human understanding.

Epicurus said that human language is the result of the pressure
exercised by the external world on the sensitive essential matter in
man, and that as soon as man sustains this pressure he emits words
spontaneously; the most ancient words used seem to have been expressive
sounds, and with the human race it was as natural for them to talk as
to groan, to cough, or to sneeze.

Thus the Ancients did not distinguish speech from conception.

The problem of the origin of speech, treated in antiquity with as
much depth as calmness, profoundly agitated the minds in the Middle
Ages, and the theologians naturally introduced this variant in their
exposition of the subject: Has language a divine or human origin?
The Christian philosopher replies: “The intellect of God created the
world, and the human soul, made in the likeness of the mind of God,
has in itself the source of all knowledge: thought and language are
of divine origin; left to himself, with only the help of his own
powers, man would never have found a means of expressing his thoughts.”
Such was the belief of the greatest thinkers of the Middle Ages; and
they accepted the fact of a primordial language which men must have
received directly from the Creator; this opinion was perpetuated until
the most recent times. But from the earliest Christian centuries
there were certain philosophers such as Gregory of Nyssa, who, whilst
acknowledging the existence of a primitive universal language,
considered that it redounded more to the glory of the Almighty Creator
to endow man simply with the power of speech, and they deny that this
language with its grammar and orthography was divinely revealed.

The materials for the study of these questions are lacking. The
only document in our possession on the origin of mankind--the Old
Testament--was carefully consulted; there we read that God created
man after His image, that He made him of the dust of the earth, that
He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, so that man became
a living creature. The Bible narrative is one of simple facts, and it
was necessary to look upon them as so many facts, for any effort to
pierce beneath the surface of these mysterious words was like groping
in the dark. Another recital was also given in Genesis. God brought
all the animals of the earth, and the birds of the air to Adam that he
might name them, and whatsoever Adam called every living thing that
was the name of it. This seemed difficult to interpret, and renewed
the questions under other forms. Did man at the beginning resemble a
newly born babe who cries but cannot speak? In this case how did he
begin to express his thoughts? If man was created an adult, but did not
receive a complete language from heaven, how did he acquire the faculty
of speech, this faculty which we know to be the distinguishing mark of
humanity, and which is missing in other creatures?

The eighteenth century decided that this way of treating a scientific
question left much to be desired; it resulted in a _cul de sac_, and a
fresh beginning had to be made. Some philosophers, thinking to simplify
matters, affirmed that primitive man, tired of wandering through woods
like other animals, decided to group themselves into companies; the
members of this society, feeling the necessity of making themselves
mutually understood, expressed themselves at first by the aid of
signs and gestures, then by sounds peculiar to the things denoted,
afterwards, in one way or another, actual words were pronounced.
This reasoning was used in the eighteenth century, and not knowing
where to find better, those who employed it felt satisfied with their
perspicacity; language which was formerly considered as a gift direct
from God, became a physiological endowment, a conventional art; this
century had an intense horror of the supernatural, so that it readily
accepted any system in which God did not appear.

The lack of reflection shown in the building up of these hypotheses
concerning the commencement of humanity has been severely criticised,
and that they were very superficial must be conceded. It is equally
clear that all these tentative efforts had this in common, that they
were the results of the influence on immature minds of the period, of
the necessity of explaining the awakening of human reason in a rational
manner.

The search was continued. At last the nineteenth century considered
that a solution had been found. Certain ideas which had received
attention during divers periods were now collected, sorted, re-examined
more closely, and classified, and from these labours there arose the
two theories of interjection and imitation. According to the first,
language consists of sounds drawn involuntarily from man by his
emotions and feelings; by degrees man became accustomed to reproduce
similar exclamations when wishing to express the same feelings, and
these exclamations would serve as the roots of words; this is the
interjectional theory. The imitative or onomatopœic proceeds from
another source; when man was confronted by all the objects of the
exterior world he began to imitate the sounds emitted, such as the
cries of various animals, the whistling of the wind, the fall of a
stone; the many sounds which fill the air were reproduced by the human
voice and formed the basis for future words. Objections to both of
these theories are not lacking. If emotions such as joy, pain, anger,
love, disgust--or if physical sensations such as result from the
sting of a bee or from a blow of the fist, could furnish the roots
of a language, and if it were the same with the imitation of noises
produced by nature, the sounds of the words should retain a definite
impress of these emotions and feelings, and should reproduce, if only
approximately, these various noises. Even if we admit that a small
number of primitive men set themselves to imitate the murmur of the
stream, the rolling of the thunder, the barking of a dog, the groans
of the wounded, the only result would have been infinite variations
of clamour quite impossible to distinguish or to understand. Strictly
speaking, the prolonged sound of “_bée_” and “_mou_” might awaken the
conception of a goat and cow in the mind; but in order to convey the
idea of a herd of oxen it would be necessary to avoid equally the sound
of “_bée_” and “_mou_,” as belonging exclusively to the two special
animals. The warbling notes of birds have always attracted attention,
and essays have been made to reproduce them by imitative harmony,
but the various peoples have given various interpretations,[2] and
in the generality of cases there is no resemblance between the names
of animals and their cries.[3] After examining the testimony of the
name “cuckoo” (no doubt convincing taken by itself), which is the
prominent argument brought forward by the advocates of the imitative
theory called by Max Müller the bow-wow theory, we are not able to
advance further in that direction. Darwin in his book, _The Descent
of Man_, promulgates the idea that language may have originated from
interjections and imitations, but elsewhere in the _Expressions of
the Emotions_ he hastens to add with his accustomed frankness: “But
the whole subject of the differences of the sounds produced under
different states of the mind is so obscure that I have succeeded in
throwing hardly any light on it; and the remarks which I have made have
but little significance.”[4]

Scholars and literary men have taxed the resources of all the treasures
of their imagination in endeavouring to picture the beginnings of
language; in the present day many efforts are made by learned men to
discover, from nurses surrounded by their charges, how the first words
were reproduced by primitive man. It would be as useful to study the
nature of primitive rocks amongst a mass of bricks and mortar, since
the chasm is wide between the thoughts which our little ones have when
they first begin to speak and those which primitive man had in trying
to name his surroundings. We who speak because we know point out father
or mother to a little child, naming them at the same time--“this is
mother,” “this is father;” by degrees attributes become connected in
the child’s mind with these names; such as mother’s hair, or her dress;
or father’s beard, his pin; and whilst naming them we again point them
out; and when the child pronounces these words in its own fashion, that
is incorrectly, is this defect in pronunciation to be a sign-post to
us--pointing out the direction to be followed in judging of primitive
language? At a later period the child distinguishes between the
mother’s smile and the father’s voice; later still its mind comprehends
all the moral and physical attributes covered by these two terms; and
thus with all other objects--“here is the cow,” and “here is the piece
of sugar,” which so soon become familiar to the child, with their
cognate words, milk and sweetness. Our children thus learn to speak
under very different conditions from those in which our first ancestors
found themselves, when with no previous experience they tried to put
forth their first words.

Conjectures increased and developed into systems, which, however,
contained nothing beyond germs of fresh conjectures and fresh systems,
of which none rested on a reasonable basis.

At the beginning of the eighteenth century it was quite natural that
there should be uncertainty as to the path to be followed in seeking
the beginning of human speech. Was it necessary to trace all the known
languages to their source? Would not the same feeling of confusion
arise when attacking all the dialects spoken on the surface of the
earth as oppressed those who were at the base of the Tower of Babel? An
idea which was universally adopted rather tended to check the progress
of this study: it sprang from the theory that humanity had received the
gift of speech from the Creator; and as the Jewish people alone were
thought to be the recipients of a supernatural revelation, it followed
that Hebrew must be the earliest language, and consequently that all
existing languages were derived from the Hebrew. It is hardly possible
to conceive the number of works put forth by the learned to remove
any doubt with regard to this strange affiliation; the difficulty was
to support or prove the supposition that Hebrew had given birth to
Greek, Latin, and the rest; this Biblical language was tortured and
twisted about in the endeavour to prove the descent of the others from
it, but no satisfactory result was obtained. It was by the advice of
Leibniz that as many facts as possible were collected concerning the
modern languages then in use. He asked for the assistance of monarchs,
European princes, ambassadors, missionaries, and travellers. It was
during these investigations that the attention of certain philologists
was directed to Sanscrit, a language which had been dead 300 years
before the Christian era, and about which the learned in Europe had
troubled themselves very little.

At the time of Plato and Aristotle a vague notion was current in
Greece that India, as well as Egypt, was the birthplace of matchless
learning, only it was not known in what this learning consisted, and
even the name of the Vedas (the most ancient collection of sacred
writings of the Hindoos) was unknown to the philosophers. The first
Christian writers who mentioned the religions of India, and who knew
up to a certain point how to distinguish Brahminism from Buddhism,
never quoted the Vedas; this name is first used by some Chinese
converts to Buddhism, at the beginning of the Christian era, who had
undertaken a pilgrimage to India, considered by them as a holy land.
In the sixteenth century Francis Xavier went there as a missionary,
but without knowing Sanscrit; in the seventeenth century Roberto
de Nobili, another missionary, acquired the language, and caused a
compilation to be made of Hindoo and Christian doctrines. It was not
well done; the French translation was sent to Voltaire, who praised it
and spoke of it as the most precious gift for which the West had ever
been indebted to the East. The Père Calmette, who had heard of the
importance of the Vedas, was the first European to obtain authentic
fragments, but these attracted little attention in Europe. In the early
part of the nineteenth century some members of the Asiatic Society
residing in Calcutta discovered a collection of Sanscrit MSS., amongst
them some portions of the laws of Manu, two epic poems, the Râmayana
and the Mahâbhârata, some philosophical treatises, works on astronomy
and medicine, plays and fables. These works possessed great interest
for those scholars who were occupied with the study of humanity,
such as Herder, Schlegel, Goethe, and Humboldt. For the most part
the preconceived ideas with which these literary men received them
tended to diminish the benefit to be derived from them to a great
extent, as they endeavoured--consistently with the spirit of the
time--to establish the identity of thought running through the sacred
literature of the Hindoos and the Bible. They also sought to point out
the supposed connection between the historical recitals of the Old
Testament, the Indian legends, and the Greek and Latin mythologies.
Certain MSS. containing passages from the sacred code of the Hindoos
having been translated by Anquetil Duperron, Schopenhauer drew from it
the foundations of his own philosophical belief; nothing less than the
genius of this German scholar would have sufficed for the presentation
of the sublime truths which the original contained, by means of this
very defective translation. One of the first historiographers of
Buddhism was the Abbé Barthelemy Saint-Hilaire, but yet his labours
have not served to raise the veil hiding the true meaning of the
Brahman writings, for without the knowledge of the early Sanscrit, it
was not possible to seize the inner meaning of a literature which the
sages of India had required fifteen centuries to complete. Thus it was
that Europe only knew the more accessible portions, and those better
calculated to strike the imagination, but not necessarily the most
important. “Much had been said and written about Buddhism, enough to
show the Roman Catholic clergy that the Lamas of Thibet had anticipated
them in the use of auricular confession, the rosary, and the tonsure;
and to disconcert philosophers by showing them that they were outdone
in positivism and nihilism by the inmates of Chinese monasteries.”[5]

The strangeness of this religion attracted public attention, which
was especially directed towards certain blemishes, which had crept
into it during a decadent period, and tarnished its original purity,
and although learned men continued to devote themselves to a study
more and more deeply penetrated with the Sanscrit language, they
were yet so unprepared for the results which must inevitably follow
this study, that certain German universities became the scenes of
veritable scandals, when some of the learned declared that they had
found a community of origin between the people of Athens, of Rome,
and of India, and the stupefaction of the philologists knew no bounds
when, in 1833, Bopp’s work appeared, _The Comparative Grammar of
the Greek, Latin, Gothic, Sanscrit, Zend, Lithuanian, Slavonic, and
German Languages_, whilst the effect on the younger students was quite
bewildering.

But that which created the greatest furore in all Europe was the
promulgation of the scientific discoveries of Eugène Burnouf, Professor
of Oriental Languages in the Collège de France. Long centuries had
passed during which no original Sanscrit document had come to light,
and now in the short space of ten years three complete collections
of Oriental literature were known, the sacred books of the Brahmans,
of the Buddhists, and of the Magians. “The critical examination and
restitution of the Zend texts, the outlines of a Zend grammar, the
translation and philological anatomy of considerable portions of
the Zoroastrian writings were the work of the learned young French
scholar.”[6]

A few proper names and certain titles were up to this time all that
could be deciphered of the cuneiform inscriptions on the walls of
Persian palaces. Classical or oriental scholars had hitherto only
seen in them a quaint conglomeration of nails, wedges, or arrows; but
when at last the meaning was disentangled, it suddenly flashed upon
the discoverers that there was a close relationship between languages
hitherto held to be quite distinct. Facts, at first only suspected, now
received full confirmation; those previously unknown were discovered
and claimed, if only provisionally, in the name of Science. Historians
and philologists pressed eagerly into this new path. In looking back
they could see that the human family was divided into three distinct
groups, the Semetic family, the Aryan family--sometimes called the
Indo-Germanic--and the Turanian class, the northern division of which
has the name Ural-Altaic given to it occasionally. I use the word
_class_ advisedly, as the characteristic traits hardly merit the rank
of family. They also discovered that human speech had equally marked
divisions, making three groups or families, corresponding to the three
great human races. The Semetic family produced the Hebrew of the Old
Testament, the Arabic of the Koran, and the ancient language graven on
the monuments of Phœnicia and Carthage, of Babylon and Assyria; the
Greek and Latin, Persian and Sanscrit, the Germanic languages, Celtic
and Slavonic, all belong to the Aryan family; from the Ural-Altaic
group come the Tungusic, Mongolic, Turkic, Samoyedic and Finnic; there
still remains the Chinese language, which is monosyllabic and stands by
itself, the only remnant of the earliest formation of human speech.

These discoveries caused a complete change in the methods adopted
by philologists; at the present time the ancient systems of the
classification of tongues are entirely abandoned. The comparative
philologist ignores altogether geographical locality, the varying
ages of languages, and their classical or illiterate character.
Languages are now classified genealogically, according to their real
relationship; and Hebrew, coming down from its pedestal, took its
natural place amongst the languages of the Semetic family.[7]

       *       *       *       *       *

I revert here for a moment to the past in order to quote a page from
Plato, which shows us the small esteem in which the purely speculative
method, in the treatment of philosophy, was held by one of the
profoundest minds of antiquity:--

“Dost thou see that very tall plane-tree?” said Phædros to Socrates.

“Certainly, I do.”

“Tell me, Socrates, is it not from the foot of this plane-tree that
they say Boreas carried away Oreithyia from the Ilissos?”

“So they say.”

“But tell me, O Socrates, dost thou believe this mythe to be true?”

“Well, if I did not believe it, like the wise people, I should not
be so very far wrong; and I might set up an ingenious theory and say
that a gust of Boreas, the north wind, carried her down from the rocks
in the neighbourhood, and that having died in this manner, she was
reported to have been carried off by Boreas from thence. As for myself,
Phædros, I think these explanations, on the whole, very pleasant; a man
is, after all, not much to be envied, if it were only for this, that
when he has set right this one fable, he is bound to do the same for
a second, then a third, and thus much time is lost. I, at least, have
no leisure to spare for these things, and the reason, my friend, is
this, that I cannot yet, according to the Delphic line, know myself;
and it seems to me ridiculous that a man who does not yet know this,
should trouble himself about what does not concern him. Therefore I
leave these things alone, and, believing what other people believe
about them, I meditate, as I said just now, not on them, but on
myself--whether I be a monster more complicated and more savage than
Typhon, or a tamer and simpler creature, enjoying by nature a blessed
and modest lot.”[8]

“Thus, to the mind of Socrates, man was pre-eminently the individual
... he is ever seeking to solve the mystery of human nature by brooding
over his own mind, by watching the secret workings of the soul, by
analysing the organs of knowledge, and by trying to determine its
proper limits; and thus the last result of his philosophy was that he
knew but one thing, and this was, that he knew nothing.”[9]

More than 2300 years have elapsed since the intercourse between
Socrates and his disciple took place. But the problems which we of the
twentieth century have not yet succeeded in solving, have so entirely
absorbed our attention, that it seldom occurs to us to measure the
distance which separates us from the commencement of philosophical
studies. Although the scientific equipment of our forefathers occupies
a small portion of our thoughts in our leisure moments, we yet
discover--in comparison with ourselves--how very indigent they were.

This earth was unintelligible to the Greeks, they looked upon it as a
solitary being, without a peer in the whole universe; to us it is a
planet; one of many, all governed by the same laws, all moving round
the same centre. It is the same with man who also remained a riddle to
the ancients. An intelligent study of the world’s history, which they
knew but imperfectly, has enriched our language with a word which never
passed the lips of Socrates, Plato or Aristotle--humanity. Where the
Greeks saw barbarians, that is, human beings other than themselves--we
see brethren; those whom they called heroes and demi-gods are our
ancestors; those who appeared to them strangers, united by no ties,
are to us one family in work and suffering, divided by language and
severed by national enmity, but pressing forward step by step almost
unconsciously towards the fulfilment of that inscrutable purpose for
which the world was created. As we have ceased to see in nature the
working of demons or the manifestation of an evil principle, so we
deny in history an atomistic conglomerate of chances, or the despotic
rule of a mute fate; we turn over the leaves of the past seeking for a
hidden train of thought in the actions of the human race; we understand
that every effect has its cause; that connecting links run through
the moral world, as well as the physical world; that there is nothing
irrational in either history or nature, and we believe that the human
mind is called upon to discover in both the manifestations of a Divine
Power, the source of our existence.[10]

This result, however, we could not have attained without first
recognising the fact that man is no isolated being, complete in
himself; that if he is to be effectively studied he cannot be
disassociated from his family, all the members of which are governed by
the same laws, all move round the same centre, and all receive their
light from the same focal point. He is one of a class, of one genus
or kind, whom it would be impossible to estimate correctly, if we set
aside his relations to his fellows.

“To understand man,” an illustrious naturalist has said recently, “it
is not sufficient _not_ to separate him from those whom he resembles in
every point; it is quite as necessary to study him in connection with
those closely related to him, the inferior animals.”

Hitherto I have not mentioned a hypothesis which has been promulgated
in our days on the origin of man, which would have been considered
the most remarkable this century had seen, had it not appeared
simultaneously with another treatment of a like subject equally
noticeable for its profundity in another direction.

During a voyage which he made in South America, Darwin had been struck
by the very close affinity which existed between the living and the
fossil species of this continent; this link between the past and
present appeared to him to throw considerable light on the obscurity
which enveloped the question of the origin of species. The degree in
which organs were capable of modification was especially to be taken
into account; the study of the variation of animals and plants under
domestication led Darwin to the path he followed; the uninterrupted
reproduction of characteristics in the structure of organic beings,
intensified rather than attenuated by a succession of modifications,
caused him to see in all living creatures, not independent entities,
the one apart from the other, but descendants from common ancestors now
extinct.

Evolution, like many another theory, may be dangerous if not thoroughly
grasped, and if it lead to a denial of the permanence of the well
marked lines of demarcation in nature. Evolution, according to Darwin,
starts from beginnings which are quite distinct; and leads on to
well defined ends; thus Darwin does not acknowledge only one common
progenitor for all the great natural races, but many, and nothing more
clearly demonstrates his transparent sincerity in scientific matters
than what his critics are pleased to call his inconsistencies.

At the end of many years of persistent labour, Darwin published his
book on the _Origin of Species_.

I do not propose to give a summary of it. The author does not adopt
the method of a learned writer expounding his system; his attitude is
that of a naturalist who, during his excursions, examines nature in
its innumerable and most minute details; when two facts, both of which
he considers true, appear to contradict each other, he notes both
equally, since he is too sincere to conceal that one from the public
which apparently invalidates his theory. Moreover at each step he avows
that this theory is not yet entirely free from the fog which invariably
envelops each new idea at its birth. An explorer such as he is, who
has succeeded in explaining so many mysteries, might very naturally
become elated, but it is not so with him; his thoughts never seem
directed towards himself; with all his genius, self does not appear to
exist with him; the only things that are prominent--with a distinct
existence--are the phenomena which he studies.

The notion that all organic beings have been such as we now see them
from the beginning, was almost inevitable, as long as the theory was
held that the formation of the world was of comparatively recent date;
and those who, without further investigation, held the traditional
belief of the independent and individual creation of each species,
could only offer one explanation, if all animals--all plants--are
as they are it is because it has pleased the Creator to make them
so. Because the Darwinian theory has cast a doubt on the successive
creation of living things, it has been said that Darwin’s views were
inimical to religion. These impressions are transitory--as were those
expressed by Leibniz when he reproached Newton with introducing “occult
qualities and miracles into philosophy;”[11] and when he attacked his
law of gravitation “as subversive of natural, and inferentially of
revealed religion.”[11]

After explaining in what manner nature had produced all the variations
of plants and inferior animals from a small number of germs, Darwin
did not feel himself under the necessity of adding one more to the
germs in order that what was afterwards termed humanity might appear
on the scene; the principle of evolution as already applied to the
organic world, would suffice to explain all difficulties; the natural
forces all engaged in the same movement, would spread and branch out
in various directions, until they reached the culminating point of
incorporation with the human creature.

Darwin’s book, the _Descent of Man_, contains the genealogical table
of this higher animal which the author so often compares with the
lower animals. If both have so much in common, such as the chemical
composition of their bodies--their germinal vesicles--their laws of
growth and reproduction; it is--so he conceives--that both have come
from the same ancestor; moreover, all helps to prove that man has
received from his prototype amongst the mammifers, all the special
characteristics of its own organs. Thus it is easy to understand that
in the eyes of many naturalists the embryonic structure is of more
importance for an accurate classification than that of an adult, since
the embryo is that condition in which the animal has undergone the
least modification, thus it better represents the original form of the
primitive progenitor.

For a species of one of the inferior animals to have attained the
level of man, it was necessary that, following an universal law, it
must have undergone variations both corporally and mentally, during a
long succession of generations; the primary causes of these variations
is not clearly understood, but it has been proved that the conditions
of life or environment to which the living beings submitted were
potent agents in the renewal of phenomena. Like all other creatures
man increased out of all proportion to his means of subsistence,
and thus began the struggle for existence, when those who were best
equipped for the fight survived in the greatest numbers, and left the
greatest number of robust descendants. Man acquired the capability of
expressing his wants by means of language, at first, perhaps, little
different from that of the inferior animals, but the continued use
of language reacting on the brain furnished a means for the further
development of those mental faculties which of themselves constitute a
real distinction between man and beast. This difference, however, does
not become pronounced until a certain period of man’s existence, as
during the earliest stages the intelligence of the newly created human
beings does not differ from that of other mammifers. It begins to dawn
a little later, then gradually increases, and at last becomes most
strongly marked, even if a comparison be made between the intelligence
of a highly developed monkey and that of the lowest savage, who
has failed perhaps to find words with which to express the most
elementary emotions. But men are not all on the same level; without
speaking of the vast difference that exists between the faculties of
a Papuan and those which we know to have been possessed by a Newton
or a Kant, we notice a very sensible difference between the mental
powers of two individuals of the same race; but we always find these
extremes are connected by shades of difference which gradually melt
imperceptibly the one into the other. Darwin arrives at the conclusion
that the distinctions to be drawn between the intellect of man and the
intelligence of animals is one of degree rather than of kind.

Darwin shares the opinion of those who consider the moral consciousness
in man as that which distinguishes him specially from the inferior
animals, and he conceives its origin to be found in the social
instincts whose most important constituent parts are family ties and
the emotions to which they give rise. This consciousness makes man
capable of approving of certain acts and disapproving of others. After
having been overcome by a temporary passion, he reflects and compares
the already weakened motives causing him to act as he did, with the
appeal made to him by his family and social instincts, and he resolves
to act differently in the future; the opinion of his neighbours
influences him, but it is not so much the opinion of the community in
general as that of his own small circle to which he belongs.

Social instincts are found also amongst a large number of inferior
animals, but with them, this mutual sympathy does not extend to all the
species of their class, as with man it reaches only to the members of
their own small community.

With the progress of civilisation and in proportion as the smaller
communities become larger, so man’s reason leads him to extend his
sympathy to all the men of his nationality; arrived at this point,
there remains a very impalpable barrier between that and the inclusion
of men of all races in feelings of universal benevolence; but if these
races are separated from his by strong dissimilarities in external
appearance and in habits of life, it would take much time for him to
learn and recognise in them the constituent parts of humanity similar
to himself.

The moral consciousness which raises man to a level not attained by
beasts, leads him to conceive and apprehend the precept, “Do unto
others as you would they should do unto you.” The sympathy which
extends beyond the limits of humanity, such as compassion for animals,
seems the last quality to be developed. The moral sense in man has its
counterpart in animals of the inferior order; under the influence of
man the animal becomes more capable of improvement by the increased
exercise of his intelligence, by habits, by instincts of heredity, so
as to have transformed the prototype of the wolf and jackal to that of
a dog.

There is nothing to lead us to suppose that primitive man had felt the
existence of a principle higher than nature. There is much to indicate
that what we mean by religious feeling was not known to him; but the
aspect of the question undergoes a change if by religious sentiment we
understand belief in invisible spirits, for this belief was universal.
This is natural; as soon as certain faculties of the imagination awoke
in man, such as astonishment, curiosity, he would seek to understand
all that passed around him; his first idea would be that all the
phenomena in nature would proceed from the presence inherent in them
of a power compelling to action in the same way as man feels himself
obliged to act. This belief in the course of age would easily tend
towards fetishism, then to polytheism and finally to monotheism; it
would simultaneously inculcate many strange superstitions, of which
some produced terrible effects, such as the sacrifice of human lives to
a powerful being eager for human blood, since savages readily attribute
to these superior powers the desire for vengeance as well as all the
other evil passions they themselves possess.

Amongst civilised peoples the conception of an all-knowing, an
all-seeing God, exercises a powerful influence on morality; man learns
little by little, no longer to regard the praise or blame of society
as his sole guide; this external guidance is replaced by personal
inward convictions which come from his reason and which is conscience.
Religious devotion is a very complex human sentiment; it is composed of
love, submission, gratitude, hope, and perhaps of other elements; no
creature is in a position to experience so complicated an emotion whose
intellectual faculties have not attained a level of medium development.
Yet something approaching this may be seen in the depth of affection
manifested by a dog for his master, which is a combination of complete
submission, of fear, dependence, and perhaps also of other qualities.

Learned writers have for some time agreed in looking upon language
as the barrier separating man from animals; all books on logic state
the fact. But this special characteristic of the human race attracted
Darwin’s attention in a very small degree. “Man, however, at first,
uses, in common with the lower animals, inarticulate cries to express
his meaning, aided by gestures and the movements of the muscles of
the face.”[12] “Certain animals,” he says, “do not lack the physical
conditions necessary for articulate language, since there is not a
letter in the alphabet that a parrot cannot pronounce.” Darwin goes
even beyond this. “It is not the mere power of articulation that
distinguishes man from other animals, but it is his large power of
connecting definite sounds with definite ideas.”[12]

It would be difficult to be more explicit, and it must be owned that
this was a great concession on Darwin’s part; but afterwards, and
perhaps with the object of weakening the force of this statement,
he adds: “The fact of the higher apes not using their vocal organs
for speech, no doubt depends on their intelligence not having been
sufficiently advanced.”[13] However, no effort of thought, in the
present state of our knowledge, would cause us to understand how
any number of thousands of centuries passed in roaring and barking
could enable wolves and dogs to join a single definite idea to a
single definite sound; and if we said that, by the help of specially
favourable environments some unknown species of primitive animal had
acquired the power of speech, and had succeeded in imparting the
knowledge to its descendants, and in thus elevating them to the level
of human beings, we should only be relating fantastic tales, which
would have no connection with scientific research.

Darwin does not allow himself to be affected by this consideration. “In
a series of forms graduating insensibly from some ape-like creature to
man as he now exists, it would be impossible to fix on any definite
point where the term ‘man’ ought to be used.”[14] It is evident that
if the gradations were imperceptible, there would be no possibility of
marking the precise point where the animal ended and man began; “the
admission of this insensible gradation would eliminate, not only the
difference between ape and man, but likewise between black and white,
hot and cold, a high and a low note in music; in fact, it would do away
with the possibility of all exact and definite knowledge, by removing
those wonderful lines and laws of nature which ... enable us to count,
to tell, and to know.”[15]

I will now bring together some passages which are scattered in various
parts of the _Origin of Species_ and the _Descent of Man_ which have
especially attracted criticism.

“It is interesting to note that all that we are, all that we see,
has been produced by laws acting around us. These laws, taken in the
largest sense, being Growth with Reproduction; Inheritance, which is
almost implied by reproduction; Variability from the indirect and
direct action of the conditions of life, and from use and disuse; a
Ratio of Increase so high as to lead to a Struggle for Life, and as a
consequence to Natural Selection, entailing Divergence of Character and
the Extinction of less-improved forms. Thus, from the war of nature,
from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable
of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly
follows.”[16]

And again: “There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several
powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms
or into one.”[16] “Man may be excused for feeling some pride at having
risen, though not through his own exertions, to the very summit of the
organic scale; and the fact of his having thus risen, instead of having
been aboriginally placed there, may give him hopes for a still higher
destiny in the distant future.”[17] “In the future I see open fields
for far more important researches. Psychology will be securely based on
newly laid down foundations; that of the necessary acquirement of each
mental power and capacity by gradation. Much light will be thrown on
the origin of man and his history.”[18]

Again elsewhere: “The moral sense or conscience, as Mackintosh remarks,
has a rightful supremacy over every other principle of human action.
It is summed up in that short but imperious word _ought_,” and Darwin
proceeds to quote Kant’s apostrophe as follows: “Duty! wondrous
thought, that workest neither by fond insinuation, flattery, nor by
any threat, but merely by holding up thy naked law in the soul, and so
extorting for thyself always reverence, if not always obedience; before
whom all appetites are dumb, however secretly they rebel. Duty! whence
thy original?”[19]

Darwin continues: “This great question, ‘Whence thy origin?’ has been
discussed by many writers of consummate ability; and my sole excuse for
touching on it is ... that, as far as I know, no one has approached it
exclusively from the side of natural history.”[20]

“But as the feelings of love and sympathy and the power of self-command
become strengthened by habit, and as the power of reasoning becomes
clearer, so that man can appreciate the justice of the judgments
of his fellow-men, he will feel himself impelled, independently of
any pleasure or pain felt at the moment, to risk his life for his
fellow-creature, or to sacrifice himself for any great cause. He
may then say, I am the supreme judge of my own conduct, and, in the
words of Kant, I will not in my own person violate the dignity of
humanity.”[21]

The warmest admirers of Darwin wish that he had expressed himself
more definitely. Some amongst them are astonished to find the word
“_Creator_” in certain editions of the _Origin of Species_, and not
in all; others have drawn attention to the fact that Darwin could
say in all good faith, “I see no good reason why the views given in
this volume should shock the religious feelings of any one.”[22]
Darwin’s line of thought has perhaps not been perfectly grasped, and
his commentators have been numerous. This, however, is certain. From
the moment when the author of the _Descent of Man_ considered that
he had discovered in social instincts the first germ of the idea of
duty, it becomes a matter for surprise that he yielded to the desire
of referring to Kant and of quoting his apostrophe to Duty. But it
is quite evident that Darwin did not see in the universe only the
fortuitous result of a combination of matter; he admitted the existence
of a law acting from the beginning and continuing to act. In order
the better to grasp his thought, it is necessary to be in a position
to define his terms. He speaks of natural selection, but in ordinary
parlance selection presupposes the existence of distinction and
judgment; and to distinguish and choose, intelligence is necessary; and
if the essential nature is intelligent, what is this nature?

The endeavour to prove that man has descended from a creature not
originally man has deeply stirred our generation, and the greater
number amongst us only yielded to a natural repugnance in repulsing
the idea with indignation. However, because this inward feeling
tells us that a proposition is false, it does not necessarily follow
that it is so; in looking at it more closely, we have to admit that
many humiliating facts are accepted by us without demur. We are not
scandalised at the notion of being composed of the same chemical
elements as the inferior animals, nor do we revolt against the
injustice of the circumstances and restraints imposed upon all by
the facts of birth and death; but this unreasoning submission has no
more rational basis than the revolt of our feelings, in presence of
the assumption, that an animal only was our ancestor. The notion that
animals so dissimilar as the monkey, the elephant, the bird, fish, and
man could have proceeded from the same parentage seems too monstrous to
be true; from the scientific point of view this feeling is of no value;
in the face of all the assertions of our moral convictions science,
as such, remains immovable; the only weapon admitted in a scientific
encounter is fact opposed to fact, argument to argument. Moreover,
any appeals which can be made to our pride, our dignity, our piety,
would be equally wide of the mark, so long as proof is lacking that
man possesses something which has no existence in lower animals either
actually or potentially.

It is a matter for regret to have to acknowledge the fact that the
union of a profound knowledge, combined with true sincerity in
research, is insufficient to endow the world with a well established
truth. The world is too hasty in accepting or rejecting a new system
before giving itself the trouble to divide the system into two parts,
one of which can be placed at once amongst evident truths, whilst the
other must be subjected to minute investigation and close testing.
Precisely after this manner does Darwin’s work lend itself to a
division into two parts, the former is the history of the formation and
gradual development of the organic world, represented by plants and
animals, including man (_The Origin of Species_), but it is also the
history of the formation and gradual development of man considered as a
being composed of body and spirit (_Descent of Man_). In the author’s
mind this portion of the subject is closely connected with the former.

At first sight it would appear that a tribunal, which was quick to
distinguish truth from error in this teaching, had not been found.
Certainly scientific materialism has no voice in the matter, since its
mission is only to deal with material and actual facts; and when from
the facts accumulated conclusions are deduced as applied to origins,
this would be out of its sphere, and the conclusions reached can only
be arbitrary; thus Darwin’s theory not being found free from the taint
of idealism, it was condemned without trial. Religious dogmatism did
not show itself any more capable of deciding the question, for this
dogmatism, whose domain is faith, considered that due reference was
not made to Divine intervention, and concluded that the theory was
only judged by the light of science, and thus condemned it unheard.
But all condemnation, which cannot prove itself to be just, has no
scientific value, only one tribunal is competent of judging and solving
the question, and that is the science of language, it alone possesses
documentary evidence. The exact point at which the animal ceases and
man begins can be determined with precision since it coincides with the
beginning of the “Radical Period” of language, and language is reason.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Max Müller, _Science of Thought_, p. 98.

[2] Thus Max Müller says: “In Chinese the number of imitative sounds is
very considerable.... We give a few, together with the corresponding
sounds in Mandshu. The difference between the two will show how
differently the same sounds strike different ears, and how differently
they are rendered into articulate language:

  The cock crows = _kiao kiao_ in Chinese
                 = _dchor dchor_ in Mandshu.”

--Max Müller, _Science of Language_, vol. i. note p. 419.

[3] Max Müller says again: “We listen in vain for any similarity
between goose and cackling, hen and clucking, duck and quacking.”--Max
Müller, _Science of Language_, vol. i., p. 410.

[4] Darwin’s _Expression of the Emotions_, p. 93.

[5] Max Müller, _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i. p. 190.

[6] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i. p. 82.

[7] Max Müller, _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i. p. 21.

[8] Max Müller, _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 1.

[9] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 5.

[10] Max Müller, partly from _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii.
p. 6.

[11] Darwin’s _Origin of Species_, 6th Edition, p. 396.

[12] Darwin’s _Descent of Man_, 1871, vol. i. p. 54.

[13] Darwin’s _Descent of Man_, vol. i. p. 59.

[14] _Ibid._, vol. i. p. 235.

[15] Max Müller’s _Science of Thought_, pp. 166, 167.

[16] Darwin’s _Origin of Species_, p. 403.

[17] Darwin’s _Descent of Man_, vol. ii. p. 405.

[18] Darwin’s _Origin of Species_, p. 402.

[19] Quoted by Darwin in _Descent of Man_, vol. i. p. 70.

[20] Darwin’s _Descent of Man_, vol. i. p. 71.

[21] _Ibid._, vol. i. p. 86.

[22] Darwin’s _Origin of Species_, p. 396.




CHAPTER II OUR ARYAN ANCESTORS


Some of the studies undertaken and carried on in a tentative groping
fashion, with the purpose of ascertaining the nature of that complex
being man, have been placed before you. I have mentioned the more
or less fantastic suppositions set forth on the subject, and I have
dwelt rather more fully on a recent system, of which the fundamental
portion (a magnificent scientific monument, to which experimental tests
have given a solid basis) is followed by a second part which treats
especially of the descent of man. The time has now come to examine
the studies of a school of philosophy, which, guided by a new theory,
searches in the past, and passes under review all previous conceptions,
suppositions, or even misconceptions of the previous schools.

The science of language, based on the close connection between thought
and speech, only dates back to the beginning of the nineteenth century.
The first problem presented to it is that of origin--the origin of
thought and speech in man--which two united in their essential parts,
make man what he is. The means by which this science works is called
comparative philology; it is by the analysis of languages--living as
well as dead--that it seeks to discover the infancy of human thought.
It is evident that in order to penetrate thus deeply, this analysis
must follow the whole progress of speech since it first sounded; to no
other school of philosophy had this idea occurred; all others ignored
the fact that previous to the commencement of human language, no
vestige of humanity could exist; therefore, probably, another fact had
been ignored; that the only archives in which it is possible to study
the history of humanity and the development of reason are those of
language.

Wherever sacred writings exist, we find in them the most ancient
languages of the people who possess them; this is the case in Persia,
China, Palestine, Arabia, and India; thus it is in these writings which
are looked upon as being divinely inspired, that search must be made
for the genesis of the successive thought of these peoples.

But these ancient writings differ widely the one from the other; for
the most part they contain ideas which are the product of various
ages; often also, as in Greece, and Rome and Persia, we find ourselves
confronted by thoughts or theories which had already arrived at a high
degree of development, or are beginning to lose their first clearness.
Only amongst the Hindoos is it possible to follow step by step the
growth of the conception, and the transformation of the names which
clothe them. The Vedas show us more clearly than any other literary
monument in the world, the uninterrupted course of the evolution of
language and thought from the first word pronounced by our ancestors to
our own most recent reflection.

India does not possess remains of ancient temples nor of ancient
palaces. Edifices of this kind were probably unknown before the
invasion of Alexander. The Hindoos have always felt themselves
strangers in the land, and the constant efforts of the kings of Egypt
and of Babylon to perpetuate their names during thousands of years,
by means of bricks and blocks of stone, did not occur to them until
suggested by foreigners. But on the other hand, from the most remote
times, they have possessed sacred writings, and they still preserve
them in their ancient form. The number of separate works in Sanscrit of
which the manuscripts are still in existence is now estimated at more
than ten thousand. What would Plato and Aristotle have said, had they
been told that there existed in that India which Alexander had just
discovered--if not conquered--an ancient literature, far richer than
anything they possessed at that time in Greece, and dating back so far
that the old Sanscrit which clothed the religious and philosophical
thought of these early inhabitants was a dead language. This literature
has not ceased to increase, and contains the canonical books of the
three principal religions of the ancient world; the Zend-Avesta, the
sacred books of the Magians, written in Zend, the ancient Persian;
the Tripitaka, the sacred books of the Buddhists, which contain moral
treatises, dogmatic philosophy, and metaphysics; and the sacred
writings of the Brahmans called the Vedas.

It would be difficult to say whether the Old Testament, or certain
portions of the Vedas, have existed for the greater number of
centuries; it is certain that the Aryan race had no existence previous
to the Vedas. The name _Veda_ signifies “knowing, or knowledge”; veda,
Greek _οἰδα_, is a verb with the same meaning in Sanscrit as in Greek,
“I know.” The book of the Vedas contains an epitome of the most ancient
Brahmanic science, and is composed of four collections of hymns; that
which is called Rig-Veda (hymns of praise) is the true Veda, and the
other Vedas are to the Rig-Veda what the Talmud is to the Bible.
The Rig-Veda, which for more than three thousand years had laid the
foundations of the moral and religious life of innumerable millions of
human creatures had never been published until Max Müller put forth
a complete edition, accompanied by authorised commentaries on Indian
theology.

The composition of these hymns occupied many centuries, and in 600
B.C. the collection seems to have been complete. Some early treatises
on these hymns tell us that at this date the theological schools had
accomplished a great undertaking, that of counting every verse, every
word, every syllable of the hymns; the number of syllables is 432,000,
the number of words 153,826, and the number of verses as computed in
these treatises varies from 10,402 to 10,622. Until the introduction of
writing, the Vedic hymns were entirely preserved by memory, with such
accuracy and fidelity that the rules contained in the treatise for the
repetitions correspond with great exactness with the actual text, its
accents, metre, and the divinity it praises. The Rig-Veda now forms the
foundation of all philological and mythological studies, as well as
those connected with the science and growth of religion; without it we
should never have obtained any insight into the belief of our ancestors.

       *       *       *       *       *

We will now transport ourselves to the cradle of the Aryas “Noble,”
according to some writers situated on the Asiatic continent, according
to others more to the north, between the Baltic and the Caspian seas.
This will suffice for the first stage; I shall make few demands on
history, or on grammar.

There was a time when the great mass of the Aryan people was
hesitating on the eve of abandoning their early habitations, previous
to a dispersion in two directions. This people was composed of two
branches, the tribes of the north, and those of the south; the former
went towards the north-west of Asia and Europe; here they established
themselves, and the great historical nations--historical, since most of
them have played noted parts amongst the nations--the Celts, Grecians,
Romans, Germans and Slavs were their descendants. Endowed with every
aptitude for an active life, they fostered these capabilities to the
highest degree; society was founded by them, morals brought to a
greater perfection, the foundation of science and art established, and
the principles of philosophy laid down. Although constantly in conflict
with the Semitic and Turanian races, these Aryans became in their
descendants the masters of the world. Whilst the northern division
followed a north-westerly direction, the southern went to the mountains
lying to the north of India; crossing the passes of the Himalayas, and
following the long watercourses, they descended into the vast fertile
valleys, and from that time India became as their own land. These
pleasant dwelling-places of the Aryan colonists, protected on the one
side by high mountains, and on the other by the ocean from all foreign
invasions, were not disturbed by any of the ancient conquerors of the
world; around them kingdoms rose and fell, dynasties were created and
became extinct, but the inner life of the tribes remained undisturbed
by these events. The ancient Hindoos were calm, contemplative dreamers,
a nation of philosophers, who could only conceive of disputes in
themselves, in their own thoughts; the transcendental nature of the
atmosphere in which his ideas worked, and in which the Hindoo lived,
could not fail to retard the development of practical, social, and
political virtues, and the appreciation of the beautiful and useful.
The Hindoo saw nothing in the past but the mystery of the Creation,
in the future but the mystery of his destiny; the present offered
nothing to him that could awaken physical activity, and apparently had
no reality for him; no people ever existed who believed more firmly
in a future life, or who occupied themselves less with this one; such
as they were in the beginning, such they remained. The only sphere in
which the Indian mind moves freely is the sphere of religion and that
of philosophy. In no other part of the world have metaphysical ideas
taken such deep root as in India; the forms in which these ideas were
clothed, in epochs of varying culture, and in the midst of divers
classes of society, were alternately those of the grossest superstition
and of the most exalted spiritualism.

It has been asserted that in these two Aryan branches must we look for
our ancestors. How shall we verify the truth of this assertion? What
family likeness must we seek in order to recognise the relationship?
How feel certain that the languages we speak have been derived from
them? “If we knew nothing of the existence of Latin--if no historical
documents existed to tell us of the Roman empire--a mere comparison of
the six Romance dialects would enable us to say that at some time there
must have been a language from which all these modern dialects derived
their origin in common.”[23]

Let us conjugate the verb _to be_ in Italian, Spanish, Portuguese,
French, Walachian, and in Rhætian, and we shall see that it is clear:
first, that all are but varieties of one common type: secondly, that
it is impossible to consider any one of these six dialects as the
original from which the others had been borrowed, since no single one
contains the elements composing them. “If we find such forms as _j’ai
aimé_, we can explain them by a mere reference to the grammatical
materials which French has still at its command, and the same may be
said of _j’aimerai_, i.e. _je-aimer-ai_, I have to love, I shall love.
But a change from _je suis_ to _tu es_ is inexplicable by the light of
French grammar; it must have been a part of some language antecedent
to any of the Romance dialects; it is, in fact, the verb _to be_ in
Latin, which solves this difficulty; each of the six paradigms is but a
metamorphosis of the Latin.”[24]

It was known that the roots were the same in all the Aryan languages,
that the same grammatical changes were common in many of the words
in everyday use, such as father, mother, heaven, sun, moon, horse,
and cow, as well as in the principal numbers; but it was the study
of Sanscrit in its primitive form which first led the learned to the
discovery of the reason of the vowel changes in certain words in use
in our day, and which changes the English word _to wit_, to know, into
_I wot_, I know, and the German _ich weise_ into _wir wissen_; these
changes are the result of a general law, the application of which can
nowhere be more clearly appreciated than in the Vedic Sanscrit, and
which was unknown until this language was studied in the Veda. (I
will here note that Sanscrit not being the original from which the
other Aryan dialects have their being, but an elder brother, when Max
Müller makes use of a Sanscrit phrase he does it to give an idea of
the process through which the language has passed which he considers
preceded Sanscrit.)

There is another list of paradigms which, under a less familiar aspect
than the first, presents the same phenomenon. Conjugate the verb _to
be_ in Doric, Latin, old Slav, Sanscrit, Celtic, Lithuanian, Zend,
Gothic, and Armenian, and you will see that the nine are varieties of
one common type, and that it is impossible to consider any one of them
as the original of the others, since, here again, none of the languages
possess the grammatical material out of which these forms could have
been framed. Sanscrit cannot have been the source from which the rest
were derived, since Greek, in several instances, has retained a more
organic form than the Sanscrit. Nor can Greek be considered as the
earliest language from which the others were derived, for not even
Latin could be called the daughter of Greek, since Latin has preserved
certain forms more primitive than the Greek. Hence all these nine
dialects point to some more ancient language, which was to them what
Latin was to the Romance dialects; only at that early period there was
no literature to preserve to us any remnant of that mother-tongue that
died in giving birth to all the modern Aryan dialects.[25]

There is one fact to be noted. If a comparison be made of the verb
_to be_ in these dialects, it will be seen that Sanscrit is no more
distinct from the Greek of Homer, or from the Gothic of Ulfilas,
or from the Anglo-Saxon of Alfred, than the Romance dialects from
each other; that, in fact, the resemblance is more striking between
Sanscrit and Lithuanian, and between Sanscrit and Russian, than between
French and Italian. This circumstance proves that all the essential
grammatical forms of these languages had been fully framed and
established before the first separation of the Aryan family took place,
that is to say, at a time before there were any Grecians to speak
Greek, or any Brahmans to invoke God’s name in Sanscrit.

The science of comparative philology enables us to have glimpses of the
social condition of our Aryan ancestors before they left their first
abode. All historical documents of this period are lacking, for the
simple reason that the time of which we are speaking is anterior to any
historical records; “but comparative philology has placed in our hands
a telescope of such power that where formerly we could see but nebulous
clouds we now discover distinct forms and outlines.”[26]

We see that our ancestors were no savages, but agricultural nomads,
that they laboured, made roads, possessed the art of weaving and
sewing; they built towns, kept domestic animals, lived under a kingly
government, and counted at least up to one hundred. We learn this not
only from the words father, mother, son, daughter, heaven, earth, but
also from house, town, king, dog, cow, hatchet, and many others, which
are found to be the same in the German, Celtic, Slavonic, Greek, Latin,
and Sanscrit. They are the same because they all point to some more
ancient language, the mother-tongue in use before the separation of
the various Aryan tribes. From this period the other words also date,
expressing all the degrees of relationship, even those by alliance,
thus giving clear proof of the early organisation of family life.

At the same time a decimal system of numeration also existed, the
numbers from one to a hundred, “in itself one of the most marvellous
achievements of the human mind, produced from an abstract conception
of quantity, regulated by a spirit of philosophical classification,
and yet conceived, matured and finished before the soil of Europe was
trodden by Greek, Roman, Slav, or Teuton. Such a system could only have
been formed by a very small community, in which by the help of a tacit
agreement, each number could only bear one signification. If we were
suddenly obliged to invent new names for one, two and three we should
quickly feel the great difficulty of the task; to supply new names for
material objects would be comparatively easy, as these have different
attributes which could be used in their designation; we could call the
sea, the salt water; and the rain, the water of heaven; numbers are,
however, such abstract conceptions that it would be foolish to attempt
to find in them palpable attributes, and thus give expression to a
merely quantitative idea.”[27]

Since the names of the Aryan numbers up to one hundred are the same,
it proves that they date from a time when our ancestors lived under
circumscribed conditions united by common ties. This is not so with
the word _thousand_; the names for _thousand_ differ in German and
Slavonic, because they have their rise after the dispersion of the
race. Sanscrit and Zend share the name for thousand, which proves the
union of the ancestors of the Brahmans and Zoroastrians--after their
exodus--by the ties of a common language.

In this way the facts of language--which are so simple that a child
could seize them--enable us to travel from the known to the unknown,
and prove our descent from the once small family of the Aryas.

Man in the abstract has been studied for long years. Max Müller
contemplates this abstraction in the Aryan man; this has not previously
been attempted. Certainly we Aryans of to-day differ greatly from our
first parents, but not _in toto_; the ties which connect us have not
been severed, and he it is--our Aryan ancestor--who will help us to
understand how we are verily the children of our fathers.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 18.

[24] _Ibid._, vol. ii. p. 19.

[25] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. pp. 18-20.

[26] _Chips from, a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 17.

[27] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 52.




CHAPTER III THE PHILOSOPHY OF LANGUAGE


It is possible to distinguish in ourselves four things: sensation,
perception, conception, and the signs by means of which we designate
objects, that is their names; these enable us to separate the one
from the other. We must not imagine that these four exist as separate
entities, “no words are possible without concepts, no concepts without
percepts, no percepts without sensations.”[28]--_Science of Thought_,
p. 2.

These four constituent elements of thought are merely four different
phases in the growth of what we call our mind.

I employ these terms because they are in use in philosophical language;
there are also many others constantly on the lips of philosophers, some
of them newly coined. This is greatly to be regretted, as much of our
confusion of thought arises from this superabundance of philosophical
terms. If such words as impression, sensation, perception, intuition,
presentation, conception, soul, reason, and many others could for a
time be banished from our philosophical dictionaries, and some only
readmitted after they had undergone a thorough purification and were
made to return to their primitive signification, an immense service
would have been rendered to mental science; as every writer defines
them as he will, or uses them without definition; and he seems to
imagine that because there are so many words, there must also be so
many variations, “Because in the German language there are two words:
_verstand_ and _vernunft_, both originally expressing the same thing,
the greatest efforts have been made to show that there is something to
be called _verstand_, totally different from what is called _vernunft_;
and as there is a _vernunft_ by the side of a _verstand_ in German,
English philosophers have been most anxious to introduce the same
distinction between understanding and reason into English”;[29] and
“because we have a name for impression, and another for sensations,
we are led to imagine that impressions do actually exist by the side
of sensations. But what was originally meant by impression was not
something beside sensation, but rather one side of sensation, namely,
the passive side, which may be spoken of by itself, but which in every
real sensation is inseparable from its active side.”[30]

All the various shades and developments of sensation were doubtless
distinguished and named for some very useful purpose; but the
inconvenience was great when the terms became too numerous. “We may
safely enjoy the wealth of language accumulated by a long line of
thinkers, if only we take care not to accept a coin for more or less
than it is really worth. We must weigh our words as the ancients often
weighed their coins, and not be deceived by their current value.”[31]
When we have bravely resolved to throw away superfluous words, we need
not imagine that we are the poorer, since we have only lost what we, in
reality, never possessed. So powerful, however, is the action of words
on thoughts, that as soon as we throw away a word, we feel ourselves
to have been robbed of the thing itself; the sun rises just the same,
though we say now that it does not rise. Those things which we call
mind, intellect, reason, memory, in fact the soul, have no existence
as such--that is apart from ourselves. This assertion may sound very
terrible to those philosophers who imagine that the dignity of man
consists in the possession of these and other powers; at last there
arises a complete mythology, a philosophic polytheism, when these are
spoken of as distinct possessions, independent powers, with limits not
very sharply defined; and however orthodox that polytheism has become,
it is never too late to protest against it. In making use of these
terms it should be understood that they represent certain modes of
action and phases of the Ego.

It is to be regretted that our modern languages have nothing to replace
the word “mind,” such as there is in the Sanscrit language, meaning
“working within.” As soon as we speak of _mind_ we cannot help thinking
of an independent something dwelling in our body, whereas by mind I
mean nothing but that working which is going on within, embracing
sensation, perception, conception, and naming, and the worker who
accomplishes this is the Ego.

Thus the Ego means nothing but consciousness of itself.

There is one word which it would be desirable to reintroduce into our
philosophical phraseology and that is Logos; it means the word and
the thought combined. Logos is a single intellectual act under two
aspects; it is an untranslatable word. We were told at school that it
was strange that the Greeks should not have distinguished between Logos
Speech and Logos Reason, and it was represented as a progress toward
clearer thought that later writers should have distinguished between
Logos the spoken word and Logos the inner thought.

But the Greeks were right: no doubt it may be an advantage to be able
to distinguish between two sides of the same thing, but that advantage
is more than neutralised if such distinction leads us to suppose that
these two sides are two different things. Let us avoid the very common
error that things which can be distinguished can therefore claim an
independent existence; we can distinguish between an orange and its
peel, but no orange can grow without peel, nor peel without the fruit.

Let it not be supposed that I am such a bigoted upholder of the
unity of the Ego as to wish to see all these names banished from our
philosophical dictionaries. Let us use the word Sense when speaking
of the Ego as perceiving. Let us use Intellect when the Ego is simply
conceiving; and the word language when it is speaking; let us even use
the word _memory_ when we wish to speak of the partial permanence of
the work done by sensation, perception, and conception; and let us use
Reason or Reasoning for the process which produces what the logicians
call propositions and syllogisms; but let us never forget that neither
to remember nor to reason implies the possession of a thing called
reason or memory. All our mental life will remain just the same though
we deny the existence of the terms which obscure our vision; let us
hold fast to the existence of the Ego, it exists in its entity, it only
is the worker, and it receives its highest expression in the Logos.

This truth, that thought and language are inseparable, that thought
without language is as impossible as language without thought has
only recently been affirmed by comparative philologists. Many learned
writers are still unwilling to admit that ideas without words are
impossible though at the same time they are quite willing to concede
that words are impossible without concepts.[32]

We possess an immense number of books on logic, yet we are met
everywhere by the same vagueness on this subject. John Stuart Mill
speaks of language as one of the principal elements or helps of
thought, but he never mentions any other instruments. This lack is
probably owing to the unfortunate influence of modern languages
which have two words, the one for language, the other for thought;
this gives the impression that there is a substantial instead of an
apparent difference between the two; it is also owing to the dislike
of philosophers to allow that all which is most lofty, most spiritual
in us should be dependent on such miserable crutches as words are
supposed to be. Yet it is evident that we cannot advance one step
towards philosophy without acknowledging the fact that we think in
words and words only. This thought would be less difficult to grasp
if we defined clearly what are thoughts. Sensation, pain, pleasure,
dreaming, or willing cannot be called true thought, but variations of
inward activity; in the same way as shrieks, howls, or even the sounds
of real words, taken from a foreign language, are no more language
than our emotions are thoughts. The word Logos expresses this, since
it had originally the two meanings of gathering and combining, and so
became the proper name of all that we call reason; but as it also means
language, it tells us that the process of gathering and combining,
which begins with sensation and passes on to perception and conception,
reaches its full perfection only when the inward activity takes form in
the Logos or speech.

Language therefore is not as has been often imagined, thought plus
sound; but thought is really language minus sound; words are the
external symbols of thought, sounding symbols when we articulate in
a loud voice, but mute when we confine ourselves to merely thinking
them, since it is a fact that we think in words, and it is not possible
to think otherwise. The possession of a language is shown even in the
tracing of whole sentences by ideographic signs, which need not be
pronounced at all, or as in the astronomical signs in our almanacks
which may be pronounced differently in different languages: or we
may substitute algebraic signs for words; we could as well calculate
without numbers as apply our reason without words I have freely and
fully admitted that thoughts may exist without words, because other
signs may take the place of words between persons speaking different
languages possibly between deaf and dumb people. Five fingers held
up are quite sufficient to convey the concept of five, thus the hand
may become the sign for five, both hands for ten, hands and feet for
twenty. In America and Australia where many dialects are spoken this
method has attained a great degree of perfection, but we notice that
in all cases under review each one thinks in his own language and then
translates his thought into pantomime.

A final fact adduced against the theory that it is impossible to think
without language, which was very popular, is that deaf and dumb people
cannot speak, and yet can think; this argument has no great value, as
it is now averred that “a man born dumb who had always lived among
deaf and dumb people, and had not been taught to express thoughts by
signs would be capable of few higher intellectual manifestations than a
monkey or an elephant; and this in spite of the fact that no naturalist
could distinguish any difference between the size of their brains and
those belonging to men who could speak.” For deaf mutes to be able to
think and reason, they must have learned from those who use words, then
only can they substitute other signs for their words and concepts.
Still Professor Huxley accords to these unfortunate men certain
intellectual heritages derived from their parents.

These are some of the chief points in the science of language. The
fundamental law which this science lays down of the unity of thought
and speech is a torch which may throw light on the origin of man.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] Max Müller says: “I use percept instead of presentation, because
it is better understood in English.”--_Science of Thought_, p. 2.

[29] Max Müller’s _Science of Thought_, p. 72.

[30] _Ibid._, p. 17.

[31] _Ibid._, p. 75.

[32] _Science of Thought_, p. 30.




CHAPTER IV ANIMALS


Whilst philosophers and moralists have studied men, and naturalists
animals, Darwin considered it necessary to collect information
concerning both men and beasts simultaneously before making a biography
of the human being. With the modesty so often characteristic of a great
genius, the English naturalist acknowledges that “many of the views
which have been advanced are highly speculative, and some no doubt will
prove erroneous. False facts are highly injurious to the progress of
science, for they often long endure; but false views, if supported by
some evidence, do little harm, as everyone takes a salutary pleasure in
proving their falseness; and when this is done, one path towards error
is closed and the road to truth is often at the same time opened.”[33]

Although there is no doubt that the facts observed by Darwin and
recorded in the _Origin of Species_, are perfectly correct, I hope to
be able to dispose of the opinion that “man and animals follow parallel
lines in their lives, but that man advances more quickly, and has taken
his place in the front rank.”

Whilst making a short _résumé_ of remarks which Noiré and other learned
writers have made on animals, I also propose to draw a comparison
between the two who are so closely connected--the superior and inferior
animal.

Darwin was not alone in his endeavour to prove that there exists no
essential difference between man and beast; some have even asserted
that the intelligence of certain animals is not only equal to, but
at times, superior to that of man. We must be on our guard, however,
against those numerous anecdotes which have led even philosophers
astray; we will also divest our minds of prejudice and preconceived
notions, that we may introduce some order into ideas which have been
disturbed by superficial observers and the makers of false systems,
those enemies of true science; let us candidly own the smallness of
our knowledge concerning the mind of an animal; we do not in the least
know how they philosophise, nor how an ox recognises his stable door.
Instead of having recourse to animals and seeking to draw parallels
between their mental faculties and ours, let us examine ourselves to
find out what passes in our own minds. We shall then discover that
we never in reality perceive anything unless we can distinguish it
from other things by means, if not of a word, yet of a sign; that is
till we have passed through the four stages of sensation, perception,
conception, and more important than all, for our present purpose, of
naming. When it is once acknowledged that concepts are impossible
without words, and that man alone amongst organised beings possesses
the power of language, and that the mental faculties of animals are
different from ours in kind, and not only in degree, it naturally
follows that a genealogical descent of man from animals is an
impossible assumption.

Formerly, in comparing the characteristics of man and animals it was
contended that the latter were ruled by instinct in place of the reason
which was the attribute of the former; and although an affirmation
is not an explanation it appeared sufficiently plausible and was
accepted. But the fact is that both man and beast possess instinct.
If the spider weaves his net by instinct, a child takes his mother’s
breast also by instinct; both are with regard to instinct at one level.
Man involuntarily extends his arm to protect himself if he suddenly
perceives an object near him on the point of striking him. “If we tear
a spider’s web, and watch the spider first run from it in despair, then
return and examine the mischief and endeavour to mend it. Surely we
have the instinct of weaving controlled by observation, by comparison,
by reflection, and by judgment.”[34]

No one has hitherto succeeded in explaining and analysing the instinct
said to be in animals. Cuvier[35] and other naturalists have compared
it with habit.[36] This comparison gives an accurate notion of the
frame of mind under which an instinctive action is performed, but does
not necessarily explain its origin.

As reason develops in man, instinct plays a less important part;
whereas a cat chases a mouse, a bird flies, and fish swim by instinct
from their birth to their last day; and the actions of ants, bees, and
moles, do not cease to amaze us, because they are inseparable from
their structure and their vital functions. The natural impulses which
guide birds and insects in making their nests, hives, and storehouses,
cocoons of silk with which they have so enriched our world and theirs,
are the results of constant and repeated acts, during the course of
innumerable generations. The fact of not distinguishing the instinct
which is in man from that found in animals and thus attributing
man’s conscious acts to the natural leanings which guide unconscious
creatures, has perhaps caused Renan to assert that the monotheistic
tendency of the Semitic race belongs to it by a religious instinct.

It is certain that impressions are received both by man and by animals;
with both the knowledge of objects proceeds from the impressions made
on the senses, thus transmitting the image to the intelligence; but
there the likeness ends; the capacities differ. The animal remains the
slave--in every sense of the word--of his organs; the sight of a bone
to gnaw, the corner in which he lies, the signs of friendship that he
receives from human beings, call forth in a dog a chain of feelings
taking the place of the chain of ideas called out in man.

Man’s capabilities of introducing intermediaries between the intention
and the fulfilment of his object witness to his wideness of mind, his
experience of the past and prevision of the future; all those things
that he owes to his power of imagination and conception even in the
case of things having no real existence, or which do not exist as yet;
he reproduces at will the outward likeness of what is not at the moment
before him. Thus man who names an object, _thinks_ it; but the animal
from not possessing language cannot _think_ it and cannot reproduce it
when out of its sight.

The use or non-use of tools creates a great gulf between man and the
brutes. The most intelligent animal, a monkey of a high order, never
uses a tool--even the most primitive--to accomplish his will; no one
can ascribe to the animal creative actions, that is, it does not
fashion an implement that it may attain another end; it has never been
known to carry an object from one spot to another that it might act as
a ladder to bring the animal nearer to the fruit it desired to reach.

But this concession, I think, we may make to Darwin; that even in the
sphere of mental activities we can never entirely separate ourselves
from the brute creation. We experience in ourselves a certain condition
of mind, where fancies alternate with passing agitation; these proceed
from intense, but confused emotions. This condition does not allow of
clear explanation even to ourselves, since it has nothing in common
with true thought, which is inseparable from the consciousness of
objects, and therefore is lacking in words with which to express
itself. To Mendelssohn this mental condition was perfectly known, and
he says, “It is exactly at that moment when language is impotent to
express the experiences of the soul, that the sphere of music opens to
us; if all that passes in us were capable of being expressed in words,
I should write no more music.”

A flock of birds about to migrate, all follow an unanimous impulse in
uttering at starting a few high clear notes, perhaps impelled by an
unknown motive, their inclinations and wills find collective expression
therein, by a mutual impulse which comes from soundless depths of the
life of the senses, carrying all before it. This universal sympathy,
however difficult to explain, is one of the noblest possessions of the
inferior animals; even the aptitude they display for certain mechanical
acts of labour does not stand on the same level; but in the vocal
manifestations of birds there is no indication of true thought, the
basis of real language.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now come, my dog, for a _tête-à-tête_. It would be impossible to hold
converse with ants, bees, monkeys, moles, or birds, as I should not
acknowledge them as my compeers, I should not admit them as intimates;
but you I know well; and, let me tell you, your judges have shown their
impartiality towards you; none of the vices which degrade us--your
superiors--have been laid to your account. You are called neither
gourmand, thief, idler, nor hypocrite; but you lack the qualities that
might have been yours had you possessed the faculty of combination.
They say that you create nothing because you fail to see what purpose
tools may serve; and you are ignorant of the fact that _A._ being
given, _B._ must follow--such is combination. Still, on looking
closely, it is possible to discover amongst us--your superiors--those
who are stupid--or awkward--who take small advantage of all the means
put within their reach to recede from a false position, to recover
from the effects of a wrong step, or, what is still more important,
remedy their ignorance. Yes, there are many such, and these also lack
the faculty of combination.

Your judges also assert that from the want on your part of being able
to attach one idea to another, you do not think of your master when
he is absent from you. What ingratitude! But I wonder whether those
friends, who profess so much pleasure in my company, think of me when I
am absent; perhaps no more than you do.

Let me continue my enquiries for a few minutes. We will suppose that
we two are in my study. I am occupied with a book, and am not thinking
of you at all. You are stretched at my feet with your nose between
your paws, watching a fly near you. I make a sudden movement, you look
at me, and at the same moment wag your tail.... Am I to suppose that
you wag it to hide your dislike to me? The noble quality which I and
all your superiors possess is lacking in you; you have no speech for
thought in which to tell me your love for me; but if you could speak,
that is, were like one of ourselves, would you be as truthful as you
are now, being only a dog that has nothing but his tail with which
to make his master understand his feelings towards him? Schopenhauer
... but you know nothing of Schopenhauer, if you could speak I should
teach you to read, and then you would know him. Schopenhauer is a great
and learned philosopher, who says, “How much this movement of the
tail surpasses in sincerity many other assurances of friendship and
devotion.”[37]

This is a long digression on Darwin’s idea that man and animals lead
parallel lives, but that the one progresses quickly, the other slowly.
I think I have shown that it is not a question of rapidity or tardiness
of progress, but rather whether both travellers are equally well
equipped with the means of passing the Rubicon.

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Darwin’s _Descent of Man_, vol. ii. p. 385.

[34] Max Müller’s _Science of Language_, vol. i. p. 402.

[35] “Cuvier maintained that instinct and intelligence stand in an
inverse ratio to each other.”--Darwin’s _Descent of Man_, vol. i. p.
37. Translator’s note.

[36] Frederick Cuvier and several of the older metaphysicians have
compared instinct with habit.--Darwin’s _Origin of Species_, p. 191.

[37] Max Müller’s _Science of Thought_, p. 178.




CHAPTER V PRIMITIVE HUMANITY


Some courage is required to attack the subject of comparative philology
as treated by certain learned authors; they are bold enough to seek to
transport themselves to an age of such remote antiquity that history is
silent on the subject, but in which a nascent humanity endeavoured to
find expression for its sensations in a language which probably had no
name.

When my attention was first attracted to the work of this school, so
long as my mind was content to skim over the surface of an unknown
world, so immeasurably distant from us, and whilst flitting too rapidly
over it to be able to distinguish any of its features, it presented
itself to me as a creation of my heated imagination. Since then I have
lived in that world of wonders, and I then grasped the fact that it was
quite possible for this world to have been a reality. But to journey
thither, even to live in this strange country, the only path to which
is by induction, in company with Max Müller and Noiré, who, apparently,
are its inhabitants, from the ease with which they move in it, is a
totally different matter from explaining the methods of getting there,
or describing the sojourn. I should have to draw information from
various sources, and the scientific and hypothetical data connected
therewith would require sorting and rearranging to make them assimilate
more easily; these would present difficulties not readily surmounted.

How could a reasonable and speaking being come forth from that which
had no reason and no language?

The earliest traditions are silent on the manner of man’s acquisition
of his first ideas and his first words. But because a problem has not
been solved, that is no reason for the assertion that it is insoluble,
unless a refutation is at once demonstrable, as in the squaring of the
circle. “If every one had abstained from striving to penetrate hidden
things, no sciences would exist,” Noiré remarked. Newton might have
said: “The facts that a stone falls and the planets move are known
by actual experience, why search out the laws which produce these
phenomena?” And the theory of gravitation would have been lacking.
Lyell might have said: “We see that the crust of the earth is composed
of several strata, why reckon the time required for their formation?”
And there would have been no science of geology. Liebig might have
said: “We see that clover grows and cattle prosper, why should the
relation of cause and effect concern us?” And there would have been no
organic chemistry. Adam Smith might have said: “We know by experience
that valuable objects can be exchanged, and that their prices
fluctuate, why should we study the cause of rise and fall?” And this
chapter would have been missing from political economy.

No road presents itself to me by which to arrive in the midst of
primitive humanity; of necessity, therefore, I have recourse to
analogy, which, under the circumstances, is not the worst expedient.

When the Romans first encountered Germans, they were chiefly struck
by the great stature, the blue eyes, and the light hair of this
inimical race. Tacitus, in alluding to this fact, says that each
German exactly resembled his fellow. Although we are familiar with
the external appearance of various nations, yet if we found ourselves
in the presence of a large number of negroes we should experience an
analogous sensation, only by degrees should we distinguish one from the
other. In an intensified degree primitive man must have had similar
experiences when, first finding himself in a world of which he knew
nothing, and of which he understood nothing, the consciousness of
what he saw around him was making itself apparent. These early races
learnt the meaning of the details of surrounding nature but slowly;
their eyes followed the brilliant circle as it moved from one quarter
of the heavens to the other; they noticed the fire which came whence
they knew not; they heard the crash of thunder, reproduced by the
echoes in the mountains synchronising with the devastations caused by
the storm. If one man alone had witnessed these terrifying effects
in nature, his reason would have tottered from fear; the stones and
the herbs of the field could not share his agitation; the death of a
man from terror would leave them unmoved. Happily man was not alone,
all those around him shared his agitation, and the terror manifested
itself on each by signs which each would understand instinctively.
This period of semi-consciousness before the full awakening might
have been a prolonged one, but physical sensations and necessities
multiplied themselves, and were very various and imperative; action was
indispensable if privations were to be avoided; and instinct came to
their aid. The need of guarding themselves from the burning rays of the
sun caused them to provide shelters by interlacing branches of trees;
to protect themselves from cold they took the skins of wild beasts to
throw over their shoulders; where natural caverns were insufficient for
their wants they made themselves refuges in the sides of the mountains;
they were forced to light and maintain fires; sharpen stones either
for tools or for weapons of defence; the wants of one were the wants
of all, and all gave themselves to the task of satisfying them. It is
so evident that primitive activity must have been co-operative, that
it outrages common sense to picture each man labouring by himself for
himself alone. The mental phenomenon known as _intention_, was the
common property of all; the mutual sympathy played the part of the
electric current of our laboratories, and the inarticulate sounds
escaping involuntarily from the lips of each worker, served as a means
of communication.

In order the better to understand the function of the voice in the
education of primitive man, let us look around us and listen. Whenever
our senses are excited, and our muscles hard at work, we feel a kind of
relief in uttering sounds which in themselves have no meaning. “They
are a relief rather than an effort, a moderation or modulation of the
quickened breath in its escape through the mouth.”[38]

When men work together, on account of the nature of the task
requiring united effort, they are naturally inclined to accompany
their occupations with certain more or less rhythmical utterances,
which react beneficially on the inward disturbance caused by muscular
effort. When a body of men march, row, or wield hammers, they do not
keep silence; formerly soldiers sang as they marched to battle; our
modern civilisation only caused the substitution of fife and drums
for the songs; and our soldiers do not readily abandon these measured
accompaniments, which make them less susceptible of fatigue. When
savage races dance they make the air resound with measured cadences;
our peasants sing while joining in the country dances; the custom of
singing during work is more marked amongst those who belong to the
races which are less under the influence of civilisation, and are more
entirely absorbed by their manual occupation, and with whom personal
preoccupation has small hold.

These inarticulate sounds which Noiré has named _clamor concomitans_
and Max Müller _clamor significans_, uttered by primitive men when
working in concert, and always inseparable from acts, could be
differentiated in accordance with the acts performed; and at a period
when actual speech did not yet exist, they would always have this
practical value, they would awaken the remembrance of acts performed in
the past, and be repeated in the present, they would thus be instantly
understood by all, and readily retained by the memory. But what was
there to determine the application of certain sounds to certain
occupations? This has not been made clear. Plato, Socrates, and others,
have considered that the origin of language might be traced to the
imitation of the sounds of nature, and have sought for a resemblance
between these sounds and certain letters of the alphabet, but even were
it possible here and there to discover a faint analogy, our efforts
would only end in contradictions. There seems to be neither necessity
nor absolute freedom in the choice of the sounds expressive of these
acts, but rather the result of some accident, or of causes of which we
are ignorant. In any case these sounds were merely the materials of
which language was built.

It will be easily understood that nothing would penetrate more deeply
into man’s consciousness, or produce mutual understanding more
readily, than acts undertaken and accomplished with the same end in
view by a number of men united in a common impulse. During the digging
of the caves, the weaving of the nets, the thrashing of the grain,
the workers would follow with their eyes the gradual transformation
perceptible in these activities, and the sounds which they emitted,
or the half-formed words issuing from their lips would be modified or
softened at each development in the work; these developments becoming
more and more distinct, more and more impressed with their own special
characteristic. The idea of individuality must have been very clouded,
very confused amongst primitive man; that which one saw the other saw
after the same manner; they designed each object in creating it; in
this way the world became as a book to them, this book, the result of
their combined labour, they learnt to read fluently by means of these
sounds and words which increased as they varied. Thus work--man’s good
genius--is proved to be the source of what is truly human, viz., reason
and language.

Here I will note a curious fact and one which is historical. At a
period when writing was unknown in India, the Brahmans had already
established the rules of poetical metre, which were originally
connected with dancing and music. These rules had been preserved in the
Veda. The various Sanscrit names for metre are a witness of the union
of corporal and phonetic movements. The root of _Khandas_, metre, is
the same as the Latin _scandere_ in the sense of stepping; _vritta_,
metre, from _vrit_, verto--to turn, meant originally the last three
or four steps of a dancing movement, the turn, the _versus_, which
determined the whole character of dance or of the metre. _Trishtubh_,
the name of a common metre in the Veda, meant three-step, because
its turn--its _vritta_ or _versus_--consisted of three steps, ∪ - -.
Thus the innate necessity that man feels of linking the play of the
vocal chords to the movement of hands or feet, had been controlled by
fixed laws, twenty-four centuries ago, by the Hindoo grammarians; and
the most recent theories of modern writers on the subject attest the
excellence of these laws. The assertion that it is natural to peasants
not to keep silence when working is of very ancient date, but Noiré was
the first to deduce scientific data from the fact.

The study of Sanscrit has shown us that two thousand years ago it
occurred to Hindoo grammarians to investigate the origin of the words
of their language, when they discovered that all words could be reduced
to roots, and that these roots all expressed various forms of activity;
that they were therefore verbs, and that the number of these roots was
very restricted. Our present philologists have continued this work
and are not only able to acknowledge the accuracy of the Brahmanic
discovery, but also to certify that the grammatical analysis of the
Hindoos, put forth 500 years before our era, has never been surpassed.
It is important to remember that roots are the fundamental elements
which permeate the whole organism of the language. Hebrew has been
reduced by Renan and other Hebraists to about 500 roots; the work
has still to be done for the whole Semitic family. The same process
has been carried out with regard to the Aryan languages; we find the
number of roots in Sanscrit reduced to about 800; of Gothic about 600;
rather more than 400 in the Teutonic family, and 600 in the Slavic. The
Ural-Altaic languages have also undergone a partial analysis of the
same kind, and the result at present corresponds to that obtained by
the examination of the other families. After eliminating the tertiary
and secondary roots from the Sanscrit the residuum is 600 or 500,
and we arrive at the fact that this entire language, and, in a great
measure, all the Aryan languages, can be traced back to an extremely
small number of roots.

As the Hindoo grammarians asserted that all roots contain the
representation of various forms of activity, it behoved our
philologists to investigate this and discover their meaning. Professor
Noiré thought that the consciousness that men had of their own acts
must have formed the origin of the primitive concepts of the human
mind, and found expression in signs or words. Max Müller shows us[39]
that all the Sanscrit roots express a concept or consciousness of
the repeated acts, the acts with which man in his infancy would be
most familiar. But it must be noted that the concepts or signs are
not of single acts, but the realisation of repeated acts; to dig was
not to put a spade into the ground once, it is the action of digging
continuously; to sharpen was not to pass one flint over another
once, it was the continual action of sharpening. The consciousness of
accomplishing these repeated acts as if one act, became the first germ
of conceptual thought. During this initial phase of thought, when the
first consciousness of his own repeated acts awoke in man and assumed
a conceptual character, will, act and knowledge were as yet one and
undivided, and the whole of his conscious knowledge was subjective,
exclusively concerned with his own voluntary act. We possess the
genealogy of a large number of Aryan roots, and we find on examination
that the activity which formed their basis was at the beginning always
a creative activity, since it called into life conceptions which up to
that time had not existed.

Nothing is more interesting than researches into the origin of the
growth of human thought, when carried out not according to the systems
of certain philologists of our day, but historically, after the fashion
of the Indian trapper, who notes on the sand every imprint of the
footsteps of him whom he pursues.

For the present I will content myself by bringing forward in
illustration three primary roots. _Vê_ (_Vâ_), which is, to weave;
_Mar_, to crush; and _Khan_, to dig. _Vê_ (_Vâ_), _Mar_, and _Khan_ are
thus verbs.

When we now picture the four acts of weaving, spinning, sewing, and
knitting, they appear so to differ the one from the other, that it
seems impossible to consider them other than four distinct acts, and
difficult to believe that there is one common origin to all. These four
processes, however, all had their germ in the one primitive act of
interlacing the boughs of trees to form a hedge or roof. This root _Vê_
(_Vâ_) had an immense number of offshoots; from the acts of interlacing
and platting came the conception of binding, in Latin _vieo_, to twist,
to divide; in German, _winden_, _wickeln_; the Latin words _vitis_, a
vine; _vimen_, osier, a twig; _viburnum_, a climbing plant; the Slavic
word _vetla_, willow; the Sanscrit _vetra_, reed, rush; the German
word for rush, _binse_, is connected with _binden_, to join, and the
secondary meaning of ties of relationship and alliance: again, in the
Old High-German, _nothbendig_, or _nothwendigkeit_, bound, straitened,
and the Gothic _naudibandi_, tie, chain. All these words, whether in
the Roman, German, or Slavonic dialects, have retained the root _Vê_
(_Vâ_), so that it is impossible not to recognise the trunk of which
these are the branches. Thus a large number of apparently dissimilar
images became entangled the one with the other, and in proportion as
we approach their starting-point do we find them discarding their own
special signification, and becoming absorbed in the single conception
of weaving and platting.

The root _mar_, to grind, has also the meaning of to crush, to powder,
to rub down, etc., and whether we look at the Latin, Greek, Celtic,
German, or Slav, the words representing the verb _to mill_, and the
name _mill_ come thence; the transition from _milling_ to _fighting_ is
natural; thus Homer used the word _mar-na-mai_, I fight, I pound. _Mar_
produced in Latin the words _mordeo_, I bite; _morior_ (originally,
to decay), I die; _mortuus_, dead; _mors_, death; _morbus_, illness;
in Greek, _marasmos_, decay; rendered in German by _sich aufreiben_,
to become exhausted. In Sanscrit we must remember that the consonants
_r_ and _l_ are cognate and interchangeable; thus, _mar_ = _mal_;
and that _ar_ in Sanscrit is shortened, and the vowel modified and
pronounced _ri_, _mar_ = _mri_; that _ar_ may be pronounced _ra_,
and _al_, _la_; _mar_ = _mra_ and _mal_ = _mla_: thus in Sanscrit
we find _mrita_, dead; _mritya_, death, and _mriye_, I die. One of
the earliest names for man was _marta_, the dying; the equivalent in
Greek for the Sanscrit _mra_ and _mla_ is _mbro_, _mblo_; and after
dropping the _m_ becomes _bro_ and _blo_; _brotos_, mortal. Having
chosen this name for himself, man gave the opposite name to the gods;
he called them _Ambrotoi_, without decay, immortal; and their food
_ambrosia_, immortality. An offshoot of _mar_ is _mard_ and _mrg_;
thence _mradati_, rubbing down, pulverising, grind to powder; _mrid_
is in Sanscrit the word for dust, and afterwards was used for soil
in general or earth; _mrid_, to weaken, to soften, to melt; thus,
fluid mass. This idea in English takes the form _malt_, grain soaked
and softened; then the Greek _meldo_, and the Gothic _mulda_, soft
ground or morass, and that which is softened by use or the action of
time. The Latin _sordes_ and _sordidus_ are connected herewith, as the
same root may be found in _smarna_, Gothic, and the Greek _mélas_ and
_moros_, black, and in _murus_, brown-black; in the Russian _smola_,
wax and resin. “Colour was conceived originally as the result of the
act of covering or extending a fluid over a surface; it was not till
the art of painting, in its most primitive form, was discovered and
named, that there could have been a name for colour.”[40] The name of
colour in Sanscrit is _varna_, from _var_, to cover. The idea conveyed
by the words, to smooth, to flatter, to soften, to mollify, to melt a
hard substance, to polish a rough surface by constant rubbing, led to
the same terms being used for expressing the softening influence which
man exercised on man, by looks, gestures, words or prayers, and these
expressions were especially used by men in their relations to the gods,
when they strove to propitiate them by supplications and sacrifices:
thus the prayer which we now translate by “Be gracious unto us, O God,”
meant originally, “Melt to us; be softened, ye gods.”

Language grew and made offshoots, but without confusion; disorder had
no place in the progress of thought (still less chance), which was
simple and rational. This was not the development of the conscious
effort towards some goal. At this period there was no such thing as
reflection properly so called; for instance, man did not ponder how
best to express a feeling of fear, since fear, like so many other
impressions, received vague expression before the concept of fear
acquired shape; but our ancestors had a root to express shaking (in
Sanscrit _kap_, _kamp_, to shake): they used it to describe fear,
which manifested itself in the trembling of voice or limbs. Thus, “I
shake” might mean, “I shake a tree,” or “I am shaken,” “I am shaken
by him” (by my horse), but also “I am trembling”; from it we have
in Greek _karnos_, smoke, not what shakes, or is shaken, but what
is in a shaking state, that which moves; _kup_, which is probably a
modification of _kamp_, means to shake inwardly, to be angry.

Some learned writers have felt disconcerted when after tracing words to
their source, they have found nothing but roots with general meanings,
such as to go, to move, to run, to do; however, it is by means of these
vague, pale conceptions that language has obtained the material for
an entire language. The Aryan root _ar_ signified originally to go,
to send, to advance, to proceed, going regularly, to stir. Applied to
the stirring of the soil, it took the meaning of ploughing; in Latin
_ar-are_, in Greek _ar-oun_, in Irish _ar_, in Lithuanian _ar-ti_, in
Russian _ora-ti_; this root, from its meaning of advancing regularly,
was the name of the plough; one derivative was applied to the cattle
fit for ploughing, and also to the labourer. _Ar_ was also used for
the ploughing of the sea, or rowing, and was found in the words rower
and rudder. The Latin word _ævum_, originally from _i_, to go, became
the name of time, age; and its derivative _æviternus_, _æturnus_ was
made to express eternity. It was by a poetical fiat that the Greek
_probata_, which originally meant no more than things walking forward,
became in time the name of cattle. In French, the word _meuble_ means
literally anything that is movable, but it became the name of chairs,
tables, wardrobes, etc. In this way we see the power of language,
which, out of a few simple elements, has created names sufficient to
express the infinite aspects of nature.

The ramifications of the Aryan root _Dâ_ give a good idea of the
process. Thus _Dâ_ = to give, is in the Sanscrit _dădāmi_, I give;
in Latin, _do_; in Old Slavonic, _da-mi_; in Lithuanian, _du-mi_; in
French, _donner_ and _pardonner_; in Latin, _trado_, to give over; in
Italian, _tradire_; in French, _trahir_, _trahison_; in Latin again,
_reddo_, to give back; in French, _rendre_ and _rente_. Side by side
with the root _Dâ_, there is another root also _Dâ_, exactly the same
in all outward appearance; it consists of _D_ + _Â_, but is totally
distinct from the former. While from the former we have in Sanscrit,
_dâ-tram_, a gift, we have from the latter _dâ´-tram_, a sickle. The
meaning of the second root is to cut, to carve; the difference is
shown by the accent remaining on the radical syllable in _dâ´-tram_,
_i.e._, the cutting (active); whilst it leaves the radical syllable in
_dâ-trám_, _i.e._, what is given (passive).

The history of these roots _dâ_ affords an opportunity of noticing
a curious resemblance between natural history and philology, two
sciences which otherwise are totally different, but alike in one idea
which enters into the inwardness of both. Darwin admitted four or five
progenitors in the vegetable and animal kingdoms, so that the primary
elements of all living organisms are the simple cells. In the same
way philologists have discovered that there remain in the end certain
simple elements of human speech--the primordial roots--which have
sufficed to provide the innumerable multitude of words used by the
human race. A principle neglected by a great number of evolutionists
is that if two origins, whether the roots of language or living
cells, have at their starting-point an absolutely similar appearance,
and afterwards diverge, it is because at their origin they bore in
themselves the germs destined to produce this divergence. Darwin says
that two organic cells, which in the embryonic stage may perfectly
resemble each other, in growing, gradually develop, the one into an
inferior animal, the other into a superior animal, never varying the
process; the reason of which fact is that the cells, although not
distinguishable the one from the other, differ in the rudiments or
principle of life: in the same way philologists say that when two roots
have the same sound, but produce families of perfectly distinct words,
it is because the germs in each differ. We learn from this that the
sound of the words is a matter of indifference at the commencement of
a language; no one has succeeded, or will succeed, in making the sound
alone the vehicle of a conception.

To Locke belongs the merit of having first clearly asserted that
roots, the true irreducible elements of language, which furnish
words for the most abstract and sublime conceptions, had at the
beginning only a material or sensuous meaning, and this fact, on which
idealists and materialists are agreed, is confirmed by comparative
philologists. All primitive roots express directly only those acts
and those conditions which come under the domain of the senses; all
express the consciousness of repeated acts familiar to the members of
a society in its infancy, such as pounding, striking, weaving, tying,
burning, rubbing, moving, cutting, sharpening, softening. By means of
generalisation and specialisation, the roots have acquired the most
abstract terms of our advanced society; thus the root to burn developed
into the thought of to love, and also to be ashamed; to dig, came
to mean to search for, to enquire; the root which means to gather,
expressed in primitive logic what we now call observation of facts;
the connection of major and minor, or even syllogism. This is without
doubt, and it is as certain that the words rake and pinchers came from
the verbs to rake and to pinch.

To make the assertion of Locke the more striking, Noiré adds: “When
the representative words springing from one root are found side by
side, it is always the more ancient of the two which expresses the
more material act. The verbs to tear and to cut are the offshoots of
a single root; but the passage from the concept of tearing to that of
cutting would be slowly effected; the act of tearing was immediate with
man, cutting was a mediate act, and of later date, since it could not
be done whilst the instrument was lacking.”

I shall now bridge over the distance between the primordial roots,
and the organised language as we possess it, in order to show how
our ancestors succeeded in forming real phrases, that is to say,
intelligible propositions; this will show us the continuous thread
which connects our present language with primitive speech.

We can show that both dictionary and grammar are made up of predicative
roots and demonstrative elements. By the help of the first we make
affirmations concerning things, derived from our knowledge of another
object or of many, either in combination under one name, or taking each
separately. With the demonstrative element we point to any object in
space or time, by using such words as this, that, then, here, there;
near, far, above, below, and others of the same kind, whose existence
may be explained as a survival of the gesticulating phase in which
objects were neither conceived nor described but pointed out; from this
we are not to infer that gestures--even accompanied by sounds--gave
birth to speech, since they rather excluded it. In their primitive
form and intention, these demonstrative elements are addressed to
the senses rather than to the intellect. They have in themselves no
meaning, and to be of service they must be attached to words that
have. The history of the root _Khan_, to dig, will explain my thought.
When our Aryan ancestors had learnt to say _Khan_, and they wanted
to distinguish between those who were digging and the instruments
used in digging, between the object of the digging and the time and
place of the work, it is possible that these demonstrative suffixes,
combined with predicative roots, formed bases, such as _Khan-ana_,
_Khan-i_, _Khan-a_, _Khan-itra_, and still others, which were intended
probably for digging-here, digging-now, dig-we, dig-you. By means of
these combinations, which varied in their application according to
the customs of different villages and families, the speaker sought
to distinguish between the subject acting and the object acted upon;
and when this difficulty was surmounted, a great step had been taken,
the passage from perception to conception was accomplished, and this
passage no philosopher prior to Noiré had made clear. “We must always
bear in mind that we are speaking here of times, so far beyond the
reach of history, and of intellectual processes so widely removed from
our own, that none would venture to speak dogmatically on what was
actually passing in the minds of the early framers of language when
they first uttered these words.”[41] All we can do is to hazard an
explanation, and accept it in as far as it seems reasonable; and in the
interest of science, we must carefully guard ourselves from asserting
that our theory is the only true one. It is easy to conceive that
after centuries of constant use certain derivatives should have become
unalterably attached to certain meanings, and others should have also
retained their special meanings. But what we do not know, is how the
sounds destined to become demonstrative elements or personal pronouns
were restricted to the terms required for such words, as--here, there,
those, he, I, that, etc. There were cases in which a verb in the
infinitive would develop into a phrase without any additions being
made to it; it would suffice, for instance, if a man uttered the
word _Khan_ in a commanding voice--as we should say “work”--for his
fellow-labourers to understand that they were to begin to dig. Thus the
imperative could be considered a complete sentence with as much justice
as Veni-Vedi-Vici would be termed independent and complete sentences.
“The shortest sentence of all is, no doubt, the imperative, and it is
in the imperative that almost to the present day roots retain their
simplest form.”[42]

Our intellects in the present day are developed by the discourses we
hear, the books we read, the reflections suggested by our experiences
of life; our vocabularies become enriched as our knowledge increases
and embraces a greater number of subjects; and if we retrace the path
taking us to our ancestors who could not count beyond four sometimes,
we should find words and ideas becoming fewer and conspicuous by their
absence. It does not therefore follow that because we use language
that we made it. It is not our invention; to us every language is
traditional. “The words in which we think are channels of thought
which we have not dug ourselves, but which we found ready made for
us. The work of making language belongs to a period in the history of
mankind beyond the reach of the ordinary historian, and of which we
in our advanced state of mental development can hardly form a clear
conception.” Yet that time must have been a fact not less possible of
verification than that geological period when “the earth was absorbed
in producing the carboniferous vegetation which still supplies us with
the means of warmth, light, and life, accumulating during enormous
periods of time small deposits of organic matter forming the strata of
the globe on which we live. In the same manner the human mind formed
that linguistic vegetation, the produce of which still supplies the
stores of our grammars and dictionaries”; and after a close examination
of these primordial roots whence our language has sprung, we find that
it does not consist in a conglomeration of words, the result of an
agreement amongst a certain number of men, or the result of chance, but
expresses human activity by means of verbs, the living and vivifying
portion of speech by the side of which the remainder may almost be
considered as dead matter.

The question of the birth of the substantive, without being
deliberately posed as a problem, occupied the minds of the Grecian
philosophers, and was involved in their researches concerning the
relation of an object to the name it bears, of the unknown cause by
which a certain name designates a certain object and no other. Whilst
the Greeks speculated on the subject after a tentative manner, building
up theories which later observations were not long in upsetting, the
Hindoos were also engaged in efforts to solve the problem by the help
of a more reliable process--the historical.

The early grammarians, having found that words came from roots
expressing general concepts, and that these concepts represented some
sort of activity, made this fact the basis of their studies; profound
thinkers as they were they discovered that man at first could not give
a name to a tree, an animal, a star, a river, nor to any other object
without discovering first some special quality that seemed at the time
most characteristic of the object to be named. Sanscrit has a root
_As_, having amongst other meanings sharpness, quickness; from the
same root came words for needle, point, sharpness of sight, quickness
of thought; this root is found in the Sanscrit name for a horse, which
is _asva_, runner or racer, one who leaves space quickly behind him.
Many other names might have been given to the horse besides the one
here mentioned, but all must recall some characteristic trait of this
animal; that name, _the quick_, could also have been given to other
animals, but having been repeatedly applied to one, it became unfit
for other purposes, and the horse retains undisputed possession. The
Sanscrit _aksha_, eye, comes from the same root as, which also meant to
point, to pierce. Another name for eye in Sanscrit is _netram_, leader,
from _nî_, to lead.

Noiré has just put forth an ingenious theory, that the first
substantives would not be miller, digger, weaver, carpenter; but flour,
cave, pit, mat, hedge, club, arrow, boat, because these were what had
been thought and willed, whilst the agents, of no account from that
point of view, remained in the shade, forgotten, and it is possible
that for some time no names were given to them.

“When we have once seen that thought in its true sense is always
conceptual, taking a verbal form, and that every word is derived from a
conceptual root, we shall be ready for the assertion that words being
conceptual can never stand for a single percept.”--MAX MÜLLER.

Locke first insisted that names are not the signs of things themselves,
but always the signs of our concepts of them. This remark received
small attention at first, and remained little appreciated until such
time as the discoveries of our contemporaries, with no preconcerted
unanimity, confirmed its value. Max Müller explains Locke’s words
in the following manner: “Each time that we use a general name, if
we say dog, tree, chair, we have not these objects before our eyes,
only our concepts of them; there can be nothing in the world of sense
corresponding even to such simple words as dog, tree, chair. We can
never expect to see a dog, a tree, a chair. Dog means every kind of dog
from the greyhound to the spaniel; tree, every kind of tree from the
oak to the cherry; chair, every kind of chair from the royal throne to
the artisan’s stool. We may see a spaniel or a Newfoundland dog; we may
see a fir or an apple tree; we may see such and such a chair. People
often imagine that they can form a general image of a dog by leaving
out what is peculiar to every individual dog.”[43]

This general idea we have in our mind of which we can talk, but our
eyes cannot see it as they could a real object. Nothing that we name,
nothing that we find in our dictionary can ever be heard, or seen, or
felt. “We can even have names for things which never existed, such as
gnomes; also for things which exist no more, or which exist not yet,
such as the grapes of the last harvest, and those of the next. The mere
fact that I call a thing past or future ought to be sufficient to show
that it is my concept of which I am speaking, and not the thing as
independent of me.”[44]

Berkeley showed that it is simply impossible for any human being to
make to himself a general image of a triangle, for such an image would
have to be at the same time right-angled, obtuse-angled, acute-angled,
and other kinds also; such an object does not exist; whereas it is
perfectly possible to have an image of any single triangle; to name
some characteristic features common to all triangles, and thus to
form a name and at the same time a concept of a triangle.[45] This
mental process which Berkeley described so well as applied to modern
concepts we can adopt with regard to all, even the most primitive.
Man, in entering a forest, discovered in the trees something that was
interesting to him. For practical purposes trees were particularly
interesting to the primitive framers of language, because they could be
split in two, three, or four pieces, cut, shaped according to the size
of the piece into blocks, planks, boats, and shafts; any object for
which the necessity had made itself felt. Hence, from a root _dar_, to
tear, our Aryan ancestors called trees _dru_, or _dâru_, literally what
can be torn, or split, or cut; from the same root the Greeks called the
skin of an animal _dérma_, because it was torn off, and a sack _dóros_
(in Sanscrit _driti_), because it was made of leather, and a spear
_dóry_, because it came from a tree, and was cut and shaped and planed.

Such words being once given would produce many offshoots; the Celts
of Gaul and of Ireland called their priests _Druids_, literally the
men of oak-groves. The Greeks called the spirits of the forest trees
_Dryades_; and the Hindoos called a man of wood, or a man with a
wooden, or, as we say, flinty heart, _dâruna_, cruel.

The immense number of intelligible roots gave birth to many new images,
these roots crossed and recrossed, for the concepts of to go, to give,
to move, to make, would be the foundations of others, in some ways
differing; one idea or thought in its flight would meet others perhaps
of a conflicting nature, thoughts and words would equally undergo
incessant modifications, which fact explains why in these earlier
stages of language the members of a community soon ceased to understand
each other if separated but for a short period of time.

Ovid, in speaking of the chaos at the beginning of the world, makes
a picture which would equally well describe the birth of language.
“Matter was in an unformed mass ... the sky, the earth, the sea had all
one aspect; there where was the earth, was also the sea, and the sky
was there also.”

The extraordinary destinies of the roots I have named constitutes a
short chapter only, in the birth and development of tongues; but short
as it is, it suffices to give us an idea of the elastic nature of
these roots, their faculty of extension, and the part they play in the
economy of language, and in the administration of the affairs of the
human mind.

Every mental phenomenon has its history, which can only be discovered
by tracing it to its source; and as speech has undergone many phases,
of which the earlier must have been very different from those now in
existence, it is pardonable in the greatest philosophers of antiquity
not to have known the intricacies of the human mind, which this
changeable speech could alone interpret. The ancients knew their
own times, but were ignorant of the preceding ones, in the same way
they knew their own language only, and of this language only its
contemporary form; and in the case of a word whose meaning was lost or
of a foreign word, they sought its origin in an idiom with which they
were familiar; in other words, not where it could be found.

For a long time man only knew one kind of being, his own; and possessed
one language only, that which expressed his own acts and his own
states; the primitive men were sufficiently advanced to say: “let us
dig,” “grind,” “they weave”; but if, at the beginning, concepts and
speech arose from the consciousness of their own activity, how was the
advance made when men desired to speak of the external objects of the
world which they saw around them, and were conscious of not having
made, and which consequently remained outside the sphere of their wills
and of their experience? It is clear that these outward objects to be
grasped and named, must have their part in the human activities for
which names had already been found. When he saw the lightning tearing
a hole in the field, or splitting the trunk of a tree, man could no
longer say, “_We_ have dug this hole, _you_ have split the tree.” It
was no longer _someone_, but _something_ that had dug and struck.
Nothing seems more simple to us than after saying “_I dig_” to say
also “_it digs_,” and yet it was a passing to a new world of thought,
from the conscious feeling of our own activity to the intuition of the
activity of an outward object; this mental act, though inevitable,
was by no means an easy one; men realised that the world around was a
reflex of themselves, the only light was the light from within. If men
could measure, so could the moon; hence he was called the measurer of
the sky, from the root _Mâ_, to measure; the moon was called _Mâs_,
that which measures, its actual name in Sanscrit; in Latin, _mensis_;
in Greek, _mêné_; English, _moon_; German, _Monat_; in Russian,
_miésets_. Men who ran called themselves runners; also the rivers
they named _sar_, running; and to designate the position of the river
they added the suffix _it_, _sar-it_; literally, running here. Thus
_sarit_ is river in Sanscrit; _Mâs_ and _sarit_ thus become complete,
intelligible sentences. What we call lightning was originally, tearing,
digging, bursting, sparkling; what we call storm and tempest were,
grinding, smashing, bursting, blowing; if man could smash, so could the
thunderbolt, hence it was called the smasher; and tempest and storm and
thunderbolt may have been, smashing, grinding, hurling; and with the
addition of the suffix, smashing here, now, there, then.

We have seen that the attribute which was the peculiar characteristic
of an object supplied its name, but as most objects possessed more
than one attribute, more than one designation were given to it; thus
several names were used for river besides _sarit_, each representing
one of its aspects; when flowing in a straight line it was called
_sîrâ_, arrow, plough, plougher; if it seemed to nourish the fields
it was _mâtar_, mother; if it separated or protected one country from
another, it became _sindhu_, the defender, from _sidh_ or _sedhati_,
to keep off; if it became a torrent it received the name of _nadi_,
noisy. In all these forms the river is considered as acting, and is
named by roots expressing action; it nourishes, it traces a furrow, it
guards, it roars as a wild beast roars. The sun has many attributes;
he is brilliant, the warmer, the generator, the scorcher, he is
vivifying, overpowering, his many qualities giving him fifty different
names, all synonyms of the sun. The earth also had many, it was known
by twenty-one names, amongst others it was _urvî_, wide; _jurithvî_,
broad; _mahî_, great; but each characteristic trait of the earth could
also be found in other objects, thus _urivî_ also meant a river; sky
and dawn were called _prithvî_; and _mahî_ (great, strong) is used for
cow and speech. Hence earth, river, sky, dawn, cow, and speech would
become homonyms.

These names are of clearly defined objects, all recognisable by the
senses; this fact entitles us to apply the following definition to this
primitive stage of language; the conscious expression of impressions
perceived by the senses.

But there is another class of words differing somewhat from those
we have named, such words, as day, night, spring, winter, dawn and
twilight; these lack the individuality and tangibleness of the others;
and when we say “day approaches, night comes,” we attribute acts to
things which are not agents, we affirm propositions, which, logically
analysed, have no properly defined subjects. Semi-tangible names, such
as sky, earth, belong to the same category. When we say “the earth
nourishes man,” we do not allude to any well defined portion of the
soil, we take the earth as a whole; and the sky is not only the small
portion of the horizon grasped by our eyes, our imagination conceives
objects not within the ken of our senses, but inasmuch as we look upon
the earth or sky as a whole, see in it a power or an ideal, we make
of it, involuntarily, an individuality. Now these words had certain
terminations affixed to them indicating what we call gender, and
became masculine or feminine, the neuter gender at that time did not
enter into the language, until thought becoming more lucid perceived
it in nature. What was the result? That it was impossible to speak of
morning or night, of spring or winter, of dawn or twilight, of sky
and earth, without clothing them not only with active and individual
characteristics, but with personal and sexual attributes; hence all
the objects of discourse as used by the founders of language became
necessarily so many actors, as men and women act; and thought, when
once launched in this direction, being irresistibly attracted by the
tendency towards analogy and metaphor, overspread the whole world
of human experience with this method of representation. What is
called animism, anthropomorphism, and personification, have therefore
their source in this inevitable dynamic stage, as Max Müller calls
it, of thought and language, in which the psychological necessity of
representing the external objects as resembling themselves operated on
our ancestors. This necessity might have been named subjectivism had
it not received more specific terms such as _animism_, which consists
in conceiving of inanimate objects as animate; _anthropomorphism_,
conceiving objects as men, and _personification_, conceiving objects
as persons. As soon as this new mental act was performed, a new world
was called into existence, a world of names, or as we now call it, the
world of myths.

“So long as the real identity of thought and language had not been
grasped, so long as people imagined that language is one thing and
thought another, it was but natural that they should fail to see the
real meaning of treating mythology, if not as a disease, at all events
as an inevitable affection of language. If the active verb was merely
a grammatical, and not at the same time a psychological, nay, an
historical fact, it might seem absurd to identify the active meaning of
our roots with the active meaning ascribed to the phenomena of nature.
But let it be once perceived that language and thought are one and
indivisible, and nothing will seem more natural than that what, as the
grammarian tells us, happened in language, should, as the psychologist
tells us, have likewise happened in thought.”[46]

The men who spoke in this manner of the external phenomena understood
perfectly that they themselves, who struck, who measured, who ran, who
rose up, who lay down, were not to be confounded with the thunder,
the moon, the river, and the sun; those scholars who studied thought
as apart from language, rather allowed themselves selves to be misled
by the phraseology of the time, and considered it a proof that our
Aryan ancestors looked upon their physical surroundings as human
beings, endowed with the appropriate organs and acts. Not only had the
early Aryans perfectly understood that they were not identical with
themselves, but they were far more struck by the differences between
them than by any imaginary similarities. The confirmation of this
theory is preserved for us in the Veda. “The torrent is roaring--not
a bull,” _i.e._ like a bull; instead of saying as we do, “firm as
a rock,” the poets of the Veda would say “firm--not a rock.” “The
mountains were _not_ to be thrown down, but they were _not_ warriors,”
“The fire was eating up the forest, yet it was _not_ a lion.”

The men of that time used few words; all thoughts that went beyond the
narrow horizon of their daily and practical lives had to be expressed
by the transference of a name from the object to which it properly
belongs to other well known objects. It was the birth of metaphor; it
was metaphor that enabled the inner consciousness to project itself
into the outer chaos of the world of objects; which it recreated with
personal images; and the fact that each natural phenomenon bore many
names, and that these same names were used for many other different
objects furnished germs of metaphor. Metaphor was to language what rain
and sunshine are to the harvest, it multiplies each grain a hundred and
a thousand fold; and metaphor in multiplying language disperses it in
every direction; without it no language would have progressed beyond
the simplest rudiments.

We must be careful not to confuse the radical metaphor with the
poetical which we use daily, and which is very different from the
former. If we open any book of poetry at whatever page, we shall find
inanimate and mute objects described as speaking, rejoicing, praising
their Creator; there is no portion of nature however insentient,
however incapable of thought, in which we do not infuse our own
sentiments, our own ideas. This mode of expression is especially a
poet’s prerogative, and that it does not strike us as incongruous is
owing to the fact that poetry appeals to the generality of men, and
is more natural to them than prose, and that this outpouring of our
heart towards nature costs us less effort than to speak of it in the
abstract. It requires cold reflection to describe lightning as an
electrical discharge, and rain as condensed vapour; in this case it is
no longer the transference of the characteristic of a known object to
one still unknown, but that of a known object to another equally well
known; the poet who transfers the word tear to the dew has already
clear names and concepts both for tear and dew; the poetical metaphor
is thus a voluntary creative act of our mind, and as such takes no part
in the formation of the human mind.

The world was astonished some few years ago by a declaration made by
students of the science of language that the 250,000 words comprehended
in the English Dictionary now being published at Oxford all proceeded
from about 800 roots; and it has now been found possible to reduce
this number. In any case 500 to 800 Sanscrit roots, on account of
their great fertility, sufficed our Aryan ancestors for all the many
words occurring in Sanscrit literature, and suffice also for us who
have 245,000 living animals and 95,000 fossil specimens to name; also
100,000 living and 2500 fossil plants, without speaking of crystals,
metals and minerals. Another surprising discovery is that every thought
that has ever passed through a human brain can be expressed in 121
radical concepts, of which I give a list. It is taken from Max Müller’s
_Science of Thought_, p. 404. Each single word of every phrase that
we use has its origin in one of the 800 roots, and not a thought but
proceeds from the 121 fundamental concepts. This is as accepted a fact
as that all that is visible on the earth and in the vault of heaven is
composed of about 60 elementary substances.


THE 121 ORIGINAL CONCEPTS.

    1. Dig.
    2. Plait, weave, sew, bind.
    3. Crush, pound, destroy, waste, rub, smoothe.
    4. Sharpen.
    5. Smear, colour, knead, harden.
    6. Scratch.
    7. Bite, eat.
    8. Divide, share, eat.
    9. Cut.
   10. Gather, observe.
   11. Stretch, spread.
   12. Mix.
   13. Scatter, strew.
   14. Sprinkle, drip, wet.
   15_a_. Shake, tremble, quiver, flicker.
   15_b_. Shake mentally, be angry, abashed, fearful, etc.
   16. Throw down, fall.
   17. Fall to pieces.
   18. Shoot, throw at.
   19. Pierce, split.
   20. Join, fight, check.
   21. Tear.
   22. Break, smash.
   23. Measure.
   24. Blow.
   25. Kindle.
   26. Milk, yield.
   27. Pour, flow, rush.
   28. Separate, free, leave, lack.
   29. Glean.
   30. Choose.
   31. Cook, roast, boil.
   32. Clean.
   33. Wash.
   34. Bend, bow.
   35. Turn, roll.
   36. Press, fix.
   37. Squeeze.
   38. Drive, thrust.
   39. Push, stir, live.
   40. Burst, gush, laugh, beam.
   41. Dress.
   42. Adorn.
   43. Strip, remove.
   44. Steal.
   45. Check.
   46. Fill, thrive, swell, grow strong.
   47. Cross.
   48. Sweeten.
   49. Shorten.
   50. Thin, suffer.
   51. Fat, stick, love.
   52. Lick.
   53. Suck, nourish.
   54. Drink, swell.
   55. Swallow, sip.
   56. Vomit.
   57. Chew, eat.
   58. Open, extend.
   59. Reach, strive, rule, have.
   60. Conquer, take by violence, struggle.
   61. Perform, succeed.
   62. Attack, hurt.
   63. Hide, dive.
   64. Cover, embrace.
   65. Bear, carry.
   66. Can, be strong.
   67. Show.
   68. Touch.
   69. Strike.
   70. Ask.
   71. Watch, observe.
   72. Lead.
   73. Set.
   74. Hold, wield.
   75. Give, yield.
   76. Couch.
   77. Thirst, dry.
   78. Hunger.
   79. Yawn.
   80. Spue.
   81. Fly.
   82. Sleep.
   83. Bristle, dare.
   84. Be angry, harsh.
   85. Breathe.
   86. Speak.
   87. See.
   88. Hear.
   89. Smell, sniff.
   90. Sweat.
   91. Seethe, boil.
   92. Dance.
   93. Leap.
   94. Creep.
   95. Stumble.
   96. Stick.
   97. Burn.
   98. Dwell.
   99. Stand.
  100. Sink, lie, fail.
  101. Swing.
  102. Hang down, lean.
  103. Rise up, grow.
  104. Sit.
  105. Toil.
  106. Weary, waste, slacken.
  107. Rejoice, please.
  108. Desire, love.
  109. Wake.
  110. Fear.
  111. Cool, refresh.
  112. Stink.
  113. Hate.
  114. Know.
  115. Think.
  116. Shine.
  117. Run.
  118. Move, go.
  119_a_. Noise, inarticulate.
  119_b_. Noise, musical.
  120. Do.
  121. Be.

This classification of the roots is purely tentative. It has been
difficult to ascertain what is most likely to have been the original
meaning of some; there are certain words of which it is almost
impossible to find the etymology. The order in which the concepts
succeed each other is not very systematic. Max Müller tried to classify
them more correctly by keeping the special acts, such as to dig,
the general acts, such as to find, the special states, such as to
cough, and the general states, such as to stand--together. But it was
impossible to adhere strictly to such a plan, because there are roots
which express both acts and states; while in many cases it is difficult
to determine whether the special or general meaning predominates; thus
there are the words to boil, to make boil, or to be boiling. Some of
the roots have closely allied meanings, so that there are as many as
fifteen connected with the concepts to burn, and to speak; and many
more which can be traced to shine.

We experience feelings at once humbling and elevating when we consider
that all we admire, all on which we pride ourselves, our thoughts,
whether poetical, philosophical, religious, our whole literature, all
our dictionaries, whether scientific or industrial; in fact, our whole
intellectual life is built upon this small number of mother-ideas,
of 121 concepts. We should feel neither humbled nor elevated; we are
making use of the wisdom of our ancestors. It is our duty to transmit
the legacy to our descendants which they gave us, but purged from alloy.

Three chief points are to be noted, when we are concerned with the
progress of the intellect:--

1. The creative activity of humanity is the basis of all the roots of
words.

2. The source of all abstract ideas lies in acts which are entirely
material.

3. It has been satisfactorily proved that we speak the language derived
from that spoken by our primitive ancestors. It was the custom of
Nebuchadnezzar to have his name stamped on every brick that was used
during his reign in erecting his colossal palaces. Those palaces fell
to ruins, but from the ruins the ancient materials were carried away
for building new cities; and on examining the bricks in the walls of
the modern city of Bagdad, travellers have discovered on every one the
clear traces of that royal signature. Our modern languages were built
up with the materials taken from the ruins of the ancient languages,
and every word that we pronounce displays the royal stamp impressed
upon it by the founders. The formation of those derived languages,
by means of the roots with their successive change of meaning, the
construction of their grammatical forms, the continued changes amongst
the different dialects, all indicate the presence of a germ in man
tending from the first to make him a reasoning being.

FOOTNOTES:

[38] Max Müller’s _Science of Thought_, p. 300.

[39] _Science of Thought_, p. 219.

[40] Max Müller, _Science of Thought_, p. 303.

[41] Max Müller, _Science of Thought_, p. 223.

[42] Max Müller, _Science of Thought_, p. 421.

[43] _Science of Thought_, pp. 77, 78. _Natural Religion_, p. 381.

[44] _Science of Thought_, p. 79.

[45] _Natural Religion_, p. 382.

[46] Max Müller, _Natural Religion_, p. 406.




CHAPTER VI ANCIENT LANGUAGE


Language may be divided into three distinct periods, when taken as a
whole.

The first is, when language, finding itself released from those
restraints which enveloped it in its cradle, supplies those words which
are most indispensable to man in connecting the one word with others,
such as pronouns, prepositions, names of numbers, and of objects of
daily use. This must have been the first stage of a language hardly
yet agglutinate, free from trammels, with no sign of nationality, or
individuality, but containing in itself all the chief features of the
many forms belonging to the Turanian, Aryan and Semitic families; the
explorer of philosophic antiquity does not penetrate beyond this first
period.

The second phase is that in which two linguistic families passing out
of the agglutinate stage, unattached as yet to grammatical forms,
received once for all the stamp of the formation which we find amongst
the popular and modern dialects belonging both to the Semitic and
Aryan divisions, and to which they owe this family resemblance,
which justifies their inclusion in one or other of these branches
of language; on the one side the Teutonic, Celtic, Slav, Italic,
Hellenic, Iranian and Indian; on the other Arabic, Armenian and Hebrew;
the yet unformed elements of grammar were eventually introduced
into these languages at the substitution of the amalgamate for the
agglutinate. The Turanian or Ural-Altaic languages have an entirely
different character; they preserved for some time--and one or two
still retain--the agglutinate form which retards the development of
the grammar, and hides the evidence of relationship to the languages
between China and the Pyrenees, and between Cape Comorin and Lapland.

These two periods are followed by a third, generally known as the
mythological; it is obscure, and is calculated to shake one’s faith
in the regular and orderly progress of human reason. We find it to be
a phase through which all peoples have passed; yet in using the word
mythology our thoughts naturally turn to the mythology of Greece, the
only one with which we were made acquainted in our school days, and
also the only one with which those were familiar who had not given
themselves over specially to the study of the beliefs of antiquity. In
the schools this study ran side by side with history; from our earliest
days we had been taught the complete polytheism of heathen divinities;
our work as pupils was to know our lessons, the work of the masters
was to see that we learnt them. Mythology, therefore, was to us only
one chapter in that great work, entitled the compulsory course of
studies--a chapter which apparently required no more elucidation than
the gymnastic lesson.

Our masters represented the Greeks as a people endowed with a vivid
imagination, who recounted in exalted pure language most fantastic
stories; we read in these authors: “Eos has fled--Eos will return--Eos
has returned--Eos wakens the sleepers--Eos lengthens the life of
mortals--Eos rises from the sea--Eos is the daughter of the sky--Eos
is followed by the sun--Eos is loved by the sun--Eos is killed by the
sun,” and so on _ad infinitum_; and we were told, “These are myths.” As
no explanation was given of the word myth, we were none the wiser.

If the movements of Eos are inexplicable, they are not without a
certain picturesqueness. But what shall we say of the myth concerning
Saturn, who, on account of a prediction that he would be killed by his
children, swallowed them as soon as they were born, with the exception
of Jupiter, who was saved by the substitution of a stone, which Saturn
afterwards brought up with the children he had swallowed. Or again,
what can be said of the feast offered to the gods by Tantalus to test
their omniscience; he caused the members of the body of his son Pelops
to be mixed with other meats; a shoulder was eaten before Jupiter
discovered the deception; he ordered the remainder to be thrown into
a copper from which Pelops emerged alive with one shoulder lacking,
and one made of ivory was given to him. Can anything more grotesque be
imagined? And our children are subjected to this regimen, and their
memories charged with these fables, under the pretext that they will
the better appreciate the _chefs-d’œuvre_ of classical literature.

The enigmatical part of this period of language will be more evident
if we examine the early traditional history which began at its close,
and at which time a light appeared in Greece destined to flood the
world with a splendour hitherto unknown; it was the epoch which
produced Thales, Pythagoras and Heraclitus, who, in the midst of much
ignorance, had thoughts of wonderful lucidity. A national literature
was beginning, where we find indications of the germs of political
societies; the creation of laws, and the development of morals. And we
ask ourselves: Whence come these sages? Who were their masters? How
could these glorious days of Greek civilisation have been preceded
by several generations whose principal occupation seemed to consist
in inventing and repeating to satiety absurd fables concerning gods,
heroes, and other beings whom no human being had ever seen; which
fables contravene the simplest principles of logic, morality and
religion? The ancient sages themselves were harsh in their judgment of
these revolting stories contained in Grecian mythology; Xenophanes, a
contemporary of Pythagoras, considered Hesiod and Homer responsible
for these superstitions, and blamed them for attributing to the gods
all that was most reprehensible in man. Heraclitus was of opinion
that Homer deserved to be banished from the public assemblies, and
Plato wrote, “Mothers and nurses tell their children stories full of
misstatements and immoralities which are gathered from the poets.”

Thus spoke philosophers 500 years before our era, because they knew
that if the “gods commit anything that is evil they are no gods.”

“Taken by themselves and in their literal meaning, most of these
ancient myths are absurd and irrational, and frequently opposed to
the principles of thought, religion, and morality which guided the
Greeks as soon as they appear to us in the twilight of traditional
history.”[47]

Many explanations have been sought to account in a rational manner for
these strange tales; writers have striven to discover what can have
given rise to such ridiculous inventions; some have asserted that it
was the intention of the authors of mythology to convey to the people a
knowledge of certain facts of nature, and certain moral truths whilst
clothing them in allegorical form, and by endowing the divinities with
certain virtues which it would become men to imitate and acquire; and
that the worship of these divinities was instituted that man might be
more fully impressed, that the likeness of the virtues upheld might
be more deeply engraved in the heart of the pious worshipper. Zeus,
was mind; Athene, art; Hercules, energy and perseverance in labours of
great difficulty; whilst the Homeric heroes, Agamemnon, Achilles, and
Hector represented physical activities. According to another theory the
object with which the myths were composed was political, the laws of
government were supposed to emanate from the gods; and whoso refused
to recognise the excellence of the institutions of the country was
held to be in revolt against the gods themselves. The philosopher
Euhemerus was the author of a third theory, called the historical; he
represented the mythological personages not as gods, but as kings,
heroes, and philosophers, who, after their death, had received divine
honours among their fellow men; in this system Eolus, the god of the
winds, became a skilful mariner who could foretell atmospheric changes;
Atlas, supporting the sky and earth on his wide shoulders, had been
formerly a great astronomer; Jupiter, a ruler of Crete; Hercules, a
knight-errant. Although these ancient writers interpreted the fables
in so many different ways, they all agreed in denying that an atom of
truth is found in these stories concerning the gods, and they insisted
that no myth must be taken _au pied de la lettre_. At a later period
it was thought that reminiscences of a barbaric age could be found in
which the ancestors of the Greeks apparently occupied themselves by
stealing, killing, deceiving, and eating their offspring. “Lactantius,
St Augustine, and the first missionaries, in their attacks on the
religious belief of the Greeks, and Romans availed themselves of
these arguments of Euhemerus, and taunted them with worshipping gods
that were no gods, but known and admitted to have been merely deified
mortals.”[48] In later times the same theory was revived; certain
theologians, rather lacking in penetration, looked to Greek mythology
for traces of sacred personages, they imagined that they could
recognise in Saturn and his three sons, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto,
the features of Noah and his sons, Ham, Japhet, and Shem; and in a
recently published book the author suggests that when Hesiod describes
the garden of the Hesperides, we have a tradition of the garden of Eden.

Thus from the moment when, for the first time, the ancient philosophers
questioned “why?” from the time of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, to
our own practical and matter-of-fact century, mythology has not ceased
to compel attention, and to furnish endless matter of conjecture.
Learned writers have sought in physical sciences, history, and
metaphysics, an explanation of this phenomenon; but in spite of this
vast labour inspired by a love of science, and carried on for more
than two thousand years, the secret of the sphinx of mythology remains
undisclosed, and we still ask, “what is mythology?” Is it an invention
of Homer and Hesiod? Or is it a phase in the development of the human
mind, a deviation in the growth of reason?

The school of philology has a solution of its own to offer; will it be
as futile as the others? After hearing it shall we still say the Sphinx
is mute? This school takes upon itself to assert that the explanation
of the mystery can only be found in the Science of Language. It is a
fact that the history of language--which is the history of the human
mind--enables us to answer the preceding questions categorically.
Yes. Mythology was inevitable, an inherent part of language itself,
to be considered, not as a simple external symbol, but as the only
incorporation of thought possible. Mythology, in the widest acceptation
of the term, is the shadow which language casts on thought; and
the whole history of philosophy from Thales to Hegel has been one
uninterrupted struggle with mythology, a constant protest between
thought and language.

FOOTNOTES:

[47] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 11. Max Müller.

[48] Max Müller, _Science of Language_, vol. ii. p. 436.




CHAPTER VII MYTHS


In order to appreciate truly our neighbour’s impressions and points of
view, we must constantly detach ourselves from our own special way of
seeing and feeling; this habit of abstraction--which is most difficult
to every one--is indispensable when we are endeavouring to understand
the natures of persons who lived many thousands of years ago, and who
thought and spoke in a totally different manner from ourselves.

In seeking to grasp the phraseology of myths we perceive that its
chief elements consist in a repetition of phrases in which the acts of
nature are used as embodiments of the idea, under the figures of day
and night, dawn and twilight, the sun and the moon, the heavens and the
earth, as they stand in relation to man.

When we in the present century speak of the last hours of the
day, we use precise and exact terms; we say, “It is late; the sun
is setting; the moon rises; it is night.” Our ancestors also had
occasion to mention these same hours, but as they did not speak of
the facts of nature without investing them with some of their own
personality, they preferred to say, “Dawn flies before the sun.” “The
sun loves--pursues--embraces the dawn.” “She dies in the arms of the
sun.” They spoke of the sun growing old--decaying--dying. Besides
these general terms our ancestors used special designations, which the
nature of their language suggested; the hymns of the Rig-Veda supply
instances. One of these modes of speech it would be difficult for me
to render in French, but the English language has the impersonal verb
which will illustrate my meaning, for all such atmospheric phenomena
such as rain, thunder, the light of day; instead of _it_ rains, _it_
thunders, _it_ shines, our ancestors said, _he_ rains, _he_ thunders,
_he_ shines, without knowing who was this _he_, who for us is the third
person masculine; but, naturally for them, _he_ meant the rainer, the
thunderer, the lightener, or, in other words--the agent.

Mythology, taken in its entirety, is the outcome of myths which
preceded it. If the original meaning of the Greek word Logos--as both
word and thought--has revealed to us a forgotten truth; the original
meaning of _mythos_ is also indispensable for the study of mythology.
This Greek term means simply _word_ as opposed to _deed_, and hardly
differed at first from Logos. Afterwards, however, a distinction was
made between myth,--a fable, a story, and logos, a historical account.
Thus a myth was at first a word. Almost all terms used in the first
spontaneous stage of language had for their basis striking metaphors,
whose signification may have been forgotten, and these terms having
lost their original as well as poetical meaning, remained words only,
current in familiar conversation.

I give the following myths as they have come down to us.

Endymion is the son of Zeus and Kalyke, but he is also the son of
Æthlios, a king of Elis, who is himself called a son of Zeus; for,
according to Greek customs, the reigning race of Elis derived its
origin from the king of the gods. Endymion is one of the many names
of the sun, but with special reference to the setting or dying sun;
it is derived from a verb which originally meant _to dive into_; an
expression such as “the sun dived” presupposes an earlier conception,
that it dived into the sea. But the verb _enduo_ is never used in
classical Greek for setting, because the simple verb _duo_ had become
the technical term for sunset. Thus this myth of Endymion owes its
origin to the use probably of _enduo_ in some Greek dialect, though not
the commonly received term for sunset. The original meaning of Endymion
being once forgotten, what was told originally of the setting sun was
now told of a name, which in order to have any meaning, had to be
changed into a god or hero.

This handsome prince or shepherd, according to the different versions
of the tale, went to Karia, where on Mount Latmos he had strange
adventures; he slept in a cave to which the rays of the moon, Selene,
penetrated, and in the ancient poetical and proverbial language of
Elis it was said, “Selene loves and watches Endymion; Selene embraces
Endymion and kisses him into sleep.” The name Selene is so transparent
that the word moon pierces through it; we should have guessed that
the moon was intended, even if tradition had only preserved her other
name, Asterodia--“wanderer amongst the stars”; the names Hecate or
Lucina do not force us to acknowledge their fitness, they present to
our imagination a totally different figure (as they suggest opaqueness)
from Selene. Learned writers at times still put forward the explanation
with regard to mythology that it “was a past which was never a
present,” but this myth of Endymion was “present” with the people of
Elis at the period of its narration.

These and similar expressions were repeated long after their meaning
had ceased to be understood; and as the human mind is generally as
anxious for a reason as ready to invent one, the poets added to this
story several details, and reasons why Endymion sank into eternal sleep
after a life of but one day; and if allusions were made to these by a
popular poet, it became a mythological fact, repeated and embellished
by later poets.

The construction of such a name as Eos does not differ materially from
that of any other name, but as all roots expressed at the first denote
action, it follows that for all an agent must be found; the name of
Eos in Sanscrit is Ushas, dawn, or “the bright one” from the root Vas,
to shine; thus Eos meant originally “he or she shines.” But who was
“he” or “she”? Thus the inevitable myth is evolved. For us the dawn
is only the natural illumination of the sky, the brightness of the
morning; our ancestors received a different impression by the break of
day. After having coined a word meaning “he or she shines,” that is
the light, or Eos, the Greeks continued to portray each step of Eos as
she preceded the appearance of the sun on the celestial vault; “Eos
is followed by the sun--is loved by the sun”; she is conceived as a
bright and beautiful woman; if she appeared veiled in clouds, she would
be considered as a veiled bride; thus the epithets and relationships
showered on Eos become intelligible, she is the daughter of Hyperion,
thus her father would be the high heaven, since _hyper_ corresponds to
the Latin _super_; she is the sister of Helios and Selene, the sun and
the moon. As soon as a name such as Eos was first enunciated and used
in daily conversation, it grew and gathered new materials round itself;
all the names surrounding Eos in Greek and Aurora in Latin show us how
inevitably what we call mythology springs up from the soil of language.
Even such simple sentences as “Eos appears, disappears, or dies” are
changed at once into myth, fable, and legend, and it soon becomes
impossible to draw a line between what is simple language and what is
myth.

We do not unfortunately always possess the original form of each legend
as it first passed from mouth to mouth in the towns and country; thus
our chief sources are the ancient chroniclers, who took mythology for
history, and used only so much of it as answered their purpose, and
these accounts do not reach us at first hand.

We find a legend in Greek mythology which has much exercised the
learned; the nymph Daphne flies before Phœbus Apollo, her mother, the
earth, moved by compassion, takes her to her bosom, and immediately a
laurel appears and fills the abyss into which Daphne had vanished. The
mythologists asked themselves what could be the meaning of this; the
more phlegmatic amongst them considered that it had no special meaning
at all, but was simply to be looked upon as a fable; why seek further
for a hidden import? Why? Because people do not relate such stories
concerning their gods and heroes without some good motive.

In the legend of Endymion the Greek language supplies all that is
needed to make it intelligible, but there are many instances of the
difficulty, or even the impossibility of explaining certain Greek names
by the help of Greek only; since a name is not converted into a myth
until its original meaning has become obscured in the language which
gave it birth, though still perfectly comprehensible in another of the
same family, it behoves the classical philologist to surrender all
etymological researches of this nature to the comparative philologist,
whose privilege it is to seek to discover the signification of a Greek
word by confronting it with contemporary witnesses from the German,
Celtic, or Sanscrit. In the Teutonic languages, for instance, day
has several names which are derived from the root _dah_, to burn, to
be hot; and this same root has also given rise to the Greek name for
dawn. In Sanscrit it is called Ahana, from _ahan_ or _dahan_, the root
of which is _ah_; _dah_ and _dahan_ may have lost their initial _d_,
or this letter may have been added to the root _ah_; these gains and
losses are met with frequently.

The Sanscrit name Ahana, known before Greek and Sanscrit became
separated, occurs but once in a hymn of the Rig-Veda; in India this
mythological germ withered away, and even the name Ahana would not have
survived, but for this single verse which saved it from oblivion; but
it developed into a splendid growth in Greece, in the legend of Eos,
which I have quoted.

In this hymn addressed to Ushas we read: “We have crossed the frontier
of this darkness; Ahana shining forth gives light, lighting up all the
world, awakening mortals to walk about--she received praise from every
thinker.” Ahana rises from the head of Dyu, the forehead of the sky;
she shows herself in the east, she advances and awakens the sleepers.
In Sanscrit _budh_ means to wake and to know, but light in Sanscrit has
again a double meaning, and means knowledge, much more frequently and
distinctly than light; this explains how Ahana, in awakening mortals,
causes persons to know.

The stories of Daphne and of Ahana are closely allied, and the one
explains the other. As long as we remain ignorant of the fact that at
first Daphne and Aurora were one, this myth is inexplicable; but turn
the name Ahana into Greek, and you have the Dawn in the features of a
nymph loved by Apollo, and dying when the bright sun touched her with
his rays.

But why, it may be asked, was Daphne supposed to have been changed
into a laurel-tree? The dawn was called daphne, the burning; so was
the laurel--as wood that burns easily, and whose flame throws a bright
light--two different objects, but alike under one aspect, though two
distinct acts. The root _dah_ is found in daphne for laurel equally
with Daphne, dawn, the synonymy of the two names producing the myth of
Daphne. Although this legend first came to life on Greek soil, it would
have been unintelligible without the help of the Veda, as the later
Sanscrit supplied no key to it.

The Sanscrit root _Ah_ is also the germ of the name of Athena, the
termination of the name corresponding to Ahana; Athene is said to
spring from the head of Zeus. This extraordinary birth, though
post-Homeric, is no doubt of ancient date, since it repeats exactly
the birth of Ahana. The Hellenists maintain that the Greeks were
unconscious that the word Athene meant the dawn; doubtless few amongst
them knew that Zeus originally meant the surface or forehead of the
sky. It is also true that when the people of Athens worshipped Athene
as their tutelary deity, she became something very different from the
Indian Ushas; but if we notice carefully all the many and various ideas
concerning this Greek goddess, we shall be led to the supposition that
her cradle was no other than that of the dawn, namely, the east, the
forehead of the sky, or Zeus. Neither in the Veda, nor in Homer, is
there any mention of the mother of the dawn, although both mention _her
parents_.

It is a curious fact that in the mythology of Italy, Minerva, who was
identical with Athene, should from the beginning have assumed a name
apparently expressive of the intellectual rather than the physical
character of the Dawn-goddess. Minerva or Menerva is clearly connected
with _mens_, the Greek _menos_, the Sanscrit _manas_, mind; _mane_
in Latin is morning; _manare_ is specially used of the rising sun;
and _matuta_, another name of the same category, is the Dawn. The
root _man_, which in all Aryan languages means thought, was at a very
early time, like the Sanscrit _budh_, destined to express the revived
consciousness of the whole of nature at the approach of the light of
the morning. The equation Ahane = Athene is both phonetically and
mythologically irreproachable, the correlative Minerva can also be
explained mythologically.

To reject the explanations of these myths which Comparative Philology
furnishes, it would be necessary to prove that Ahana and Eos do not
mean the dawn, that Athene does not correspond with Ahana, and that
Helios is not the sun.

Mythologists have sometimes failed to discover the primitive character
of certain myths, because they have not looked beyond the Greek
etymology. The word Erinnys, “hovering in the gloom,” corresponds
exactly to the Sanscrit Saranyû = “break of day.” Poets sometimes speak
of the Dawn as avenging the crimes committed in the dark; the myth of
Erinnys denotes this same idea. Instead of our lifeless and abstract
expression, “A crime is sure to be discovered,” the old proverbial and
poetical saying amongst the Greeks and Hindoos was, Erinnys--Saranyû,
“will bring misdeeds to light.” At first this phrase was free from all
mythological taint, but it was afterwards transformed into a myth by
the Greeks, as they were ignorant of the true signification of the name
of Erinnys.

When the mythology of Greece fails to furnish an explanation of many
of the Greek phrases, because it belongs to a later date than the
classical period, the Veda may then be questioned, and will supply us
with the information, by disclosing an ancient substratum of human
thought, such as existed amongst the inhabitants of one of the most
important regions of the world, India. It is with as much pleasure as
assurance that we repeat to those learned scholars, who decline to open
their eyes in order to see, or see only what they consider should be
there, the Brahmanic saying, “It is not the fault of the post that the
blind man passes it without noticing it.”

It seems astonishing that a people so richly endowed as the Greeks
should have found pleasure in romancing so constantly concerning the
sun and the moon, the day and the night, the dawn and the twilight;
but the custom of repeating these mythological phrases, which much
resembled each other, dated from an epoch before the Greeks, when
nothing more powerfully attracted and fascinated the imagination of
man than the aspect of nature’s forces, especially the return of the
sun, bringing with it each morning light and heat and life. Repeated
thus incessantly these phrases became idiomatic, and were retold long
after the thread connecting them with the simple facts of nature was
broken and lost to memory. At first some old grandmother would repeat
them, partly understanding them in their true natural sense, and partly
metaphorically; the sons of the old people would repeat them with a
partial understanding; but the grandsons would relate them only for
their peculiarities, or for the charm of their style and setting;
and the great-grandchildren would hand them on at random, with no
comprehension of their meaning. At a much later period when all these
sayings, with no connection between them, had become traditional, the
poets would embody them in verse, giving them their first form and
permanence in a cycle of legends. They congratulated themselves on the
treasure-trove, but marvelled that the Greeks should enclose these
bald phrases of perpetual iteration in the casket of their literature.
They might as well ask why the Greeks apparently sanctioned all the
irregular verbs their language holds by retaining them in their
grammar. Is it not a historical fact that cannot be denied that the
whole Aryan peoples, without exception, have conserved as the heritage
of their common origin not only the names of their divinities, their
legends, and their folk-lore, but also remains of their primitive
language. Here is a noteworthy statement. Comparative Philology has
proved that there is nothing really irregular in a language, and
that what was formerly considered so in declensions and conjugations
is the stratum on which the edifice of each language raised itself
progressively. This same apparent irregularity is found also in
mythology, because it is itself only a sort of dialect or offshoot of
language.

Since the _raison d’être_ of myths, as such, is a forgetfulness of
the original sense of the words, we cannot hope to be able to explain
all the mythological recitals; no one has more clearly stated the
difficulty, nor expressed it with greater modesty, than he who has laid
the most lasting foundation of comparative mythology. Grimm says: “I
shall indeed interpret all that I can, but I cannot interpret all that
I should like.”[49]

In examining these archives, which, if only on account of their
antiquity, are very superior to any other evidence for our purpose, we
learn that identification differs from comparison. It is only possible
to identify two or more divinities by seeing if one name applies
equally to all, and by showing that this name denotes the essence of
each; this result is obtained when, for instance, we note a general
resemblance between a god or a hero of the Veda, and a god or hero
of Hesiod, and discover that though their names may be phonetically
dissimilar, yet that they have one source. Uranus, in the language of
Hesiod, is used as a name for the sky--“a firm place for the blessed
gods”; and the poet says that Uranus covers everything, and that when
he brings the night he is stretched out, everywhere embracing the
earth. This sounds like a reproduction of the name of Varuna, which
is derived from a root _Var_, to cover (the Sanscrit term _varutra_,
overcoat, would prove this if need be). The name Uranus in the Greek
apparently retains something of its primitive meaning, which is not
the case with the name of Zeus and Apollo. Varuna and Uranus evidently
both express the same mythological concept, that of the covering,
enclosing sky; this may even be one of the most ancient discoveries
of comparative mythology. In the same way we prove that Ushas, Eos,
Daphne, Ahana, and Athene were five names of the dawn, and that they
can be traced back to a time before Greek and Sanscrit were separated.
Thus, whilst one legend becomes differentiated from another by its
own peculiar form and attributes, the name of its original prototype
remains etymologically the same, though taking varying forms amongst
the various peoples who use the legend; it is in this immutable
name that the continuity of ideas lies, which nothing obliterates,
and which traverses the centuries, and connects the mythologies of
countries as totally distinct as India, Greece, and Ireland. But we
must remember that all that is taken for etymology is not always so;
the explanations which Homer gives of the names of the divinities only
proves that at his time the original meaning had been forgotten. To
us who now know the true principles of mythology, it is clear that it
represents a prehistoric period of language, and the light it throws
on the times that followed, has the same importance with regard to the
study of the human mind, that geology and paleontology have for the
knowledge of the earth.

Sometimes we come upon difficulties of another kind when we seek to
translate the language of the poets into our modern forms of thought
and speech. In consequence of the absence of merely auxiliary words
in mythological language, each word, whether noun or verb, had its
full original power, it was heavy and unwieldy, it said more than it
ought to say. Here is an example: _Nyx_ (night), the mother of _Moros_
(fate), of _Ker_ (destruction), of _Thanatos_ (death), of _Hypnos_
(sleep), and of the _Oneïroi_ (dreams), and these,--her progeny,
_Night_ is said, by the poet, to have borne without a father. She has
also other children: _Momos_ (blame), _Oizys_ (woe), the _Hesperides_,
which are the evening stars, _Nemesis_ (vengeance), _Apate_ (fraud),
_Philotes_ (lust), _Geras_ (old age), and _Eris_ (strife). Now let
us use our modern expressions. “The stars are seen as the night
approaches,” “we sleep, we dream, we die,” “we run into danger during
night,” “nightly revels lead to strife, angry discussions, and
woe,” “many nights bring old age, and at last death,” “an evil deed
concealed at first by the darkness of night will at last be revealed
by the day,” “night herself will be revenged on the criminal”; and we
have translated the language of Hesiod, a language to a great extent
understood by the people to whom it was addressed many hundreds of
years ago, and it is made comprehensible to us by the addition of some
auxiliary words. This is hardly mythological language, but rather a
poetical and proverbial kind of expression known to all poets whether
modern or ancient, and frequently to be found in the language of common
people when it becomes proverbial.

“In Greece the mortal element, inherent in all gods, was eliminated
to a great extent by the conception of heroes. Whatever was too human
in the ancient legends told of Zeus and Apollo was transferred to
so-called half gods or heroes, who were represented as the sons or
favourites of the gods. The two-fold character of Herakles as a god and
as a hero is acknowledged even by Herodotus, and some of his epithets
would have been sufficient to indicate his solar and originally divine
character. But in order to make some of the legends told of the solar
deity possible or conceivable, it was necessary to represent Herakles
as a more human being, and to make him rise to the seat of the
immortals only after he had endured toils and sufferings incompatible
with the dignity of an Olympian god.”[50] The divinities of a second
and third order, who were sometimes solicited for special favours, were
perhaps placed in the same category as some provincial or local saints,
who were considered more accessible and more pitiful in certain places,
just as some physicians make a practice of curing those ills only of
which they had made a speciality.

There were also abstract divinities, representing certain virtues
in the eyes of the people, which were highly esteemed and useful to
possess; each of these qualities which were conceived separately, and
considered in the superlative degree, were from that time raised to
the rank of a divine person, thus altars and temples were dedicated to
Courage, Strength, and Piety; Fame was likewise thus honoured. “Great
Fame is never lost though scattered abroad,” said Hesiod, “it is in
itself a divinity.”

The language of mythology was in use at a late period. History tells
us that the Greek town of Cyrene in Libya was founded about the
thirty-seventh Olympiad, the ruling race came from Thessaly; the
foundation of the colony was due to the oracle of Apollo at Pytho. This
simple historical fact has been thus rendered, from the habit of not
recounting events as they happened. “The heroic maid Cyrene, who lived
in Thessaly, was loved by Apollo, and carried off to Libya.”

The question has been often asked, what can be the origin of the fables
which are identical in character and form, whether we find them on
Indian, Greek, Italian, Persian, Slavonic, Celtic, or Teutonic soil.
Was there a period of temporary insanity, through which the human
mind had to pass, and was it a madness identically the same in the
south of India and in the north of Ireland? The necessity of solving
this problem became more imperative when collections of these ancient
traditions were brought from countries which formerly were almost
unknown to us; incredible tales came from all parts, from amongst the
Hottentots, the Patagonians, Zulus, Esquimaux, and Mongols; in all
cases we were able to recognise the fables with which we were already
so well acquainted, from having seen them in Aryan literature. When Max
Müller first published his essays on the Greek myths, the mythologists
acknowledged generally that it was very natural he should devote so
much time to the explanation of the Greek legends, since these same
stories had been universally found in all parts of the globe, from the
one pole to the other; stories of men and women turned into trees,
trees transformed into men, men behaving as animals, animals talking
as if they were men, men swallowed by gods and brought up again whole,
as were the children of Kronos; in all places the same adventures were
told of the sun and moon, also swallowed, but the swallower not known.
The Greek myths--so it was asserted by the learned who did not care
to abandon the old paths--form only one page of that vast mythology
created by the disordered imagination of nations in their infancy;
the epidemic was general, and it is useless to seek for a definite or
peculiar meaning in such and such a local myth.

Nevertheless, in presence of these striking likenesses, impartial and
clear-sighted science recognised that there must be something in the
human mind that of necessity tended to mythology, nay, that there
must be some reason in all the unreason that goes by the name of
myth. That “something” Max Müller discovered to be language, in its
natural progress from roots to words, up to definite and special names.
Mythology has now been acknowledged to be an inevitable phase in the
growth of language and thought; a form of expression which changes
non-personal beings into personal, and all relationships into actions;
it is a mental phenomenon so peculiar that it would be difficult to
avoid the admission that it emanated from a distinct stratum, it is
metaphoric language and thought; and it is the duty of the geologist of
language to establish the authenticity of this epoch of organic life
in humanity, which is contemporaneous with the most ancient forms of
language.

If Hegel compares the discovery of the common origin of Greek and
Sanscrit to that of a new world, the same may be said with regard to
the common origin of all the mythologies, for already the science of
Comparative Mythology has risen to the same importance as Comparative
Philology.

The supposition that grammatical gender of nouns must necessarily be
the cause of personification, and produce myths which had no previous
existence at the time when this denotation of sex did not yet exist,
has been proved incorrect. But the following fact, which concerns
language more than mythology, is not so evident at first sight,
viz., that however the various languages may differ externally, and
however they may lack gender, yet they have without exception what is
analogous to it, and takes its place; this is a system of fundamental
classification to which all equally submit, and which each language
supplies; the result is that at the foundation of thought common to all
humanity, certain forms are found answering the purpose of gender. Each
myth and each legend was at first the intelligible expression of an
intelligible thought, and as the thought contained in each recital must
evidently be the same wherever there were men to repeat it, the science
of Comparative Mythology seeks to place its hand on the expression
which best renders this one and the selfsame thought, under different
aspects.

What is commonly called Hindoo mythology is of little or no avail for
comparative purposes, because nothing is systematically arranged.
Names are used in one hymn of the Rig-Veda as appellatives, in another
as names of gods. There are as yet no genealogies, and no recorded
marriages between gods and goddesses. As the conception of the poet
varied, so varied the nature of these gods; the myths are arranged
with little order. Nowhere is the wide distance which separates the
ancient poems of India from the most ancient literature of Greece
more clearly felt than when we compare the growing myths of the Veda
with the full-grown, or already decaying myths on which the poetry of
Homer is founded. The Veda is the real theogony of the Aryan races,
while that of Hesiod is a copy only of the original image. The Hindoo
Rishis differed much amongst themselves in their representation of
things; some of them attributed the dispersion of clouds by a solar
hero, to the will of some supreme or divine being; others considered
the combatants to be the supreme beings themselves, who dispersed the
clouds full of lightning and thunder, making the sky serene after the
fight. These are the two distinct interpretations of the solar and
atmospheric schools; the dualism in nature, which at a later period
took the character of light and darkness, even of good and evil, was at
the beginning the dualism of day and night, spring and winter, life and
death, represented by the two great luminaries of the physical world.

The characteristic traits of the moon which made the deepest impression
on our ancestors were its increase, and afterwards its gradual
diminution, until its total disappearance. The eclipses, though filling
the minds of the people with sudden fear at first, did not continue
long to awaken dread or curiosity, as they were of rare occurrence and
transitory; the moon, it was thought, was swallowed and afterwards
disgorged by some hostile power; but the monthly increase and
diminution required some other explanation. The Hindoos, in seeking to
discover the abode of the gods and of their own ancestors, assigned the
brilliant sky to the former, and where, therefore, should the Fathers
live if not in the vast vault and in the moon? This was, in fact, the
belief of the whole Aryan race. But the subject is complicated, since
in an earlier period of lunar mythology, we find in the Vedic Pantheon
a divinity of the name of Soma, which certain poets identify with the
plant of that name, whose intoxicating juice played an important part
in the sacrifices; there is no doubt a great obscurity with regard to
these two rival powers, to which the same name had been given, and on
which mythologists have found it difficult to enlighten us; but quite
recently exponents of the Rig-Veda have discovered that Soma originally
meant the moon itself, thus the Rishis allow it to be apparent in
their hymns that there were at one time two Somas--the plant and its
juice, and at an earlier period the other Soma, known only to the old
Brahmans, which was the moon. A belief held by the Hindoos was that
the moon supplied nourishment to the gods, which was the cause of the
diminution; its increase was explained by the entrance into it of
the souls of their ancestors; the gods swallowing these also as an
integral portion of the moon.

All these ideas were of slow development, and of successive growth; no
portion of mythology had a systematic elaboration.

I will add as a curious scientific fact, that lately botanists have
sought in vain in Northern India and in Persia for a plant whose
qualities correspond to those of the Soma as described in the Vedic
hymns; they are more or less agreed that it must be akin to the
_Ephedra_, but as this plant abounded in the whole country between
Siberia and the Iberian Peninsula, there was no hope of discovering the
locality of the Aryans by means of the habitat of the plant.

It has been often asserted that these stories of men and things that
have been swallowed must have come from countries formerly inhabited
by cannibals; learned writers, even Herbert Spencer--to quote one
instance--consider, not without some appearance of reason, that
Hindoos, Greeks, Romans and Germans could hardly have put forth similar
stories of this kind had there been no foundation in fact. But the
verbs to eat, to swallow, will admit of divers interpretations; we say
of a man that it was impossible for him to swallow such an insult, or
that he has consumed his fortune; and this mode of speech surprises no
one; where we speak of an eclipse, the inhabitants of the shores of
the Baltic say that the moon or sun is in the act of being eaten; in
India instead of saying such an one has been flogged, it would be said,
he has tasted the whip. A little reflection will convince us that if
nations who had nothing in common but human nature, spoke of the night
as covering, hiding, swallowing various beings, especially the sun
and the day, it was not more unreasonable on their part than to say,
as we do, that day and night follow each other, instead of expressing
ourselves after a more scientific manner, and not less correctly, in
saying that day and night are the successive effects of the rotation of
the earth on its axis.

Having discovered that mythological phraseology was sometimes due to
misconceptions of names, and that poetical fantasies had their share,
philologists quoted an instance of the imagination being misled by a
simple mistake; that of the name “Great Bear” being given to a certain
group of stars. The Sanscrit root _Ark_ signified to brighten, to
praise, to glorify, to celebrate; man praised, glorified, celebrated
the sun, moon and stars; for these purposes the word _Ark_ was used.
For all we know the substantive _rik_ may really have conveyed all
these meanings during the earliest period of the Aryan language; but if
we look at the fully developed branches of that family of speech, we
find that in this, its simplest form, _rik_ has been divested of all
meaning in the Rig-Veda except one; it only means a song of praise, a
hymn, that gladdens the heart of man, and brightens the countenance
of the gods. The other words, however, which rik might have expressed
were not entirely given up, but the root was rendered more definite;
thus _arki_ and _arkis_ were formed, these no longer meant hymns of
praise, but light, ray. It is difficult to understand how _Riksha_, in
the sense of bright, has become the name of “the bear”; might it not
be on account of his brilliant tawny fur, or from his bright eyes? No
one knows. Certain it is that in Sanscrit bears were called _Riksha_.
But the word _Riksha_ had also another meaning, as shown by a passage
in the Rig-Veda 1, 24, 10. “These stars (riksha) fixed high above,
which are seen by night; whither did they go by day?” The Commentator
observed that the word _riksha_ is not used in the sense of stars in
general, but that according to tradition the name is only given to
that particular constellation, which in later Sanscrit is called “the
Seven Rishis,” or “the Seven Sages.” And thus it happened that when
the dispersion took place, and the Aryans left their primitive home
and settled in Europe, they ceased to use the plural form “_Arktoi_,”
or many bears, and spoke of the group of seven stars as the Bear, the
Great Bear, without knowing why these stars had originally received
that name.

It did not escape the notice even of the less erudite that the gods
of Greece and Rome and of other Aryan nations had a close connection
with the most striking phenomena of nature; they also recognised the
same origin amongst the divinities of the Semitic nations, as well as
those of Egypt, Africa and America; this could, of course, be accounted
for by the presence of the same primitive stratum of human thought,
resembling those deeper geological layers, which only show themselves
in a partial and fragmentary manner.

But none of these mythologists attached the least importance to the
_names_ of the divinities, and if they were told that they were nothing
but names, it sounded almost like heresy to them, and they ignored the
fact that one of the latest scientific discoveries was being submitted
to them. Yet it is indubitable that the sun and the moon were in the
places occupied by them at present before they were named; but not till
they were named was there a Savitar, a Helios, a Selene or a Mene. If
then it is the name which makes the gods in mythology, in enabling
us to distinguish one from another, it follows that we must call
the Science of Language to our aid in order to solve the problem of
mythology, since that alone discloses the causes which have despoiled
the names of their primitive meaning, and that alone shows how the
germs of decrepitude, inherent in language, affect both the phonetic
portion and also the signification of words, since words naturally
react on thought and mould it.

FOOTNOTES:

[49] Max Müller, _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii. p. 70.

[50] Max Müller, _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i. p. 243.




CHAPTER VIII BETWEEN SLEEPING AND WAKING


The habit which I have contracted of living in the society of our
ancestors of prehistoric times, would, it might be thought, naturally
cause me to notice the dissimilarities between us and them rather than
the likenesses; this often happens, but not always. Our fathers, for
instance, did not know the thousandth part of our vocabulary, which
is very copious; this would seem to indicate that our knowledge has
considerably increased in the course of thirty or forty centuries.
Words of deep import are familiar to us; who amongst us does not
know and use such as these--Law, Necessity, Liberty, Spirit, Matter,
Conscience, Belief, Nature, Providence, Revelation, Inspiration, the
Soul, Religion, Infinite, Immortality, and many others, which are
either of recent origin, or have become new because their meaning has
changed? Here the difference between our fathers and ourselves springs
into sight.

But the points of resemblance are still more striking.

Long before our present era, certain philosophers asserted that their
world was full of gods, we may say with equal truth that God fills our
world; His name is in every mouth, and our little children know it
well. Moreover the complete identity between certain mental acts of our
fathers and our own is easily recognised. Our fathers were satisfied
not to enquire concerning the nature of their gods, they knew their
names, and that sufficed. We too have become accustomed to hear God’s
name repeated frequently, without always questioning ourselves as to
its meaning, and in what way He has made the earth His habitation.

To talk of what we do not grasp must be essentially human, since we
find the practice in two social conditions, separated from each other
by thousands of years.

It is incredible to what a point we of the nineteenth century carry
our lack of enquiry. If one day we were to count on our fingers the
number of interesting subjects we had allowed to pass by us without
any interrogations concerning them, fifty hands would not suffice us
for the tale; our ignorance would then become apparent. Should we
feel humiliated? In all probability no, for before arriving at this
much to be desired consummation, we should have been carried away by
many thoughts in no way bearing on the subject, and the one thought
which would come prominently to the front and hinder us from passing
our conduct in review would be, “I see no necessity to apply myself
to them.” In fact, nothing is easier and nothing so reposeful to our
mind as acquiescence in the popular opinion, which we allow to guide
us in our estimation of words and phrases; as so frequently happens
with ourselves (by “ourselves” I mean that very considerable portion
of society which separates the working classes from the savants and
philosophers).

“All things are full of the gods,” was said by the heathen in former
days; and in fact divinities abounded; this was not surprising. “God
has chosen to Himself a people and spread His name over the whole
earth, and to make His will to be known,” as we say now. Thus we know
that God is, and that His commandments must be kept.

To consider words as ideas is not wise. Why do we not imitate the
savages who when they hear an organ for the first time have a great
desire to open it in order to see what is inside; and we who are
civilised play with much light-hearted readiness on the gigantic
instrument of language without seeking to know the value of the sounds
we draw from it; and the names of beings and objects which should
exercise the most powerful influence to which moral things can be
subjected, are treated as mere sounds.

Have we asked ourselves the meaning of the word God? Many must answer
no to this question. This is not well, in spite of the fact that those
who have asked it in this form have not always succeeded in obtaining
an answer; no one has formed a complete conception of God, since
neither sense nor reason is equal to the task. Plato, although named
“Divine” by the ancient philosophers and by Christian theologians,
did not like to speak of _The Gods_, but replacing the plural by
the singular used the word “Divine,” but he did not explain what he
understood by this word. Plato certainly mentions the Creator of the
Universe, the Father of humanity, but--“he does not tell His name, for
he knew it not; he does not tell His colour, for he said it not; he
does not tell His size, for he touched it not.”[51] Xenophanes, who
lived 300 years before Plato, said, “There is one God, the greatest
amongst gods and men; neither in form nor in thought like unto
mortals.”[52]

The Greek philosophers protested against all attempts to apply a name
which should be adequate to the Supreme Being; since all the words
chosen failed to grasp His essence, and only designated certain sides
and points of view, predicting of Him whatever was most beautiful in
nature. For this reason early Christian writers who were Greeks rather
than Jews, who had studied in the schools of Plato and Aristotle, spoke
of God in the same abstract language, the same negative terms; they
said, “We cannot call Him Light, since Light is His creation; we cannot
call Him Spirit, since the Spirit is His breath; nor Wisdom, since
Wisdom emanates from Him; nor Force, since Force is the manifestation
of His Power.”

Thus instead of saying what God is, the philosophers, heathen as well
as Christian, prefer to say what He is not. But in that case what
idea could man form of a Being whom the wisest amongst them could not
represent or describe? Do we understand the nature of this Supreme
Being better by using the name so well known of Providence? Again no;
since we have introduced several meanings into this word which are
inconsistent the one with the other. Amongst them there might well be
some that are erroneous, which would thus lead us to rest our hopes on
false foundations.

This mist, hiding from us the meaning of words and obscuring our ideas,
is partly owing to a fault committed by the ancients themselves.

When our ancestors communed with their divinities, they did not ask
themselves what the names they pronounced really meant; in invoking
Varuna, Helios, Athene, Prithvi, and the others, they were satisfied,
at least for the time being, since names possess a strange calming
property; this unquestioning acquiescence has been bequeathed to us.
We are neither more enquiring, more exact, nor more pedantic than
the greater part of our ancestors; we speak of angels, for instance,
without seeking to fathom their nature, much in the same way as we
might mention lords and dukes without troubling ourselves to reflect
that the one means “bread-giver” and the other “dux,” or one capable of
being a leader of men.

In speaking of the soul, the immortality of the soul, and of religion,
we use words which have become common property, and it is not necessary
to analyse them in order to feel sure that they represent things which
are very real; still we do not strive to understand what these things
really are. Thus it happens that words whose meaning is unknown to us
or escapes us, are generally those of which we make daily use; we keep
to the impression received of them in our childhood, or accepted by
current opinion, or with which sentiment invests them, but this is
unsatisfactory; we should feel ashamed of not possessing more accurate
knowledge than this of geography or arithmetic. On the other hand,
there are scientific terms which seem to us so technical that we
willingly abandon their use to experts, and yet their meaning can be
readily and definitely grasped.

What meaning, for instance, has the word _infinite_ for us, even if
taken in its most simple acceptation; this _infinite_ towards which our
thoughts travel when we raise our eyes to the skies? Astronomers say to
us, “Look at something greater than the greatest possible greatness,
that is the infinitely great.” They then quote figures, but these
figures of infinite greatness elude our imagination, we repeat them
mechanically and only out of respect to the high scientific authority
who guarantees the accuracy of the calculations or the value of the
appreciation.

A small object, apparently of the size of a homeopathic globule, moves
in space, it contains our continents and our oceans, this globule moves
in company with other globules of the same nature.

Astronomers speak to us of the millions of miles separating us from the
sun, yet this distance dwindles down to nothing as compared with the
nearest star, which, we are told, lies twenty millions of millions of
miles from our earth. Another stupendous thought is that a ray of light
traverses space at the rate of 187,000 miles in a second, and yet it
requires three years to reach us.

But this is only a small matter.

More than one thousand millions of such stars have been discovered by
our telescopes, and there may be millions of millions of suns within
our siderial system which are as yet beyond the reach of our best
telescopes; even that siderial system need not be regarded as single
within the universe, thousands of millions of similar systems may be
recognised in the galaxy or milky way.[53]

Now let us turn our eyes to the infinitely little. One drop of water
taken from the ocean contains atoms so small that a grain of the finest
dust would seem colossal by the side of them; chemists are now able to
ascertain the relative positions of atoms so minute that millions of
them can stand upon a needle’s point.

All this we gather from science when--working together with the
telescope--it investigates space; and this may still be little compared
to what we might see through glasses, which should magnify objects some
millions of times more than our best instruments.

The infinite in space has engaged the attention of many thinkers; I
will quote from two only, as this infinite, which they studied from
different points of view, yet suggests thoughts somewhat alike. Kepler,
the discoverer of the laws on which our planetary system is based,
said, “My highest wish is to find _within_ the God whom I have found
everywhere _without_.” Kant, the philosopher, to whom the Divine in
nature and the Divine in man appeared as transcendent and beyond our
cognisance, and who refused to listen to any theological argument
tending to prove the existence of God, yet says, “Two things fill me
with new and ever growing admiration and awe: the starry firmament
above me, and the moral law within me; neither of them is hidden in
darkness, I see them both before me, and I connect them directly with
the consciousness of my own existence.”[54]

These are very abstract thoughts; and it is pertinent to notice that
the most solemn religious terms, and the most striking expressions of
admiration, and poetical phrases of love, have their source in verbal
roots, indicative of acts and conditions palpable to the senses.

But I am approaching too closely to matters of high import. I am drawn
by the word _Infinite_. Aristotle said truly, “the Infinite attracts.”
He was thinking of that other infinite, which is not the one intended
by astronomers; but for myself the infinite in nature captivates me so
powerfully that I find it difficult to touch earth again. Let us walk
in beaten paths; let us endeavour to grasp the meaning of the more
simple words learnt mechanically at school, such as those denoting
abstraction as well as nouns, and terms both general and particular;
and let us see to what phase of thought and speech these grammatical
exercises will carry us.

       *       *       *       *       *

Each palpable object is known to us according as it affects our senses,
that is to say, by its properties; all impalpable objects cannot be
known otherwise than by their qualities; but nothing exists in nature,
whether palpable or impalpable, that has only one property or one
quality, each object has several; an object as it exists in reality
is concrete, and has a concrete name. If we wished to consider only
one of its attributes, we should have to take that apart and isolate
it, in order to fix our thoughts exclusively on that; “we must drop
that of which the attributes are attributes.”[55] We see white snow,
white chalk, white milk, we have the sensation of the white colour;
but to take whiteness apart from the snow, the chalk, and the milk, is
an operation which requires an instrument, a means, this we possess
in a word, viz., the word _white_. Without that word we should have
the sensation of whiteness, but not the idea; it is the word _white_,
whilst separating the white colour from the snow, the chalk, and the
milk, that gives us the abstract idea as well as the abstract term
whiteness. This mental act is called _abstraction_: and it is by this
process of abstraction that we really arrive at the true knowledge of
anything, apart from the sensation of it only.

Here is another example of abstraction. Let us suppose that two persons
are in one room, and that there are in the room two windows, two doors,
two tables and two chairs. Let us try to obliterate in our mind the
persons, the windows, the doors, the tables and the chairs; nothing
now remains but the abstraction _two_. Now _two_, as such, apart from
objects, does not exist in nature; still it is a conception we can
retain in our mind, and this abstract idea can be incorporated in the
abstract word _two_.

These two examples of abstraction tell us but little of what is meant
by it; and although they teach us little of the part abstraction plays
in our mental life, they are correct from a logical point of view, and
clearly demonstrate the impossibility of retaining a thought apart from
the word expressing it, since evidently the representation of _two_ and
of _whiteness_ could not have been made if the words had been lacking.

The faculty of abstraction has no doubt taken time to develop in man,
and the absence of abstract words and consequently of abstract ideas
was complete in primitive man as it now is in our very young children.
The faculties of brutes can by no means attain to abstraction. One
reason, amongst others, why we have no ground to think brutes have
abstract general ideas is that they do not speak, that they have no use
of the words without which it is impossible to carry out the operation
which I have just described, and to cause a conception to arise from a
sensation.

       *       *       *       *       *

When, in our early days, our parents gave us instruction on the
three divisions of natural history, and explained to us of what
they consisted, we did not suspect that a period of immense length
had elapsed before man succeeded in thus skilfully classifying the
vast mass of names in the manner which struck us as so natural and
inevitable. Many thousands of objects were before us, each one entitled
to bear an expressive name; and in proportion as our knowledge of
things increased was science called upon to furnish new terms; their
name became legion and memory failed to retain them. It therefore
became a necessity to classify the objects of a common nature under one
name; hence the evolution of the terms animal, vegetable and mineral,
which relieved us from the burden of enumerating all the objects
composing genus and species; then in speaking of them to others we use
the generic term, which at the same time presents the image to our own
minds. Thus when we wish to denote men having the same nationality as
ourselves we employ the collective term compatriot; in the same way the
word furniture includes all that serves to furnish our rooms. By the
help of this ingenious combination we relieve our memories of a mass of
encumbering words, we economise our time and our powers, and simplify
the machinery of our thoughts.

This is evidently an advantage. But now a difficulty presents itself.
When employing these general terms, such as vegetable, animal, the
human race, we are speaking of things of which we are ignorant, and are
therefore for us as if they had no existence. We cannot have a complete
knowledge of vegetables since that word comprehends all plants and
trees on the earth; neither of animals, since “animal” includes not
only all beasts lacking reason but also man who is endowed with it. We
are equally ignorant of the human race, since it is composed of all
human creatures, past, present and to come. It is evident that we only
know individual persons and things, such as this fir tree or that oak,
this horse, this cow, Paul or James, and we know them because we are in
a position to distinguish them by naming them, or indicating them.

How is it that philosophers of the mental calibre possessed by Locke,
Hume and Berkeley--whose minds follow so closely the progress of the
perception of general ideas--did not question how it was that terms
which were applicable to these ideas could equally well be applied to
particular things? What was the origin of the word _man_ that it could
be as suitable for Paul or James as for many men, in fact the whole
human race? This is a fact about which philosophers do not appear to
have troubled themselves, and which the science of language alone can
explain.

In the time of our primitive ancestors human knowledge was evolved
gradually from what was confused and vague, before arriving at what was
deemed settled and distinct. Man’s vocabulary was small, substantives
were rare; that which we now understand by garden, courtyard, field,
habitation, was merged into one and the same conception, and would be
expressed by one vocable, of which the modern equivalent is enclosure;
the word _serpent_ designated all creatures that crawled, the word
_fruit_ implied all that could be eaten, the word _man_ all who could
think; each name was a general term expressive of a general idea.

We may remember that the Sanscrit word _sar_, to run, which was
at first used for rivers in general, became a particular name; a
demonstrative element joined to the verb, changing it into _sarit_,
run here, sufficed at once to turn it into an intelligible phrase,
and the name of a particular river. In order to form the word
_man-u-s_, man, the constructors of language combined the root _man_,
measurer, thinker, in its secondary form _man-u_, with the suffix
_s_, which gives the meaning think-here. This was at first not of
general application, but as it could be repeated any number of times
and referred each time to different persons, who could each be named
thinker-here, it became a general term. We thus see that the name
_manus_ was from the beginning something more than a mere conventional
sign applied to a particular person as are all proper names. It was
a predicative name, that is applicable to all possessing the same
attributes, viz., of being able to think, and capable of the same act,
that of thinking.

This discovery was followed by another not less unexpected. When
examining the oldest word for name, which in Sanscrit is _nâman_, in
Greek _onoma_, in Latin _nomen_, we find that it dates from a time when
the Sanscrit, Greek and Latin languages were all one; consequently the
English _name_ and the German _Name_ are not as we supposed, words
invented by the ancient Saxons, but they already existed before the
separation of Teutonic idioms from their elder brothers.

After some further steps our contemporary philologists discovered
the sources whence proceeded this Sanscrit _nâman_; it is formed
of the root _nâ_, originally _gnâ_, to know, joined to a suffix
which generally expresses an instrument, a means; _nâman_ is the
representative of _gnâman_, which we recognise in the Latin _cognomen_,
the consonant _g_ being dropped as in _natus_, son, which was formerly
_gnatus_. This word _name_ had at first a much more extended meaning
than that of a simple arbitrary sign applied “to what we call a
thing.” The constructors of the word were aware of a fact of which
consciousness was afterwards lost, and which the learned ignored during
all the supervening centuries--viz., that all names, far from being
mere conventional signs used to distinguish one thing from another,
were meant to express what it was possible to know of a thing; and
that a name thus places us in a position really to be cognisant of a
thing. A natural insight taught the early framers of our language a
truth only acquired by us after interminable researches, such as Hegel
expresses when saying, “We think in words,” and which we find again in
this somewhat tautological expression “nominibus noscimus” = “tel nom,
telle notion.”

The fact that names, which are signs not of things, but of particular
concepts, are all derived from general ideas, is one of the most
fruitful discoveries of the science of language; since it not only
expresses the truth which has been stated below, that language and the
capability of forming general ideas separate man from the animals, but
also a second truth that these two phenomena are two sides of the same
truth. This explains the reason why the science of language rejects
equally the interjectional theory and the mimetic, but accepts the
final elements of language, those roots which all contain concepts.

The name man, which we all apply to ourselves, is a title of nobility
to which none other can compare. It is the direct issue of _man_, which
in its turn came from _mâ_, to measure, this gave _mâs_, moon, to the
Sanscrit language. The word man contains in itself the kernel of subtle
thought; if we connect the word with the celestial body that helps us
to measure our time, we do not therefore necessarily invest the moon
with a living and thinking personality; it is sufficient to consider
that if our ancestors conceived of it as measuring the nights and days,
they had in themselves the capabilities with which they invested the
words they created.

We must also notice that the creators of this name having connected
it with the loftiest thing of which they could conceive--thought--did
not stop there; the sight of what was lowest--the dust--inspired them
with another name, _homo_ = earth-born; this Latin word having the
same source as _humus_ = the soil. Our fathers also gave themselves
a third name, which was _brotos_ in Greek, _mortalis_ in Latin, and
_marta_--the dying--in Sanscrit; they could hardly have applied the
word mortal to themselves if they had not at the same time believed in
other beings who did not die.

And this strange fact has come to pass, that on our planet there
existed in former days men--simple mortals as they were--who
manipulated thought, incorporating it with language, the only domain
in which it can exist; then these marvellous men so entirely eclipsed
themselves, and passed out of our ken, that their posterity do not
recognise them under their modest garb of anonymity; for their work
though still living through thousands of centuries, is so unrecognised
that men ask themselves, “Why is it not possible to think apart from
words?”

Thus we acknowledge the profound wisdom of the conceptions of our
ancestors; but their understanding worked unequally, on certain points
it was very advanced, but on others behindhand.

In following the march of human intellect in the past, we are struck
by the slowness with which thought and speech co-operated. As long as
our ancestors had no occasion to speak of the action of covering a
surface with a liquid or soft substance, they did not possess the word
_var_ = to cover; “the name of colour in Sanscrit is _varna_, clearly
derived from this word; and not till the art of painting, in its most
primitive form, was discovered and named, could there have been a name
for colour.” For some time they continued to view various objects
differently coloured without distinguishing the tints; it is well known
that the distinction of colours is of late date; our ancestors gazed on
the blue sky, or the green trees, as in a dream, without recognising
blue or green, as long as they lacked words to define the two colours,
and some time elapsed before they particularised the colours by giving
each its proper title.

We speak of the seven colours of the rainbow, because the intermediate
tints elude us; the ancients acted much in the same way, Xenophanes
speaks of the rainbow as a cloud of purple, red, and yellow; Aristotle
also speaks of the tri-coloured rainbow, red, yellow, and green; and
Democritus seems only to have mentioned black, white and yellow.

Does this indicate that our senses have gradually become more acute and
accurate? No, no one has asserted that the sensitiveness of the organs
of sense was less thousands of years ago than it is now; the sensation
has not changed, but “we see in this evolution of consciousness of
colour how perception goes hand in hand with the evolution of language,
and how, by a very slow process, every definite concept is developed
out of an infinitude of indistinct perceptions.”[56]

The names of colours have not been applied arbitrarily, any more than
the names given to divinities. Blue, for instance, owes its origin to
the visible results of violence, or of an accident; the science of
etymology shows us that the Old Norse words, blár, blá, blatt, which
now mean blue, meant originally the livid colour of a bruise. Grimm
traces these words back to the Gothic _bliggvan_, to strike; and he
quotes as an analogous case the Latin _cæsius_--a bluish grey, from
_cædere_, to cut. If the assertion that blue and green are rarely
mentioned until a late date be correct, it would follow that they had
been worked out of an infinity of colours before they took their place
definitely as the colour of the sky and the colour of the trees and
grass.

As we trace etymology to its source, we see how man’s perception was
confused at first. From the Sanscrit root _ghar_, which has many
different meanings, such as to heat, to melt, to drip, to burn, to
shine, come not only many words--heat, oven, warmth, and brightness,
but also the names of many bright colours, all varying between yellow,
green, red, and white. But the most striking example is afforded by
the Sanscrit word _ak-tu_. Here we have the first instance of the
uncertainty in the meaning of the names of colours which pervades
all languages, and which can be terminated at last by scientific
definition only. This word has two opposite meanings--a light tinge
or ray of light, and also a dark tinge, and night; this same word in
Greek, _ak-tis_, means a ray of light. Thus, whilst ideas are not
definitely named, even the most simple, such as those of white and
black, are not realised; philosophers have long known this, but the
learned in physical science seem only recently to have drawn attention
to the fact. Virchow was the first to make the following assertion:
“Only after their perceptions have become fixed by language, are the
senses brought to a conscious possession and a real understanding of
them.”[57]

Surgeons have explained that the faculty of sight proceeds from the
movement of an unknown medium, which in the case of light has been
called ether, this strikes the retina, and is conveyed to the brain
by the optic nerve; “but what relation there is between the effect,
namely, our sensation of red, and the cause, namely, the 500 millions
of millions of vibrations of ether in one second, neither philosophy
nor physical science has yet been able to explain.”[58]

We are able to picture to ourselves the difficulties which assailed man
in his efforts to express his impressions in primitive times, since
we find ourselves at times struggling with the same difficulties, and
there are occasions when we struggle in vain, we do not conquer the
difficulty.

Sensations which are subjective and personal are of all others the
most difficult to define, since we lack words to express what is from
its nature purely personal; and yet we have frequently occasion to
mention them, how can we best express ourselves? As the required word
does not seem forthcoming we have recourse to metaphor, and almost
unconsciously we use terms borrowed from external phenomena connected
with the sense of hearing, of smelling, and of tasting, and which
for the most part are acts or conditions in the domain of the sense
of sight. Our old acquaintances the roots, whose meanings are to
cut, to pinch, to bite, to burn, to hit, to sting, to soften, having
formed the base of the adjectives sharp, sweet, keen, burning, we use
these to describe certain sensations. We do not know how better to
particularise a physical pain than by comparing it to something that
tears, cuts or stings. But if certain physical ills, certain colour
perceptions, certain impressions of sharpness, sweetness and heat
experienced when tasting various foods find metaphorical expression in
external acts, there still remains a whole category of simple ideas
for which no words can be found. There are certain sensations of taste
which cannot be expressed in words. Yesterday I ate a pear, to-day I
have eaten a peach; I am quite capable of distinguishing the special
flavour of each, but finding nothing in the world of facts with which
to compare them, I am without words to apply to them, and it would be
as impossible for me to convey an idea of the flavour to any one who
had never eaten a pear or a peach as to make any person understand if I
spoke in a language which was unknown to him.

Since all words that succeed in expressing our sensations are drawn
from external phenomena, we are in a position to know the origin and
historic past of these words. But I cannot thus easily foresee even
the near future of some of these words. The sound of the clarionet and
that of the hautbois, the whistling of the wind, the whisper of the
waves, the yellow of the straw and that of the lemon, the green of the
emerald and the blue of the sky, all characterise objects belonging
to the material world; but if these words: clarionet and hautbois,
wind and waves, straw and lemon, emerald and sky, which alone enable
us to define clearly to our minds certain sounds and certain colours
were lacking in our vocabulary, I do not know how a musician could
have composed a symphony, or an artist painted his picture, although
the creation of both works of art proceeds equally from personal
inspiration invisible to the eye.

The tie that binds thought to speech has been alternately acknowledged
and forgotten; if Plato believed that the origin of language was the
imitation of the voices of nature (an error which weighed heavily
on humanity during the space of two thousand years), he also knew
that words are indispensable to man for the very formation of
thought. Abelard was more explicit on this point, he said: “Language
is generated by the intellect, and generates intellect.” Hobbes
understood so well that language was meant first of all for ourselves,
and afterwards only for others, that he calls words, as meant for
ourselves, _notæ_, and distinguishes them from _signa_, the same
words as used for the sake of communication, and he added: “If there
were only one man in the world he would require _notæ_.”[59] The
close connection between thought and speech cannot be more clearly or
concisely expressed.

This discovery makes its way slowly in the world, because certain
philosophers who have been rendered immobile by tradition, darken
counsel by their speculations. Some of the Polynesians would seem to
have a far truer insight into the nature of thought and language than
these philosophers to whom I have made allusion; they call thinking
“speaking in the stomach,” which means of course to speak inaudibly,
and it is this absolutely inarticulate speech which is so often
mistaken for thought without words; because the fact is ignored that
_notion_ and _name_ are two words for one thing. “It is certain,” they
say, “that a thought may be conceived in the mind, but is formulated
at a later period; for instance, if you have to write a letter of no
great importance, and which affects you little, take your pen, and
before the idea appears to you completely clothed, your hand has passed
over the paper, and you proceed to read your ideas in the words you
see before you.” This is an illusion. We can no doubt distinguish the
written word from the word-concept, but the former could not exist
without the latter. I defy our opponents to think of the most ordinary
and familiar object, such as a dog for instance, without saying to
themselves the word dog. They would explain that the remembrance only
of a special dog, or of its bark would suffice to call up the image of
the dog in their minds; they do not see that the likeness of a dog, or
the remembrance of its bark is equivalent to the word dog, and that
they cannot possibly become conscious to themselves of what they appear
to be thinking, without having the word in reserve in some part of
themselves, either “in the stomach,” as some savages say, or, as is
more gracefully expressed by the Italians, _in petto_.

Descartes was a learned Christian, who pondered for some time over the
questions whether the human mind could be certain of anything without
being supernaturally enlightened; he resolved to prove it; and to this
end he imagined that he, Descartes, was certain of nothing--doubted of
all--even mathematical conclusions; he then reflected on this position,
and after a time the idea occurred to him that as he was capable of
reflection it proved without a doubt that he, Descartes, existed, and
that consequently it was no longer possible to have doubts of his own
identity.

The portrait of this philosopher as depicted on the cover of his works,
represents him reclining in a chair thinking--thinking--thinking--and
exclaiming, “Cogito ergo sum.”

Those persons amongst us who are not specially interested in any
system of philosophy are certainly in the majority; all know that
such systems exist, and that they are noted, but from the want of
reflection, however little, some persons look upon them as having
sprung fully equipped, and in their present form, from the brains of
their founders. But it would be incorrect, simply on the evidence of
a frontispiece, to consider these philosophical processes as thus
instantaneous. The systems of philosophy, even those of small value,
require much time for their elaboration, and ripen slowly, and are
never free from opposition. They establish close links between the
living thinkers of to-day, and those who are no longer on earth. The
philosophers of the Middle Ages consulted those of antiquity, the
thinkers of to-day strove to be in agreement with those alike of the
Middle Ages and of antiquity, and there arise from this intercommunion
of knowledge, groups of ideas of which some are borrowed and some
original, some true and some false; these are dependent on the
intellectual lucidity and vigour of the latest arrivals in the arena.
Many problems are thus threshed out before our eyes. Not long ago three
philosophers were in dispute and Noiré records the arguments; the
discussion turned on the question of priority of thought or speech.

They agreed on the fundamental point, all three said there could be
no reason without language, nor language without reason. But as they
penetrated more deeply into the question, they perceived divergencies;
although the conception and the word be inseparable, yet there may be
a moment of time--infinitely little, doubtless--between the arrival of
the one and of the other, as with twins.

According to Schopenhauer conceptions were the first in the field, and
their immediate duty consisted in creating words; since the mind could
not deal with ideas at will, could neither evoke them, grasp them, nor
reject them, whilst no signs were attached to them.

To this Geiger objected. How could ideas be produced whilst no signs
existed with which to represent them? Words came first, and thought,
rendered possible by the development of language, followed; “language
has created reason; before language, man was without reason.”[60]

Max Müller replied to both. How could there be a sign when there was
nothing to represent? Conceptions and words, inseparable from the
beginning, were produced on the same day; the day when man’s history
begins; before that what was a fugitive impression and a vocal sound
void of sense, became a conception. Max Müller adds: “If Geiger had
said that with every new word there is more reason, or that every
progress of reason is marked by a new word, he would have been right,
for the growth of reason and language may be said to be coral-like,
each shell is the product of life, and becomes in turn the support of
new life.”[61]

The most important results obtained during the Middle Ages on these
subjects find their representations in this discussion carried on by
the three learned contemporaries. Max Müller’s point of view is one
which reconciles the two diverse opinions.

Men still find themselves under the magic influence of the past after
some thousands of years; the first words which our ancestors used in
the midst of their ordinary occupations have not ceased to appear
in our daily conversations, in our philosophical writings, and in
the reports of scientific proceedings; it is impossible to speak
of our family or social relations, of our affections, our ordinary
obligations, our most sacred duties, our observance of laws, without
having recourse to words and expressions, which represent the acts
of linking or _tying_, those early activities of our ancestors. The
chemist speaks of the _affinity_ of the substances with which he is
working; the poet and the devout believer when giving free scope to
their highest aspirations do not find truer or loftier terms than
_links_, _chains_, _ties_, for that which connects them with the Giver
of all pure, sublime thoughts.

As it is possible in the present day to speak of _delving_ into a
question (_creuser_) and of _racking_ our brains (creuser) when
we puzzle over a conundrum; of _linking_ one idea to another; of
_polishing_ our manners by the help of art and letters; of seeking
to _soften_ the heart of God by offerings (as if He were a mercenary
Judge), of linking ourselves with others the better to accomplish
a good work, of uniting in freeing ourselves from an undesirable
opponent; it follows that our ancestors as they emerged from their
condition of muteness found it necessary to _dig_ (creuser) cabins for
themselves, to _polish_ stones, to weave and plait branches together,
and to soften tough roots for their nourishment. The same words repeat
themselves from time immemorial.

But how comes it that these words, which have remained the same
outwardly, have so completely changed their meaning as exactly to adapt
themselves to modern usage? We have been deceived by appearances. These
words have not changed their meaning, but at first they were applied to
tangible objects and visible acts, those which were the most necessary
and the most usual in daily life at that time; and now these words are
applied to intangible things, and invisible acts, the most necessary
and usual in our present mental life.

Nor is this which follows less curious. This adaptation of the old
words to modern usages could only have been accomplished on one
condition, that we should forget many things, and be utterly oblivious
to the original destination of these words; that we should put from
before our eyes all images of caves, branches, stones and tough roots;
and this condition we have fulfilled absolutely; the forgetfulness has
been complete; no one suspects the source of these expressions; only a
small number of men knows it, but these men are thoroughly aware that
they are making use of the true primitive forms of the human language.

A difficulty to be avoided still remains. It might be said that, as
it is the result of concerted action undertaken from a community of
interest, that these images have become fixed in the memory, and that
if the ideas and representations exercised so potent a spell on us,
that we were compelled to use the words which can be traced back to
the first period of language, does it not follow that we absolutely
resemble each other, and that consequently we must renounce the idea
of attributing the least individuality to ourselves? This is a great
mistake. Each one of us gives to these representations of ideas that
form towards which he is impelled by his own nature, his education, his
environment. A man who has some knowledge of astronomy will look at
the star-lit sky with quite another eye to that of the poet, who knows
nothing of the subject but is struck with its inexpressible splendour.
A landscape painter would see in a tree details of beauty which would
quite escape one who admired it, but had never sought to draw it; a
clever architect with one glance at a newly-built house could assign
it a place either with the failures or with those houses which were a
success, and this glance would sufficiently account for the murmured
exclamation, “How gladly would I live in it!”

FOOTNOTES:

[51] Max Müller, _Anthropological Religion_, p. 100.

[52] _Ibid._, p. 181.

[53] Max Müller, _Natural Religion_, p. 138.

[54] Max Müller, _Anthropological Religion_, p. 393.

[55] Max Müller, _Science of Thought_, p. 80.

[56] Max Müller.

[57] _Science of Thought_, p. 151. Max Müller.

[58] _Natural Religion_, p. 118. Max Müller.

[59] _Science of Thought_, p. 40. Max Müller.

[60] _On the Origin of Human Language and Reason._ Geiger.

[61] _Science of Thought_, p. 299. Max Müller.




CHAPTER IX A DECISIVE STEP


How is it that primitive man, provided with five senses which bring him
into contact with the material world only, has found it possible to
conceive the existence of an invisible world peopled with beings whom
his eyes cannot see, nor his hands touch, nor his ears hear?

Between the birth of human reason and the invention of writing a long
period of time elapsed; when the art of writing was followed by that of
printing, man then printed all that he had thought and written, and at
present we possess thousands of volumes which will inform us on all the
truths and errors which have alternately illuminated and obscured the
human mind.

Whoever would take the trouble to examine this mass of documents, and
read those which furnish an approximate estimate of the mental activity
of our primitive ancestors, will see that the human _ego_ pursued
science unconsciously long before scholars appeared, and applied the
name of philosophers to themselves, because they had sought patiently
and with many discussions, through thousands of centuries, to find the
best way of arriving at the truth.

These ancestors of ours were of an enquiring turn of mind.

The appearance of religion amongst men is at the same time the most
natural and the most supernatural fact in the history of humanity.

The greater number of philosophers have recognised that the tendency of
the human mind to turn towards that which is outside the domain of the
senses is as powerful in man as the desire of eating and drinking is in
all living beings. The ancients acknowledged this to be a true sense,
as irresistible as the rest of the operations of our external senses,
and they have well named it _sensus numinis_--the consciousness of the
divine. The desire of understanding the secrets with which the Unknown
was invested naturally led to the investigation of the influence which
these secrets might exercise on the destinies of mankind. Amongst
certain peoples this gave birth to the art of divination. To this they
abandoned themselves in all sincerity, not doubting that omnipotent
beings would always be ready to make their will known to mortals.

The men of modern times have shown that they have the critical faculty
more highly developed, and their investigations have dealt more with
practical matters. In the eighteenth century, writers, historians and
philosophers--Voltaire amongst the number--wishing to know how the
phenomenon of mental religion appeared in the world, collected all the
data to be obtained from travellers concerning savages; they found
that without exception all believed in occult powers, as distinct from
material or human forces, and doubted not the efficacy of certain magic
arts in use amongst them to attract these powers to themselves, and
to constrain them to act on their behalf. Judging by analogy these
writers contend that primitive man, doubtless impressed by the alarming
phenomena of nature, would make search for the unknown beings around
him, whom the storms, the thunders and the lightnings obey, but these
beings were invisible, consequently there must be an invisible world in
communication with the visible or human world.

In this way were the beliefs of the present-day savages supposed to be
those current at the dawn of religious conceptions of humanity.

The ignorance of a subject, of whatever nature, has never prevented
the laying down of axioms concerning that subject. Towards the end of
the eighteenth century some Portuguese navigators, who never embarked
without providing themselves with talisman and amulet,--to protect
them during their voyages,--which they called _feitiços_, seeing
some negroes of the Gold Coast prostrating themselves with every
appearance of reverence, before bones, stones, or the tails of some
animals, concluded at once without further investigation that these
were considered as divinities by the negroes; and on their return to
their native land, they spread the report that savage races worshipped
_feitiços_. This word _feitiços_ corresponds to the Latin _factitius_,
meaning that which is made by hand, as the amulets were which belonged
to the Portuguese sailors. The well-known President de Brosses used the
name and promulgated the idea, and without having set foot on countries
inhabited by negroes, composed and published a book on their fetishes.
In this manner the French language was enriched in 1760 by the new
word fetish. All this seemed so natural and plausible that the word,
and the idea of the adoration of fetishes became quite general; the
theory of the worship of fetishes penetrated rapidly, and took deep
root in the public mind, it found its way very readily into school
books and manuals, and we were taught that the religion of savages
consists solely in the worship of fetishes, and learned writers draw
the conclusion that fetishism must necessarily have been the primitive
religion of humanity.

With what readiness do well-instructed persons, no less than the
ignorant, allow themselves to speak without sufficiently reflecting
on what they say. In order to elevate material objects, of whatever
kind, to the rank of divinities, it would be necessary previously to
possess the concept of a divinity. Writers on religion speak of that as
existing in primitive times which they seek to describe; they might
as well say that primitive men mummified their dead before they had
_mûm_ or wax to embalm them with. Fetishism cannot be considered as
absolutely primitive, seeing that from its nature it must presuppose
the previous growth of the predicate God. This idea of De Brosses and
his successors will remain for ever a striking anachronism in the
history of religion.

The history of all primitive races opens with this note. “Man is
conscious of a divine descent, though made from the dust of the earth;
the Hindoo doubted it not, though he called Dyn his father, and Prithvi
his mother; Plato knew it when he said the earth produced men, but that
God formed them.”

On the banks of the Rhine, Tacitus listened to the war-songs of the
Germans; they were to him in an unknown tongue. “It resembles the
whisperings of birds,” he said, but added, “They are cries of valour,”
and his ear caught the sound of two words which recurred frequently,
“Tuisto Mannus!”

We now know what formed the basis of these songs; the Germans were
celebrating their lineal ancestors under the names of Tuisto, and
Mannus, his son. Tuisto appears to have been one form of Tiu, the
Aryan god of light. Tacitus tells us that the Germans “called by the
names of gods that hidden thing which they did not perceive except by
reverence.”[62] Mannus, so the Germans considered, sprang from the
earth, which they venerated as their mother-earth who before nourishing
her children on its fruits first gave them life. This Mannus, grandson
of the god of light, meant originally man.

Certain races living beyond the pale of organised religious systems
having been interrogated have furnished the following information
concerning their belief.

A very low race in India is supposed to worship the sun under the name
of Chando or Cando; they declared to the missionaries who had settled
amongst them that Chando had created the world. “How is that possible!
Who then has created the sun itself?” They replied with “We do not mean
the visible Chando, but an invisible one.”[63]

“Our god,” said the original natives of California to those who asked
in what god they believed, “our god has neither father nor mother, and
his origin is quite unknown. But he is present everywhere, he sees
everything even at midnight, though himself invisible to human eyes. He
is the friend of all good people, and he punishes the evil-doers.”

A Blackfoot Indian, when arguing with a Christian missionary, said:
“There were two religions given by the Great Spirit, one in a book for
the guidance of the white men, who, by following its teaching, will
reach the white man’s heaven; the other is in the heads of the Indians,
in the sky, rocks, rivers and mountains. And the red men who listen to
God in nature, will hear his voice, and find at last the heaven beyond.”

These Indians consider that that external nature which to us is at the
same time the veil and the revelation of the Divine, is sufficient to
teach them so much concerning the Supreme Being that missionaries are
superfluous.

Amongst those whose thoughts are occupied by the origin of religious
perception in man, there exist several theories; the first, that
the idea of infinity is a necessity to the mind of man, and that by
enlarging the boundaries of space and of time, it arrives at that
which is without space and without time. Thus may a true philosopher
reason; but primitive man was no philosopher, and the infinite of
philosophy had no existence for him. Another theory is that man is
naturally endowed with religious instincts, which render him--alone
of all living creatures--capable of perceiving the infinite in the
invisible; but the nature of this innate instinct not being clearly
defined, it is in vain that we try to explain one mystery by another.
Others again affirm that religious impressions were the result of a
supernatural revelation, but they seem vague with regard to the time in
the life of humanity, to which people, and in what manner this came to
pass. At the same time they draw attention to the fact that men have
always arrived at conclusions rapidly, and, as they consider, without
due reflection; one of these conclusions is that _God is_. Let us, for
the sake of argument, replace the word _man_ by the word _intuitive
sense_ or apprehension, and we shall understand why this intuitive
sense renders it a superfluous task to make great researches as to the
reasons of man’s decision that _God is_. This intuitive sense is wise,
and utters at times great truths; but the philosophers who consider it
their metier to seek for the reason of things are not content with what
satisfies intuitive sense, and they act on their right.

In our days the religious problem is viewed from two sides. What
is understood by these words--the conception of God? This is the
question of questions; and the names of the writers on the subject,
both philosophical and theological, are too numerous to give. It is a
psychological and thought impelling study.

How did the idea of God first arise in the minds of primitive man? This
is another question which few try and answer. It is a historical study.

This presentation of the problem is perhaps not calculated to inspire
excitement or let loose agitating passions; and apparently the
end of the nineteenth century will not witness the renewal of the
philosophical debates on the subject which characterised the last half
of the eighteenth.

Never either, before or since, has there been so much agitation, nor
have men’s minds been so tossed by diverse currents. Many various
theories were promulgated at the time, but opinions grouped themselves
chiefly round two diametrically opposite schools of thought, towards
one or the other of which they leaned.

According to Hume, Condillac and their adherents, matter alone exists;
our understanding, our feelings, our will are only transformed
sensations. This was pure materialism. Pure idealism was represented by
Berkeley, who went so far as to deny the reality of matter; according
to him the bodies making up the universe have no real existence; the
true realities were God and the ideas He produced in us.

Those who preserved their ancient beliefs were the most troubled, they
began to ask themselves whether the foundations of their faith were
solid, and they much desired to see certain problems solved. These
thoughts had exercised the minds of the sages of India, the thinkers of
Greece, the dreamers of Alexandria, and the divines and scholars of the
Middle Ages. They were the old problems of the world, what we know of
the Infinite, the questions of the beginning and end of our existence;
the questions of the possibility of absolute certainty in the evidence
of the senses, of reason or of faith.

How much was comprehended in these enquiries.

One hundred years previously, the cautious reasoner, Descartes, instead
of asking “What do we know?” posed in its place the question, “How do
we know?”

This was in fact a fundamental question which appealed to philosophers
who followed Descartes, as of the utmost importance, and they also
asked themselves, “After what manner does the human mind acquire what
it knows?”

What is called Locke’s tenet, “Nihil est in intellectu quod non ante
fuerit in sensu,” Leibnitz answered by “Nihil--nisi intellectus.” Noiré
gives this sentiment a fresh turn by saying: “There is nothing in this
plant that was not already in the soil, the water and the atmosphere,
but that which causes this plant to be a plant.”

Condillac, who agreed with Locke, thus formulated his opinion: “Penser
c’est sentir”; or, “In order to feel it is necessary to possess
senses,” which is self-evident.

Nevertheless, this sentence scandalised some of the philosophers, they
considered it degraded thought. It degraded thought only in Condillac’s
mouth, since he and his school had previously taken out of _sentir_ or
sensation all that possessed the right to be called thought; but for
those who admit that sensation is really impregnated with thought it is
no degradation; it is then true to say that thought is sensation, in
the same way as an oak-tree may be said to be the acorn; and a little
reflection will show us that “the acorn is far more wonderful than
the oak, and perceiving far more wonderful than thinking.” This was
not acknowledged by some who disagreed as to the nature of reason and
sensation; they considered the former a mysterious power that could
only be a direct gift of the Creator, and the senses, to which we owe
our perceptions, appeared so natural and simple, as not to require a
scientific explanation.

If philosophers, such as Descartes and Leibnitz, succeeded in
influencing certain enlightened spirits, their language was not
understood by the general public; and Berkeley’s idealism when pushed
to the extreme point, proved too abstract to counterbalance the
sensualist doctrines; its language hardly penetrated beyond the inner
circle of the experts dealing with the subject, whereas the writings of
Locke, Condillac and Hume permeated all classes of society; everywhere
the same questions were asked, and often unanswered amidst the maze of
metaphysics, in which it would have been difficult to obtain a precise
explanation of a science not yet clearly defined.

It is natural that reason after its high flight in pursuit of
truth, frightened by the obstacles met in its ascent, and by the
contradictions found in itself, should fall heavily to earth,
exclaiming with Voltaire, “O metaphysics, we are as advanced as in the
times of the Druids.” This same feeling of distrust towards proceedings
which resulted only in hypothesis, was also expressed by Newton, who,
recognising that philosophy moved nowhere so freely nor with such
certainty as in the domain of facts, recently cried, “O physics,
preserve me from metaphysics.”

“Towards the end of the eighteenth century the current public opinion
had been decidedly in favour of materialism, but a reaction was slowly
setting in in the minds of independent thinkers when Kant appeared”; he
came so exactly in the nick of time that one almost doubts whether the
tide was turning, or whether he turned the tide.

To sketch briefly the chief points in Kant’s system such as he has
given us in his book called _Critique of Pure Reason_, is a rash
proceeding; my object, which is to satisfy the imperious and more
immediate wants of our moral being, could only be attained by ignoring
the irradicable difficulties; this is excusable if we, unlearned
members of society, are to form any idea of this same philosophy.

The technical terms which abound in philosophical works are useful in
the exposition of a system, but rather the reverse for those who are
striving to grasp its salient features; for understanding these terms
partially only, or not understanding them at all, they are tempted to
imagine that they take in the meaning; this leads to vague notions
being entertained on a subject which is nevertheless earnestly studied.
Generally I abstain from the use of esoteric terms, but Kant having
coined fresh ones to express his ideas it behoves us to use his own
formula. To paraphrase them so as to render them intelligible without
multiplying them might only further obscure the sense, and yet, on the
other hand, to enter freely into further developments would require a
volume, and the end would be better served by going direct to Kant’s
work. Hence the embarrassment I feel on approaching the subject.


KANT’S TEACHING.

Kant undertook a work which no one before him had attempted.
Instead of criticising, as was then the fashion, the result of our
knowledge, whether in religion or in history, or science, he shut
his eyes resolutely to all that philosophy, whether sensualistic or
spiritualistic asserted as true, and making Descartes his starting
point he boldly went to the root of the matter; he questioned whether
human reason had the power of perceiving the truth, and in cases where
this power existed--but with limits--he sought to discover why these
limits existed. He therefore resolved to subject reason itself to his
searching analysis, and thus to assist, as it were, at the birth of
thought. He accomplished this extraordinary task with an ease of which
no one previously would have been capable.

The world is governed by immutable laws, and the human race is subject
to them. Kant gives an account of those which it must necessarily obey
in order to pass from a passive “mirror” into a conscious mind.


SENSATION.

In any material object I may seek to obtain, such as a table, my
interests are concentrated in the table itself, not on the tools which
the workman has used in its manufacture; but if it were a question of
thought, then the means by which it was produced by the human mind
engage us; and these means, of course, consist in the proper use of the
instruments at man’s disposal.

That which was at the origin of mankind is repeated at the birth of
every human being; he comes into the world in a lethargic condition,
but endowed with latent instincts which we name in one word, sense;
common to man and to animals, it places them in relationship with the
things exterior to themselves; this sense, or capability of sensation,
is merely the general faculty of feeling. No newly-born child would
emerge from its torpor if it were not surrounded by material objects
which affirm their presence by reacting on him; his first act, at the
moment when he perceives his surroundings is the transference of his
own mind, until now isolated in itself alone, towards the objects which
solicit his attention.

The sense which operates in each child is inward, we name it
briefly--sensation--to distinguish it from the five external senses,
which are more familiar to us, since even at school their functions and
modes of action have been explained to us.

For instance, we know that it is only necessary to touch the strings of
an instrument to cause them to vibrate, the vibrations are communicated
to the air, and are then called waves of sound; they diffuse themselves
with an incredible swiftness in space, advancing and retreating in the
manner of the waves of the sea, they reach our ears, touch the auditory
nerve, cause the tympanum to vibrate, penetrate to the brain, and give
us instantaneously the sensation of sound. And it is to the waves of
light passing through the ether, and communicating with the optic
nerve of the organ of sight, that we owe the sensation of sight of the
objects before us.

The vacant look of a newly-born infant, implies that it has undergone
an experience, it has felt something of the nature of a shock; a shock
always implies resistance and yielding. In the child it is the human
eye becoming conscious of itself amidst the impressions produced on
it by the confused sight of external objects, and hearing the noises
which occur around him. This instance is analogous to the vibratory
movement of the waves described and even drawn in all manuals on
physics.

It is strange that a natural phenomenon which learned men have taken
some trouble to analyse, should find expression in the following
commonplace phrase. “From the clash of opinions light is generated.” If
this phrase were not only on our lips, but also implanted in our mind,
we should more readily have grasped the physiological fact of sensation.

Sensation plays such an important part in the world of humanity, that
all the sciences, both physical and moral, deal with it; but we, who
grumble so readily and continuously at feeling either too hot or too
cold, probably never enquire what philosophy has to do with purely
bodily impressions.

Sensations come to us from without, but they would leave us in a
condition of perturbation only, if whilst receiving them we were
passive as a mirror on which external objects are reflected; we might
have continued to sleep--perchance to dream--if a mental act on our
part did not mark the awakening of our intelligence when in contact
with the material world, and thus have proved the existence of a power
within us hitherto latent, but quite capable of accepting, knowing, and
realising sensations which come to us without having been summoned.

We are nearing the solution of the problem. Descartes had asked: How
we know. Kant had clearly explained that all our knowledge has its
commencement in our senses, which give us pure intuitions, that is to
say, a clear direct view of external objects, and he also proved that
intelligence would not have been aroused without the aid of material
objects. But still greater discoveries awaited Kant.

We feel that nothing in ourselves is so free as thought. It comprehends
the whole world, it mounts to the stars, it descends to the bowels of
the earth, arrested perhaps in its path by special objects on which it
dwells at will; but although free to encircle the universe, it may not
choose its path, thought is obliged--like the sun--to follow one which
has been previously traced out for it; of this we can readily convince
ourselves.


SPACE AND TIME.

All objects of which we become conscious must be placed by us in the
imagination side by side in space, and at a distance from ourselves,
here or there; as being now present, or as having been, or about to
be; but always in succession, _i.e._, in time, time past, present and
future.

According to Kant, Space and Time are two fundamental or inevitable
conditions of all sensuous manifestations, and he was the first to
observe that they are imposed by so absolute a power that no effort, on
our part, would enable us to escape from them, any more than we could
avoid seeing the light of day at noon, unless we are either blind or
have our eyes shut.

We must make it clear that what we call Space and Time, being forms of
our sensuous intuition, do not exist apart from ourselves, or, as Max
Müller says, “depend on us as recipients, as perceivers.” It is we who
say there can be no _Here_ without a _There_, and no _Now_ without a
_Then_; and this is necessary, since we are dependent on the mould of
our minds, which work in accordance with their constitutions.


PHENOMENA.

When opening a dictionary at the letters P. H. E. we should soon arrive
at the word Phenomenon and its meaning: whatever is presented to the
senses, or affects us physically or morally.

As long as knowledge comes to us only by the way of our senses, it
follows that in speaking of affinity, electricity and magnetism as
natural phenomena, which are known to us only by their effect on Space
and Time, we speak in accordance with our method of representation, and
not as they are _in themselves_, since we have not the least idea what
these natural forces are _in themselves_. We recognise musical sounds
because our ears hear them, and we appreciate colours because our eyes
see them; we take cognisance of them as they appear to us, but we are
ignorant of both the one and the other as they are in actuality, that
is independently of our organs which correspond to them. Thus all the
objects that we know--from the manner of our knowledge--become for us
phenomena, and the world in which we live is a world of phenomena.


THE CATEGORIES OF THE UNDERSTANDING.

Besides these fundamental forms of sensuous intuition Space and Time,
Kant by his analysis of Pure Reason discovered other conditions of our
knowledge which could not have come from without. He divides them into
twelve distinct classes, and in the phraseology of philosophy they
are called Categories of the Understanding. Aristotle had previously
arranged a table of Categories, but in his Logic Aristotle concerns
himself with the laws of thought in general, the abstraction derived
from the practical use made of them; whilst Kant studies the facts
first themselves, or first principles, in their relation with certain
fixed objects.

The different categories have certain traits in common, not a single
one of our thoughts but will find a place in the one or the other.
Another feature which characterises all is, that without them no
experience would be possible, they rule our understanding. This is
very marked in the category called Plurality. Let us try to think
of anything without thinking of it at the same time as one or many,
and we shall find it an impossibility. We cannot think of an apple or
speak of an apple without picturing more than one; and Max Müller has
demonstrated that rational speech is impossible, if we cannot when
speaking decide whether the subject of a sentence consists of one or
many.


CAUSE AND EFFECT.

The ideas of _Cause_ and _Effect_ belong to those first principles
that reason draws from itself, and the category of causality is one
of the most important. We never experience a sensation, of whatever
kind, without attaching it, involuntarily and necessarily, to some
external object which we know possesses the qualities corresponding to
our sensations. Thus the impressions of heat or cold, sweet or bitter,
blue or yellow, evoke immediately the picture of certain objects which
are hot or cold, such as fire or ice; or which are sweet or bitter,
such as sugar or absinth; or blue, as the sky; or yellow, as the lemon;
and these external objects we consider as the causes, and our bodily
sensations as the effects.


AXIOMS.

There are certain universal truths which are self-evident, and were
evolved not by experience only or argument, nor science, as they are
the natural appanage of common-sense, _e.g._, such axioms as the
following: the whole is greater than the part; a straight line is the
shortest distance between two points; each body occupies space; every
event occupies time; every effect has a cause. All these are more
certain than that the sun will rise to-morrow; common-sense has always
known them, and the entire human race has not waited for the coming of
Kant to recognise these facts.

It is strange that the majority of men who know so many things that are
true by intuition, often make mistakes when they begin to reflect. They
imagine that all things falling under their observation have the power
of making themselves known directly, as if they entered an empty space
in the imagination which was ready to receive them. Are they ignorant
of the fact that in order to think of an external object, it is not
necessary to have it in actuality--as it exists in nature--before one’s
eyes, but that it suffices to imprint its image on the mind? This is
very simple, and no doubt common-sense itself would see a truism which
might be passed in silence. “What is there extraordinary,” common-sense
might say, “if in thinking of a lemon, for instance, there should be at
once presented to the mind a yellow fruit, of acid flavour, and of a
certain shape--a lemon in fact?”

This remark is useful only in showing our natural incapacity for
experiencing a sensation, of whatever kind, without connecting it
with an external object possessing corresponding attributes to the
sensation, and which was its cause.

In any case the truism is not to be ignored, since Aristotle, great
philosopher as he was, did not consider it beneath his dignity to
employ it. He said: “I think of a stone; the stone is not in my mind,
but its form is.”

To prove to common-sense that its remark has no connection with
the thesis recently laid down, would serve no good purpose. A
personal mental act, if it be lawful to personate a quality, would
alone convince common-sense of its error; but when once convinced
common-sense would then have changed to something higher than it had
previously been. It will have mounted up one stage towards reason, and
in following this route under the guidance of increasing reason, it
will end by understanding this truth as demonstrated by Kant: he who
cannot distinguish a real object from its representation will never
understand the working of the human mind.

The importance of this truth must excuse my digression.


METAPHYSICS.

The name of Kant will always be intimately connected with the word
metaphysics, not because he buried himself in it, as some have supposed
who only know his system of philosophy by hearsay; but because his
labours consisted in forbidding reason to approach this science which
is constantly threatening to invade it, and to get the upper hand by
putting itself in its place.

Kant was the first to trace with decision the line of demarcation
between the knowledge of which our reason is capable, and that of
which it is incapable. No one has drawn so sharp a line between the
knowable and the unknowable; this was to explain metaphysics. Alfred
Fouillée has defined them as “the critical study of problems which the
mind seeks to unravel from a necessity of its nature, although another
necessity of its nature renders it incapable of solving them”--such is
metaphysics.

This definition is excellent, but for those who make no preparatory
studies in philosophy it would present itself rather in this form. If
certain questions are of necessity presented to the mind which it finds
it impossible to solve, it follows that the mind would necessarily
contradict itself. Thus this succinct definition of Fouillée requires
to be itself defined.

Noiré, whilst giving more details, is also more exact. “Metaphysics
is only explained on the condition that we understand the nature
of our power of understanding, in so far as, on the one part, this
power is actively manifested in experience, and secondly, in so
far as it possesses anteriorly to any experience, and to anything
observed, certain ideas without which there could not possibly or even
conceivably, be any impression made in the human mind.” I am afraid
that this explanation of Noiré will also be lost upon those who are not
experienced in the subject.

The explanation of Schopenhauer is not less definite, and is more
concise than the two preceding. The foundation upon which all our
knowledge and all our science rests, is the incomprehensible--I fancy
that the uninitiated will be equally unable to understand this.

It is not surprising. Philosophers speak a language of their own, which
must be learnt before it can be understood, which is the case with all
languages.

Kant develops this thesis with greater simplicity and clearness. “As
long as the human intellect moves in the sphere of the senses and of
experience it is safe; this sphere is very vast; it is there that all
phenomena may be known which appears in space and time, that is to say,
all belonging to the phenomenal world in which we live. But if the
intellect rebels against the gaoler which holds it captive in the magic
circle, breaks its chains and enters into the region of ideals, it will
err.”

Kant relates the following anecdote: “A dove, which found great
pleasure in spreading its wings, was troubled because this pleasure
was of short duration; the simple bird was ignorant of the fact that
its structure did not admit of its taking flights such as the swallow
enjoys; not divining the real cause of its inability, it blamed the
fluid ether whose resisting power it had felt, and thought how much
better it would fly ‘in vacuo.’” The dove was mistaken.

Kant’s crowning merit is having discovered the object of metaphysics
not only in the categories of the understanding, without which, as
Noiré says, no impression on the human mind would be possible, or even
conceivable, but chiefly in the power, inherent in our nature, of
resisting or yielding to impressions. It is this power, according to
Kant, which constitutes the transcendental side of our knowledge.

The empirical school of philosophers is tried by Kant’s recognition
of the transcendental principle in man. Its members accuse the
spiritualists of seeking to raise human nature beyond its proper level,
and of wishing at the same time to open an inlet for other truths which
claim a mysterious character and a superhuman authority. But Kant is
the very last person to encourage the thought; on the contrary, through
the whole of his philosophy he insists that these _à priori_ forms, or
antecedent conditions of knowledge, have no authority whatever “except
in and for experience,” and to use the category of causality, for
instance, in order to establish the existence of God is, according to
Kant, a philosophical blunder.

“If only we could always remember the first intentions of our words,
many philosophical difficulties would vanish.” In Greek οἰδα meant
originally, I have seen, and therefore I know. In a court of justice
the witness who says, “I saw” can hardly say anything more convincing.
To apply such a word to our knowledge of causes, forces, and faculties
would be a solecism--to apply it to God would be self-contradictory.

Each of the abstract definitions of metaphysics given by Alfred
Fouillée, Noiré, and Schopenhauer contains the leading conception of
the subject; if presented in more simple language it would be within
the comprehension of all; our understanding is blind to all with which
it is not made acquainted by intuition derived from experience. Those
things for which we have a strong desire, of which we have a certain
conviction, but which are outside the sphere of our actual life,
“for these,” as Max Müller says in this connection, “we want another
word which should mean--I have not seen and yet I know, and that
is--faith.”[64] Our senses may not always authorise us to affirm their
reality. God and the future life are not made the subjects of phenomena.

All that I have said as to what distinguishes knowledge acquired by
the senses from that which is anterior to all experience (Kant was the
first to make this distinction), might seem simple to those heedless
minds which are surprised at nothing, but complicated and confused
to minds however little attentive, and quite useless to the rest of
us. There may be something of truth in each of these primitive and
superficial estimations, but the whole truth is that all this is very
scientific, so scientific as to require a Kant to enable those who
reflect to give a lucid account of it.

It was by the help of this learned science that Kant broke the serried
ranks of his antagonists. Confronted by two philosophical opinions,
both of which he considered erroneous, he proved to the materialists
Condillac, Hume, and Locke, that there is something within us which
could never have been supplied from without, which therefore belongs to
our ego, that is to say to the subject thinking and not to the object
thought of, or matter; then turning against the Idealists of the time
of Berkeley, he shows that there is something without us which could
never have been supplied from within; and when he proved that intellect
and matter are correlative, that they exist for each other, depend on
each other, form together a whole that should never have been torn
asunder, two streams of philosophic thought, which had been running in
separate beds, met for the first time.

The existence of the phenomenal world being proved by the irrefragable
testimony of the senses, is admitted also by reason, and, as a
necessary consequence, another, not only in appearance, but which _will
be_, assuredly; as sound is independent of our hearing, as material
objects are independent of our sight; for though Kant declares our
inability to know objects as they are in themselves, he does not
deny their existence, since he says, “We should be capable, if not
of knowing things as they are in themselves, at least of knowing
them as they are to us, otherwise we should arrive at the irrational
conclusion, that there may be appearances without something that
appears.”

Kant undertook to make an exact science of the necessary and universal
ideas of the human mind, such as logic and mathematics, which are parts
of human knowledge; to this end he wrote _Critique of Pure Reason_,
afterwards he composed another work, the _Critique of Practical
Reason_. Practical reason may also be called pure, in as much as it
does not allow itself to be influenced by anything but what proceeds
from itself, and reason becomes practical when it seeks an independent
principle which determines the will. This principle is formulated by
Kant in the following terms: “Let each individual follow commands which
may be considered as a universal law imposed alike on all human beings.”

This law, which man possesses in his conscience, does not stop half way
in its exactions from man since it aims at perfection, it commands man
to love his neighbour, and to do good even to his enemy. To love and to
do acts of kindness when pleasant to oneself is natural, and requires
no command, but, otherwise, a law is required to coerce the will, the
man who submits is free, since he can choose to infringe or to obey it;
obedience to the moral law constitutes duty, which must be accomplished
because it is our duty, and embodies the satisfaction felt in its
performance.

Man is under an obligation to be moral and to do his duty, but not
necessarily to be happy, yet he demands happiness. The union of virtue
and happiness being the _summum bonum_, we must acknowledge the
existence of a power external to ourselves, endowed with intellect
and will, which makes this union possible; this power is known to us
by the name of God. The perfect good is holiness; this life is too
short to enable us to attain to it in its perfection, it is therefore
a necessity that our life should be prolonged beyond the term of years
spent on this earth, thus we are assured of the survival of the soul
after what we term death.

Thus Kant speaks in his _Critique of Practical Reason_.

I may now be permitted to speak and give my own opinion. I hear the
Positivist perhaps say: “This result might be considered conceivable
if all that has been previously said were true; but to infer from the
desire for happiness that a supernatural power must infallibly satisfy
it might be a hallucination, or at least a hypothesis.” If this were
so we need not deride hypotheses; in the domain of human knowledge
reason would not be itself if it never made ventures in scientific
discoveries; its path starts from the possible in making excursions
from the known to the unknown, in going from darkness to light--hence
then hypothesis.

There is also this fact to notice, some of the most important of our
acts are not guided by reason, it acts as a spectator; for instance,
reason is not active when we have perception of an object, and
intuitions occur in us without the intervention of reason.

This was well understood by certain men who have come forward from time
to time from the multitude, the bearers of inspired messages to the
world; they have spoken of those things which “eye hath not seen nor
ear heard,” and they were hard to be understood of the people; but each
one alike said: “I give no proof of the truth of what I assert; do as I
say, and you will know the truth of my words.”

There remains little more to be said on the subject of Kant. There is
a serious omission in the system of this profound thinker.

Nothing has so stopped the progress of Darwin’s great conception as
the injudicious efforts of his so-called disciples to bring it to
perfection. Instead of correcting their chief, they should have weighed
thoughtfully all Kant’s arguments against the materialism of his
adversaries, and have sought to refute them; if they had succeeded in
proving that Kant makes a mistake when he admits that there is in man a
principle quite distinct from his body, they would have been authorised
in replacing Darwin’s theory by their own; if they had not succeeded,
Darwin and his theory would have remained unshaken, but they would be
annihilated.

Max Müller examines the question from another point of view. “We admit
that as we know nothing, except by analogy, of the mind of animals,
we could not with the weapons that Kant has placed in our hands, make
head against the assertion that they might possess, for all we know,
the same forms of sensuous intuition and the same categories of the
understanding which we possess. Nothing, therefore, could have been
said from a purely philosophical point of view, against treating man
as a mere variety of some other genus of animals.”[65] But as the
origin of language was to Kant less than a secondary question--it
might almost be said to have no existence for him--it belongs to the
science of language to show, what Kant had never shown, that for all
human knowledge not only were percepts and concepts necessary, but also
names. How was it that it did not occur to Kant since he perceived that
there were mathematics of the forms or manifestations of sensation,
namely, time or duration and space? He said well: Each object of which
we think is attached in time or space to another; this can only be done
by the use of such indications as _now_, _then_, _here_, _there_; and
he saw in this gradation of perception, the first step towards the act
of counting, that is to say of reasoning, and consequently of speaking;
all of which was comprehended by the Greeks in their word Logos. As
an instance the word _cent_ exists in every language, but _cent_ in
French consists only of four letters placed side by side one after the
other, and would never be anything else to us if we could not count;
but to count is to add and to take away, that is to say, addition and
subtraction, thus to conceive and name; in order to possess a hundred
objects, it does not suffice to see them only, it is necessary to count
them up to the hundred.

These two works of Kant’s, the _Critique of Pure Reason_ and the
_Critique of Practical Reason_ appear to emanate from two different
pens; in the first, whatever is asserted is proved. The second work is
dictated by a personal experience; Kant affirms that thus it is and
that it cannot be otherwise. But here again I perceive a lack, a want,
if not from the believer’s point of view, yet from that of those people
who ask what could be the religion of our primitive ancestors; personal
experience is not expressed as Kant expresses it, unless it is the
result of a long series of meditations and examinations of conscience;
in a word, experiences which have been transmitted from generation to
generation. This is a religion that has achieved much, it is not that
form of it which would be found amongst the generality of men, and
still less would it spring to life in the heart of primitive man.

But here are two positivist philosophers who undertake to solve this
great problem: they consider reason as ready with a reply to those who
seek to know the meaning of God and of religion, two concepts which
are inseparable, the one from the other; and even ready to explain how
these two concepts have penetrated into the consciousness of all human
beings. These philosophers speak no doubt from experience, for having
questioned their reason it has replied to them: God and religion form
one conception.

The first explanation is--man is conscious of his condition; he is
possessed with the desire of happiness, and is unable to realise it;
but his imagination represents to him another state in which the desire
of happiness will exist and in which there will be no obstacle to its
realisation; the first of these states is real, the other visible to
the mind’s eye; they are therefore not identical; to will and not to
have the power is to be man; to will and to be omnipotent is to be God.
Little by little man understands that these two states of conditions
having been conceived by the same mind, have the same origin; the
notion fixes itself firmly in his mind that the two states seem
gradually to approach each other, and are not always distinguishable;
the union of desire and power is the Divine essence; the growing
consciousness of this union is religion, which dawns and increases in
man.

Man does not desire immortality because he believes in it, nor because
it is demonstrable; but he believes in it and demonstrates its
existence because he desires it. The sentence, “God sees all,” does not
mean, so we are told, what it appears to mean; it expresses the feeling
God knows all of which man is ignorant, but which he fain would know;
and the sentence, “God is beneficence,” is the cry of man who desires
happiness. All the predicates applied by man to the Deity in the course
of history and humanity have never, in the opinion of philosophers, had
any other origin than the representation of our wishes.

But the inner combat, which has been long and unhappy, with no truce,
has exhausted man’s powers, and when the despondency checks, and at
times almost paralyses his flight after happiness, the instinct of
self-preservation leads him towards religion; as this instinct with the
incapacity of satisfying it is inseparable in man, motives of religion
are renewed continually in each individual and consequently in the
multitude.

God and religion, _i.e._ the outward sign of our union with God,
yet emanates from ourselves. This system, of which Feuerbach is the
exponent, has many followers amongst the Positivists.

The second explanation comes from a learned member of the extreme
Positivist school in Germany; but, as Max Müller says, it would
be impossible to represent religion in a worse light ... “and it
would be difficult to take a lower view of it.”[66] According to Dr
Gruppe, religion exists simply because it satisfies certain selfish
instincts of man. He notices two. The first instinct is common to all
organic beings; it tends towards the preservation of the individual,
and consequently to that of the race; it is elementary, and acts
from within outwards. The second instinct belongs only to man taken
collectively, and has vitality only in numbers; it belongs to a more
advanced stage, and acts from without inwardly. Man instinctively
grasps the greatest amount of happiness possible; he therefore seeks
that which he considers his greatest good, not after the fashion of the
beasts, but in his own way.

“We call religious belief,” says Dr Gruppe, “a belief in an indefinable
state or being which we strive to bring into our sphere, and to render
permanent by means of sacrificial ceremonies, prayers, penances, and
self-denial.”[67]

This indefinable something, the professor considers, would never
have appeared in the world without an impulsion, however light; an
accidental movement, a casual combination of a disordered brain, and
a personality endowed with a certain amount of energy, would have
sufficed to make a single individual the author of an idea totally
opposed to man’s good possession common sense, and the originator of
a movement which must find in the surroundings in which it came to
life, all facilities for its indefinite perpetuation. It is of no
consequence whether this mental phenomenon has been produced in one
individual or in more; figures are of little account in the matter.
If this disease called hallucination[68] had remained confined in the
circumscribed sphere of one individual or a few, a personal intelligent
effort might have overcome it, but being contagious and spreading
amongst the people it became impossible to conquer it. The natural laws
of reason once violated, the perturbed mind created a succession of
sophistical arguments which appeared to satisfy the ineradicable desire
for happiness in man; and an incredibly tenacious opposition on the
side of error assumed menacing proportions. If the belief that the sun,
instead of disappearing each night below the horizon, would continue to
shine during the night could in any way contribute to the happiness of
mankind, men would slowly but surely have accepted it.

The man who isolates himself from his fellow men and becomes
self-absorbed is peculiarly apt to create for himself mental pictures
which give him pleasure; if, then, joy is indispensable to man’s
existence, the religion which gives it, or the illusion of it, enables
him to forget the tangible world, and substitute an imaginary one
peopled with phantoms. But the solitary man is a rare phenomenon, and
we judge favourably those men who live in the midst of their social
surroundings, and whose community of ideas and sentiments has made a
homogeneous whole, during many centuries. Each one will find means
to develop his personal faculties, and to strengthen his power of
resistance in the struggle of all against all, and the good which is
illusive in the solitary man becomes a benefit to the members of the
society.

Religion might possibly cease to exist, in Gruppe’s opinion, were it
not for the inequalities of man’s condition, and for the troubles which
follow him; but the action of religion is helpful to society.[69] It
tells the poor not to hanker after riches which are not lasting. It
mirrors for them images of future compensations, thus the rich and the
noble here are enabled to enjoy their pleasures on earth in safety. In
its name bright hopes are built up for the wretched, and it takes its
stand in front of the palaces of the rich; sedatives are prescribed
for incurables, and rich foods for those who can pay for them. Charity
is preached to the compassionate, and persecutions to the fanatics: at
times it encourages the use of arts and sciences; at times it warns
its followers not to love overmuch the beautiful in art, nor to seek
too earnestly the truth in science. But the outcome of this religion,
whether good or the reverse, is of small importance compared with the
benefits it renders to society. It is the support of the civil and
moral law, and in lighting the hymeneal torch it adds to the sanctity
of families.

Without attributing selfish motives, in the lowest sense, to the
founders of the various religions and sects which flourish in our
midst, Gruppe considers all of them unconscious egoists; he thinks that
had they been calm psychologists, which sincere prophets are not, they
would have recognised in themselves the attraction that glory had for
them; but in that case they would not have remained faithful unto the
death, and the power of communicating their own spirit and force to
their adherents would have failed them. Gruppe distinguishes with great
keenness the reflex action of our desire for happiness, which is no
other than the instinct of self-preservation, from the motives which
are sufficient to inspire certain enthusiasts to found new religions;
these two things are in reality quite distinct, although they may act
in concert; the desire for universal and permanent happiness paves the
way for the manifestation of individual enthusiasm; he asserts that
religions, while professing to found a new kingdom of heaven, only
succeed in inheriting the kingdom of this world.

The struggle between an extreme positivism and a true idealism is a
sight that energises earnest men. Evidently impressed by the exposition
of the spiritualist doctrine, the learned doctor remarks: “The first
perception of the infinite, of law and order in nature, communicated an
impulse to the mind of man; but this force, when once in movement, did
not slacken before having called forth in our ancestors the conviction
that all is right and good, and the hope--even more than hope--that
all would be right and good. Such is the celebrated system of Max
Müller. It is not only the great personal worth of the author that
obliges us to give it close consideration, but also the fact that this
system is the most eloquent exposition of an idea which has also been
expressed by other writers in some remarkable works on the history of
religions. The position in which Max Müller has placed himself for a
starting-point is, from a positivist point of view, impregnable.”

This commendation, which is particularly striking, coming as it does
from one of Max Müller’s fiercest adversaries, I have quoted word for
word.

Gruppe is not only a positivist philosopher, but also learned in
Eastern languages and literature, and a clever mythologist; it would
have been better had he confined himself to fields of labour with which
he was acquainted. But as he admits that there is psychological and
spontaneous thought in man, side by side with the rational, he cannot
but acknowledge the right of humanity to say what it thinks. There
are certain literary documents which show us what the human mind has
thought in all ages and in all places, and we are of opinion that these
sentiments have not varied.

It is said that an universal belief in any fact is not a proof of
the existence of this fact, and that consequently the conception of
super-sensible things need have no real basis; the observation is
just; I shall reply to it by a question. Is it possible to demonstrate
that this belief in things that cannot be proved is not only universal
but even inevitable? If it were possible much would be gained. In
geometrical calculations it is sufficient to know that three dimensions
only exist,--at least in this world--that the straight line is the
shortest, that two parallel lines never meet; it should suffice to know
that in this world belief, whether rational or illusory, in one or more
divinities, is inevitable for men constituted as we are.

Our first fathers no doubt pictured a large space situated on the
further side of all that they could see, and we know how their
imagination peopled it with confused images, either hidden, or seen in
the visible phenomena.

These flights of fancy, which may have lasted thousands of centuries,
became crystallised at last in the mythologies of all peoples, and it
is these mythologies by which we gain access to this initial stage
in the life of humanity, and which preserves for us the traces of
this eternal truth amidst many extravagances of the fancy misled
by language, which guided their first steps. There is a petrified
philosophy in mythology.

Since history and legend, in one form or another, have voiced the
feelings called religion, these feelings, variously interpreted, have
changed their aspect from age to age, and from country to country; as
long as we have not traced the stream to its source, the question, as
to the manner in which the conception of God had birth in the human
mind, will always be before us.

We take man at the time when he had recently appeared on the earth,
his sole possession being his five senses, which place him in contact
with the external world. We must distinguish between two classes of
senses; those of touch, scent, and taste being more evident; from the
evolutionist’s point of view the sense of touch has the largest share
in the building up of the human edifice which arose later; its use
is chiefly connected with the hands, and has thus given us the word
_manifest_; that which we call certainty hardly exists for us apart
from what is manifest. The two other senses, sight and hearing, are
less sure, and have frequently to be verified by those first named.

The objects of which we obtain knowledge by means of our senses can be
divided into tangible, semi-tangible and intangible. The first are,
for instance, a stone, a bone, a fruit, the skin of an animal, these
can be touched as it were all round, and we are able to assert their
reality. The second, the semi-tangible, might be a river, a mountain,
the earth, a tree. We stand by the banks of a river and dip our hand
in the small volume of water passing away before our eyes; we can also
touch the ground on which we are standing, also the trunk of the tree
beneath which we are sitting; but it is only an insignificant part of
which we assert the reality by touching it, all the other parts remain
unknown to us; for the river itself consists of a large mass of waters
springing from a source which is not seen and flowing towards a spot
which we may never see; we are told that the earth is in the shape of
a globe, and that this globe is suspended in air, which fact it would
be difficult to verify; the tree is small in comparison with the river
and the earth, and yet how little we know of it, whence come its buds,
and its leaves, and the sap which rises each spring in the branches?
We say of a beam that it is dead wood, but of the tree we say that it
grows and lives; what is this life of the tree? We are in the presence
of the unknown. These are samples of semi-tangible objects. The sense
of touch has no place with regard to the sky, the stars, the clouds,
the winds; those are intangible objects, which we see and feel without
knowing them by personal grasp; the proof of their existence is also
in the fact that years of work are required to know astronomy and
meteorology.

We now have primitive man provided with fine senses, in presence of
these natural phenomena, and the problem to be solved is this: How is
it that this man is able to think and to speak of things which are not
finite, finite things being the only ones of which his senses make him
cognisant?

“I have before me,” says Max Müller, “a school of philosophy adverse
to my views; I am warned that nothing I say will be accepted, unless
I submit to the conditions imposed on me. I am told: ‘You pretend
to prove that man can know that God exists; whereas we affirm that
the great triumph of our age is that we have proved that religion is
an illusion. All knowledge must pass through two gates, the gate of
the senses and the gate of reason, consequently religious knowledge
even can enter by no other gate.’ In this way does positivism bar
the entrance which Kant left open, who in his definition of religion
considered morality the basis of it, which with him presupposed the
existence of God. Positivism refuses to hear a psychological and
historical explanation of one of the greatest psychological and
religious facts--namely, religion; it stops its ears when we say _Nihil
est in fide quod non ante fuerit in sensu_; but we are not discouraged
by the absurdity of imagining that by shutting our eyes, we can
annihilate facts; we accept the struggle on the common ground on which
the positivist and we have decided to fight; we also agree to use the
weapons chosen for us. Let us inspect the battlefield and measure the
ground. Both sides seem in accord that all consciousness begins with
sensuous perception, with what we feel, and hear, and see; what is
likewise granted is that out of this we construct what may be called
conceptual knowledge, consisting of collective and abstract concepts.
The conditions of the combat are fixed; at the two gates of the senses
and reason we take our stand; whatever claims to have entered in by
any other gate, whether that gate be called primeval revelation, or
religious instinct,[70] must be rejected as contraband of thought; and
whatever claims to have entered in by the gate of reason without having
first passed through the gate of the senses, will equally be rejected,
as without sufficient warrant.”[71]

FOOTNOTES:

[62] Tac. Germ. 9. “Deorumque nominibus appellant secretum illud quod
sola reverentia vident,” from Max Müller’s _Origin and Growth of
Religion_, p. 94.

[63] _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 214.

[64] _Science of Thought_, p. 609.

[65] _Science of Thought_, p. 125.

[66] _Natural Religion_, pp. 74, 77.

[67] _Ibid._, p. 76.

[68] It is not surprising that Max Müller says, “We are not likely
to allow ourselves to be persuaded by Dr Gruppe that the only source
of religion all over the world was hallucination.”--_Anthropological
Religion_, p. 126.--TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

[69] Max Müller remarks: “His (Dr Gruppe’s) definition of religion
is at all events too narrow; it might possibly be found to apply
to religion, not in its original, but in its most depraved
state.”--_Natural Religion_, p. 77.--TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

[70] _Natural Religion_, p. 194.

[71] Max Müller does not exclude faith in making this statement, which
also occurs in his work _The Origin and Growth of Religion_, as on the
next page he says, “What we call sense, reason, and faith are three
functions of one and the same perceptive self.”--_Origin and Growth of
Religion_, p. 227.




CHAPTER X THE VEDIC HYMNS


It has been possible to ascertain that the first words pronounced by
the most ancient members of the Aryan family are connected by a thread
of continuity to those which we use to-day in all languages, whether
living or dead; our family would not be a portion of the entire human
race, if this continuity of thought did not form a constituent part
of the mental equipment of all the other families; but as no others
possess in an equal degree with ourselves the archives sufficiently
extensive to contain indication of the gradual development of human
speech, such as the Veda furnishes, that is the authority to which
Max Müller appeals in all his works. And it is precisely because
there has been no cessation in the continuity of human thought, that
the historical method is the only one capable of linking us with the
primitive Aryans; our work will consist in collecting tokens of the
long pilgrimage undertaken by our ancestors, and with which we desire
to be associated, and which those who come after us must also undertake.

“No doubt, between the first daybreak of human thought and the first
hymns of praise of the Rig-Veda, composed in the most perfect metre and
the most polished language, there may be, nay, there must be a gap that
can only be measured by generations, by hundreds, aye, by thousands of
years.”[72] The exodus and separation of the Aryan family, belonging
as it does to a prehistoric epoch and therefore unchronicled, and the
Vedic Hymns--the work of many centuries--having been completed and
collected together some hundreds of years before our present era, thus
at a time relatively recent, that which constitutes their chief claim
to great antiquity in our eyes is that the Hindoo poets or rishis
incorporated certain thoughts and words in them whose roots threw out
shoots in the primitive Aryan soil before the dispersion of its members.

The period of the life of humanity into which the hymns enable us to
penetrate, is the most ancient of which mention is made. The rishis
sing in Sanscrit of thoughts conceived in the hidden recesses of souls
before they awoke to the consciousness of that concept to which the
name of God alone can be applied, before these same people pictured in
their imagination those whom they named gods, before the appearance of
myths and mythological fables, and before the Sanscrit language existed.

Our Aryan ancestors had not left the cradle of their race when their
language, whatever it may have been, possessed the root _dyu_ and
_div_, two cognate words meaning to shine. The Veda shows that many
things were bright to the Vedic poets, the heaven, dawn, the stars
and several other things, such as the rivers, spring, the fields, the
eyes of man, all that would have the effect on us of being smiling,
flourishing, and rejoicing in life; and from this root the word _deva_
was formed. Neither in Greek nor in Latin, nor in any living language
can a word be found which exactly expresses _deva_; Greek dictionaries
translate it by Theos, in the same way as we translate Theos by God;
but if--dictionary in hand--we put the word God in certain passages in
the hymns where this word is found, we should sometimes commit a mental
anachronism of a thousand years. At the time of the first Aryans, gods,
in one sense of the word, did not exist; they were slowly struggling
into being; it was therefore impossible for man to form any conception
of them even in dreams. As this word _deva_ changes its signification
so frequently, not only in the most ancient Brahmanic poems, but also
in works of a later date, we can only obtain even an approximate idea
of its meaning by writing its history, beginning from its etymology and
ending with its latest definition; but it is not necessary to undertake
this philological labour, and I shall content myself by showing that
originally _deva_ denoted a quality common to many natural phenomena,
that of light, and therefore _deva_ was a general term.

Man at first received this impression passively, as animals would, but
by his nature he could not rest there; all the phenomena surrounding
him were animated, the most marvellous and those of peculiar intensity
moved in the upper regions of the firmament; in the midst of these
general movements the mind of man could not alone be inactive, and
thought and speech--that is reason--inevitably vindicated their right
to activity; names were given to all things. The Aryan root _svar_ or
_sval_, which signified to shine, to sparkle, and to heat, produced a
Sanscrit substantive meaning sometimes sun and sometimes the sky.

The Hindoo poets, the authors of these hymns, gave various names to the
sun, according to the task it accomplished; and each name reproduced
the salient feature of the task. The sun when rising was Mitra =
friend; as it advances on its journey, giving new life, it is Savitar
= bringing forth, or leading day; the vivifying sun; when it collects
the clouds and sends rain on the earth, it is Indra, from _ind-u_ =
drops; and it continues to be Indra when its rays attain their zenith
and reach their greatest splendour; for no plant flourishes without
the combined action of light and humidity; the sun is Vishnu when
it makes “its three strides” in the vault of heaven, its position
in the morning, at noon, and in the evening; it is Varuna--the all
embracing--when it envelops itself in clouds as in a shroud, and
the sky darkens. Some phenomena descended on man from above, such
as thunder-bolts, winds, storms; the storms that came unexpectedly,
dealing destruction as they passed received the name of Maruts--from
the root _Mar_--and with the meaning of those who strike or beat to
death; the thunder was called Rudra = he who roars; the wind was Vayu =
he who blows.

All these names indicated that which could be seen and that which could
be heard; the invisible things remained unnamed; how was it possible
for man to name that of which he was ignorant (except that they had a
real existence), he who could only conceive a name after having seen a
certain feature or quality in the object? They made use therefore of
the names they already knew, and they rang the changes on the storm,
the fire, and the firmament, which names they borrowed. Jacob’s prayer,
which arose in the darkness when he was wrestling with a great Unknown,
“Tell me, I pray thee, thy name,” must have been, in the early ages,
the question of all humanity; but uttered under a thousand varying
forms, and as, at the beginning, each name was imperfect, since it
expressed only one side of the object, every additional name denoted
a step forward, and every fresh check experienced by the mind in its
search after accurate names only stimulated it to look elsewhere.

The first germ of the concept of law and order appears in the minds of
the poets, and to this they give the name of _Rita_. This word has no
equivalent in our languages, and translators are uncertain as to the
meaning attached to it by the rishis. Pliant and full of capability,
there seems no word more fitted to reflect new shades of thought;
and in our efforts to understand it conjecture is much called into
play, from the fact that we have to transfuse ancient thought into
modern forms; in that process some violence is inevitable. Max Müller
supposes, from etymological reasons, that Rita originally was used
to express the regular movement of the heavenly bodies, and the path
which they followed daily, from the one point of the heavens to the
other, and he translates _Rita_ by the “right path.” “If we remember
how many of the ancient sacrifices in India depended on the course of
the sun, how there were daily sacrifices, at the rising of the sun, at
noon, and at the setting of the sun; how there were offerings for the
full moon and the new moon, we may well understand how the sacrifice
itself came in time to be called the path of Rita.”[73] Rita expresses
all that is right, good, and true, and Anrita was used for whatever
is false, evil, and untrue; thus the Hindoos laid it down as an axiom
that there was an universal law in the world equally binding on the
physical phenomena and on conscious beings, such as themselves; and
it was this law which ruled the times of the sacrifices to be offered
to the divine powers; and this intuitive perception of law and order,
which is the foundation of the ancient faith of the Asiatic Aryans, is
far more important than all the histories of Savitar, Mitra, Rudra, and
Indra, which are recounted at a later period of the gods of India. This
belief in Rita, in law and order, as revealed in the unvarying movement
of the stars, or manifested in the unvarying number of the petals, and
stamens, and pistils of the smallest plant, was a grand thing; it was
all the difference between a chaos and a cosmos, between the blind
play of chance and a well defined plan. We have become so familiarised
with the idea of a fundamental law, that it now often occupies us less
than many of the secondary laws or causes; and yet our philosophers
often find themselves at fault when they endeavour to give an exact
idea of this primary law; but to the ancient prophets it must have been
infinitely more perplexing, though also infinitely more important in
their gropings after _terra firma_ on which to plant their feet. The
rishis are indefatigable in pointing to the straight path, or Rita,
followed by the day and night; and because the gods have themselves
followed this path, they have the strength to triumph over the powers
of darkness, and to those who ask for it they grant the grace to walk
in the same road.

“O Indra, lead us on the path of Rita, on the right path over all
evils.”[74]

To walk with regularity in the path of duty, imitating the example
of the astral bodies, or following step by step the sun which never
deviates from its orbit, cannot be an idea foreign to humanity since
it is equally familiar to the primitive races and the most elevated
minds. Cicero said of himself that he was born not only to contemplate
the order of the heavenly bodies, but to imitate this order in his own
conduct; this great orator, although he was ignorant of the existence
of the Vedic hymns, spoke after the same manner as the rishis; and the
Maoris are inspired neither by Cicero nor the Hindoo poets, when they
send forth their energetic cry, “Wait, wait, O sun, we will go with
thee.”

To our first ancestors nothing in nature could have been indifferent;
all that they perceived must have come upon them as a continual
surprise; the Vedic hymns show that our surmise is correct. An
irresistible force led them continually to investigate and interrogate
those apparitions which, by their strangeness and grandeur, were
so striking, and to which they gave the names of the thunderers,
the rainers, the pounders or storm gods; no voice replied to their
questions; absolute silence reigned around them; the limits of the
known confronted them. Gradually a different perception forced itself
upon them, whether consciously or unconsciously; all limits have two
sides, the one towards ourselves, the other towards the beyond; they
were ignorant of what existed beyond, but they believed it to be there,
since the further boundaries came in contact with it. They wished to
draw near to it in order to examine it close at hand, but in what
direction should they advance?

The sentiments which the sun and its forerunners awoke in our ancestors
must remain for ever beyond our powers of imagination; the rising
of this luminary is to us the result of a physical law, and is not
considered more extraordinary than the birth of a child in a large
family; we know that the dawn is the reflection of the sun’s rays in
the matutinal vapours; we have even learnt to calculate the time of its
duration in different climates; but the assurance with which we say,
“The sun will rise to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, every day,” our
ancestors never possessed, and it was this vast unknown domain, behind
the known, that from the very first supplied the human mind with the
impetus required to cause it to seek, to discover, what there could be
beyond the visible world.

As nothing seems to be so far apart as the two points of the horizon
where the light of day appears and where he sets, it is there that the
rishis look for a solution of the problem of the beyond.[75]

“That whence the sun rises, and that where he sets, that I believe is
the oldest, and no one goes beyond.”[76]

The poets gave the name Aditi to the dawn. Aditi is derived from
_diti_, binding and bond, with the negative particle _a_; thus at first
_Aditi_ meant that which is without bonds, not chained, not enclosed,
infinite. But their imagination soon carried the poets beyond the dawn
itself, that came and went, but there remained always behind the dawn
that heaving sea of light or fire from which she springs; thus Aditi
herself could not be grasped by the senses. Was not this the visible
infinite?

At this point the mind of the rishis conceived an original and
striking idea, at the sight of the sun following his path and touching
two opposite points of the horizon; they said that arrived at the
centre of its course at the zenith, Indra from thence could see at
the same time Diti and Aditi--“That is what is yonder and what is
here, what is infinite and what is finite, what is mortal and what is
immortal.”[77]

Whilst searching increasingly for what he had not yet found, man had
mastered two ideas, those of law, and the beyond or the infinite,
though not understanding the accurate meaning of these words; on these
two points his mind was at rest. These two possessions once acquired
could not be taken from him; in Aditi--which is limitless--could be
found a home for things which had no bounds, and it could furnish an
answer to all questions; and Rita, the order which rules the movements
of the celestial bodies, is at the same time an incentive and a
promise. A violent convulsion of nature may have alarmed the hearts of
men, but the thought occurs to them, “This cannot last always.”[78]

“Sun and moon move in regular succession--that we may see, Indra, and
believe.”[79]

Without fear there could have been no hope, without hope there could
have been no faith.

Śraddhâ, an ancient Aryan word used before the dispersion of the
various members of the family, is the same as the Latin Credo. Where
the Romans said _credidi_ the Brahmans said _śraddadhau_; where the
Romans said _creditum_, the Brahmans said _śraddhitam_. The germ of
the faculty of faith, therefore, must have existed in the earliest
strata of thought and language, since without the first glimpses of
faith in the soul, there could have been no word for “to believe.”

As auxiliary verbs were lacking at first, the early Aryans found
it very difficult to say of a thing that it is or is not; but they
possessed the root _as_, which originally meant _to breathe_, and its
simplest derivation was _as-u_--breath. Man having discovered in all
the natural phenomena an activity resembling his own, said of the
moon that it measures, of the river that it runs, of the sun that it
rises and sets; thus each of these had certain activities peculiar to
itself. Was there nothing common to all? Doubtless, since an action can
be found which is shared equally by man and all animals, the act of
breathing is common to all, so that our fathers when wishing to affirm
that something existed said that it breathed.

Man turns his gaze from the things that surround him to himself;
he feels superior to the physical phenomena, to the rivers, to the
mountains. He possesses another nature to that of the sun, of the
stars. He has discovered something in himself that is more than his
body. What is it? how is he to name it? He saw his father or his
mother, who had formerly been in every respect like himself, prostrate,
without motion, without speech. What had happened? What was it that
had left them? Knowing the root _as_, and its derivative _as-u_, he
called it from the first breath, then spirit, which originally meant
nothing more than the air absorbed by the lungs, from which it is
exhaled as breath. Nothing constrained our ancestors to believe that
because they had seen their parents die and their bodies decay, it
must follow that what had hitherto animated them was now annihilated.
This notion may have entered the brain of a philosopher, but man in
his primitive simplicity, though doubtless terrified at the sight of
death, would naturally incline to the belief that what he had known
and loved, and had called by the names of father and mother, must
still exist somewhere, although not in the body. The breath had not
been seen to decay. What had become of it? Various answers were given
to this question, at divers times and in divers countries. They were
all equally probable; no objections could be made to them, but neither
was there proof; they are beyond the reach of proof. “The best answer
was perhaps that contained in the most ancient Greek language and
mythology, that the souls had gone to the house of the Invisible, of
_Aides_. No one has ever said anything truer.”

From the depths of the eastern sky Aditi arises each morning. To the
eyes of the ancient seers the dawn seemed to open the gates of another
world into which they begged to enter--into the abode of the gods. We
can understand that as the sun and all the solar deities rise from the
east, Aditi was said to be the mother of Mitra, Vishnu, Savitar, and
Varuna. Another conception also arose, that the east being the abode
of the bright gods, would also become the home of those parents and
friends who died, “the blessed departed who would join the company of
the gods that they might be transferred to the east.”[80] Aditi thus
embodied the mystery of life and death; and was the “Mot de l’Énigme”
of our existence. All the theogony and primitive philosophy of the
Aryan were concentrated in the dawn. Those souls who participate with
Aditi in the “birthplace of the Immortals” sometimes share the worship
offered by their children who are still on the earth. One off-shoot of
this ancient worship still survives, and the popularity of the festival
of the 1st of November in certain countries testifies that the homage
rendered to the memory of the dead is a necessity of the human heart.
And certainly those whom we are accustomed to speak of as dead are most
surely living. The rishis desired to contemplate their faces, and one
of them, speaking for all, cried: “Who will give us back to the great
Aditi, that I may see father and mother?”[81]

All peoples have desired to know which part of the human body is the
seat of the soul and of life; the dictionaries of all languages,
whether spoken by civilised or uncivilised people, show that the words
blood, heart, chest, reins and breath have all been used to indicate
the seat of life, soul, thought, and the affections. Amongst the
Maoris, the words used for the internal organs mean at the same time
the heart, and the centre of joy and sorrow; the seat of conscience and
of desires and the will; it is strange that the brain, which we often
look upon as the cradle of thought, is not found in the psychological
nomenclature of the ancient world. The expression which we find in the
Bible, “The blood is the life,” and in other languages besides Hebrew,
inspired many religious and superstitious acts. It is singular that
in one of the dialects spoken in the south of India, Tamil, the word
used for soul has the sense of leaper or dancer; these are efforts to
express that which moves within us. We are here not amongst learned
metaphysicians, but concerned with simple children of nature; but the
greatest philosophers have at no time more clearly defined the soul
than by describing it as that which moves of itself, but is not moved.

Our language is so rich in abstract terms, derived from a small number
of concrete words, that we are not aware how often we use the old
material words to express purely mental states or conditions; for
instance we speak of taking things to heart, or learning verses by
heart, without thinking of the heart that beats within our breasts.

Fire has always occupied a prominent position in the imagination of
all people, of all nations; but with the exception of the Hindoos none
have left traditions which enable us to transport ourselves to the
simplest beginnings of the fire upon the hearth, and nothing more.
Heracleitus already mentions fire as everlasting or immortal, and the
“origin of all things, a higher conception than that of the gods of
the populace whom Heracleitus tolerated, though he did not believe in
them. ‘Neither one of the gods,’ he declares, ‘nor of men has made this
world, ... it always was and will be, ever-living fire, catching forms
and consuming them.’”[82] Heracleitus imagined that he knew what was
fire; but the rishis speak with less assurance; at first they express
their astonishment at the appearance of fire, it is one of the physical
apparitions which impressed them the most, although of all the devas
fire seemed the one most readily known, since it had its dwelling with
men, it was within reach of the hand, could be touched, but as it burnt
the fingers the experiment was only made once. Although seen so near at
hand fire remained a great enigma; our ancestors could not understand
how it could unite in itself at the same time such good and such
destructive qualities. It warmed the members numbed by cold, at night
it lighted the hut as if the sun were in it, yet at times it destroyed
suddenly whole forests; it seemed everywhere; when the thunder rolled,
fire escaped from a dark cloud like a flash; it appeared as a spark
when two flints were struck or two branches of wood rubbed together;
but its chief characteristic was its excessive mobility, nothing in
nature could compare with the velocity of its movements.

The Aryans at that time possessed a root _ag_, which meant going,
marching, leading, running, forcing, pushing, chasing, and jumping,
and gives generally an idea of quick movement, and as fire moved
perpetually, our ancestors made use of this root _ag_, and called
fire _agni_; this Sanscrit word--which amongst many others was the
most popular--still survives in the Latin, as _ignis_, in Lithuania
as _ugni_, in old Slavonic, as _ogni_; another Sanscrit name for fire
is _vah-ni_, coming from the same root which we have in _veho_ and
_vehemens_, and it meant originally what moves about quickly.

I have collected a few of the characteristic traits attributed by the
rishis to the deva Agni.

“How did he come--living--from pieces of dead wood? How is he produced
from two stones? His mother does not nourish him, how does he grow
so rapidly, and proceed at once to do his work? He whom nothing
resists--like the heavenly thunderbolt--like a hurled weapon. Agni,
in a moment, does violence to the trees of the forest; he prostrates
them--all that moves--that which stands, trembles before him--making
the herbs his food--he licks the garment of the earth--he nourishes
himself. Turning about with his tongues of fire, Agni flares up in the
forests. Roused by the wind, he moves about among the tall trees, and
eats them with his sharpened teeth; he never tires; coming again and
again; turning about on all sides; resounding with his sickle; laughing
with his light.”

“Professor Tyndal asks quite rightly: ‘Is it in the human mind to
imagine motion, without at the same time imagining something moved?
Certainly not. The very conception of motion includes that of a
moving body. What then is the thing moved in the case of sunlight?
The undulatory theory replies that it is a substance of determinate
mechanical properties, a body which may or may not be a form of
ordinary matter, but to which, whether it is or not, we give the name
of Ether.’ May not the ancient Aryas say with the same right (had he
been wise enough to put the question), ‘Is it in the human mind to
imagine motion without at the same time imagining some one that moves?’
Certainly not. The very conception of motion includes that of a mover,
and, in the end, of a prime mover.”[83] And if, in the presence of
fire, the early Aryas had asked who then is the mover, he would have
been told (if any had been there wise enough to answer the question)
that it is a subject of determinate properties, a person who may or may
not be like ordinary persons, but to whom, whether he be or not, the
name Agni has been given.

Thus the rishis spoke of Agni as of an agent, as well as of Indra,
Vayu, Rudra, and the Maruts; but we must always remember that they knew
nothing definite of these agents any more than we do when we speak
of physical phenomena as elements, or forces of nature, or certain
movements.

This striking deva, Agni, manifested at first in the lightning and in
the spark, became as time went on, the most popular, and most desired
of all the powers; the fire on the hearth rendered winter bearable,
cooked herbs and roots, and transformed the devourer of raw flesh into
the eater of roast meat; caused the smoke of sacrifices offered to the
higher Powers to ascend up to heaven. What precautions were necessary
to prevent the capricious and uncertain fire from becoming extinct at
an inopportune moment, or in its rage from destroying men and things.
Fire was for the rishis a being more and more inexplicable. Becoming
increasingly impressed by his beneficence, they seek to call him by
some new name which shall express more perfectly this later impression;
the name deva--bright, shining--no longer satisfies them; they use
words such as invincible, almighty; even these do not suffice them; at
last they find the word Amartya--immortal.

  “Immortal amongst Mortals.”

This expression may be understood in more ways than one; it is enough
for me that the Hindoos made use of it. It is possible to recognise
in it the first attempt to bridge over the gulf which human language
and human thought had themselves created between the visible and the
invisible, between the mortal and the immortal, between the finite
and the infinite. For the right appreciation of our intellectual
organisation, it is important to discover and distinguish the coarse
threads that form the woof of our most abstract thoughts.

It must be noticed that the use of the word _immortal_ in this passage
does not imply that Agni is considered otherwise than as natural fire.
The Rig-Veda does not seem to acknowledge the presence of supernatural
beings; all the names given to the striking aspects of nature, even
those used to designate the unknown powers in general, such as Asura--a
living thing; Deva-asura--the living gods; Amartya--the immortal, still
retain physical elements in the most ancient hymns.

Beings without definite attributes did not occur to the imagination of
those who supplied these names, and believed in the existence of those
which these names represented.

That which has often been called the adoration of fire was at first its
application to the necessities of domestic life, and afterwards its use
in all mechanical and artistic pursuits. If we transfer ourselves to
that early stage of life, and picture the difficulties there were in
primitive times of procuring fire at a moment’s notice, and the dangers
which would menace a whole community deprived of fire in the midst of
winter, and plunged suddenly in darkness, we require no far-fetched
explanation for a number of time-hallowed customs throughout the world
connected with the lighting, and still more with the guarding of the
fire. The natural desire for possessing so useful an object, and the no
less natural terror of being deprived of it, would lead men to adopt
the practices for maintaining it, afterwards called superstitions, but
which during the infancy of humanity, were perfectly natural, and which
developed into a sacred rite; at a later period vestal virgins were
appointed to guard it in the temples; and the fires of St John, which
are still lighted annually on the tops of certain mountains, are the
last remains of these ancient customs.

The Vedic hymns give us the many different channels whence the
phenomenon of fire proceeds, at one time coming in one way and then in
another, to attract man’s attention and to awaken his drowsy faculties.
Fire comes from the skies where it shines as the sun, from the waters,
since it comes as lightning, from the moist and rain-laden clouds, from
the stones, and from wood, in the shape of sparks, from dried leaves
and herbs placed on the altar to receive and nourish the sacrificial
flame. Ceaselessly fire applied at the door of each habitation.
Apparently it said to man, whose slowness of comprehension it seemed to
understand, “To you men, I come, that I may awake you from sleep, and
cause you to know what I am.”

At last man understood, and the rishis reply to the fire.

“Thou, O Agni, art born from the skies--thou from the waters--thou from
the stone--thou from the wood--thou from the herbs--thou, king of men,
the bright one.”[84]

At the same time the mind of the poet seems illuminated with a new
thought.

“If we have committed any sin against thee through human weakness,
through thoughtlessness, make us sinless before Aditi, O Agni, loosen
our misdeeds from us on every side.”[85]

Of Agni, the fire, there would seem to be nothing left in that supreme
god whose laws must be obeyed, and who can forgive those who have
broken his laws. Between this transformed Being of whom the Aryans
implore mercy, and Him whom we call God, we can perceive no difference,
and yet, so mysterious are human speech and thought, the Hindoos, who
thought in ancient Sanscrit, declare that Agni has not yet thrown off
his physical characteristics, that he is not yet, and cannot be God;
they add that it is impossible to give the true Vedic impression in
its fulness, since no modern language possesses phrases in which to
express it.

I read in another hymn addressed to Agni a curious verse.

“O Heaven and Earth, I proclaim this truthful fact, that the child, as
soon as born, eats his parents. I, a mortal, do not understand this
fact of a god; Agni indeed understands, for he is wise.”[86]

Are the rishis who utter this exclamation ignorant of the fact that the
parents of fire are two dry sticks? Or is it that the act of a god in
eating its father and mother is abhorrent to them?

“If we, O gods--ignorant among the wise--transgress your commandments,
whatever of the sacrifice weak mortals with their feeble intellect do
not comprehend, Agni, the priest, who knows all rights, comprehends it,
makes it all good.”[87]

The whole question of sacrifices is still hotly discussed; whether
they preceded or followed prayer. Did the Vedic poets wait till the
ceremonial was fully developed before they invoked the Powers, or did
their prayers suggest the performance of sacrificial acts?

“Agni, accept this branch that I offer. Accept this my service--listen
well to these my songs. Whosoever sacrifices to Agni with a stick of
wood, with a libation, with a bundle of herbs, or with an inclination
of his head, he will be blessed.”[88]

We nowhere hear of a mute sacrifice. That which we call a sacrifice the
ancients called simply _karma_, an act; a simple prayer, preceded by a
washing of the hands, or accompanied by an inclination of the head, may
constitute a _karma_, an act; to light the fire on the hearth, to bow
the head and utter the name of Agni with some kind epithet, might also
be termed an act. At first the sacrifice may only have been a prayer
accompanied by a gift. They may originally have been inseparable, but
in all this there is nothing opposed to the idea that it would be in
accordance with human nature that prayer should come first. In time the
act of sacrifice assumed a sacred and solemn character. In the earlier
vocabularies of the Aryan tongues the word sacrifice does not occur;
the Sanscrit and Zend root of the word are almost identical, and these
languages furnish many words indicative of minute detail of ancient
ceremonial. From this may be inferred that a hymn full of allusions to
the celebrations of sacrifices must date from a period posterior to the
separation of the families.

“Agni, drive away from us the enemies--tribes who keep no fire came to
attack us.”[89]

When the Aryans of Asia abandoned their first habitation, and advanced
southwards plundering as they went, they encountered some of the
aborigines of the country, whose territory they coveted. They were
wild tribes; the descriptions given by the rishis evidently refer to
the aborigines of India, whose descendants survive to the present day,
speaking non-Aryan dialects. The epithets of devil and demon are freely
used concerning them in the hymns. But apparently in their encounters
Agni, who opposes these hostile foes, by appearing under the form of
flaming torches, is not successful in overcoming them, since the Aryans
implore the aid of other allies. They invoke the help of the two chief
warlike powers, Indra and Soma, to destroy those “who worship other
gods, who do not speak the truth, and who eat raw meat.”[90]

“O Indra and Soma, burn the devils, throw them down--they who grow in
darkness--tear them off, the madmen, kill them, slay the gluttons.
O Indra and Soma, up against the cursing demon--may he burn like
an oblation in the fire. Pour your everlasting hatred upon the
villain who hates the Brahman, who eats raw flesh, and who looks
abominable.”[91]

Of Soma, who lends such capable aid to Agni when repulsing the enemies
of the Aryans, the Hindoos have four different conceptions. Soma is
sometimes the moon, the abode of the fathers. Soma is also the lord of
the moon. Soma is the bowl containing the drink of the gods, ambrosia.
Soma is sometimes ambrosia itself. The etymology of the word indicates
homonymy; originally it meant rain and the moon. Ambrosia was a type
of the rain fertilising the earth, yet being at the same time a
strengthening draught. It is sometimes quite impossible to decide of
which Soma the rishis are speaking, especially as they seem to find
pleasure in confounding the terms. This play upon words fills almost
the whole of one book of the _Rig-Veda_.

“Meditate on the wisdom of Soma (moon) in all its greatness--yesterday
it was dead, to-day it is living.”

“The poet has swallowed Soma (the juice), he has felt an overpowering
inspiration--he has found his hymn.”

The exalted virtues of Soma have raised it to the rank of those
divinities who dispense immortality.

“Where there is eternal light, in the world where the sun is placed, in
that immortal, imperishable world place me, O Soma, where life is free,
in the third heaven of heavens, there make me immortal.”[92]

What is the third heaven? It is an expression with which we are
familiar, but what does it mean? The Aryans also call the children of
Rudra to their help; they are allied to Indra and are called Maruts.
They fill the air with alarming sounds; these noise-producing beings
are the representatives of storms and tempests, they never appear alone
in the Veda, they traverse space in groups of from twenty-five to
eighty in number, and they make the earth tremble.

“Where are you going? towards whom do you go when you descend from
on high like a blast of fire? May power be with thee and thy race, O
Rudra. Come to us, Maruts, come and help us as quickly as lightning
before the rain! Let loose, O devourer, your anger like an arrow
against the proud enemy of the poets.”[93]

       *       *       *       *       *

A deep problem now presents itself. What was there before anything
existed? Two contradictory ideas appear in the hymns, and the conflict
must have been trying.

“Sages have said: In the beginning the world was--a single world--there
was not a second. Others have said: In the beginning this world had no
existence, and out of nothing, what now is, came.”

Much confusion of thought reigned in the human mind. The world must
surely have been made from something, and by certain agents; but then,
how were the agents themselves formed? and what material served them
for the making of the world?

Other questions followed. “Who has seen the firstborn? Where was the
life, the blood, the soul of the world? Who went to ask this from any
that knew it? What was the forest? what was the tree out of which they
shaped heaven and earth? Ye wise, seek in your mind on what he stood
when he held the world.”[94]

Our ancestors would not have been human if they had not yielded to
the temptation of representing the invisible makers of the world by
some personality. They therefore speak of carpenters and workmen
“who have cunning hands; clever artificers who forge the lightning.”
Is it those who have made all that is visible? They know not. It is
certain that in speaking of carpenters, workmen, thunderers, tearers,
rainers, men approached, perhaps unconsciously, the domain of causes,
which from the beginning has been the ancient foundation of all that
is transcendental in our knowledge. It could not be otherwise, since
our reason is so constituted that it admits nothing but what is either
cause or effect.

There are thoughts to be found in the Veda which are excessively
infantine, but again there are others of astonishing subtlety; perhaps
they date from different epochs; but individualities are apparent in
these hymns, and they anticipated by many centuries the greater number
of contemporary writers who followed at a slower pace. The rishis
who said, “There is one Being only, although the poets call him by a
thousand names,” perfectly expressed this truth; and the Hindoos for
centuries have invoked Indra, Mitra, Agni, and Savitar, though the more
profound thinkers have protested against the traditional use of these
names, just as Heracleitus 500 years before our era objected to the
thousand names, the thousand temples, and the thousand legends of the
Greek mythology.

The rishis in asking themselves how all things began were not content
with representing the world as coming from the hands of clever workmen,
were they even invisible; it was no great labour to discover that; but
at times they had profounder thoughts. The sacred literatures of many
ancient peoples have reached us, in fragments more or less complete;
but the meditations which can equal those in the hymn 129 are rare.

“The One in the form of the Un-born was not--the luminous firmament
existed not--nor the great vault of heaven--where was he hidden? Was
it in the bottomless abyss? Death existed not--nor immortality. There
was no distinction between day and night. The One breathed breathless
by itself. Other than it there nothing since has been. There was
darkness then; everything in the beginning was hidden in gloom--all
was like the ocean, without a light. Then that germ which was covered
by the husk--the One--was brought forth by the power of heat. On this
germ was love--the springtime of the spirit--yes. And the poets
whilst meditating upon it, discovered in their soul the link between
created things and things not created. This spark, comes it from the
earth--piercing all--penetrating through all--or comes it from the sky?
There seeds were scattered, and powerful forces came into being; nature
beneath, will and power above. Who knows the secret--who proclaimed
whence this manifold creation sprang? The gods themselves came later
into being; who knows whence this great creation sprang? He from whom
all this great creation came--whether his will created or was mute.
He, the most high seer, that is in highest heaven, he knows it--or
perchance even he knows not.”

“Who knows whence this great creation sprang?” the Hindoos asked
themselves, thousands of years before our era; and again, “What was the
forest, what was the tree, from which they cut out heaven and earth?
What was there before anything existed?” These questions, differently
expressed, are found in many places in the Veda; every kind of problem
is presented to us under the form of enigmas. The Hindoos seem to have
had an idea that the visible world was preceded by something invisible,
yet much more real than the world of phenomena in which we live;
and that before apparitions existed, there was that which appeared
afterwards in time and space.

These same questions will constantly be repeated in changing terms,
through the coming centuries, whilst a heaven and earth remain.

The problem which occupied the powerful intellects of Hume and Kant,
and which these philosophers named the principle of causality, was
already exercising the brains of our fathers when they gave names for
the first time to the sky, the sun, the dawn, and the other physical
phenomena, by means of roots indicating activity; for the principle of
causality manifested itself in the beginning, not in the direct search
for a cause, but in the assertion of the existence of an agent. This
mental labour, commenced and accomplished thousands of centuries ago by
millions of human beings, deserves at least as much attention from us
as the learned speculations of two modern philosophers, be they Hume or
Kant.

So striking an object as the sun, even before possessing a definite
name, must have been designated in some special way; perhaps as a
simple circle, such as we find in the Egyptian hieroglyphics, in the
Chinese writing, and in our astronomical almanacs; this symbol would
give little opportunities to the mythologists; but when the idea arose
that the sun was a ball, and that an analogy was found between a ball
and an eye, man began to speak of the sun as the eye of the sky. We say
readily in all languages, “God is omniscient,” but Hesiod, to express
the same truth said, “The sun is the eye of Zeus who sees and knows
all.” If the language appears childish to us, we must remember that it
was the expression of a poet who lived long before the philosophers of
Greece, we shall then be less struck by its harshness than by the happy
and pure thought which has been expressed.

The sun has been an object of adoration with many of the primitive
nations; it seems uncertain whether as the divinity himself or as
his representative; most of the mythologists assure us that the
ancient Egyptians worshipped the sun’s disc itself. The first step is
invariably followed by a second, and a good example of development in
religious belief is afforded by a Mexican legend. The story is told of
the Inca Tupac Yupanqui, who, though reputed a son of the sun, began
to doubt the divine omnipotence of his divine ancestor. At a great
religious council, held at the consecration of the newly built temple
of the sun at Cuzco, he rose before the assembled multitude to deny
the divinity of the sun. “Many say,” he began, “that the sun is the
maker of all things. But he who makes should abide by what he has made.
Now many things happen when the sun is absent; therefore he cannot be
the universal Creator. And that he is alive at all, is doubtful, for
his journeys do not tire him. He is like a tethered beast who makes
a daily round; he is like an arrow which must go whither it is sent,
not whither it wishes. I tell you that he, our father and maker--the
sun--must have a lord and master more powerful than himself, who
constrains him to his daily circuit without pause or rest.”[95]

We can follow in the Vedic hymns the gradual development which changes
the sun from a simple luminary, and the giver of daily light and life,
to the preserver and ruler of the world. He who brings life and light
to-day, is the same who brought life and light on the first of days; as
he drives away the darkness of night, and as “the stars flee before the
all-seeing sun, like thieves,” the eye fixed on men--the sun--sees the
right and wrong and knows their thoughts.

Almost all peoples have raised their eyes to the sky, the abode of the
invisible Powers; and our ancestors, who addressed such fervent prayers
to all the phenomena of nature could not fail to invoke it. But the
sky shows itself under very varying aspects, it is sometimes the sky
dazzling with light, then there is the lowering sky, or the sky that
thunders, that rains; each time that it varies it changes its name; and
these names must be known to man since it is always invoked under the
special denomination of the power he is about to address. Varuna is one
of the names of the sky, his physical characteristic reflects it, it
is the vast vault or covering which protects the whole earth and its
inhabitants; it is also the sky which is itself obscured when the sun
disappears. In the Veda, Varuna is associated with Mitra, the light,
thus giving rise to a concept of correlative gods representing night
and day, morning and evening, heaven and earth.

“He who should flee far beyond the sky--even he would not be rid of
Varuna, the king. King Varuna sees all this, what is between heaven
and earth, and what is beyond. This earth, too, belongs to Varuna,
the king, and this wide sky with its ends far apart. The two seas are
Varuna’s loins; he is also contained in this small drop of water.”

“The great lord of these worlds sees as if he were near: if a man
stands or walks, if he goes to lie down or to get up, if he thinks he
is walking by stealth, the god Varuna knows it all. What two people
sitting together whisper, King Varuna knows it, he is there as the
third.”[96]

The prayers of the rishis overflow with the acknowledgment of their
sins, and their belief that the gods have the power to deliver them
from the burden of their faults.

“Let me not yet, O Varuna, enter into the house of clay (earth). Have
mercy, Almighty, have mercy. If I move along trembling, like a cloud
driven by the wind, have mercy. Through want of strength, have I gone
astray, thou strong and bright god, have mercy. Thirst came upon the
worshipper, though he stood in the midst of the waters--have mercy,
Almighty, have mercy.”[97]

It is noticeable that in the Hindoo mind the sun, in its many
manifestations, is sometimes synonymous with the firmament: Indra, as
the illuminator of the zenith; Savitar, as the bestower of life; Mitra,
as the friend of humanity; the indefatigable Agni, so modest but so
active, in cooking the food and smelting iron, so powerful when it
bears the smoke of the sacrifices heavenwards, and so exalted when it
takes its place in the sun and descends in the form of lightning; and
the spacious firmament which holds them all in its bosom; they are all
one to the adorer of the divine powers; all are equally marvellous, it
is a galaxy of brilliance. What innumerable gods, and not one to whom
it could be said, “Deliver us from evil.”

Urged on by an irresistible curiosity the rishis ceaselessly probe into
the unknown and the distant.

“Beyond the sky, beyond the earth, beyond the Devas and the Asuras,
what was the first germ which the waters bore, wherein all gods were
seen? The waters bore that first germ in which all the gods came
together. That _one_ thing in which all creatures rested was placed
in the lap of the unborn. You will never know him who created these
things, something else stands between you and Him. Enveloped in mist
and with faltering voices, the poets walk along rejoicing in life.”[98]

How was it that in the midst of the magnificence of their immense
Pantheon, the poets succeeded in obtaining glimpses of the _One_. Who
was He? The mists surround Him and prevent Him being clearly discerned.

If there was one thing in nature more adapted than another to satisfy
the desire of bridging over the limits of the visible world, it was
certainly the vault of heaven; above the storms and clouds which are
temporary, beyond all that is changeable; amongst all the changing
objects which meet the eyes, surely the firmament was the most exalted,
the most extended, and immovable. We know the genealogy of the name
of the sky, Dyaus, which enables us to trace the transformations
and subsequent applications; and as we advance we shall glean some
particulars of that science which at a later date was called grammar.

It is known that in the Aryan languages some of the oldest words are
without gender; speaking grammatically, pater is not a masculine,
nor mater a feminine; nor do the oldest words for river, mountain,
tree, or sky, disclose any outward sign of grammatical gender. But
though without any signs of gender, all ancient nouns expressed
activity. The distinction of gender began, not with the introduction
of masculine nouns, but with the setting apart of certain derivative
suffixes for feminine words; thus when _bona_ was introduced, _bonus_
became masculine; when _puella_ could be applied to a girl, _puer_,
which formerly meant both boy and girl, became restricted to the
meaning of boy. Therefore, whenever it happens that we have a female
representative of a natural phenomenon by the side of a male, the
female may almost always be taken as the later form. This rule, which
has been strictly applied to the name of Dyaus, dates from so remote a
time that its origin is lost in the mists of ages.

Dyaus, like _deva_, shining, comes from the root _div_ or _dyu_, but
this root bifurcates at once. In the Rig-Veda forms derived from the
base _div_ are masculine or feminine as the case may be, whilst those
which are derived from _dyu_ are always masculine; thus _dyaus_ from
_div_, is the firmament, the expanse above our heads, and is the later
feminine form; whereas _dyaus_ from _dyu_, is the sky considered as
a power, an active force, and is masculine, and consequently is the
earlier conception. These two words, _dyaus_, nominative singular, and
its base, _dyu_, being almost synonymous may be used indifferently.

All vegetable cells are destined to become plants, though sometimes
different plants, this, observation of nature teaches us. All verbal
cells are destined to become words, though differing, that is, with
different meanings; the small amount of philological study to which we
have already devoted ourselves in these pages shows us this. All cells,
whatever their nature, possess a transitive movement; the French word
_éclater_ has the meaning of to disperse in brilliancy; if we imagine
scintillations of light escaping from a central luminary we obtain the
idea of a transitive luminous movement. Whilst a cell preserves its
primary condition it is not possible to predict its future; no human
intelligence could have foretold that the root _div_ and _dyu_ would
produce the Sanscrit word deva, which means to shine, and deva would
in time develop into deus, which now no longer means to shine, but God.
It is a curious characteristic of Vedic Sanscrit that this uncertainty
of meaning of such words as deva, which expresses equally the half
physical and half spiritual intention, is an evidence of its rays
having proceeded from the same source of light and heat.

Human reason, in finding its way amongst crooked paths, often wanders;
the representations it makes of things are coloured by rays projected
by mythological or dogmatic mirages. We may recognise in the manner in
which our ancestors have viewed the supernatural powers the prototype
of our own errors of judgment. From the time that Dyaus became the
warming, life-giving sky and thus active, the rishis were authorised to
call him pitar, father, and to place by his side Prithvi, the earth,
who is the mother, and they then spoke of Dyaus as the father of the
dawn, and of day and night. These were thus considered as the first
attributes of the sky in Aryan mythology.

We are inclined to ascribe these excursions of thought to the flights
of poetic fancy, but they are rather the results of the poverty of
language, which make it impossible not only to express abstract ideas,
but even to describe accurately the phenomena of the physical world.
Religion and language in those days were so closely allied that it
is possible to say of a religious idea in its infancy that it was a
fragment of ancient language; for in order to describe his impressions
the Aryan depended entirely on the words with which it furnished him.
For this reason many of the hymns, incoherent though they may appear,
are of inestimable value. Every one of their words weighs and tells,
but for the translator who endeavours to present the Vedic thought in
modern idioms, the results are so discouraging that he is tempted to
give up in despair.

When at a later date the name of Dyaus became the centre of fabulous
tales, it still remained in the Sanscrit language of that time one
of the many traditional and unmeaning words for sky; but we must
understand clearly that in the most ancient hymns of the _Rig-Veda_
this name is the incarnation of the Power which is beyond and above
conception, whose existence had been obscurely indicated from the
beginning, and who remained unnamed long after the beasts of the
forests and the birds of the air had received their appellations.

From the time of their exodus the Aryan family, going in different
directions, were naturally divided into branches; vast distances
separated them, and they forgot that the same cradle, the same hearth,
had sheltered them at birth. But the ties which connected them
originally were not snapped at all points, since they brought away with
them words belonging to their mother-tongue, and certain intuitions
were the common property of all. Before the Greek, Latin, Sanscrit, and
German languages became separated, the name of a sovereign Power was
implied in those of the divinity which at a much later time occupied so
large a space in the history of Greece, Rome, India, and of Germany.

Coupled with the word _pitar_ the name Dyaus appears in the most
ancient Aryan prayers as Dyaush-pitar, Zeus-pater, and Ju-piter.
These composite names are no invention of the poets; they are the
results of certain laws of language to which our minds--if they would
not turn from the right path--must submit. The initial _dy_ in Dyaus
is represented in Latin by _j_; Ju in Jupiter corresponds exactly
with Dyaus. The name of the Teutonic god Tyr, genitive Tys, also
corresponds, and as exactly, with Dyaus; in Gothic it would be Tius,
and in Anglo-Saxon Tiw, preserved in Tiwsdæg, the day of the god Tyr,
and Zio in Old High-German, where we find Ziestac for the modern
Dienstag, the day of the god Mars. Tius, Tiw, Tyr, and Zio are forms
that exist side by side, all of which of course proceed from that
wonderful root _div_, and represent the bright sky, day, and god. No
etymological interpretation would be satisfying which did not embrace
all these forms, since they are all dialectic variations of Dyaus, the
same name in different languages. All names truly related have but one
root, in the same way as living beings who are brothers have but one
mother.

If another proof were needed of the uninterrupted continuity of speech
and thought amongst the chief of the Aryan people, the following fact
will afford it:--

At the time when the schools flourished in Athens, and when the Greeks
were hardly conscious of the existence of India, it would have been
possible, I suppose, to see young pupils seated before tables on which
the master had written the declensions which composed the task for the
day. There might be read:--

  _Nom._ Zeús
  _Gen._ Dios
  _Dat._ Dii
  _Acc._ Dia
  _Voc._ Zeû

Thus the young Athenians wrote the name of Zeus with an acute accent in
the nominative, and a circumflex in the vocative.

At the same time the pupils of the Brahmans at Benares, when declining
the name of their supreme deity, accented the syllables exactly in the
same way as the Greeks, and they wrote:--

  _Nom._ Dyaús
  _Gen._ Dyvas
  _Dat._ Divi
  _Acc._ Divam
  _Voc._ Dyaûs

But there was this difference between the Grecian pupils and the
Hindoos, that the former were ignorant of the reason of these changes
of accent, since the explanation was lacking in the Greek grammar,
whereas the Sanscrit grammar explained to the latter the general
principles of accentuation on which the changes rested.

The name of Dyaus was the source from which sprang an unique name,
coined once and for ever, adopted by our entire family; the Greeks
have no more borrowed it from the Hindoos, than the Romans and the
Teutons from the Greeks; for it was pronounced before the separation
of our ancestors with regard to language or religion; its meaning was
Heaven-Father.

Our missionaries who go from one end of the earth to the other,
reciting the Lord’s Prayer in all the dialects of the world, do
not doubt the historical fact that this prayer was said one day at
Jerusalem for the first time; we also may feel as profoundly convinced
that under the name of Heaven-Father, the Supreme Being has been
worshipped on the Himalayan mountains, under the oaks of Dodona, on the
Capitol, and in the forests of Germany. It has required millions of men
to fashion this name alone, which is the most ancient prayer of the
Aryan race.

“Five thousand years have passed, perhaps more, since the Asiatic
Aryans, speaking as yet neither Sanscrit, Greek, nor Latin, called upon
the All-Father as Dyu-patar, Heaven-Father. Four thousand years ago,
or it may be earlier, the Aryans who had travelled southwards to the
rivers of the Punjaub called him Dyaush-pita, the Heaven-Father. Three
thousand years ago, or it may be earlier, the Aryans on the shores
of the Hellespont called him Zeus-pater, Heaven-Father. Two thousand
years ago the Aryans of Italy looked up to that bright Heaven above and
called it Ju-piter, the Heaven-Father. And a thousand years ago the
same Heaven-Father was invoked in the dark forests of Germany, since
the Teutonic Aryans sacrificed to the same Heaven-Father; and his old
name of Tyr, Tiu, or Zio resounded then perhaps for the last time.

“But no thought, no name, has ever been entirely lost.”[99]

Some thousands of years have elapsed since these families have spread
abroad on all sides; each branch has formed its own language, its own
nationality, its mode of viewing life, and its philosophies; temples
have been built and razed to the ground; since then all have aged,
all are wiser, perhaps better, but the name which they gave to the
Invisible Power who enfolds them is still the same, “Our Father which
art in Heaven.”

This name, whose unity has always been perfect, is a magical formula,
which brings our ancestors, even the most remote, within touch, and
enables us to see them as they were, as they spoke and felt, thousands
of years before Homer and the Hindoo poets. Guided by the science
of language and following the path in the Vedic hymns taken by the
humanity preceding us, we see how the concept of God, in its germ in
the name Deva, grew from the idea of light, to active light, the one
who wakens, the giver of daily light, of warmth and new life.

It is easy to understand the difference between these two
assertions--first of this one--that the early Aryans called the
phenomena of nature themselves by the name of God; and the other--that
the Aryan mind distilled from the concept of these phenomena the
general idea of God.

“If I were asked,” said Max Müller, “which is the most wonderful
discovery of the nineteenth century in the history of humanity, I
should reply it is that of the etymological equation of the Sanscrit
Dyaush-pitar, the Greek Zeus-pater, the Latin Ju-piter, and Tyr, Tiw,
and Zio of the Germans.”

That the generality of people should be inconsequent is not a matter
of surprise. He may well be pardoned who does not at once, on the
word of another, credit a number of facts of which no proofs are
forthcoming, and who at the same time shows himself unwilling to
accept the deductions of a science of which he knows nothing, that of
etymology; but what does seem strange is that learned scholars who are
perfectly capable of following the progress made by philology, refuse
to recognise the identity of the different names given to the supreme
deity of the Aryan race. Certain positivists are in this case; nothing
irritates them more than to offer them grammatical proof that all the
Aryan families had, before their separation, the same belief; and they
try to demonstrate that the name of Dyaus at the first meant nothing
more than the sky; and that only at a later period people had changed
the name of sky and of firmament--physical phenomena only--into proper
names which transformed _nomina_ into _numina_.

It is worthy of note that this assertion is founded on a fact, but a
fact not well understood. In the later literature of India which was
known before the Veda became so much studied, the name of Dyaus was
only known as a feminine; it was the recognised name for sky and day,
and implied nothing divine. The ancient Aryan Dyaus after a time paled
before Indra--a god of Indian soil; Indra, formerly the rain-giver--the
ally of Rudra--ceased to reside exclusively in the more menacing
phenomena of the atmosphere, and it is the pure light in which he is
worshipped. He is now supreme.

“Before Indra the divine Dyu bowed, before Indra bowed the great
Prithivi.”[100]

In order duly to celebrate Indra, the rishis did not content themselves
with the praises they considered fitting for the other gods. They
laboured hard to find the right expression and every hymn is a heroic
feat.

“The other gods were sent away like shrivelled up old men; thou, O
Indra, becamest the king. No one is beyond thee, no one is better than
thou art, no one is like unto thee. Keep silence well! we offer our
praises to the great Indra in the house of the sacrificer. Does he find
treasure for those who are like sleepers? Mean praise is not valued
among the munificent.”[101]

It is strange that it is in connection with the great Indra, the most
popular of all the gods of India, that indications of a struggle
between faith and doubt are apparent in the praises addressed to him.
The existence of the other divinities was as firmly established as
the splendour of the sun and stars, as the appearances of fire, the
movements of the winds, the impressions made by heat and cold; and
the confidence they inspired was too firmly established to require
stimulating; and then suddenly we find the rishis discoursing on and
enumerating the reasons that exist for man’s belief in Indra.

“When the fiery Indra hurls down the thunder-bolt, then people put
faith in him. Look at this his great and mighty work, and believe in
his great power.”

Whence came this insistence to recall the great power of Indra? It
almost suggests the thought that the rishis felt the approach of a
change in their conception of the omnipotence of some of the gods of
nature.

“Offer praise to Indra, if you desire booty; true praise, if he truly
exists. One and the other says, There is no Indra, who has seen him?
Whom shall we praise? The terrible one of whom they ask where he
is.”[102]

But the poet at once introduces Indra on the scene, and makes him say:--

  “Here I am, O worshipper! behold me here.
   In might I overcome all creatures.”--Id.

In reading the Rig-Veda attentively, in spite of these efforts to
revive the ancient faith, here and there can be discovered slight
traces of scepticism, so slight as to be scarcely perceptible, and
these apart from the incredulity exhibited concerning the powerful
Indra. The Hindoo was by nature profoundly believing, but his intellect
was subtle and scrutinising, and he considered it due to himself to
give exact explanations of all; the rishis make the following true
remarks.

“Fire is quenched by water, a cloud hides the sun, the sun also
disappears behind the sea;” and from these observations they draw the
following conclusions.

“Water must not be worshipped, since a cloud can carry it away; nor the
cloud, since the wind can disperse it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The positivists have made too much of the fact that Dyaus, at one time
in India, meant simply the sky and day; a rock is not more immovable
than grammar, and it is moreover quite indifferent to all blows aimed
at truths other than it holds.

Certain scholars in their researches after the origin of Aryan
divinities, were surprised and somewhat disconcerted at a gap which
confronted them and prevented further progress; nowhere in the later
literature of India could any trace be found of Dyaus as a god who
could correspond to the supreme divinity of the other branches of the
family. However, the very rational conviction that this deity must have
existed gradually strengthened in the minds of the learned. They were
thus at a standstill, when the Veda appeared under the strong light
of modern investigation and brought to view the name of Dyaus totally
different from the feminine dyaus, a Dyaus presenting in itself, not
merely the masculine substantive, but joined with pita--father. Amongst
the Hindoos it had paled before Indra, who was a god of later date,
but the other Aryan races had been uninfluenced by this. Dyaus, the
chief god, had accompanied them in their migrations, and Zeus-pater,
Ju-piter, Tyr, Tiw, and Zio, became the exact representative of him,
each in a different country; this discovery of Dyaush-pita, was like
finding at last a star in the very place of the heavens which had been
fixed before by calculation, but where previously there had been a void.

This was not the only discovery due to the study of the Veda. No one
could ignore the fact, that amongst the Hindoos dyaus was the name of
the sky, since it bears in itself the root which attests this; but
it would have been impossible to discover the radical or predicative
meaning of Zeus by the help of Greek alone; it possesses no certificate
of birth, and the Greeks had no traditions connected with it that could
have taught us. With the help of comparative philology all is made
plain; Zeus was born when Dyaus was recognised as masculine and called
father, Dyaush-pitar, Ju-piter, Zeus-pater, and from the moment that
we are made acquainted with the origin of Zeus, the rest of his career
unrolls before us.

Our ancestors, however, had still a long time to wander in the
wilderness of error, and lost themselves many times.

The Hindoos thought for a time that they had found in Dyaus the object
of their search; but the supernatural light and the light of day became
confounded; when the word Dyaus was pronounced, the many natural bright
objects it might signify all vibrated in response and melted into one;
they became--as a double star does--one object, and Dyu, the god of
light, was eclipsed behind dyu the sky.

When the question was asked for the first time whence came the rain,
the lightning, and the thunder, those who inhabited Italy replied that
rain came from Jupiter Pluvius, the lightning from Jupiter fulminator
and fulgurator, the thunder from Jupiter tonans. In Greece all that
concerned the higher regions of the atmosphere was attributed to Zeus;
it was Zeus who rained, who snowed, thundered, gathered the clouds,
let loose the tempests, held the rainbow in his hand; many legends were
grouped around these divine names; the more incomprehensible they were,
the more eagerly were they heard, until it is very doubtful whether any
trace remains of that Being who at the first gave to the name of the
sky its highest signification.

A characteristic trait of the Hindoos, which is noticeable in the
hymns, is a tendency to praise all by which they are surrounded. Not
satisfied with celebrating the virtues of the invisible beings, which
they imagine to be behind the semi-tangible and intangible objects such
as mountains, rivers, trees, fire, the sun, storms, etc., the rishis,
carried away by the ardour of their feelings, glorify objects which are
perfectly tangible, even those which they may have made with their own
hands, or those which at least have nothing mysterious in them; these
are termed _devatas_, and the commentator explains that by this word is
meant the person or thing addressed; thus the victims to be offered, or
a sacrificial vessel, or a battle-axe or shield, all these are called
devatas; in some dialogues found in the hymns whoever speaks is called
the rishi, whoever is spoken to is the devata.

“The late Herbert Spencer relates that even in our days the Hindoo
offers prayers to the objects which he uses; a woman adores the basket
which she takes to the market and offers sacrifices to it, as well as
to the other implements which assist her in her household labours. A
carpenter pays the like homage to his hatchet, the mason to his trowel,
and the Brahman to the style with which he is going to write. The
question is, in what sense did the author of _Principles of Sociology_
use the word adore?”[103]

The desire to have an exact account of what is happening alternates
with the prayers and adoration; the questions and praises interlace
like the threads of a web.

“Unsupported, not fastened, how does he (the sun) rising up, not fall
down?”

The poet is also anxious to know how the dawn and the sun appear each
morning; how there is so much rain, also such an abundance of rivers
and streams.

“How many fires are there, how many dawns, how many suns, and how many
waters? I do not say this, O fathers, to worry you; I ask you, O seers,
that I may know.”

The explanation also is desired by these enquirers how it is that a
red or brown cow can give white milk.[104] The rishis are rigorous
logicians, and consider that the powerful divinities who made the
world such as it is might have done better; and they do not scruple to
communicate their opinion to whom it concerns. “If we were as rich as
you we should not allow our worshippers to beg their bread.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been asked whether humanity commenced by having a monotheistic
or a polytheistic religion. This is not the first time that this
question has been propounded; it has as an antecedent a very ancient
opinion, developed in the schools of theology in the Middle Ages; the
Fathers of the Church gave it as their opinion that a faith in one God,
from the days of the greatest antiquity, had been the glorious heritage
of the Semitic family, coming in a direct line from the first man. But
these same theologians considered Hebrew to be the primitive language
of the human race, an assertion now known to be erroneous.[105] We may
therefore subject the first assertion to an examination.

The learned writers who dispute on the original form of religious
thought forget that the ancient Aryans could not have been either
monotheistic or polytheistic. The Vedic hymns show us that though there
were many gods, and that they were equal, yet whilst the worshipper
was addressing one, the rest were excluded from his mind, and were as
though they did not exist; each god became in turn the Supreme Power,
and received the highest praise; the rishis, who had represented the
sun under the names of Vishnu, Varuna, Mitra, Savitar as the creator
of the world, spoke of it immediately afterwards as the child of the
waters, born of the dawn, a god among other gods, neither better nor
worse; it is this characteristic of the Aryan religion, this worship
offered alternately to different divinities to which Max Müller has
given the name of Henotheism.

“Among you, O gods, there is none that is great, and none that is
little--none old or young--you are all great indeed.”

The religion of humanity in its entirety at the beginning was this
intuition of the divine, whose formula is that article of faith,
at once the simplest and the most important--God is God--the want
of definiteness in it making it the more applicable to the dawn of
thought. This primitive intuition of God was in itself neither
monotheistic nor polytheistic, though it might become either according
to the expression which it took in the language of man; in no language
does the plural exist before the singular; no human mind could have
conceived the idea of gods without having previously conceived the idea
of one God. “It would be, however, quite as great a mistake to imagine,
because the idea of a god must exist previously to that of gods, that
therefore a belief in one God preceded everywhere the belief in many
gods. A belief in God, as exclusively One, involves a distinct negation
of more than one God, and that negation is possible only after the
conception, whether real or imaginary, of many gods.”[106] If therefore
an expression had been given to this primitive intuition of the Deity,
which is the mainspring of all later religion, it would have been,
“There is a God,” but certainly not yet, “There is but one God.”

These fine distinctions require close attention to grasp them; the fact
that in our modern tongues we have derived the singular _Theos_ from
the Greek plural _Theoi_ has caused confusion; from a historical point
of view, no doubt Theos has come from Theoi; but putting this aside,
the meaning of the word has gone through as complete a transformation
as that of the acorn to the oak; the evidence of this change has been
so deeply impressed even on our outward senses that as soon as our
intellect has attained some measure of development the sound of the
word God used in the plural jars on our ears as if we heard of two
universes or one twin.

The Hindoo mind, however, oscillated between the representation of many
gods and of one only God; and the rishis appear to have attempted to
establish a sort of priority amongst their numerous deities.

“That which is one, the seers call in many ways; they speak of Indra,
Mitra, Agni, and Varuna--they call it by various names--that which is,
and is one.”

“In the evening Agni becomes Varuna--he becomes Mitra when rising in
the mornings; having become Savitri, he passes through the sky--having
become Indra he warms the heaven in the centre.”[107]

This attempt, which might have led to monotheism, came to nothing; on
this point the Hindoos were behind the Greeks and Romans, who with
their polytheism had a presiding deity, viz., Zeus and Jupiter.

“When we thus see the god Dyaus antiquated by Indra, and Indra himself
almost denied, we might expect in India the same catastrophe which in
Iceland the poets of the Edda always predicted--the twilight of the
gods preceding the destruction of the world. We seem to have reached
the stage when henotheism, after trying in vain to grow into an
organised polytheism on the one side, or into an exclusive monotheism
on the other, would by necessity end in atheism; yet atheism is not the
last word of the Indian religion.”[108]

What is atheism?

FOOTNOTES:

[72] Max Müller, _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 231.

[73] Max Müller, _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 250.

[74] _Rig-Veda_, X. 133. 6.

[75] “To the ancient seers the dawn seemed to open the golden gates of
another world, and while these gates were open for the sun to pass in
triumph, their eyes and their minds strove in their childish way to
pierce beyond the limits of this finite world.”--_Origin and Growth of
Religion_, p. 235.

[76] _Atharva-Veda_, X. 8. 16.

[77] _Rig-Veda_, I. 35. 2.

[78] Max Müller’s words on the subject are as follows: “These two
concepts (the infinite, and order and law), which sooner or later
must be taken in and minded by every human being, were at first no
more than an impulse, but their impulsive force would not rest till
it had beaten into the minds of the fathers of our race the deep and
indelible impression that ‘all is right,’ and filled them with a hope,
and more than a hope, that ‘all will be right.’”--_Origin and Growth of
Religion_, p. 259.

[79] _Rig-Veda_, I. 102. 2.

[80] _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 238.

[81] _Rig-Veda_, I. 24. 1.

[82] _Physical Religion_, p. 245.

[83] _Physical Religion_, p. 127.

[84] _Rig-Veda_, II. 1. 1.

[85] _Ibid._, IV. 12. 4.

[86] _Rig-Veda_, X. 79. 4.

[87] _Ibid._, X. 2. 4, 5.

[88] _Ibid._, II. 6. 1; VIII. 19. 5.

[89] _Rig-Veda_, I. 189. 3.

[90] _Ibid._, VII. 104.

[91] _Rig-Veda_, VII. 104.

[92] _Ibid._, IX. 113. 7.

[93] _Rig-Veda_, I. 39.

[94] _Ibid._, I. 164; X. 81. 4.

[95] _Physical Religion_, pp. 183-4.

[96] _Atharva_, IV. 16.

[97] _Rig-Veda_, VII. 89.

[98] _Rig-Veda_, X. 82.

[99] _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 223.

[100] _Rig-Veda_, I. 131. 1.

[101] _Rig-Veda_, I. 153; IV. 19. 2.

[102] _Ibid._, VIII. 100. 3.

[103] _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 205 note.

[104] Max Müller says: “There is also a common saying or riddle in
German which you may hear repeated to the present day:--

  ‘O sagt mir doch wie geht es zu
   Dass weis die milch der rothen Kuh?’”

  --_Physical Religion_, p. 101.

[105] Dante at one time was of this opinion. “In his _Il Volgare
Eloquio_, lib. 1, cvi. p. 155, he says: ‘It was the Hebrew idiom which
was uttered by the lips of the first man who ever spoke in this world!’
This idea was afterwards relinquished by him, as in the _Paradiso_ he
puts these words into the mouth of Adam:--

  ‘The language I did use
   Was worn away or ever Nimrod’s race
   Their unaccomplishable work began.’

“The oldest form of human speech still remains lost in the darkness of
antiquity.”--Quoted from _Dante in Ravenna_ by Miss Phillimore.

[106] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i. p. 354.

[107] _Atharva_, XIII. 3. 13.

[108] _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 310.




CHAPTER XI MAN’S CONCEPTIONS OF RELIGION


  “No one sufficiently recognises the power of reason.”
     --ST THOMAS AQUINAS.

  “De nos jours, nous mouquons encore plus de raison que de religion.”
     --FENELON.

This question: “What is atheism?” has aroused me with a start. Led
aside as I had been by many beautiful, true, and striking thoughts,
which I noted as they presented themselves to me; being also very
preoccupied by depressing observations that I had made on my chronic
inability to turn them to account, I lost sight of the fact that it
is not sufficient to write and think at will merely, without definite
plan, not keeping the goal in sight. This is my eleventh chapter, and I
see with dismay that it is likely to exceed the two which precede it in
length, and that it follows one concerned more with the repetition of
words often spoken and seldom understood. I fear that I lack method.

During our own time we have seen a school arise, the Historical School;
it was heralded in Germany by such men as Niebuhr, the two Humboldts,
Bopp--the author of the first Comparative Grammar--Grimm, and many
others. This School shows that an uninterrupted continuity connects
what has been thought of old with what is being thought at present;
that there is no break between the present and the past; and that the
difficulties which are presented to us by the study of the present
philosophical problems, would in a great measure disappear, if we knew
under what form these same problems presented themselves to man for the
first time.

The Historical School advances step by step with the study of
comparative philology; this latter has shown that at the beginning the
number of words was very small; they lay, as it were, side by side,
before man’s eyes, as evenly and as regularly as the threads on a
weaver’s loom. But gradually, on account of our neglect, and our many
misunderstandings, the idea contained in these words became entangled,
and we have ceased to follow the course of the thread; the words have
remained in our memory, but the meaning has changed; they may even have
several meanings which contradict each other; the result is that we are
ignorant of many things it would be well for us to know with certainty.

All problems whether of philosophy or of philology, are best solved
by the historical method; let us bravely face each obscure question
to which we have no key; each doubtful term the meaning of which is
lost, and bid all retrace their steps in the path by which they arrived
at us; avoiding the peril of the idle worker who has a theory, and a
remedy ready for everything; and the walks in the country of dreams
which have no chart to direct travellers.

For us who are not learned linguists there is more than one method of
gaining information concerning words; the easiest is to note the use
made of them at various times in the past; another way which is more
important and more certain is to study their biographies, we should
find them in ancient documents; a third method that exacts neither a
knowledge of their history, nor their genealogy, consists simply in
reflection; this process, which should be within the reach of all, is
seldom used.

As I am constrained to follow the development of the Vedic religion
at the commencement of what was neither polytheism nor monotheism; I
recur to the last word of the preceding chapter in order to find its
historical antecedents.

History tells us that much in the same way as a wild beast pursues its
prey, this epithet of atheist is hurled at men who in truth have little
in common. “In the eyes of his Athenian judges Socrates was an atheist;
yet he did not even deny the gods of Greece, but he reserved to himself
the right to believe in something higher and more truly divine than
Hephaistos and Aphrodite.”[109] Spinoza was called an atheist by the
Jews, his co-religionists, because his conception of Jahveh or Jehovah
was wider than theirs. The early Christians were called _átheoi_ by the
Jews and Greeks because they believed not as the Jews and Christians
believed. Were the Hindoos atheists when they said, “What is Indra?
it is the sun, the rain only.” Were they atheists when they ceased to
believe in their Devas, the brilliant objects, the stars, the fields,
the rivers, the eyes of man? If the history of the word atheist had
only taught us one thing, _e.g._ that those who think differently
from ourselves do not deserve the reproach of atheism, it would have
extinguished the fires of many an _auto da fé_.

But are there real atheists? Do those persons exist who are convinced
that the word God represents nothing? There may be; if you have
succeeded in convincing human reason that there can be an act without
a cause, a boundary without a beyond, a finite without an infinite;
then you will have proved without doubt that there is no God. “God is a
_great_ word,” said a German theologian, lately deceased, whose honesty
and piety have never been questioned, “he who feels and understands
that, will judge more mildly and more justly of those who confess that
they dare not say that they believe in God.”[110]

We ought never to call a man an atheist till we know what kind of God
it is that he has been brought up to believe in, and what kind of God
it is that he rejects, it may be, from the best and highest motives. If
we can respect the childlike faith of a charcoal-burner, let us also
respect philosophical doubt; it may well indicate a turning-point in
the life of a man, in which he is perhaps abandoning a belief of which
he has seen the error, or is perhaps seeking to replace the less worthy
faith, however dear it may be to him, by one more perfect, however its
novelty may distress him; without such “atheism” as this our religion
would long ago have only been a congealed hypocrisy.

In the life of an individual, as in the life of a nation, there comes
a moment when opinion becomes modified; the old theory of the world
being fashioned by a workman as a potter moulds his vessels of clay,
has gradually disappeared. These ideas were so repugnant to the
enlightened mind of Sakya-muni, the Hindoo Prince--universally known as
Buddha--that he considered it irreverent to enquire how the world was
made, and still more audacious to attempt to answer the enquiry.

That which took the place of henotheism amongst the Hindoos might aptly
be termed adivism, a denial of the old Devas. Such a denial, however,
of what was once believed, but could be honestly believed no longer, so
far from being the end of religion, is in reality its vital principle.

Whilst about to deal with ideas which I know are true, it is gratifying
to expose at the same time certain false opinions which have been
put forth on the subject; it is curious to note how to start with a
false opinion brings one to a wrong conclusion. Herodotus, Cæsar, and
Quintus Curtius, who have all written on popular religious beliefs,
relate that men adored the sun, the earth, the sky, fire, and water;
that they worshipped certain rivers, and certain trees, and considered
as gods all things that were useful to them. This was the opinion of
the ancient writers who knew no better, and modern theorists repeated
also: “Primitive men deified the grand natural phenomena of nature,
especially the stars, taking them for gods.”

It is not a matter for surprise that primitive man should have formed
the opinion that either in the world or out of it there should be a
sovereign power which they considered as their gods.

In the eighteenth century the theory of fetishism was held to explain
all the intuitions of primitive man; although not pertinent to the
subject, this was not perceived until afterwards, and the theory was
considered reasonable.

Whilst the _Theorists_ take the predicate of God, when applied even to
a fetish, as requiring no explanation, the _Historical School_ sees in
it the result of a long continued evolution of thought. It was evident
that the human soul was so constituted that it must tend naturally and
inevitably towards the Unknown; it was also necessary that man should
learn that he possessed a soul.

We recognise that we have one; but are we equally clear as to what it
is?

We answer perhaps: “Yes, it is that part of us which is not the body
which perishes--the soul is immortal.” It is well to be able to make
such a reply, since it is true; our catechisms have sown the seed of
which this is the result.

But since all human knowledge, whether abstract or practical, has the
same beginning, through the senses, and that neither eye, ear, nor hand
has to do with the soul, what can we know of it? Above all, what can
we learn of its existence after death, the time when immortality has
passed beyond the sphere of the experience of the senses? As man we
recognise the spirit inhabiting the body, but with no form, such as it
might receive after death; we can hardly clothe these ideas in words.

This belief in a soul, exactly like the belief in gods, and at last in
One God, can only be understood as the outcome of constantly renewed
observations and long meditations; the annals of language furnish
material for this study, those ancient words, which, meaning originally
something quite tangible and visible, came in time to mean that which
is invisible and infinite.

The last breath of a dying person gave the first conception of the
presence in man of a non-corporeal principle; it was recognised that
this perceptible breath, at the moment of death, was an accident and
transient. Language marks clearly the difference between the act of
breathing or breath, and that which breathed, the invisible agent of
this act--the living soul, the spirit. This agent received different
names, in the different languages; the Greeks named it Psyche, saying
that it was the breath which, at the hour of death, passed out through
the bars of the teeth; amongst the Hindoos it was called _Atman_, and
_Anima_ amongst the Latins, two words which originally were understood
by those using them as meaning something breathing. Cicero spoke of
_Anima_, but he refrained from defining it, and frankly avowed that he
did not know whether to call it breath or fire.

The word breath has been used figuratively to express the Power
governing the world.[111] A poet in the Veda when speaking of the
Supreme Being says, “It breathed without air.”

Although the word breath was most frequently used to denote the
principle of life, another expression was employed at a much earlier
period; in countries the most remote from each other, the words,
_the shadow of the dead_, were used, in order to express the idea of
something intangible yet closely related to the body. The influence
of language on thought is so real and so much more powerful than the
testimony of our senses, that those who named the soul a shadow, came
at last to believe that corpses threw no shadow because it had left
them.

It was then considered that the soul was not a homogeneous whole, but
composed of parts of which some are ephemeral, destined to disappear
with the body; these parts form what the Greek and Latin writers call
the Ego, and the Hindoos _Aham_, what in French would be termed the
_moi_--three words for one thing--an object of contingency, since it
depends on circumstances--on the body, on age, and on sex.

All men have endeavoured to solve the riddle of human life; but the
Hindoos, who especially excelled in researches dealing with the
formation of words, that is to say, with the birth or development of
ideas, whilst penetrating deeply into the mysteries of their soul,
their Atman, arrived at an abstraction of this Atman, entirely freed
from all earthly or physical particles, and this “vehicle of an
abstraction” they considered to be incapable of perishing, since it
had no connection with breath, it was the pure self, “freed from the
fetters and conditions of the human Ego,” hidden in the _Aham_; not
contingent on circumstances--the self-existent One.

This new conception demanded a new name; the word Atman, which at first
signified all the concomitant elements of the soul--those which pass,
equally with those that remain--the Hindoos retained in their language,
and it was used to define the essence itself, the being with no
attributes, identical with the Being who vivified nature, the Infinite
that supported man’s own being, the Highest Self. Socrates knew this
same Self, but he called it _Daimonion_, the indwelling God, whom the
early Christians called the Holy Ghost.

From the Hindoo point of view this idea holds in itself the solution of
the world’s great enigma. The commandment indicating the kernel of all
philosophy, “Know thyself,” was the Hindoo doctrine. Know thyself as
the self, or if we translate it into religious language, “Know that we
live and move and have our being in God” (Acts xvii. 28).[112]

In recognising the soul as that which is the _self_, we see that this
fact of existing is more wonderful than the acts of breathing, feeling,
thinking, living, since none of these manifestations are possible but
on the sole condition of having proceeded from the Being--who _is_.

After having analysed the human soul, the Hindoos followed it from
phase to phase from the moment when the breath which makes man a living
being received its first names. They thus traced its history through
time, and believed that they could follow it through eternity.

Years were employed in the elaboration of this history, and we only
find its completion in a work which is posterior to the Vedic hymns,
the Upanishads. The study of the human soul is the central point in
Hindoo philosophy, and the Upanishads are the first psychological work
which has ever been made.

There are persons who doubt the existence of things, of which others
feel certain; but no one ever doubted the existence of his own
soul. Why did the theologians who arranged the creeds not include
the article, “I believe in my soul.” It would not have found men
incredulous.

Reflection enables us to admit that the soul without God could possess
no history, since neither the soul without God, nor God without the
soul, could constitute religion. For this which is called religion,
if under the form only of a soaring towards an unknown but longed-for
Being, has always existed since there have been men on the earth.

We often meet the recurring questions “Whence?” “Why?” and the frequent
“Because”; and now we are told by a small number of thinkers that all
the explanations of speculative philosophy on the first impulses of
the human soul towards religion, are only worthless suppositions,
unless philosophers--as historians have done--have recognised that
there was a revelation at the beginning of time in the true sense of
the word; but opinions differ as to “the true sense of the word.”

We are so accustomed to apply the expression “the Word of God” to the
sacred canon of Scripture, that we are inapt at seeking for God’s Word
elsewhere. But our first fathers read and studied it before the Bible
existed.

To reflective minds, primitive man presents a moving spectacle,
drawn towards the Unknown--the Unseen--they abandoned themselves
unresistingly to the current leading them in certain directions.

I imagine that our Aryan ancestors would not have fixed their attention
with such tenacity on the objects in nature which environed them, had
the stars and heavenly bodies been immovable. But the sun appearing on
the one side, traversing the sky and then disappearing on the opposite
side, made the remark of the Incas prince very natural: “There is some
power behind the sun causing it to ascend and descend.” It did not
occur to him that the sun travelled in accordance with natural laws.
Other princes and poets, with their eyes fixed on the moving objects
of the firmament, would have made the same reflection and sought the
invisible cause.

If the world had been propelled by a moving power within itself,
creatures possessing reason would have been vaguely conscious of
it from the first. They would have been like the plants which turn
regularly and infallibly in one direction, since they are not free to
do otherwise.

“You premise a revelation,” may be said to me, “and yet you direct us
towards Evolution; choose one of the two since the one contradicts the
other.”

That remains to be proved. Apply the theory of the evolutionist to
the mollusc; we see it directing itself, and extending its tentacles,
towards a crumb of bread that floats on the water. If they touch
it the contact calls forth in the mollusc the act of seizing its
prey. This is only a movement of semi-consciousness, or perhaps
rather it is not entirely involuntary. Under the aspect of immediate
cause and effect, we see a principle anterior to the phenomenon;
certain perceptions which appear in the sight of many psychologists
to be innate, that is to say, impressions received on our mind
before we became conscious of ourself, may well be the result of the
receptability of our Ego, which enables us, when it is affected in
a certain fashion, to represent these affections to ourselves under
certain forms.

The presentiment that unknown powers were to be found behind the
visible world only showed itself when the Aryans first named them sky,
sun, moon, storm, day, night, all terms previously used for various
parts of nature.

With the perception of a Beyond, with the desire to know what it
contained, a gap made itself felt which separated it from the known
world. It must be crossed--a bridge was necessary. This thought spread
from one end of the globe to the other, but our ancestors were the
first bridge-makers. Scandinavian mythology mentions a bridge built by
the gods which was of three colours; it was clearly intended originally
for the rainbow. The Milky Way provided the Hindoos with a bridge; and
in the Upanishads mention is made of a path having five colours. Here
we have the rainbow again probably. The source of these legends is the
ineradicable belief in the heart of man, that the here and hereafter,
the immortal and the mortal, the divine and the human, cannot remain
apart for ever.

Here I will comment on a striking feature of the _Rig-Veda_. The rishis
give accounts of the manner in which the hymns are composed. They say
that they worked at them as other workmen do, such as carpenters,
weavers, and potters. Sometimes they speak of the verses as coming
direct from the heart; another says his hymn moves as a skiff on the
river. Sometimes they speak of their hymns as god-given, and that the
gods themselves are seers and poets. In no part of the _Rig-Veda_ are
there traces of the theories of the verbal inspiration with the meaning
which the Greeks attached to the word as a theophany or manifestation
of divinity, nor as it was understood afterwards in all religions,
beginning with Brahmanism.

It would be useless to seek for a complete exposition of Vedic thought
in the _Rig-Veda_; all the hymns found in it are not ancient; the
collection was made by the priests, and if they retained much that
was useless for our purpose in their worship, yet we should be very
grateful to them, as in this manner much has been preserved to us of
the ancient poetry of India, and it is they who recount the pilgrimage
undertaken by the Aryans in search of the invisible lodestone which
attracted them beyond what they could see and hear. As they advanced
they rejoiced, seeming to attain their desire; but cast down under the
weight of their sadness, as at times they found themselves misled.

It is said in the Bible, that for God a thousand years is as one day,
and as I read the sacred books of India, not as a learned critic, but
as a man who is rejoiced to discover his own thoughts in the writings
of the Hindoo poets, the three or four thousand years appear to me as
one day during which these poets have not ceased to pour themselves out
in their hymns, and it would be possible to condense in one page the
sentiments expressed in the first hymns and the last Upanishads.

“Simple minded, not comprehending in my mind, I ask for the hidden
places of the gods.”[113] “My ears vanish, my eyes vanish, and the
light also which dwells in my heart; my mind with its far-off longings
leaves me; what shall I say, and what shall I think?”[114]

“There is no likeness of Him whose name is Great Glory. He is not
apprehended of the eye, nor by the other senses, nor by speech; not
by penance, or good works. We do not know, we do not understand, how
anyone can teach it. It is different from the known, it is also above
the unknown, thus we have heard from those of old who taught us this.”

“You will not find Him who has created these things; something else
stands between you and Him.”[115]

These detached sentences acquire a very special value, when it is
remembered that they are not quotations drawn from some modern works,
which imitate the writings of another epoch; these exist nowhere but
in the _Veda_, a literary work composed in the silence and shade, by
writers who themselves were ignorant of the object of their desire.

One point at last becomes clear in the mist; a thousand years probably
before the coming of Christ in Palestine, this verse was pronounced in
the north of India, “He who is above the gods alone is God.”[116]

The Grecian, Roman, and German divinities disappeared before other
beliefs; but the Hindoos who knew that their gods were nothing more
than mere names, had no dawning religion within their reach that they
could adopt; therefore they did not abandon their traditions, and they
continued to grope, as one of their own poets says, “Enveloped in mist
and with faltering voices.”

All the religious thought of the Vedic period can be found in the
Upanishads (the literal meaning of this name is, sessions or assemblies
of pupils round their master). There is not what could be called a
philosophical system in these Upanishads; they are fragments, and are
in the true sense of the word, guesses at truth; the spirit of the
work is liberal, all shades of opinion are represented in it, the most
divers, and sometimes contradictory. Conjectures abound with regard
to the creation, all start from the theory that the world we see is
not the true world, and that before it appeared there was the true
Self--the Self-existent--the One which underlies the whole world, from
which has come all that seems to exist and does actually exist. This
was the final solution of the search after the Unknown, the Invisible,
which had been foretold through a long chain of centuries; an intuition
more convincing than all the arguments which were used at a later
period to prove the existence of the Causa Causæ.

The difficulties of the Brahmans in making a complete collection of
these vague presentiments, confused thoughts, and true intuitions,
were increased a hundredfold by the fact that they had to accept every
word and every sentence of the Upanishads as supernaturally revealed.
However contradictory at first sight, all that was said in the
Upanishads had to be accepted and explained. It would seem difficult to
construct a well-arranged literary monument out of such heterogeneous
materials; but it was harmonised and welded into a system of philosophy
that for solidity and unity will bear comparison with any other system
of philosophy in the world.[117]

This gigantic work, which commenced with the Vedic hymns and ended in
the book called the Vedanta, or End, and was the end or supreme object
of the Veda, is also known under the name of Mîmâmsâ-sutras. Mîmâmsâ is
a desiderative form of the root _man_, to think, and a very appropriate
name for a philosophical work of this kind; and sûtra means literally
a string; but it is here used as the name of short and abstract
aphorisms, rendered still more enigmatical by the conciseness of the
language. There are several hundreds of these sayings or headings,
forming tables of contents, a magic chaplet of immeasurable length,
each word containing condensed thought. This work must have required a
concentration of mind which it is difficult for us to realise.

The meaning and form of these aphorisms are characteristic--here is one.

“I will declare in a line, that which has required millions of volumes.

“Brahma is true, the world is false; the soul is Brahma and nothing
else.”

Those who consider the Supreme Being as the Infinite in nature, and
the individual soul as the Infinite in man, must consider God and the
soul as one, not two, seeing there cannot be two Infinites; such is
the belief of the Hindoos; but this belief does not belong to them
exclusively, it existed amongst the Greeks, and it is encountered in
other places in our day besides India.

As works of art these sûtras are of course nothing, but for giving a
complete and accurate outline of a whole system of philosophy they are
admirable. Under these fragmentary forms can be found treatises of
grammar, etymology, exegesis, phonetics, ceremonial, and jurisprudence.

The aphorism which I have quoted is the pure quintessence of the
Vedanta.

And of Pantheism also, it may be said. This word Pantheism is one of
the most difficult to define, and I shall not attempt to explain it.
I have a horror of epithets, and I am sorry that it is not always
possible to avoid them. I do not examine philosophical systems too
minutely, lest I should be drawn into hurling at them such words as
pantheism, mysticism, positivism, materialism, naturalism, without
being quite clear when it is no longer lawful to express myself in
these terms; epithets and labels are very apt to return home to roost.
I will therefore confine myself to this remark, with regard to the
belief of the Hindoos; if each definite colour can be broken up into
a number of tints too numerous to name, may it not be the same with
certain shades and meanings in words and thoughts?

The Greeks hardly suspected the existence of the Veda; in more modern
times Europe caught glimpses of it; and now, although completely
discovered and studied, it is thoroughly known only to a few erudite
scholars, which explains the fact that this ancient creation of the
Hindoo mind has exercised so small an influence on our philosophy.


THE SACRED WRITINGS OF THE HEBREWS

Whilst the hymns of the Rig-Veda, with their simple meditations,
invocations and interrogations--sent out by chance, as it were, into
space--accurately trace the march of thought which accompanies the
search for indications of the Unknown--the Infinite; we look in vain in
the Old Testament for the first dawnings, the first impressions made on
the human soul by the existence of things divine. From the time when,
in the garden of Eden, Adam and Eve entered into communion with the
Eternal, the sacred narrative of facts, evidently historical, continues
in such a manner as to have led some to regard it as merely allegorical.

To verify in the light of scientific knowledge the titles which the
Bible can truly present to the veneration of the Christian world
appears to some more and more advisable.[118] Few persons amongst the
critical students of the Old Testament doubt that the books said to be
by Moses are a collection of ancient documents, a compilation made by
different individuals living at different periods, with long intervals
between them, each with his own point of view. The conscientious
examination to which these portions of the sacred writings have been
subjected was directed at first to isolated points, and in order to
exercise freely the critical faculties so much in evidence now, it was
necessary to modify the generally accepted view that the religion
of the Jews was cast in one piece, and perfect at the first. It was
necessary to separate the ancient documents from those of a more
recent date, but the attempt to make an exact chronological table of
the earlier history of the Hebrews was abandoned. Until the death
of Solomon only round numbers could be used, even the date of the
oldest fact in history, the exodus of the Jewish people from Egypt,
cannot definitely be fixed. Amongst the Egyptologists, whose testimony
is of the greatest value, there is great hesitation in assigning a
date, though the greater number hold to the fifteenth century B.C.
Their representations with regard to Moses are so devoid of definite
historical data as to envelop his personality in great mystery.

The idea of a revelation expressly delivered to the Jewish people
acquired a more definite form in the Middle Ages; and from the
Reformation the theory was promulgated, amongst those to whom the
idea was not repugnant, that to a small portion of humanity only--the
elect--had been consigned the task of disseminating the knowledge of
religious truth in the world. The study of the Scriptures spread to all
classes where it was not forbidden to the laity, and from that time
millions of human beings knew no other literature.

Assured that the Old Testament contained the inspired words, Jews
and Christians alike read it with feelings of reverence which
naturally excluded all idea of captious criticism. But the spirit of
biblical criticism which animated the reformers was never afterwards
extinguished, and attentive readers discovered variations in the
construction of the Pentateuch which at that time were inexplicable.
The fact that the Bible contained many narratives which could not
always be reconciled the one with the other was known long before the
period of which we are speaking. St Jerome, when feeling the want of
more accurate Greek and Latin translations than those in use in his
time, undertook to make one, and wrote thus to a friend of his, a
priest: “Re-read the books of the Old and New Testaments, and you will
find so many contradictions in the numbers referring to the years,
and to the kings of Judah and Israel, that it would require a man of
leisure rather than a student to enter thoroughly into the matter.”[119]

Side by side with this historical reconstruction which is now carried
on, there is a work of examination being pursued. It is asked by what
means did the Jewish people become so strong, so compact, whilst in
the midst of strange nations, and in spite of all vicissitudes. It is
also asked what was the earliest history of the Hebrews, and whether
it is due to the supernatural element that the tribes assembled at
the base of Mount Sinai were enabled to become an united people; and,
finally, these keen questioners desire to know the stages by which the
conception of the Deity entered the Semitic mind.

The scholars who give themselves to these enquiries, generally
eliminate the question of popular orthodoxy from the subject, since
they consider that when theoretical theology finds its way amongst
such workers it does not assist research; it confuses their point
of view; they look upon the whole race as becoming prophets, and
the prophets become apostles, and thus, out of proportion. The work
advances slowly; each critic puts forth his own special lucubrations
concerning the biblical settings which all are naturally anxious to
retain; contentions are rife on the subject of the Hebrew writers;
their lack of Christianity, and their philosophy are both made matters
for discussion, and disputes between the commentators did not cease.

Amongst those who are passive witnesses of the scientific
investigations, there are many who, without closely following this
modern exegesis, are sufficiently enlightened to recognise its aim and
its use, and they exclaim with a satisfaction mixed with astonishment,
“Whatever may be said one fact remains certain, our holy Scriptures
speak of God as God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, as He most truly
is, therefore the Old Testament, the product of the Semitic mind, is
free from the taint which is perceptible in ancient Aryan literature,
that of mythology.”

Let us seek the reason of this immunity accorded to the sacred books of
the Hebrews, let us seek it _in_ the language, not _apart_ from it, as
some do when looking for the origin of thought.


THE VARIOUS NAMES OF GOD

According to the historians who have made a study of the ancient
religions, each name given to or descriptive of a deity corresponded to
a special conception formed by the people. This has been a generally
received principle, and it serves as a clue to guide us in our study of
primitive creeds.

The Semitic languages, like the Aryan, possessed a number of names of
the Deity in common, all expressive of certain general qualities of
the Deity, but all raised by one or other of the Semitic tribes to be
the names of God, or of that idea which the first breath, the first
sight of the world, the feeling of absolute dependence on a power
beyond ourselves, had for ever impressed and implanted in the human
mind. These names were all either honorific titles, or represented
some moral qualities. El and El-Schadai--Strong, Powerful; Bel or
Baal--Lord; Adon or Adonai--my Lord, Master; Melk or Moloch--King;
Eliun--the Highest God. Such names as these, so clear and easily
understood, did not readily lend themselves to mythological contagion,
and they were adopted by Christian phraseology because they contained
nothing but what might be rightly ascribed to God.

I could have wished to pass over the name Eloha, which eventually
became Elohim, in silence, as its history is a long one, but I shall
say a few words about it, as it is one of the most primitive names,
and indicates to us what the Semites understood by divine. The name
Elohim, applied to an unknown, invisible power, one not grasped by the
senses, was the expression of all that was superior and beyond what was
seen and known on the earth. At the same time the name was used not
exclusively for the Deity, but for others whose attributes, whether
physical or moral, demanded a superlative appellative ... there were
thus several Elohims of varying natures, the Semitic termination in
_im_ turning Eloha into a plural, still always took a singular verb
after it, and Elohim or the Elohim (pl.) were both used.

If a comparison be made between the Semitic and Aryan methods of
treating the same subjects, the assertion seems amply justified that
mythology has not ventured to effect an entrance into the thoughts of
the Hebrew writers. If the subject Dawn be taken, it would remain with
the Semitic authors a natural daily occurrence, but the Aryan writers
would transform it into a personal agent taking the form of gracious,
kindly mythical personages. An example presents itself in the book of
Job.

Jehovah, the Creator of the universe, “answered Job out of the
whirlwind,” who had sought to learn the secrets of nature. Jehovah said
to him:--

  “Hast thou commanded the morning since thy days began, and caused the
   dayspring to know its place?

  “Declare if thou knowest it all.

  “Where is the way to the dwelling of light; and as for darkness,
   where is the place thereof?

  “Doubtless thou knowest, for thou wast then born. And the number of
   thy days is great.” (Job xxxviii. 12, 18, 19, 21).

This is dawn in biblical language and in nature; but who would
recognise it under the figure of Daphne, Eos, or Ahana? All of whom
have so exercised the brains of our mythologists.

But Jehovah drives still more deeply the point of His discourse into
the conscience of Job.

  “Who hath cleft a channel for the water flood, to cause it to rain on
   a land where no man is?

  “Hath the rain a father?

  “Or who hath begotten the drops of dew?

  “Canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters
   may cover thee?” (Job xxxviii. 25, 26, 28, 34).

The Aryans had also described the rain, and their thoughts on the
subject coincided with those of the Semitic race, but they were clothed
in the grotesque language generally associated with myths.

“The rain is represented in all the primitive mythologies of the Aryan
race as the fruit of the embraces of Heaven and Earth.”[120] This is
an advance towards the poetical metaphor which Æschylus at a later
date thus expressed: “The bright sky loves to fructify the earth; the
earth on her part aspires to the heavenly marriage. Rain falling from
the loving sky impregnates the earth, and she produces for mortals her
fruit.”

It is necessary to possess a somewhat profound knowledge of the
morphological characteristics of the Semitic and Aryan languages
in order to note accurately the particulars to which I have drawn
attention, and to understand the amount of influence they exercise on
religious phraseology.


THE GENIUS OF LANGUAGES

Each linguistic family has special features, just as each race has
its own physiognomy; the distinctive feature of the Semitic languages
is that the significative elements destined to form appellatives,
when once incorporated as roots in the body of a word, suffered no
modification, and the original meaning could never be ignored. Thus all
Semitic names for the dawn, the sun, the vault of heaven, the rain,
and other natural phenomena, preserving their appellative character,
could not be used for any other object; thus they could never express
an abstract idea, such as that of the Deity. The method followed with
regard to the arrangement of words in the greater number of Semitic
dictionaries, which are generally arranged according to their roots,
attest the truth of this fact. When we wish to find the meaning of a
word in Hebrew or Arabic, we first seek for its root, and then look in
the dictionary for that root and its derivatives. In similar languages
no ambiguity is possible; nothing lends itself to myths.

In the Aryan languages, on the contrary, such an arrangement would
have been extremely inconvenient; here the roots were apt to become
so completely absorbed by the derivative elements, whether prefixes
or suffixes, that often substantives ceased almost immediately to be
appellative, and were changed into mere names or proper names; this
peculiarity of the language enabled the Hindoos to form such words
as Dyaus, Aditi, Varuna, Indra, which at first designate various
aspects of nature, and afterwards were applied to different aspects of
divinities. The preceding pages have afforded us many examples, and I
hope that the comparison I have drawn between the two representations
of the same object will suffice to explain why it is that we possess a
Grecian and Hindoo mythology, but that there was no Hebrew mythology.


METAPHOR

But, on the other hand, the Old Testament is full of metaphor--these
pearls of discourse; these expressions so light and effective in
the mouths of poets as they skim over the surface of the subject in
hand, but which we make so ponderous and ungraceful with our literal
interpretations. When David speaks of God as a rock, a fortress, a
buckler, we have no difficulty in understanding his meaning, although
we might express ourselves differently, and probably speak of the
ever-present help of God. Where we allude to a temptation from within
or from without, it was more natural for the ancients to speak of a
tempter, whether in a human or animal form. What with us is a heavenly
message or a godsend was to them a winged messenger.

What is really meant is perhaps the same, and the fault is ours, not
theirs, if we persist in understanding their words in their outward and
material aspect only; and forget that before language had sanctioned
a distinction between the concrete and the abstract, the intention of
the speakers comprehended both the concrete and the abstract, both
the material and the spiritual, in a manner which has become quite
strange to us.[121] I believe it can be proved that more than half
the difficulties in the history of religion owe their origin to this
constant misinterpretation of ancient language by modern language, of
ancient thought by modern thought, particularly whenever the word has
become more sacred than the spirit.


THE LATER NAME FOR GOD AMONGST THE HEBREWS

Each divine name mentioned hitherto represented a quality or an
attribute; we now come to one of comparatively more recent date, which
contains neither attribute nor similitude; it is mentioned for the
first time in a conversation between God and Moses. God speaks from the
burning bush, and tells Moses to bring the children of Israel out of
Egypt. “And Moses said unto God: Behold, when I come unto the children
of Israel and shall say unto them: ‘The God of your fathers hath sent
me unto you’; and they shall say to me: ‘What is His name?’ what shall
I say unto them? And God said unto Moses: ‘I Am that I Am.’ And he
said: ‘Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent
me unto you’” (Exod. iii. 14, 15).

God in speaking of Himself said: “I Am that I Am,” or, “I Am”; but
man in designating God used the word Jehovah. The etymology of this
word was sought, and it was regarded by many, rightly or wrongly, as a
derivative of the verb to be. Jehovah was thus--absolute existence, or
the Being.

“And God spake unto Moses and said unto him: ‘I am Jehovah; and I
appeared unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob as El Shaddai, but by
my name Jehovah I was not known to them’” (Exodus vi. 2, 3).

Writers are now generally agreed that Jehovah should be pronounced
Jahveh. Renan notices this striking fact. “The name of God which
has conquered the world,” he says, “is unknown to all who are not
Hebraists, and even they do not know how to pronounce it.”

By a superstition which some writers trace back to a very remote
period, the Israelites considered the name which God had used of
Himself to be too sacred to be uttered by human lips; gradually its use
was discontinued; and the name Lord was used in its place.

Although the names of God all indicated the one true God, they did not
preserve the children of Israel from polytheism, since there was hardly
a tribe that did not forget the original meaning of the titles used. If
the Jews had remembered the meaning of the word El, they could not have
worshipped Baal as distinct from El; but in the same way as the Greeks
connected the worship of Apollos and Uranus with that of Zeus, so the
Jews were ready at times to invoke the gods of their neighbours.

It is not that the earlier names of the Deity contained no second
meaning as qualificative adjective; Force, for instance, could be
symbolised, but the idea of absolute existence expressed by the words,
“I Am,” excluded all symbol and all likenesses.

The Jews did not profit by this preservative from error; on the
contrary, with the advent in Israel of this new conception of the
Deity, the partial eclipse which so often obscured their reason seems
at times to have given place to one more complete. As soon as Moses had
constituted them a nation, they appear to have looked upon God as a
national God, ignoring His relationship with other peoples.

The salient point in the Old Testament is the relation of God with His
people, an alliance or covenant between Jehovah and Israel of which
the rainbow became the first type. Threatenings and promises enforced
the keeping of the moral law, the good and evil things of this life;
if Israel obeyed the Lord and kept His commandments, the fields would
yield their crops, the trees their fruits, and peace would reign in the
land; if they were disobedient, the heaven would become brass, and
famine and pestilence would decimate the people, and the rest would be
led captive by foreign kings.

Although no definite assertion concerning the immortality of the soul
may be found in the Old Testament, a belief in personal immortality is
taken for granted in several passages, and mention is frequently made
of an abode in which the spirits remain after their separation from the
body, that is Sheol, in which joy and suffering are equally unknown.
The picture drawn by David in some of the Psalms, of the abode of the
departed is sad and desolate. Though the word is not meant for an
individual grave, this idea may have been borrowed from it; the meaning
is that of a vast space in the interior of the earth; the dead lie down
and are together and at rest, but separated not only from man but also
from God.

The Hebrews naturally mourned and compassionated their dead most
sincerely. “Alas my father, alas my mother, my poor children.” But why
should we Aryans, whose language is not allied philologically with
the Semitic, copy their phrases? Why should we Christians, who are
not linked to them by dogma, allow ourselves to use the same hopeless
expressions, instead of words instinct with life and hope?


ON THE PROPHETS (NĀBHĪ)

The phenomenon of prophecy, one of the earlier developments of the
human mind, has been found amongst all peoples, at one time or other
of their history. Certain spontaneous psychical movements dominated
men. The important rôle played by the oracles in the history of Greece,
is well known; the Greeks classed both the priests who interpreted
the auguries, and those persons who considered themselves inspired by
the gods and claimed a knowledge of hidden things, under the name
of prophets, indifferently. In the third century B.C. the Jews of
Alexandria, when writing the Septuagint, translated the Hebrew word
_Nābhī_ by prophet. As amongst Hebraists the word Nābhī does not
necessarily imply the power of foretelling the future, whilst the word
prophet conveys that meaning, it might have been well to employ both
terms.

The original meaning of the word Nābhī seems to have been “agitated
outbursts.” These men seem to have passed through a phase of nervous
exaltation before beginning their exhortations; when once they had
started their outpourings they no longer had control over their
spirit’s impulse; and were often physically prostrated, showing signs
of an overpowering compelling physical force, divinely irresistible.

These Nābhīs, who appeared on the occasion of any crisis, when the
welfare of the public was at stake, were at the head of popular
movements, giving them a right direction; they were the first to rise
against the oppression of the ruling powers, and thousands of them
perished in misery. Isaiah likens them to sentinels, or watchmen always
on the alert, watching with eyes fixed on the horizon, charged with
the duty of sounding the alarm on the approach of danger. “One calleth
unto me out of Seir; Watchman, what of the night? Watchman, what of the
night?” This same Isaiah compares the negligent prophets to “dumb dogs,
that cannot bark, lying down, loving to slumber.”

Their preaching must have been very powerful; Luther, in speaking of
the prophecies of Isaiah, says, “Every word is a furnace.”

Until now Jehovah had by the mouth of the Nābhīs addressed the people
as a nation; the individual was not singled out. But imperceptibly a
change took place; new indications presented themselves. Instead of the
order, “Slay, slay,” milder accents were heard; it was as though heart
spoke to heart: “Wherewith shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself
before the high God? Shall I come before Him with burnt offerings; with
calves of a year old? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul? He hath showed thee, O
man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do
justly, and to love mercy” (Micah vi.).

The individual becomes more evident; like the rishis, Elijah sought the
Lord; and he came to Mount Horeb: “And a great and strong wind rent the
mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord
was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was
not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord
was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice,” I imagine
that Elijah said to himself: “That still small voice is for _me_.”

There were in certain places assemblies of Nābhīs, and schools in
which the young prophets were trained in rhetoric and in composing
discourses; for though some improvised, others--amongst them probably
Isaiah--previously wrote their messages. All used a rhythmical language
akin to poetry; the teaching of music no doubt formed a part of their
education, since we know that the sound of music helped to produce the
ecstasy which resulted in prophesy.[122] The gift seems to have been to
some extent contagious. Prophets were found in bands, prophesying, and
followed by musicians.

During the eight centuries preceding our era, a succession of terrible
calamities took place. The Nābhīs upheld the courage of the people
by their immovable conviction that the Lord would send a leader, and
deliverer of the people from their enemies. Through the whole of this
time Israel, though often despairing and sometimes in revolt, resisted
doubt; an unknown phenomenon amongst the heathens of antiquity. That
which strikes us as so inexplicable is that Judaism showed itself
capable of such prodigies of devotion and self-sacrifice, though so
little sustained by the bright glimpses of the future life.

The Elohim with whom the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were
permitted to hold intercourse, appeared more accessible to the
Israelites than the mighty Jehovah of whom they were forbidden to make
an image. The more we contemplate the infinite grandeur of the majesty
of God, of whom there is no similitude, whose name is “I Am,” to whom,
according to Fenelon, even the word spirit is inapplicable, and of
whom, according to Descartes and Bossuet, nothing may be said but this,
“The Being,” the more it seems possible to fear, to reverence Him; but
to love in those days seemed difficult--love was rarely seen.

I desired to know what the best and most profound thinkers could say on
the ties uniting them with their Creator, those who had experienced the
action of the Divine love in themselves. At the same time I determined
to emphasise as little as possible the various forms these thoughts
might wear, whether in philosophical systems or in religions which had
been founded or organised in the visible Church.

Amongst the thinkers who have occupied themselves with these matters,
I will mention one who, about two hundred years ago, was looked upon
as a dangerous heretic. Since that time Baruch Spinoza has been
anathematised as an atheist, and venerated as a saint; afterwards he
was declared by certain philosophers to be no atheist, but was counted
as a Pantheist. In our day he is known to be less of a Pantheist than
was thought.

Shrinking from such epithets, which disturb my judgment, I will not
enter into the question as to which approaches more nearly to the
truth.

I spoke once after this manner to some friends of mine, in the presence
of one whom I had not seen before.

“You are too diffident,” he said to me, “I will give you a safeguard
against obscurity of judgment. Read any system of philosophy you like,
you will doubtless discover that error predominates in it; put it aside
for the time being and read another, make the round of several systems.
With each your first impression will probably be renewed. After that go
over each in your mind, not in detail, but taking each in its entirety.
You will find that you can point out a certain truth, _one_ truth which
will have occurred in all. Let this gradually expand in your mind
without unduly forcing it; you will have forgotten the epithets used,
and will find one dominant note which will enlighten your judgment.”

The manner in which Spinoza interpreted the sacred writings of his race
has perhaps not attracted sufficient attention. His most important work
from this point of view has the somewhat repellant title of _Tractatus
theologico-politicus_. It is diffuse and heavy, and its translators
have not succeeded in rendering it more agreeable. It is very difficult
to grasp in detail, as omissions and reservations abound.


THE VIEWS OF SPINOZA

When reading Spinoza it is necessary to bear in mind--which is not
easy--that he is neither a heathen philosopher nor a Father of the
Church nor a modern critic, but a learned Jew, living in the middle
of the seventeenth century. I will try to reproduce his opinions in
his own words, and endeavour to keep them uncontaminated, as far as
possible, with the views of the end of the nineteenth century.

Spinoza asserts plainly that he receives the Bible as an inspired book;
in this he perhaps differs from some of our more recent exegetes who
examine the Bible as any other literary work of history and morality.

Christians grow up in the truth that the Bible contains the Word of
God, and they claim that their teaching has its basis in the Old
Testament. But others have argued thus: What do these know of the
history of the Hebrews? They do not understand the language of their
writings, and they cannot say what caused those sublime teachers of the
people, the prophets, to speak on such and such an occasion, in such
and such a manner. Being ignorant on all these points it is possible
that interpretations of the Old Testament may have led us into error.

The existence of what are now called the laws of nature being
unknown in those far-off days, the Hebrews were unable to recognise
secondary or mediate causes; the book of Job is an example of this.
God intervenes personally on each occasion. Our attention is directed
solely to two points: man who suffers, that is, who consents or is in
revolt, and God who wills or wills not.

As everything without exception is placed in direct relationship with
God in the Old Testament, all is said to emanate from God; the cedars
of Lebanon are the cedars of God;[123] men of great stature, the
giants, are called in Genesis sons of God; the knowledge of nature and
of natural things which Solomon possessed is called the wisdom of God;
the discretion of a judge and the gains of a merchant are the gifts
of God; Assyria is the scourge of God, and the lightning His arrows.
And Spinoza asks: why are the children of Israel called God’s chosen
people? Because the Lord, having delivered them out of Pharaoh’s hands,
led them into the land of Canaan, where they lived under the laws
revealed to Moses, to which the surrounding nations were not subject.
“I will be your God, and ye shall be My people,” Jehovah had said by
the mouth of Moses. This was the covenant concluded on Mount Sinai
between the Lord God and the Jewish nation. These laws, which were at
the same time civil and religious, were included under the general
term, the Law of the Lord, and the Book containing these precepts was
called the Word of God.

According to an ancient tradition, God revealed to Noah seven precepts
which corresponded to commandments given generally to all mankind
without distinction of race; there was thus perhaps a revelation given
at the beginning of time, even before the first and greatest of the
prophets, Moses; and this revelation the patriarchs knew. The light
which lightens every man born into the world impressed these first
precepts on the human heart; to the Jewish race it seemed perhaps
improbable that a divine law not promulgated by a human mouth nor
delivered in the name of the God of Israel, could be imposed on man;
as Moses was permitted to hear God’s voice amongst the lightnings and
thunders, the Israelites considered themselves on a higher level than
the rest of humanity, and held in less esteem eternal verities which
were the possession of all mankind. Moses told them that after his
death God would raise up a prophet amongst them on condition that they
should keep His Covenant and His Commandments to do them, and he warned
them of the consequences of breaking these: “I testify against you this
day that ye shall surely perish.”

We find the second revelation in the books ascribed to Moses; written
in our memory as distinctly as in the Bible; it has so entirely
eclipsed the first that the greater number of us do not remember ever
to have heard of the seven precepts of Noah.

After the death of Moses, prophets succeeded each other in Israel;
all from the first to the last acknowledged that they received the
revelation either by symbols or illustrations, or by the word; their
eyes saw certain objects and their ears heard the explanation of what
they saw. Ezekiel, like Moses, saw God under the appearance of a
flaming fire; Daniel saw Him as the “Ancient of Days, whose garment was
white as snow”; the disciples of Christ saw the Spirit of God under
the form of a dove; the Apostles as tongues of fire; and Saul, at the
moment of his conversion, recognised it in a bright light, and these
visions were always accompanied by words.

The prophets rise above the level of other men by the intensity of
their faith, and by their vivid imagination; but imagination is mobile,
and their ecstatic conditions were not permanent; how could they feel
assured of being in direct communication with the Lord Himself? They
were so lacking in assurance that they often required some palpable
sign, thus did Abraham, Moses, Gideon and many others. Each time the
sign was granted to them; a fire descending from heaven to consume
the offering; a rod changed into a serpent; a healthy hand instantly
covered with leprosy; a fleece of wool remaining dry on ground that was
wet with dew, and other miraculous signs.

According to Spinoza the gift of prophecy is on a lower level than that
of ordinary intellectual knowledge which requires no outward sign of
confirmation.

The nature of the revelation depended also upon the temperament of each
prophet, on his education and his own personal opinions; the Magi who
studied astronomy and astrology, seeing a star in the east, at once
went in search of the expected child. But on one point all were agreed,
they all said with Moses: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all
thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might, and thou
shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” And they said with Isaiah: “Wash
you, make you clean, put away the evil of your doings, cease to do
evil, learn to do well, relieve the oppressed.”


OBEDIENCE

A striking feature of Spinoza’s philosophical system was the basis of
obedience upon which the whole edifice of a religious life rested; now
obedience presupposes the existence of a law.

As the Israelites seemed incapable of appreciating the intrinsic
excellence of the precepts delivered to them, Moses enforced their
fulfilment, and spoke of God to them as a just and righteous law-giver
who would reward those who kept the commandments and punish those
who transgressed them. And when this law was given out, amongst
thunders and lightnings, the children of Israel acknowledged it with
acclaim--though not always fulfilling it--because they were the only
people possessing it.

At last the time came when it was possible to say: “The appointed hour
has come.” The Jewish nation, for whose sake the Mosaic law had been
revealed, was on the point of crumbling to pieces, when Christ appeared
proclaiming the universal and divine law. Christ was no prophet in
the ordinary acceptation of the word, since neither word nor vision
revealed God’s Will to Him, the truth was in Him in all its plenitude,
His mind was identical with that of the Father, and Eternal Wisdom took
the form of humanity.

Jewish as well as Christian theologians have equally contributed at
times to obscure the sense of the Holy Scriptures; they have taught
that man’s reason is unsound and can with difficulty penetrate the
mysteries of religion; and that the only way, therefore, was to accept
the Bible as infallible in all its details. The faithful extended this
doctrine of infallibility to every verbal peculiarity and failed to
distinguish the eternal principles, always clearly and simply expressed
by the prophets, from those vivid illustrations which enabled them
to speak, without hindrance, in terms most adapted for arousing
the wonder and belief of the ordinary hearer, of matters _per se_
inexpressible, as for instance of the Divine Nature. Spinoza especially
blames the theologians for having introduced in their commentaries
notions borrowed from Grecian philosophers, which they adapted to the
Old and New Testament, clothing them in biblical language; this mixture
of divine inspiration and subtle argument more and more disturbed pious
souls who went to their Bibles for edification only.

To those capable of understanding them Christ revealed the secrets
of the Kingdom of God; they were the higher truths of eternal life,
the counsels of perfection; to the multitude He spoke in parables and
gave them commandments which were to be obeyed that they might enter
the kingdom of heaven. The Apostles spread abroad the teachings of
Christ; they preached the love of God with that of our neighbour,
not as sufficing in itself, but as a commandment spoken in the name
of the Life and Passion of our Saviour. And then each one added to
these great truths minor teachings, varying the subjects according as
they addressed Jews or Gentiles; many different teachings were thus
promulgated, giving rise in the early Church to misunderstandings,
gradually leading to disputes and schisms; and after nineteen centuries
of study of the subject we still have not arrived at perfect mutual
understanding. Spinoza quotes in this connection a Dutch proverb: “Geen
ketter; sonder letter.” Without a text, no heresy.

When shall we learn that the revelation of God is not confined to a
certain number of books, to a certain number of words? It must of
necessity be inscribed elsewhere also, since words are patient of
more than one interpretation, books go astray and are lost, paper
becomes mildewed and is torn, stones are smashed even in the hands of a
prophet.

Spinoza tells us that he read and re-read the Holy Scriptures with
the greatest care before commenting on them, and he undertakes to
demonstrate to the Christian governments the necessity of reforming the
constitutions of the established churches by replacing a phantom Bible
by the Bible understood in spirit and in truth.

The scientific portion of the task would not be complicated, since the
commandments of God are few in number, in fact they may be reduced
to one. “He that cometh to God must believe that He is, and that He
is a rewarder of them that diligently seek Him”; and as a proof that
they seek Him they must practise justice and charity; these are the
foundations of the faith, and they are so clear and so simple, that
no commentary thereon is needed, nor are they affected by any of the
verbal differences or inaccuracies.

The ecclesiastical authorities thus act sometimes contrary to the
divine will when they declare those who are leading a good and virtuous
life to be the enemies of God, simply because their opinions are not
in exact conformity with the theological definitions put forth by the
churches. The civil power ought to be able to judge of the belief of
its citizens by the fruits they produce, if their works are good, it
may be thought that in the eyes of God their belief is also correct,
but personal theological opinions, though in conformity with the
decrees permitted by the Church, would not prevail in God’s sight over
wrong doing. When governments act in accordance with these views, all
is well--individuals, the nation, and the governments.

In order to believe that God’s Word may be found elsewhere, it
is necessary to believe that He exists. His existence cannot be
known;[124] we can, however, obtain some knowledge of it by certain
means of which we can know the reality; they are so real that we
cannot imagine any force that can invalidate them; these means or
notions are the fundamental axioms inherent in the human mind, and
are the bases of all knowledge; it is to these that we owe the power
of being able to distinguish good from evil, and this faculty we may
regard as the forerunner of the divine revelation. If we once admit
the possibility of these first principles--these axioms--becoming
obliterated, we should then admit a doubt of their intrinsic truth,
which would attack and weaken their immediate conclusion, which is
the existence of God; from that time we should possess no element of
certainty. This is why it has been said that attacks against reason are
more dangerous than attacks against the faith, because they destroy
with one blow the sacred edifice and the foundation which bears it.


THE LAW

In a system where law is everything, how does Spinoza understand the
action of Providence?

Men are accustomed to call that knowledge divine which surpasses the
human understanding, and that event miraculous when the cause is
unknown to them; and nothing better demonstrates to them the existence
of God, His power and His providence, than those things which appear to
them to change the order of nature. We sometimes show our ignorance by
attributing things of which we are ignorant to a special interposition
of providence. Those who think thus are not in a position to explain
what they mean by the order of nature.

This manner of viewing things might well date from the time of the
early Hebrews, who wished to prove to those nations who were not
Semitic, and who worshipped visible objects, such as the heavenly
bodies, that these were subordinate deities, subject to the will of the
invisible God, whose miracles on their behalf they related, since they
were convinced that the whole of nature contributed to the well-being
of the Hebrew people exclusively.

With God the understanding and the will are the same; to know and
to will is a single act; to know an object as it is in itself, and
to realise it effectively, is a necessity inherent in the Divine
perfection; since all truths come inevitably from the Divine intellect,
the universal laws of nature are the eternal decrees of God.

If any event takes place in nature not in accordance with these
universal laws, then the mind of God has not conceived it; in other
words, he who affirms that in a certain case God has acted contrarily
to the laws of nature, affirms also that God has acted contrarily to
His own Divine nature, which would prove the speaker’s perversity. No
event happens that is not by the will and eternal decrees of God, each
event conforms to laws eternally necessary and absolutely true. To
believe that this could be otherwise would be to admit that God made an
imperfect nature, and established laws so incomplete that they required
to be retouched each time that they failed to realise the divine plan,
a strange conception, and for which there is no necessity. Those who
seek and find their supreme happiness in the love of God, and in doing
the greatest good, have no wish that nature should obey them; they
desire to submit to nature, knowing indubitably, that God governs all
things in accordance with general laws which are in agreement with
universal life.

From this statement it will be seen that it is no longer a question of
resignation--of passive submission; man responds in every part of his
being to the supreme law which, as is the case with all men, leads them
blindly, and, for the most part, unconsciously towards happiness; and
causes, in a great nature, such as Spinoza’s, an unceasing effort to
maintain and to raise itself; the passage from excellence to perfection
is always accompanied by a feeling of joy, and sadness marks each
backward step towards imperfection. The being--Spinoza’s monad--thus
typifies perfection, and good, and evil consists in the increase or
diminution of the being. The natural love of man for life has been
transformed by Spinoza into law; his maxim is well known: Every being
tends to preserve its existence.


THE LAW IN THE GOSPEL

The Old and New Testaments are an exposition of a long discipline of
obedience, this makes their power, and those who study them without
preconceived ideas discover this.

Spinoza distinguishes between the spiritual needs of the majority of
men and the minority, and between the religions which suit the one and
the other. But all men, without exception, must acquire the religion
demanded by all, that is practical religion, which consists in keeping
those commandments given us in the sacred books. This obedience serves
to weaken passions; in the same proportion as man attains this end, so
a light, ever increasing in purity, illumines his intellect, and so
much the more does he comprehend that true happiness is the result of
virtue. Few men go beyond this, or--without any other guide than their
reason--experience that intellectual love of God, inseparable from the
true knowledge of God and man; this love, when entirely disinterested,
yields a joy which is not the reward of virtue, since it is one with
virtue itself.

The divine law was in the world, as St John said, before the coming
of Moses or of Christ, but the world as a whole was ignorant of it;
reason leads us to it, and reason tells us that it leads to the highest
beatitude, and that those who follow it will not need to seek any other.

But there is one thing of which reason cannot tell us; this--that the
moral effect of this universal law, which is obeyed, not because it is
true, necessary and perfect, but simply because Moses commanded the
observance of it, by reason of the covenant made by God, and because
Christ commands it in His own name, is the power of leading to this
beatitude, which those obtain who strive after the spirit of Christ,
perceiving in this law of God, absolute truth. This reason alone could
not have taught us, it is not written in the human heart, this we learn
in the Bible.

That obedience only to a truth should inevitably produce certain
results can hardly be asserted with mathematical certainty, since
mathematical results are the effects only of those things which can be
deduced from the elements contained in them; but a moral certainty we
can feel, and this was the privilege and portion of the prophets; and
it was possible, as it was not contrary to reason.


BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Spinoza belonged to a family of Portuguese Jews settled in Amsterdam.
He led an exemplary life; he was poor and apparently content to be so,
since he refused help from his friends, which he might have accepted
with a clear conscience; what he obtained by polishing spectacle lenses
seems to have satisfied him. He was advised to dedicate one of his
books to Louis XIV., a munificent patron of literary men, but he did
not do so.

_Ethics_--the work to which he owes his fame--in accordance with his
express wish, only appeared after his death, and without the name of
the author, because, he said, the truth should go forth under no man’s
name; he feared also to attach his to a new school of philosophy.

The Rabbis of Amsterdam had long sought to bring Spinoza into a more
orthodox path than the one he trod; his idea that the institution of
prophets had been a source of weakness rather than of strength to the
Hebrew people, threatened to develop into a formal heresy.

The appearance in 1656 of Spinoza’s _Tractatus theologico-politicus_,
raised a storm of indignation; it was the only work of importance which
he published during his lifetime; it was followed by a sentence of
excommunication, read at the gate of the synagogue, and was in these
terms:--

“In the name of the Angels and by a decree of the Saints, we
anathematise and exorcise Baruch Spinoza, in the presence of the Sacred
Books and the six hundred and thirty precepts they contain. Cursed be
he by day and night; may the fury of the Lord consume this man, and
may all the maledictions written in the Book of the Law light on him;
may the Lord destroy him from amongst the tribes of Israel; let no
man go near him, nor speak to him, nor write to him, nor show him any
compassion.”

How eloquent men can be when they are angry! Spinoza left his native
town on that day; he took refuge at the Hague, where he died in 1677,
at forty-four years of age.

In reading the pages in which eminent critics have examined Spinoza’s
system, one seems to see not the man whose writings are known, but two
different men, or rather perhaps several different men; I do not think
even the philosopher would have recognised himself in these résumés.

As has been noticed, Spinoza is neither a true Jew nor, apparently,
a Christian, since the negation of final causes is as foreign to the
spirit of the Old Testament, as his joyous stoicism is to that of the
New; some have remembered the words of Novalis: “Spinoza is inebriated
with God.” They added that with him the crown of the intellectual love
of God was the transport of a soul carried out of itself, but that
this transport must have differed from the ecstasies in which so many
of the saints of the Christian Church found the supreme delight of
the religious life. But amongst Christians what is their conception
of the highest beatitude? I see God in His heaven, but my neighbour,
where is he? On the one side are the happy, on the other the faulty;
we recognise ourselves in each, we see ourselves, we have fellowship
with all; painters have so often represented this scene on theological
lines, that it is familiar to us; is this really the beatitude we
picture to ourselves?

The mental and moral condition of this philosopher lends itself little
to analysis; he who has the most carefully studied his views, would be
the most diffident in expounding them, having found so many obscure
points in them. In any case it is well to remember this circumstance,
Spinoza has now been dead more than two hundred years, and the
discovery that before speaking it is advisable to know something of the
meaning of the words used, dates from yesterday only. Spinoza in his
_Tractatus theologico-politicus_, uses constantly the words prophecy,
inspiration, revelation, faith, and theology, and the reader who has
sacrificed his rest for several nights that he may know what he means
by these five words, ends by acknowledging that his devotion has been
in vain. Happily, no one knows better than our philosopher the meaning
of the word obedience; this helps the reader; he only regrets that the
critics have laid little stress on this crucial point.

Since no man’s writings are capable of being clearly understood if he
is isolated from those who have written on similar lines--beginning
from Novalis (that poetic and charming writer whose true name was
Hardenberg), points of comparison have been established between the
Dutch philosopher (Spinoza), the ecstatic Saint Theresa and the
enthusiastic Saint Francis d’Assisi. Let us now turn to the more sober
genius of Aristotle and see if he will succeed in throwing daylight on
the obscure thought of Spinoza.

“Infinity attracts,” this word of Aristotle would have sufficed, but
the prince of critics gives a further explanation. “Man is face to face
with a truth, and the light lighteth every one that cometh into the
world; all who see see the same things, and all that man has seen is
true.... God works in us not as a workman who tires himself, but as an
all-powerful virtue which acts; He moves as an object of love.”[125]

This opinion of Aristotle is shared by Plato, St Thomas Aquinas and St
Augustine. A complete unanimity.

When I am sometimes struck by certain truths, dressed in all the
brilliance which pure virtues possess, but feeling unable to form
a rational whole of these virtues when they are not arranged in an
orderly manner, I should often have yielded to discouragement, if I
had not read in Bossuet’s _Traité du libre arbitre_ these words: “When
we begin to reason, we must first consider this as indubitable, that
we may know _with complete certainty_ many things of which we do not
understand their corollaries, nor all their results. The first rule of
our logic is that we must not abandon truths which we have once known,
whatever difficulties may present themselves when we are trying to
deal with them; but that we must hold both ends of the chain firmly,
although we may not be able to see the middle by which the two ends are
linked.”


THE IDEAS OF PLATO

A philosopher said to me: “Since we can know nothing of the beyond,
let us make a virtue of necessity, and learn exactly what there is on
our side of the veil.” The advice is excellent. Astronomy teaches us
that perfect order reigns in the sphere studied by that science. The
world may be the result of certain chemical combinations which have
met by chance; but if chance has introduced order in these chemical
combinations, it might as easily derange them and replace them by
disorder; yet the astronomers have not succeeded in discovering the
least indication of disorder in their domain; that we know positively.

It is generally admitted that the world has had a beginning; is it
reason or the absence of reason that we should expect to find at the
origin of the world? Does it proceed so regularly in obedience to laws?
Sages have said, “Laws govern matter, forces, movements, all things
that _are_, but might not have been, just as the world is or exists,
but might not have been.”

Since Darwin wrote, much discussion has taken place with regard to
the origin of species, no one has thought of asking whether the Greek
philosophers had anything to say on the subject. If, for instance,
it had been discovered that the law of certain sidereal phenomena
compelled a circular or elliptical movement, or any other geometrical
form, then this law, in itself, would be a geometrical idea; that
could exist, although the phenomenon in which it was realised, might
disappear with the world itself.

According to Kepler, geometry has given forms for all creation, and
Kepler has also said that God governs all things in conformity with
Himself; in that case geometry would be anterior to the world and
co-eternal with God, and if these geometrical forms which are perfect
have been thought out by a perfect intelligence, is it not the same
with all the component parts of the vegetable and animal kingdoms?
Would a horse, or whatever the ancestor of a horse may be, have been
produced spontaneously by nature? Must there not have been a type of
some kind, which was realised in all horses, multiplying and varying
for every new species? And in the same manner also for all trees and
plants. The first types of these things existed before man, that other
part of nature, and before all that man calls the good, the beautiful.
Were not all these things thought and willed by a mind capable of
thinking and willing?

Thus Plato reasons.

It is received in theology as in philosophy that all things have their
ideal in God; matter itself has its conception and _raison d’être_ in
God; St Thomas Aquinas was able to say with no trace of pantheism, “God
is eminently all things.”


EPISODIAL

Two English travellers, Gatchet and Hall, finding themselves once
amongst the Klamaths, a tribe of Red Indians, asked them concerning
their beliefs; these Indians worshipped a supreme being who made the
world with its plants, animals and men, whom they called “The most
Ancient,” “The Ancient One on high.” The travellers then asked how He
had created the world, whether by means of tools or instruments; they
replied, “By thinking and willing.” This wonderful answer contains the
germ of the thought which, on Greek soil, became the _Logos_, the act
of thinking and speaking, the unique act which in the Creator means
willing and producing. This answer is an echo, and by no means a feeble
one, of the celebrated saying: “God is the Living One who is, in whom
is the Idea of Good” (Timaeus). Plato affirms that the world and all
that it contains has been made in the eternal pattern of the Idea of
Good, and this Idea of Good is not separable from the Creator.

Again perfect unanimity, extending this time to the Red Indians.

It might be thought that an electric current ran round the world;
certain psychical phenomena cannot otherwise be explained.


AN EXCURSION INTO A COUNTRY LITTLE KNOWN

If there are proofs of the existence of God, they should be within
reach of all the world, both the learned and the ignorant, since God is
no more the God of a certain class of person than He is of a certain
nation.

In some modern books on philosophy we see this phrase, “The influence
of the Infinite on souls,” though we may not pay much attention to it,
we perhaps have the feeling that the infinite does not exercise much
influence on us; but it does not allude to ourselves, it refers to our
primitive ancestors, who sought to discover what there could be behind
all they saw and heard; common sense, with its uncertain but powerful
instincts directed primitive man towards an invisible magnet. This is
not our common sense, that is, not as we should define it, self-evident
principles, spontaneous judgments, which direct our acts; but common
sense as Aristotle would understand the word; the faculty of feeling
and perceiving, where all our sensations are united, because all our
external senses converge thither; this common sense is so truly a
sense, that it has its own central organ, which is what we call heart.
But this influence of the invisible--another name for the infinite--had
at first no connection with religion; it merely deposited a germ in
the soul, without which no religious tendency could make itself felt;
and under the impulse of this power--this divine sense which Aristotle
calls the attraction of the desirable and the intelligible--the
passing from the finite to the infinite--the most natural and the most
necessary act of the moral life--is accomplished by a simple flight or
upward movement of the human spirit.

Plato explains this mental phenomenon: “There is in the depth of our
soul a point which is the root of the soul and which forms a connecting
link between God and the soul; the soul apprehends because God has
touched it.”

Perceiving in itself and all around it traces of goodness, beauty,
justice, love, and joy; feeling in itself and around it, life and its
forces; it is only necessary for the soul to send its ideas beyond the
limits of its own confined being, with its imperfect capabilities and
joys, and it will approach God.

Kepler, when discovering the laws governing the planetary system, found
geometry in the sky; since then, the learned have found mathematics in
all the branches of physics. They have seen numbers and geometrical
figures in light and colour, in sound and in music under its sensible
form. Leibnitz, one of the world’s greatest mathematicians, who
discovered the infinitesimal calculus, saw that in this way one could
pass from finite grandeur to mathematical laws and forms such as belong
eternally to God--independent of all dimensions.

Between the spontaneous flight of the soul with spreading wings, going
from finite facts to infinite, and the highest mathematics, which have
existed for about two hundred years only, the analogy is complete;
the learned demonstrations of the existence of God given by all true
philosophers are results which correspond with those obtained by the
ordinary methods used by all men. Thus the identity of the fundamental
process of a reasonable life with that of the geometrical process,
which both demonstrate the existence of God, is established. The
metaphysical certainty of the first process equals the geometrical
certainty of the second. For this reason Leibnitz could say, “There are
geometry, metaphysics, harmony, and morality everywhere.”

I have well said that the human Ego used science and philosophy, before
the appearance of philosophers, to attest that the true path leading
to God is that natural movement of the soul described by the Hindoo
poets--during a time of great ignorance--in the Vedic hymns. This
movement is the universal act of prayer.

For the philosopher, the proof of the existence of God may appear
to rest on a syllogism; for the historian it rests on the complete
evolution of the human mind.

Is it necessary still to ask how the idea of a super-sensible principle
penetrated into the human mind, and how it is diffused over the world?
The reply to this question is in the Veda, where the hymns show
methodically, under an apparent confusion, what we have been able
to glean here and there from the mouth of sages of all times. This
idea revealed itself to man at first in external nature; then man
discovered it in his own personal and phenomenal self, the abridgment
of humanity in its entirety with its living and its dead. “At last
the consciousness of self arose from out the clouds of psychological
mythology, and became the consciousness of the Infinite or the Divine
within us. The individual self found itself again in the Divine Self.
Socrates knew it, but he called it _Daimonion_, the indwelling God.
The early Christian philosophers called it the _Holy Ghost_, a name
which received many interpretations and misinterpretations in different
schools of theology, but which ought to become again what it was meant
for in the beginning, the spirit which unites all that is holy within
man, with the Holy of Holies, or the Infinite.”[126] This may be called
natural religion, since it was revealed by nature, and the truth of
this revelation is demonstrated mathematically.

All that I have just said has been epitomised in a few lines by a
thinker of our century, Bordas-Desmoulins: “Without mathematics it
would be impossible to penetrate to the depths of philosophy; without
philosophy it would be impossible to arrive at the foundations of
mathematics; without the two we could penetrate nothing.”

Aristotle quotes these words of Anaxagoras, who lived one hundred
and fifty years before him: “The man who recognised in nature an
intelligence which is the cause of the arrangement and order of the
universe has alone kept his reason in the midst of the follies of his
predecessors.”

There has been no break in the continuity of the first impression
experienced by man at the sight of lightning, and God whom each nation
named after its own way, and Him whom the Athenians worshipped without
knowing, whom the Apostle declared to them.

I will here repeat the words of Aristotle, which must never be effaced
from our memories: “Man is face to face with the light that lighteth
every one that cometh into the world.” It was this that caused the same
philosopher to use those other surprising words, so difficult to grasp
when reading them for the first time in a book: “All who see see the
same things, and all that a man has seen is true.”


ANTHROPOMORPHISM

Man at the beginning, knowing of two kinds of agents only, both
tangible, themselves and the beasts, conceived the idea that the
phenomena of nature were set in motion by invisible agents of some
kind, their imagination followed its natural bent in picturing these
agents under one or the other of the two aspects familiar to them,
and sometimes under the two united; since these unknown powers--for
instance amongst the Egyptians--often assumed the shape of creatures
half man and half fish, or bird, or quadruped. But with the progress
of civilisation these representations of divinities were modified.
Man having obtained glimpses of the difference between the phenomenal
and the non-phenomenal, was led to suspect the existence of an author
for the one and the other; and this author or agent was perceived
by him anthropomorphically, that is to say, arrayed with a human
personality, but endowed with all the qualities of goodness and
beauty which distinguish the highest and noblest of men. We know that
anthropomorphism in the abstract is wrong, yet without it man could
never have found the way of approach to this unknown author of all
created things, and the desire to know him nearer was irresistible.

In one sense we are less advanced than our primitive ancestors.
Attracted on the one hand by the occult properties of the magnet, and
impelled by sensation, they advanced in all simplicity. At a later date
they desired to have those things explained to them which they did not
understand; men undertook this duty, greater distances grew up between
them, and the sacred code was the result.


THE SACRED CODES AND THE CODES OF LAWS

History teaches us that each sacred Code grew gradually, and in the
same way as the Codes of Laws. A religion peculiar to each people
existed, though vague and indefinite, before the written Code. If there
had not been a growth of the law by means of decrees, pronounced at
various times by the heads of the people, accumulating slowly, and
accepted in the same degree by the people in general, there would have
been no definite Codes of Laws, such as those of Solon and Draco and
others. If there had not been a religious growth formulated in oracles
and prayers, and in commandments promulgated at different times by the
prophets, accumulating slowly, and accepted in the same degree by the
people in general, there would have been no sacred writings, such as
those of Moses, Confucius, Buddha, and others.

It sometimes happens that Codes of Laws become transformed into
petrified fetishes, to which submission is blindly yielded, whilst
their origin is forgotten, and the sense of what is just or unjust
is lost in the question of what is written and thus legal; and some
sacred books are treated as fetishes, to which an implicit submission
is exacted, whilst their origin is forgotten and the sense of what is
true and divine is absorbed in the sole thought of what is written and
therefore orthodox.

The sense of responsibility of the citizen with regard to the law of
his country is in danger of becoming paralysed when that law is applied
with such mechanical exactitude as to confuse the ideas of _law_ and
_equity_;[127] and the responsibility of the believer with regard to
the religion of his country may run risks of becoming paralysed when
that religion is framed in accordance with a ceremonial exactitude
rather than with a human feeling for what is true or false. The mere
possession of the sacred Scriptures may have become a substitute
for the love of God; the effective influence of the Infinite became
changed into a mere habit which drove away the spontaneous action of
the soul. We distinguish with difficulty organised religions from
religions as practised by each one, which was our primitive religion.
There are rites that we love; rites which at first reflected God have
imperceptibly taken the place of God who vivified our religious life.
We possess dogmas, but lose perhaps our hold of the personal assurance
of the existence of a Being whom Plato named “the Being apart,” or “the
self-existent Being.” The results of this are serious, since dogmata,
of themselves, do not always furnish sufficing arguments against
atheism.

It may be asked for how many people is this Supreme Being anything more
than a name encountered in a book? To a small number of individuals
He was an intense reality at intervals during the course of ages, to
saints of the Christian Church and some of the heathen philosophers.
He may still be a reality for certain individualities which modern
philosophies have not classified, as amongst pantheists or atheists,
or minds full of inconsequent enthusiasm. This Being is also a reality
for the erudite mind, or the contemplative who make Him an object of
study. But the greater number of men, even the civilised, the baptised,
are content to pass by; they are satisfied with the reflection only.

Some might say that it is by means of our reason rather than of
our heart that we are enabled to trace in God “the Being apart” or
“self-existent Being,” but Seneca says: “Reason is not only composed of
evidence; its best part is obscure and hidden.”

In our days this remark of Seneca’s has been paraphrased and rendered
more in detail, it has been said: “There are certain minds which are
illumined, and there are others full of warmth; the warmth and the
clarity at times separate, but never the warmth and the nobility; in
the more noble minds there is more warmth.”

If, as Spinoza thought, reason becomes less apt at raising itself to
the knowledge of God, in proportion as imagination and enthusiasm--to
which it gives rise--gain in strength, yet, on the other hand, the
world in general would no doubt have benefited by the work of prophets
which characterised the history of the Hebrew people; the greater
number of intellectual men amongst the ancient philosophers would not
have sought after the knowledge of God, when it was presented in a
form too pure and too abstract to impress the multitude. The divine
conception therefore descended and captivated them by a union of the
divine and human; and it is because the Bible contains this universal
element that the idea of a supernatural revelation has become deeply
engraved in the human conscience, and has caused some to consider the
Bible as the unique source of all revelation. For this reason the
people of Israel, though less prone to action than many of whom history
speaks, are, to those who think, the most important amongst the nations
of antiquity, since they have proved, as none others have done, the
power of the spiritual element in humanity.

It is displeasing to many persons to hear the term “Science of
Religion” used. “How can a science be made,” they say, “of what is a
natural sentiment? We can believe without study.” Why do they not add,
“and without reflection?”

Certainly religion did not commence in this world by study; men first
applied themselves to the natural sciences; they have hardly arrived,
at the present time, at the social sciences; and in the opinion
of certain theologians--Père Gratry, for instance--it was several
centuries before the science of religion became known, but it may be a
science without the religious sentiment suffering in any way. With this
view before us, let us begin not to build but to bring together the
materials; following the advice of the excommunicated philosopher of
Amsterdam, let us look at the sacred writings of the people in order to
form some idea of the different religions, which is much easier than to
know what religion is.

Indifference and ignorance are so common that sometimes young men are
found--even those about to take orders--who would be incapable of
answering these questions: “What are the chief historical religions
of our day? How many are there? Who are their founders? What are the
titles of the sacred writings considered by these communities as
authorities in matters of Faith?” We know that it is not of Faith to
consider that the world was created in six days of ordinary length, but
we do not know the constitution and names of the religions whence for
thousands of years millions of human creatures have drawn their hope,
their consolation, and their rules of conduct.

Eight supreme or “book” religions, as Max Müller calls them, are in
possession of Sacred Writings; Brahmanism, which is the religion of
the Veda, and the most ancient of the Aryan family, with Buddhism form
the two religions of India; Zoroastrianism, or Magism, the Persian
religion; two religions in China, one the result of the philosophical
teachings of Lao-tse; the other--which is more practical--of Confucius;
Judaism and Christianity; and Mohammedanism, the religion of
Arabia.[128]

With regard to the non-Christian religions, there is one with which we
are little familiar; it seems to have an attraction for some people,
probably because we imagine it to contain much occult knowledge, which
stimulates us to search for its mysteries; this religion is Buddhism.
With what complacency we discuss it in our drawing-rooms, without
suspecting that we have erred from the first; we generalise on the
religious opinions of millions of souls separated from us by half
the globe, and by thousands of years, without remembering that these
opinions have varied and continue to vary amongst numerous sects, just
as the dialects of a language vary; and all the time the fundamental
principles of the religion have escaped us.

I shall say a few words only as to Buddhism, and these will relate
first to orthography; it is necessary to distinguish between the words
Buddha and Budha, which are often confounded; they have nothing in
common but their roots. Buddha with two _ds_ is a participle of _budh_
which means awakened, or enlightened with a special light; this name is
given to those who have attained the highest degree of human wisdom;
Budha with one _d_ is simply a wise man; and when the Hindoos taught
the Greeks a knowledge of the planets, they gave this name to the
planet Mercury.

The custom of immolating the widow on the funeral pile of her dead
husband is naturally spoken of with astonishment and horror; for many
centuries neither the Hindoos nor Europeans knew that it arose from a
mistaken interpretation of some lines in the Veda.

At last a time arrived when the Brahmans, who were the religious
nobility of the country and had the control of the Vedic religion,
pretended that each word of the Veda had been supernaturally revealed;
voices were now raised in protest against this affirmation; the Hindoo
people, who submitted patiently to the yoke of political despotism,
would not permit a monopoly of the teaching of eternal truths; and
to shake the authority of the clergy it was quite sufficient for one
man to step forth from amongst the multitude and assert that it was
possible to obtain eternal happiness without the intervention of the
Brahmanic priesthood, and without a blindfold faith in the books on
which they had placed the seal of infallibility. Five hundred years
before our present era this man appeared, the son of a king, of the
warrior caste, not belonging to the Brahman class; he was Gautama
Sâkya-Muni, known to the entire world afterwards as the Buddha. He
claimed the right of giving instruction, and handed it on to others who
were also enlightened. Two hundred years after his death, the famous
king Asoka convened a great council in order to determine the various
points of doctrine; and his edicts were engraved in the Sanscrit
dialect then in use, on rocks in various parts of his kingdom.

If the teaching of Buddha awakened such an ardent sympathy amongst men,
and was propagated with so much rapidity, it was owing to the fact
that the Hindoo mind had been prepared to receive it by centuries of
meditation.

In all probability it was not Buddha who coined the term Nirvâna;
he may have found it ready made in the Upanishads, where it meant
originally not annihilation of the soul, or absorption, but a “blowing
out, an extinction,” then an extinction of passions, a final moral
emancipation, and the union of the individual soul with eternal truth.

In ending this short appreciation of Buddhism, I will add that, even
in our day, there are begging Brahmans, some living in communities,
others dispersed in villages, who know the entire Rig-Veda by heart,
as their ancestors did three thousand years ago; and although they had
manuscripts and even printed texts they made no use of them.

Our knowledge of established religions has rendered one indubitable
fact clear to us, that is the deterioration to which all are subject;
none has remained what it was in its initial period; the most perfect
suffers from contact with the world, in the same way as pure air
undergoes a change when breathed by thousands of lungs.

Christ’s teaching conquered alike the ignorant multitude and the most
civilised portions of the world, because from the first He used words
with which to express the most exalted truths, which could equally
be understood by the young Jew, the Roman publican, and the Greek
philosopher. Christianity broke down the barrier which divided nations;
until that time everyone who did not speak Greek, was, to the Greek, a
barbarian; to the Jew all the uncircumcised were strangers; the nascent
Christianity drew white and black together; the idea of the whole human
race forming one family had its birth at the word of Christ.

The narrowness of outlook disappeared for a time; it returned when
efforts were made to confine the words of Christ within the narrow
compass of a rigid formula; and thus it came to pass that the recently
established doctrine soon ceased to fulfil its chief object, that
of being a link of universal charity. Zealous disciples, whilst
depreciating dissident religions, endeavoured to detach Christianity
from the uninterrupted chain of the government of the world or divine
Providence, thus forming an isolated branch in the history of the human
family.

Each religion, like each language, has a past history, only we neglect
to study the beginnings, because we lose sight of the fact that the
founders of the great religions claim no exclusive right to the name of
sole author.[129]

Justin Martyr, in his _Apology_ (A.D. 139), has this memorable passage
(_Apol._ i. 46): “One article of our faith, then, is that Christ is the
true Logos (or universal Reason) of which mankind are all partakers;
and therefore those who live according to the Logos are Christians,
notwithstanding they may pass with you for atheists; such among the
Greeks were Socrates and Heracleitus, and the like; and such among the
barbarians were Abraham, and Ananias, and Azarias, and Misael, and
Elias, and many others; ... and those who have lived in former times
in defiance of the Logos or Reason were evil, and enemies of Christ,
and murderers of such as lived according to the Logos; but they who
have made or make the Logos or Reason the rule of their actions are
Christians, and men without fear and trembling.”[130]

St Augustine, speaking in the same strain, says: “What is now called
the Christian religion, has existed among the ancients, and was not
absent from the beginning of the human race, until Christ came in the
flesh, from which time the true religion, which existed already, began
to be called Christian” (_Retr._ i. 13).

We know by heart certain passages of the New Testament, but it is
rather the sound than the meaning which is impressed on our memory;
when we come upon similar remarks made some centuries before the Gospel
was preached, they strike us forcibly; and it is as though we heard
them for the first time. Jesus Christ declared before the assembled
multitude: “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born anew,
he cannot see the kingdom of God.” These words were said to a ruler of
the Jews named Nicodemus, who had come to Jesus by night, and he asked
Him to explain how these things could be. Jesus answered: “Art thou the
teacher of Israel, and understandest not these things?”

No, the teacher of Israel understood not these things, but the heathen
Aristotle knew them; he had said in speaking of the contemplation of
God: “Such a life is superior to the ordinary life of man; it is not as
man that man lives this life, but by merit of a divine principle living
in him.”

Jesus said unto the woman of Samaria who was sitting at the foot of
Mount Gerizim, a place sacred to those of her belief: “Woman, believe
Me, the hour cometh, when neither in this mountain, nor in Jerusalem,
shall ye worship the Father; ... but the true worshippers shall worship
the Father in spirit and truth.” Although nearly two thousand years
have passed men do not yet believe it.

Origen, one of the early Fathers of the Church, wrote: “If we wish
at last to emerge from infancy, we must translate the temporal and
visible Gospel into that which is eternal and intelligible.” This
same Father was condemned by a council for certain opinions deemed
erroneous, amongst others those on the plurality of worlds, which he
said he found in the Gospel, this opinion might well be true. St Jerome
mentions the anathema used: “Like Satan, of whom he is the son, Origen
fell as lightning from heaven.” As a piece of eloquence it rivals the
condemnation of the philosopher of Amsterdam.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many legends were disseminated amongst the people, they were the
natural productions of the moral atmosphere of Europe at the time when
the first germs of Christianity sank into a soil strewn with the debris
of ancient mythology. What happened then will always happen when the
multitudes learn the language of their rulers without at the same time
assimilating their ideas.

It is related that in the thirteenth century, in a little town of
Italy, a Brother Thomas asked Brother Bonaventure whence came the power
and unction of which all his sermons were so full. Bonaventure pointed
to a crucifix hanging on the wall of his cell: “He it is who dictates
to me all that I say.” This reply was reported to the people, who
believed it literally, and the inhabitants of the town were convinced
that Brother Bonaventure possessed a crucifix that spoke. The painters
adopted the subject, amongst the first were those of Spain. Thus a
symbol took the place of a sacred truth.

The Church has often been accused of tolerating like superstitions;
yet she endeavours to stop their propagation; but the task of trying
to restore each stone to its place is one of great delicacy, lest the
foundations should be shaken upon which the spiritual life of long
centuries has been built. Miracles are a prominent feature in all
religions; nevertheless, when the disciples of Buddha asked their
master to enable them to perform them, he replied: “I will teach you to
perform the greatest moral miracle. Hide your good deeds, and confess
before the world the sins you have committed” (_Phy. Religion_, p. 339).

Mohammed, in the Koran, expresses the strongest contempt for miracles,
in the usual sense of that word, and he appeals to the true miracles,
the great works of Allah in nature: “I cannot show you,” he said to his
disciples, “signs more wonderful than what you see every day and every
night.” But the orthodox Mohammedans delight in relating the miracles
wrought by Mohammed, and which have made him the marvel of Arabia.

Miracles seem to serve the purpose of impressing upon us that the
religion is true in which name they are performed; it has also been
observed that the same miracle is not generally performed twice, as
the second time it appears natural; it is extraordinary the faculty
man possesses of feeling no astonishment at those things which should
awaken his most profound astonishment.

As critics we are now in a position to take note of the mental
aberrations of the mythological period; we can understand that when
the ancient peoples attributed a divine descent to their kings and
heroes, it was the highest praise that one man could give to another;
we know that the mythology as taught in the schools, was no more the
religion of the Greeks and Romans than rust is iron. Yet it is this
homage which has perhaps obscured our minds as we imagine absolutely
human intercourse taking place between mortals and immortals. The
action of metaphor overstepped the boundary of the fabulous ages; it
invaded, unknown to us, the domain of the modern thinker, and even
our religion was not sheltered from its attacks; we now use in our
religious phraseology the words of _father_ and _son_, without having
first despoiled them of their material meaning; and we hardly realise
that in this different sphere these words are a daring metaphor, upon
which, of our own initiative, we could not have ventured. A vague
idea that God is separated from us by space dominates us, so that the
belief that there can be no barrier between the divine and human is
often confounded with pantheism; yet without pantheism of this kind,
which differs _in toto_ from the dogmatic pantheism, Christianity would
not have made its appearance in the world. We invoke neither Jupiter
nor Jehovah; God is for us the God whose name is found in all modern
languages; but it is God around us, beyond us; in speaking of Him our
thoughts follow Him to Heaven. When a man takes God to witness of
his innocence, he involuntarily lifts his hand to Heaven; in a time
of disastrous drought, when the earth refuses its nourishment to man
and beast, pious souls are invited to pray to God for the blessing of
rain. Whilst the work of science has been specially directed to causes,
religion is content, as in the past, to attribute each act to an agent;
the influence of ancient ideas on our present thought is still in
force, and our mind has to live as the oyster, under a cover which it
has made for itself. But we must submit to evidence, and acknowledge
that if we do not yet escape from the power of mythology, it is that we
meet its language everywhere, even in our sacred writings.

Language has moulded our thoughts; when they tend towards God, we make
a representation of Him as a person, we are not able to avoid such
representations; we know that the sun does not rise each morning, but
we cannot do otherwise than see it rise; we know that the sky is not
blue, but to us it wears no other appearance.

We hear it repeated that an impersonal God is no God; but it is
forgotten that personification implies limitations, since it cannot be
conceived but from a human point of view, and thus with limits. When
Spinoza denied a Divine personality, his opposers believed him to be
denying God; the philosophers of the seventeenth century, including
Catholic theologians, did not define the personality of God.[131]
Descartes and Fenelon’s definition is “The Infinitely perfect Being,
without restrictions, the Being, to which nothing can be added.” In
regarding God’s personality as we do that of a human being, we might
logically say with Massillon: “God, in His anger, hears unwise prayers,
in order to punish those who use them”; you would also be logical if
you thought with that mother that God had taken away her child because
she had loved it too well.

In tracing the progress of ideas concerning God throughout the
course of ages, it would be a sorry task to gather together the
characteristics chosen by Christian writers as those which mark
the supreme Being; these traits would furnish a whole Pantheon of
mythological divinities.

All philosophers and all truly philosophical theologians have held that
God is impersonal Reason; Bossuet called Him “La Raison-Dieu.” This
Light that lighteth every one that cometh into the world is the source
of a principle of certitude; Aristotle, St Augustine, St Thomas Aquinas
thus understood it when they said that mind cannot be mistaken.

If we would make an approximate conception of God we must scrupulously
follow the advice of St Thomas Aquinas, “Eliminate, eliminate,” then
only shall we understand the meaning of the sages who said that
negation is fuller than affirmation.

Thousands of years before St Thomas Aquinas, the Hindoos practised
his method; for it was the inadequacy of the names used to express
the indefinable attributes of divinity that led them always to search
for new ones, until at last, all the phenomena of nature having been
examined and rejected, the Hindoos in despair cried, “It is impossible
to seize that which we seek; it is not this, nor that, nor anything for
which we have a name.” At last they came to the conclusion that there
was no name worthy of God in the language of humanity, and that all
that could be said was, “No, no.”

It is necessary, however, to use names as soon as we possess the ideas.
All those which have contributed to the education of humanity have been
the production of an impersonal work, the result of a long meditation
by the human mind. It has been said that the idea and name of “the
Being” for God, originated in the mind of Moses; perhaps this prophet
put the last touch. “I Am that I Am” was the name used by him for the
Eternal. The Hebrews employed another method when speaking of God,
they used the word Il or El. In Hebrew it occurs both in its general
sense of strong or hero, and as a name of God. Something equivalent is
found in the Zend-Avesta; “Looking around him, Il (Ahuramazda, the Zend
name for Ormazd) sees nothing but himself; and Il said, ‘I Am,’ and his
name became ‘I Am.’”

But man at times yearns for a closer union with God than is expressed
by the name “Being.” When troubled and in pain he says, “My Father!”
and he remembers the names which he lisped as a child, and all come
crowding to his lips; and He who is above all hears and understands.

We must not separate religion from philosophy; the subjects touching on
religion have always been those which have given birth to philosophy;
even if religion existed only on sentiment, as some people maintain,
it would be for philosophy to determine if this sentiment were an
illusion, or if it had a rational base; to separate them is to lessen
both.

FOOTNOTES:

[109] _Origin and Growth of Religion_, p. 312.

[110] Rothe in his “Stille Stunden,” _Anthropological Religion_, p. 16.

[111] Psalm xxxiii. 6; Isaiah xi. 4.

[112] _Natural Religion_, p. 164.

[113] _Rig-Veda_, I. 164. 6.

[114] _Ibid_., VI. 9. 6.

[115] _Rig-Veda_, X. 82. 7.

[116] _Ibid._, 121. 8.

[117] _Theosophy or Psychological Religion_, p. 97.

[118] Higher Critics.

[119] We find from a letter of St Jerome’s to Paula that he was in the
habit of advising his disciples to read the Scriptures, which he so
reverenced, in the following order. He began by the Psalms, then took
the books of Solomon, then he would come to Job. After going through
this course of Old Testament history he would come to the Gospels and
then to the Acts and the Epistles. After this preparation he would turn
to the Prophets, who had foretold all that the Gospels related, and
ended by allowing his disciples to read the historical Books of the Old
Testament, which might, he thought, without such previous training,
trouble and perplex them.--TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

[120] From M. Renan’s work on Semitic languages.

[121] _Introduction to the Science of Religion_, pp. 31, 32.

[122] 2 Kings iii. 15.

[123] Ezekiel xxxi. 8.

[124] “A God understood would be no God at all.”--Dean Mansel,
seventeenth century.

[125] _Metaphysics_, xii.

[126] _Physical Religion_, p. 4.

[127] Cf. _Summum jus est summa injuria_.

[128] This study of religions hardly gives sufficient prominence
to Christianity; Max Müller says: “I make no secret that true
Christianity, I mean the religion of Christ, seems to me to become
more and more exalted the more we know and the more we appreciate
the treasures of truth hidden in the despised religions of the
world.”--_Introduction to the Science of Religion_, p. 28.

“It may be said that my chief object has been to magnify Christianity,
by showing that it is the fulfilment of all that the world has been
hoping and striving for. In one sense that is true. But if I hold that
Christianity has given the best and truest expression to what the old
world had tried to express in various and less perfect ways, I have at
least given the facts on which I rely.”--_Anthropological Religion_, p.
388.

[129] On this subject Max Müller says: “The ancient Fathers of the
Church spoke on these subjects with greater freedom than we venture to
use in these days.”--_Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i., Pref.
xxix.

[130] _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. i., Pref. xxix.

[131] In the seventh century the Personality was clearly set forth in
the Athanasian Creed.




CHAPTER XII OF WORDS


  “Nomina si nescis, perit et cognitio rerum.”--LINNÉ.

If language is the true autobiography of the human mind, our present
language may also be called a perfect photograph of our mind in its
present state of fog. Whether ignorant or learned we still talk and
discuss, and we seldom arrive at an understanding of the subject,
owing to our want of knowledge of the precise meaning of the terms.
The most advanced sciences are those about whose terms we no longer
dispute, mathematics, for instance. When we are quite convinced of
the identity of thought and speech, we shall introduce into our
ideas, and consequently into all our discourses, whether familiar or
philosophical, a clearness impossible to obtain in any other manner.

It would be a great help to know the etymology of words, but that would
not suffice. “L’étymologie,” said Voltaire, “est une science où les
voyelles ne font rien, et les consonnes fort peu de choses.” This sally
bears on its face the date of the century of which this could be said
in all truth. At the time of Voltaire the science of etymology was
confined to ascribing the derivation of a word to another word to which
it bore a close resemblance in sound; and the clever writer was not the
only one to rally the few learned men who considered it possible to
trace words to a source which one can hardly suspect of being related
to them. If Voltaire had known that his sarcasm was nothing more than
a simple scientific truth, he would perhaps have found less pleasure
in expressing it. The science of etymology--a growth of our day--has
discovered that words, which in appearance have nothing in common,
neither sound nor meaning, yet have a common origin.

That would be a curious chapter of the history of thought, in which
were demonstrated the errors that had been introduced and embedded in
our minds by the use of certain words, which in the course of time
gradually developed a meaning the exact opposite of that which they had
at the first.

For instance, matter is generally represented as something tangible,
that is to say, all are agreed in finding it devoid of mind, and it
is a sign of condemnation to say of a century it is materialistic.
Yet we who daily touch tangible objects, such as stone, metal, wood,
never succeed in putting our hands on matter as such; we should not
know where to find it. Does this arise from the fact that matter is not
tangible? The Latin word _materia_ had originally the meaning of the
wood of a tree, then of wood or timber for building. This meaning was
generalised so as to include solid bodies capable of taking various
shapes. When idols were fashioned a distinction was made between the
wood and the shape which emerged; and afterwards, when sculptors carved
statues of marble or of metal, the marble and metal again received the
name of matter or material; and when it was asked of what all tangible
objects were made, even the world on which we live, the answer was that
all were made of matter whilst they differ in form. In this way have we
become possessed of our word matter, to which nothing tangible quite
corresponds; and no doubt, owing to its complexity of meaning, it has
not ceased to exercise the minds of learned men.

If philosophers have not been able to explain accurately the meaning of
matter, physicists have not been more successful, since what we call
matter does not come under our senses. The word might have escaped
this ill fate had it always been used only by philosophers “who try
only to use words that have been clearly defined, but names are used by
the wise and the foolish, and the foolish, as we know, are in such an
immense majority that the wonder is that words have any definite sense
left at all.”[132]

Max Müller says: “I am quite willing to admit that matter may be called
the objective cause of all that we perceive. For the very reason,
however, that it is a cause, matter can never fall under the cognisance
of our senses. All that we can predicate of matter is that it causes
our sensations, that it exists in space and time, that it is one, but
appears under an endless variety of phenomenal forms, that it remains
unchanged in the change of outward appearances.”[133]

The history of the word matter teaches us then that speech, whose
sole duty it is to introduce light into our minds, admits error also
as long as we are ignorant of the original meaning of words: matter,
whilst it was the solid wood of a tree and wood for building, became
for those who had coined the word a fit object for perception and
conception; later, others, differently constituted, saw in it a word
“which contains to every man exactly what he has found in it or added
to it.”[134]

There are many words whose transformations we are able to follow from
one language to another, but, on the other hand, there are others
whose history it is not possible to know with exactness, owing to the
many revolutions, the many breaks and pauses which here and there
have destroyed and scattered the links; but the science of language
progresses, and those who study it look forward to the day when its
foundations will be placed on philosophical bases.

Many of the false ideas we have conceived of words are no doubt
owing to the translations we read of books. When we first begin the
study of a new language the task appears a simple one, the dictionary
supplies us with the equivalent words and the grammar with the correct
forms; but the further we advance the less we are satisfied; the
difficulties of finding expressions which content us increase; words
are too abundant, or too scarce; our conceptions are invaded by ideas
of complete disparity; and we seem to be entering an unknown land,
because new effects of light and shade have lent a novel character to
the country. A translation is therefore at best but an effort to bring
together thoughts which were designed to remain always apart.

If in our modern languages certain words necessarily change their
meaning during the course of three or four centuries, ancient languages
are under the same necessity in an infinitely greater degree.

Many scholars have devoted their entire lives to the task of
deciphering old documents, as it is impossible for literature of an age
anterior to our present era by many centuries to preserve its original
physiognomy two thousand years later. A translation of the hymns of
the Veda, or of the Zend-Avesta, requires exactly the same process as
the deciphering of the inscriptions in the time of Cyrus, Darius, and
Xerxes. The only certain way is to compare every passage in which the
same word occurs, and look for a meaning that is equally applicable
to all. From the lack of this method Sanscrit and Zend texts have
been rendered most incorrectly. It is precisely the Sacred Writings
that have suffered the most from the efforts of interpreters. Those
passages of the hymns which have no close connection with religious or
philosophical doctrines are generally correctly rendered, but as each
generation expects to find the ideas reflecting its own time in the
words of the ancient seers, the most simple discourse--if it can in any
way be construed to represent modern thought--is tortured and twisted
so as to coincide with preconceived ideas, however foreign to the mind
of the writer.

It is the same with the Hebrew version of the Old Testament. At the
time when the seventy Jews at Alexandria were occupied in translating
the Scriptures into Greek, 250 B.C., although Hebrew could not be
looked upon as a dead language, yet even the most learned amongst these
elders did not understand the original of many of the expressions, and
probably few of the translators undertook the task of explaining how
far those to whom Moses’ discourses were addressed, understood them.

If the Old Testament has lost amongst the Higher Critics some of its
ancient glories, it has, on the other hand, acquired a historical
value which theologians of former times had never contemplated. The
knowledge of comparative philology having been used in deciphering the
cuneiform inscriptions or hieroglyphics engraved on the ruined walls of
the temples and palaces of Nineveh and Babylon, we possess information
concerning the worship of the Phœnicians, the Carthaginians, and the
Nomads of the Arabian peninsula. We no longer seek the help of the
inscriptions in proving the truth of the biblical records; it is rather
these which confirm the correctness of all that we learn from the
inscriptions.

One more remark on the subject of our venerable and venerated Bible. I
do not understand how it is that some people with literary tastes never
open the Old Testament to satisfy them. Lack of habit perhaps. Some
of the wits of the Renaissance looked down on the Old Testament; now
the admirers of classic literature know better how to appreciate its
literary beauties of many kinds of which it is full; some of our modern
writers have been much commended for their perorations; the perorations
of the chapters contained in the Bible are superb.

“I will give an instance how the peculiar character of a language may
influence even religious expressions. A Mohawk (coming originally from
North America) was questioned concerning his mother-tongue. It seems
that in Mohawk it is impossible to say father, mother, child, nor the
father, the mother, the child. We must always say, my father, thy
mother, or his child. Once when I asked him to translate the Apostles’
Creed for me, he translated ‘I believe in our God, our Father, and
his Son’ all right. But when he came to the Holy Ghost, he asked is
it _their_ or _his_ Holy Ghost? I told him there was a difference of
opinion on that point between two great divisions of the Christian
Church, and he then shook his head and declared that he could not
translate the Creed till that point had been settled.”[135] This fact
has an interest for linguists; what I am about to relate concerns all.

A lady wishing to practise a little philosophy with the means within
her reach, wrote to me once: “I am perplexed; my heart tells me one
thing, and my soul another.” It required some moments of reflection to
understand what my correspondent meant; the heart was, in her eyes,
obviously, the seat of earthly affections; and the soul that of purely
spiritual aspirations. This hazy manner of explanation might, at first
sight, appear harmless, but on looking at it more closely, it is seen
to be unfortunate, for this confusion between thoughts and words,
meets one in many a book of so-called edification, where the reader
seldom takes note of it, especially if he be hurried or careless; but
one regrets to see good women waste daily half an hour in reading such
indefinite nothings, thinking to accomplish thereby a religious duty;
these persons, with intellectual culture would draw greater benefit to
themselves in devoting their half hour to the perusal of books of a
more sturdy tone.

We believe ourselves to be in the possession of very clear notions
concerning conscience; earnest men speak of it as an inward monitor;
simple folk like ourselves call it the Voice of God; for the one and
for the other conscience seems to be a guide on which they can rely,
and the Greek poet Menander was not mistaken when he wrote the line
“Conscience is a god to all mortals.” But if we possessed within us a
faculty to tell us what is our duty, how could Pascal have said that
good and evil differ with a few degrees of latitude? It is a well-known
fact that the conscience of a Mormon speaks another language to that of
a non-Mormon. We say with truth that we are conscious of having done
well or ill, but it does not follow that it is to our conscience that
we owe the fact of knowing right from wrong; this consciousness is
the result of instruction from without, which we accept when our own
judgment and our own experience demonstrate its truth.

In subjects of general interest, the task of defining terms should
consist in choosing amongst the various interpretations which have
gradually become attached to certain words, not always that one which
is most intimately or etymologically connected with the primary root,
but that which would indicate an important practical difference. Yet by
an unforeseen misfortune, the daily necessity comes before us of using
words whose meaning has never been clearly defined, so that at no time
has one meaning prevailed more than another; this is especially the
case with words connected with religion, faith, and objects of belief,
which each one understands after his own manner.

In our days the possibility of an agreement between religion and
science is often debated; how can we enter on the discussion without
being quite clear as to what religion is? According to some it is
simply the feeling of love for God; according to others it is the
expression of our faith under the form of acts of worship, acts of
charity, or perhaps the holding of certain dogmas.

The same holds good with that which we call faith, and which is often a
feeling of confidence--not always the result of thought--in the faith
of those surrounding us. Some give the name of faith to that enthusiasm
which has sufficed to cause men joyfully to meet martyrdom; others
apply it to the confidence with which the wise men followed the guiding
of the star, when it indicated the road they should follow. Faith is
only worthy of the name when it can be said to be a reasonable faith,
and thus accounting for its existence. If we are not amongst the number
of those who can give a reason for the faith that is in them, we must
take care that credulity does not glide in before we are aware of its
approach; it arises from a weakness of the mind and is compatible with
a tranquillity that differs very widely from peace; and when once
mistress of the situation, it increases, and occupies it. A wise Arab
well said, “He who builds his house on human credulity builds on a
rock.”

“Abstract,” this word which we can trace back to Aristotle, has an
interesting history. Aristotle used it at first to characterise the
creation of a work of art; the sculptor carves out of a block of marble
the statue of a man or of a woman, rejecting the chips and dust which
serve no purpose. Afterwards Aristotle applied this same word to an
idea which an accurate thinker forms, giving it a suitable shape, and
separating it from all accidental thoughts that may have surrounded
it; that done, what remains is an abstract idea. Aristotle has so well
explained the meaning of abstract, that if our logicians had simply
spoken of _concrete_ as that which is non-abstract, all the world would
more readily have understood the meaning of the word--concrete.

We possess and employ a vast number of words, and we apparently
increase them by endowing the same word--from a want of clearness
in our perceptions--with various meanings. The ancient Hindoos must
have felt that an over-abundance of words is pernicious, and for this
reason, no doubt, the Brahmans at a certain period of their literature,
imposed on themselves the rule of expressing their thoughts in the
fewest words possible. They succeeded in presenting each point of
doctrine denuded of all but the barest outline of words; they are the
authors of the aphorism, “A writer of the Sutras is happier in having
economised a portion of a diphthong than from the birth of a son.” The
full force of this sentence becomes apparent when it is remembered that
the Brahman who has no son to perform his funeral rites cannot hope to
enter heaven. It would be difficult to express more forcibly a respect
for words, and the great necessity there is for cultivating clearness
of thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

What I am about to say concerns a word to which I owe the direction
of my views of life, and my resolution to undertake the study of the
subjects forming my present work; this word is the name of a man.

When I was young I made the acquaintance of a very learned Jesuit
Father who employed his time in researches on the ecclesiastical
antiquities of the East. We once found ourselves in the company of
certain persons who were surveying the most remarkable of all the
scientific and philosophical works published in our day; Darwin,
Pasteur, Helmholtz and Max Müller were named. When the reverend Father
heard this last name, he exclaimed, with his accustomed impetuosity,
“Oh! Max Müller, his works are absolutely magnificent.”

Twenty years later the announcement of a new work of Max Müller
reminded me of the Jesuit Father’s exclamation; hitherto I had read
nothing of this author’s; I procured the book which had appeared
recently; afterwards I read those that had preceded it. At the end
of some years I wrote to the reverend Father; the state of his health
had obliged him to settle in a town in the south, and I had not seen
him for some time. I thanked him for having drawn my attention to
Max Müller’s name. I received an immediate reply, the first lines of
which I will quote. “Your thanks are unexpected. Max Müller seems to
me an incomparable philosopher, but my admiration does not surpass his
merit.” A few weeks later the worthy Father died of consumption.

FOOTNOTES:

[132] _Science of Thought_, p. 568.

[133] _Ibid._, p. 569.

[134] _Ibid._, p. 570.

[135] Max Müller, _Anthropological Religion_, p. 171.




CHAPTER XIII OBSERVATIONS AND REFLECTIONS


I had not decided beforehand on the number of my chapters; it seems
that there will be thirteen. If these pages have readers to whom the
number thirteen is distressing, I beg of them at once to dismiss
this feeling by saying: “He who objects to sit down thirteen at
table, acknowledges by this that he does not believe in a supreme
intelligence, superior to his own, which governs the world.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Science, religion, reason, and faith, these four words form the circle
in which all intellects move, now more than ever; on this all the world
is agreed, but all the world does not know what the greatest thinkers
have understood by these four words.

If we do not wish to deserve the title given to that collective
being, “the man in the street,” the best means of avoiding it is to
acknowledge openly that there are many unexplained problems facing us,
and that man exists in order to do his part in solving them. Humanity
is not composed of individuals who have been poured forth from a horn
of plenty, its destiny cannot therefore be to diffuse itself over the
surface of the earth without the means of knowing why it is there.

An ancient Greek said once that the gods were ready to sell all kinds
of good things to mortals but at a high price, at the cost of hard
work. If then we can only acquire the promised good things by the aid
of hard work, our thoughts carry us at once to science, and we ask
what can this science do, upon which we so pride ourselves in this
century, to explain the motive of our existence?


PHYSICS

In proportion as physical science studies this universe, so it
recognises more and more clearly that its most general phenomenon is
vibration, a periodical movement, which propagates itself in waves
succeeding each other at regular intervals.

We have all noticed the effect produced by drops of rain falling on
water which the absence of wind leaves perfectly tranquil. Each drop
forms a circle, but the causes of perturbation of an aqueous surface
are infinite; the dip of an insect, the leap of a fish, all ceaselessly
cause new circles, which follow each other, become wider, and finally
lose themselves in each other under our eyes; the water is apparently
a prey to shivering fits; this is a type of the vibrations whose
percussions are felt by the whole world. We are all, body and soul,
subject to the law of vibrations, each sense recognises its power by
means of sensations whose various kinds are apprehended by physical
science, by the calculation of the number of vibrations which, in
a given time, affect differently each of our organs of sensation.
Science records the number of vibrations which denote to our skin the
exact degree of the external temperature, she counts the millions of
vibrations which enable our eyes to see definite colours in the space
of a second, and the thousands of vibrations which enable our ears to
hear, in the same space of time, well defined sounds.

Thus physical science explains a general phenomenon which exerts its
influence, indubitably, on all men since there have been men on earth.


COMPARATIVE SCIENCES

When Bordas-Desmoulins, one of the first of our learned thinkers to
study comparative science, said: “Without mathematics we cannot plumb
the depths of philosophy; without philosophy we cannot penetrate
mathematics; without the two we can reach the foundation of nothing,”
did he see that this truth is so great as to be all embracing?

We see theologians walking steadily in the footsteps of those who
study comparative science with conviction. Father Gratry contends that
without it it is impossible to know God, man, and nature. Matter cannot
be conceived without spirit, nor spirit apart from matter. Whilst a
human being is in the embryonic stage, the soul, the principle of
life, is occupied in forming the body, destined to cover it during its
earthly existence. The moment arrives when this body is sufficiently
prepared to appear in the light of day; it contains two nervous
centres, the one supplying the vegetative life, the other the animal;
they are distinct though not separated, and the soul still continues
its work on the body, whether it sleeps or whether it wakes; but during
sleep, whilst man’s will is torpid, the soul supplies by rhythmic
movements of the nerves, the requisite matter for the reparation of the
losses sustained during the waking periods.

This intimate union of mind and matter has been rejected by certain
great philosophers. Descartes, for instance, completely separated the
immaterial substance possessed of the property of thinking from the
material body. Apparently we are of his way of thinking since we always
speak of our soul as of one thing and our body as of another; this is
to make two truths out of one and the same truth. But it is better to
look upon it as one truth as Aristotle did formerly. At a later date
certain doctors of the Church became of the same opinion, and at
present Christian theologians, who are also thinkers, hold the same
view.

       *       *       *       *       *

A fresh science is now in process of development. It connects psychical
phenomena, such as sensation, thought, and action, with that which
can be weighed and measured. This science bears several more or less
characteristic names; in order to keep to generalities I will call
it the new psychology; it is taught in Germany, England, Paris, and
Russia, and perhaps elsewhere. There is only one way of dealing rightly
with so vast a science, it should be treated in its entirety; but as I
am anxious only to make known some of its more recent discoveries, I
will content myself by doing this briefly and with many omissions.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kant had as his disciple the physiologist J. Müller, who applied the
method of his master to the study of sensations; and Helmholtz was
trained by J. Müller.

At one time, rather more than fifty years ago, the germs of life were
considered to be an exception on the terrestrial globe; but Helmholtz
discovered them even in rocky masses; and he proved to Liebig that
putrefaction was not a simple chemical reaction, but was due to the
action of a living organism. M. Pasteur was one of the first to profit
by this lesson.

Each definite science has its own special sphere in which it is
occupied only with itself; Helmholtz, a physician and musician, worked
entirely in connection with his own science only; without reference to
the conclusion that comparative science might draw from his labours,
he gave himself up to the study of the rapidity of the transmission
of nervous impressions, and dogmatically laid down his thesis in his
book _The Physiological Theory of Music_, which is perhaps the most
important of his works; at least it is the one of which I have made the
most use.

In nature we never hear simple sounds; nothing but a fusion of
noises reaches us. Helmholtz, however, succeeded in distinguishing a
fundamental sound in a mass of others; but it is quickly amalgamated
with two or three other sounds which are higher and feebler than
itself, as distant echoes. Helmholtz became convinced that music
is composed of single sounds accompanied by others of a decreasing
intensity, and he demonstrated by calculation that the number of
vibrations of these secondary sounds called harmonics are greater than
those of the fundamental sounds; and the differences of the grouping
of harmonic sounds determines the difference of timbre. In this way
Helmholtz discovered the cause of musical timbre, and was able to
explain the reason, hitherto unknown, of the sound of a flute differing
from that of a hautbois, or of a woman’s voice from that of a man’s.

There are two marvellous things in music; timbre and rhythm.

By rhythm is understood the number of a group of corresponding
vibrations recurring in a second. Rhythm may be defined as a recurring
movement, composed of unequal parts; the beat of a pulse, in which each
pulsation can be separately distinguished, will serve as an example.

Rhythm may be found everywhere, in poetry equally with music; and it is
this which imparts its chief charm. The beauty of the rhythmic prose
of the Hebrew Nābhī naturally attracted the multitude independently
of the subject matter of their words; and the rhythmic language of
Renan’s translation of the book of Job enables us perfectly to grasp
and appreciate the special charm incidental to rhythm.

Music is provocative of nervous effects, at times of great intensity;
beneficent to the greater number of persons, but to others quite the
reverse; in his infancy Mozart almost fainted on hearing the sound of
the trumpet.

Professor Wundt--who in his works deals with the human soul and that of
beasts--founded at Leipzig, in 1879, a laboratory with this inscription
over the entrance, “Institute for Experimental Psychology.” Wundt
said: “The result of my researches does not accord with the dualism
of Plato and Descartes; from experimental psychology the animism of
Aristotle (who connects psychology and biology) alone is evolved, as
the plausible metaphysical conclusion.”

A wonderful man this Aristotle! Whether we wish to analyse those
sensations which stir every fibre of our moral being, or to trace the
etymology of a word, or study the most modern of all our sciences, the
first to present himself to our mental vision is the sage of Stageira.

The first notes of an air by Mozart or of a sonata of Beethoven could
never have been produced by them by chance, they were willed by a power
which their composers considered outside themselves.

Inspiration--revelation--the same thing with all, in all time, and in
every place, they differ but in degree. It is possible that a musical
physician such as Helmholtz, added to a psychological physiologist as
Wundt was, and the two grafted on to a philosopher such as Aristotle,
might have been able to define, in a measure, the meaning of the words
Inspiration and Revelation.

It is with a knowledge of causes that we are able to say: “The
universal phenomenon of vibration is a fight for life, a fight between
_being_ and _not being_.”


CONCERNING SOME AUTHORS

We do not always occupy ourselves with science, and writers of a
poetical temperament like to write on the more serious subjects, at
the dictation of their heart and conscience only, especially when they
speak to themselves alone, with no thought of others.

Renan, in his _History of the People of Israel_, writes: “In presence
of the social problems of our days, and of the question: Has life
a premeditated end and object? What is it? Is it for the good of
humanity? Is it for the good of the individual?” The author replies:
“The universe, whose last word we never learn, attains its end by
an infinite variety of germs; if we are amongst those who deceive
themselves and rebel against authority, that may not be attended by
serious consequences ... let us be quiet; if we miss the mark others
will hit it; that which Jahvah wills, will come to pass.”

Understand if you can.

Those who wish to adore, always find an object of adoration; Renan
seeks his religion in the love of science and art; Comte thought to
find it in a life devoted to the happiness of humanity. Is it not of
these, and of men similar to them, that the most intellectual and
clearest sighted of judges, the mythological god Krishna, spoke when he
said, “All those who adore idols, adore me.”

Everywhere we encounter God and His power; either He triumphs over man,
or man vainly seeks to triumph over Him.

I have noticed that Renan’s work, _La Vie de Jésus_, to which
earnest-minded persons have a great objection, has been the means of
consoling more than one sincere soul. Is it to be reckoned a good or
an evil? Who shall take upon himself to say? Renan has certainly an
attraction for certain readers, they do not succeed in finding out
what he believes, but that is not to the point; generally he confines
himself to troubling the water, it becomes muddy; in muddy waters fish
are sometimes taken--we throw our lines--and--marvellous--each one
draws out his favourite fish.

Père Gratry has nothing in common with Renan, except that both are
poets. Plato having said that all but the wicked have their eternal
types in God, Gratry was authorised in the conclusion he drew in his
_Logic_ that “nothing in us, neither sentiment, nor imagination, nor
prayer, can go too far; all is more beautiful than that of which we
dream; all is higher than we can believe possible.”

This language has displeased certain moralists, and they have not
spared their censures on the theologian who used it. They have accused
him of dreaming whilst dealing with religion, and they would have
preferred that Gratry should occupy himself simply with literature.
“Above all,” they say, “how is it that Gratry has ventured to write
five long chapters on the probable site of immortality, and to inquire
where men will live when there is no longer death.”

Why should we not be permitted to ask ourselves these questions, and
to reply to them as we please? Are not theologians men like ourselves?
Especially that theologian who said: “The time when religion will have
acquired the characteristics of a science is yet far distant.”


RELIGION AND RELIGIONS

At an early period of our present era, various groups of men formed
themselves into assemblies, “Churches,” as they were called, all
teaching religion, and each from his own point of view. The study of
these instructions is full of important lessons. First is to be noticed
this fact that the truths on which all were agreed weighed more heavily
in the balance than those on which they disagreed. It is necessary to
disentangle true religion in itself from its surroundings. There is
one true religion, as there is one God, and one logic. The expressions
which are current with us of natural religion and revealed religion
should be lacking in our conversation, since they cause us to believe
that they denote two different religions.[136]

Opinions are sometimes attributed to the founders of organised
religions which really belong only to their disciples, or even to
theologians who live in an age much more recent than the historical
birth of the religion; if free discussion followed, suppositions and
doubts might often be dissipated, but in certain cases laws are imposed
and rules laid down which are considered infallible and not open to
discussion.

According to the early Christian Doctors, the Church is external and
visible, together with that which is within and invisible; the title,
“Soul of the Church,” was given to the invisible union of men amongst
themselves and with God; its dogma is, “All the righteous, none but the
righteous can have their share in the soul of the Church; many are in
the visible Church who do not belong to its soul; many are out of the
visible Church who form a portion of the soul of the Church.”[137]

In speaking thus the Fathers rested on an ancient tradition; it came
to them from Plato, whose words I have already quoted: “There is in
the soul a point, which is the root by which the Divinity suspends
his creatures to Himself; and this central point is the truth which
connects all men from one end of the world to the other.” This explains
the previous assertion of the Fathers.

But they did not content themselves with an assertion only; they
imposed on reason the burden of explanation and the duty of knowing
all. The first effort of our reason in natural sciences consists in
examining facts and endeavouring to find the laws. If one eternal law
did not rule over the whole of nature our labour would be in vain;
if this same law did not govern our reason we should be incapable of
finding those laws which govern the phenomena around us; and it is
clear that there could consequently be no physical science. But it is
not so apparent at first sight that if our reason were not governed by
an eternal law, there could be no moral sciences either.

Many observations have been made by men of attentive and profound
minds, but they have remained isolated for the most part. I will quote
one or two that I have collected here and there; it is well to pass
them in review, if only to assure one’s self that they are true.

“It is a great mistake to suppose that those who have read many books
know many things. Reading supplies the material for knowledge, but
reflection alone causes it to take root and grow.” Locke made this
observation. I add to it that for reflection to bear fruit it must be
joined to a good method. Père Gratry, who is a practical man, also
enforces this in a chapter in his _Logic_, in which he lays great
stress on the importance of reserving the morning hours for study and
reflection. It is a fine paragraph, and worthy of being reproduced.

“In the book of the Apocalypse we read, ‘And there was silence in
heaven for the space of half an hour.’ In the heaven of souls this is
rare. According to St Augustine the Eternal Wisdom does not cease to
speak to human creatures, and reason does not cease its activities
in us. We have only to listen, and to listen we must keep silence.
But amongst men, and especially amongst thinkers, who can keep still
silence? The generality of men, especially those who study, have not a
single half hour of silence in the day, men of learning either listen
to those who speak, or are speaking themselves; and when they find
themselves alone and silent, then they permit books to speak to them,
and they devour long discourses, with rapid glances, in a few minutes.”

Under these conditions all study requiring much reflection is
impossible.

Attention, Abstraction, Contradiction, Speech--only a few persons
appreciate the importance of these four words, and hardly any one
doubts that they know the part played in their lives by the things
which these words represent.

If we wish to know ourselves many subjects of all kinds must be studied
simultaneously; religion and religions; the opinions of the ancients
and of our contemporaries; men as they now are and as they were. Renan
has well characterised primitive men in attributing to them “a special
feeling for nature which enabled them, with wonderful delicacy and
accuracy, of which we have no conception, to perceive the qualities
which furnished names; and they saw innumerable things at once.”

The Hindoos, who were writers many centuries before our present era,
must have inherited from their primitive ancestors this special feeling
for nature, or they would not have composed those verses in the 129th
hymn: “Everything in the beginning was hidden in gloom--the germ which
was covered by the husk was brought forth by the power of heat. On
this germ rested love, the spring of the mind, yes, and the poets,
in meditating thereon, discovered in their souls the tie between the
things created and the things uncreated.--This spark, comes it from the
earth, piercing all, penetrating into all, or comes it from heaven?”

These passages have something modern in them; they might have been
written now when science seeks to fuse heaven and earth, which was not
done formerly.

The cord does not cease to vibrate. The persistence of this phenomenon
has different comments made on it. “It is the effect of heredity,” says
modern science; “it is a contemporaneous effect of the fall,” says
theology. Perhaps the one and the other make of the human race one
unique being which continues through the ages.

It is as though time had no existence for humanity. Space also
apparently does not count for much with the race. If the singular
facts are true which we hear, two persons separated by a great
distance have the same thoughts at the same instant; not the universal
thought naturally inherent in the human mind, but entirely personal.
Has sympathy--which is as essentially human as it is mysterious--a
relationship with electricity, which is a distinctly physical
phenomenon? On those who reject such a supposition should fail the
burden of finding another.

Each of us sees a landscape according to our sight; to the
short-sighted (and this is a normal condition) the landscape appears
simple; trees here, there houses and streets, men walking; but with
strong glasses, as is well known, it is possible to see many more
things. Again, the short-sighted can distinguish only the colour, veins
and serrated edge of a leaf, but if this were placed under a microscope
they would see a surface of green glittering with light, and strewn
with gold and diamonds.

If there are two ways of looking at a leaf, there are at least three of
looking at life; it can be seen from its pleasant or painful side, this
is to feel that we live only; then we can grasp it with regard to the
duties it imposes on us. This is a right point of view, but it shows
one side only; or we may consider it as science represents it, that is
its moral, rational, and religious aspect combined.

The more we observe and the more we reflect on what we observe, so
much the more do we exercise our faculty of understanding things; and
according as this faculty approaches or withdraws from the normal type,
so it will correspond either with the leaf seen by the naked eye or
with it as seen under the microscope.


OPPOSITION

There are two kinds of opposition. Very often we come upon a true
thought in a book which shocks us because for the moment we do not
recognise its truth. We also forget that all truths can be viewed at
various angles; or we do not understand a truth because it is expressed
in a novel way.

A manual treating of physics will best explain the reason of our
false impression. When a ray of light is transmitted from one medium
to another of different density, as from air to water, a change of
direction is impressed on the ray, making the straight line appear
broken; this change of direction is called _refraction_. Cardinal
Newman made a very true observation on this subject. “If an idea is
presented unexpectedly to us,” he said, “clothed in words to which
we are unaccustomed, it is sufficient to cause us to speak of it as
erroneous; this illusion is only a simple effect of the _refraction of
words_; that is to say, that in the mind of the writer of this truth
which startles us, the idea followed a straight line, but in our mind
it became broken.”

The second kind of opposition is of a different nature. It is amusing
to watch two individuals who are taking opposite sides in a heated
discussion concerning some philosopher. “What I tell you is correct;
A, who is a great scholar, says so.” “Yes, but I also know a great
scholar, B, and he says just the contrary.”

There seems to be a charm in controversy which few persons can resist;
they ignore what you say, and bluntly tell you that you are in the
wrong.


ABSTRACTION, INATTENTION

Not only is abstraction fatal to study, but it often plays us sorry
tricks apart from our occupations. Sometimes a bright idea comes into
our mind, but touching only the surface; if by inattention or idleness
we do not fix it firmly in our memory by clothing it in suitable words,
it is a hundred to one that it is not irrevocably lost to us. It is not
more possible to arrest its flight than to fasten a placard to the wall
without nails or gum.

It is difficult to note with exactness the amount of inattention which
so frequently accompanies the act of opening a serious book even with
the fixed intention of reading it.

I once surprised myself in a flagrant act of inattention. I was staying
with a friend, and took up Pascal’s _Pensées_, which I had not read
for some time. The edition was not the same as the one I had at home.
Whilst turning over the leaves I said to myself occasionally, “How
the style has changed--this is not clear--this observation is very
shallow”; and so I went on, astonished at not being able to admire
this celebrated work as I had formerly done. Suddenly I came upon this
phrase, “Monsieur Pascal confond tout cela.” What was my humiliation
to discover that in this edition “les Pensées de Pascal” were followed
by “les Pensées de Nicole.” I had passed from the one to the other
without noticing it. But what could have given rise to this impression
of Nicole’s? I turned back a few pages, and read: “A book has just
appeared which is perhaps the most useful that could be placed in the
hands of princes; it is a selection of the ‘Pensées de Pascal.’ I do
not say that all are equally good ... I find amongst them many well
polished stones and fit to adorn a great building; but the remainder
appeared to be mixed material, for which I can hardly suppose that M.
Pascal could find a use.... There are even certain sentiments which
hardly appear to be exact, and are like scattered thoughts thrown
out at random, which are written only that they may afterwards be
examined with more care and attention. Monsieur Pascal supposes that
ennui comes from that which we see in ourselves--from what we think of
ourselves. That assertion is perhaps more subtle than solid. Thousands
of persons experience ennui without thinking of themselves at all; they
feel weariness not from what they think, but because they do not think
enough.... M. Pascal confond tout cela.” Upon my word, I felt consoled
for my lapse into inattention; to this fault I owe my acquaintance with
M. Nicole’s acute remark: “Men do not feel weariness from what they
think, but because they do not think enough.”


SPEECH

When the members of the human family began to use the _clamor
concomitans_ which accompanied their occupations, as _clamor
significans_, these simple materials formed the roots which indicated
such and such acts, and produced verbal and nominatival bases composed
of predicative and demonstrative elements. During the course of ages
the first became conjugated and the second were declined. By means of
adding the successive acts together, and retaining them united in the
mind, or subtracting in several directions, our ancestors diversified
the meaning of all the primitive roots; they formed collective and
abstract nouns in their simplest form by combination. The process never
varied; thus the thought progressed from the first root to the last
concept. But the first word ever pronounced by a human creature was
a true proposition, and our last literary chef-d’œuvre consists of a
series of propositions.

Descartes’ brief phrase “Cogito, ergo sum” may be better rendered and
still more briefly by one word. The Greek word Logos, meaning word and
thought combined, had originally, as I have already remarked, the two
meanings of assembling and combining. “Cogito” = I think, which is the
short for co-agito = I assemble. The act of assembling presupposes
that of separating, seeing that it is impossible to combine two or more
things without at the same time separating them from other things. The
child who is taught the first rules of arithmetic adds and subtracts,
which can only be done by combining and separating. However little
intelligence he may have, his task does not present great difficulties
to him; and yet the most abstruse mathematical problem consists in
adding and subtracting, and the most astounding calculations of Newton,
and the most profound mathematical speculations of Kant, are but the
results of addition and subtraction, of combining and separating.

In the course of time all that fills our dictionaries and our
grammars was developed and achieved, and nothing remained for poets
and philosophers to do but to add to and deduce from the materials
which they had inherited or had themselves acquired as the result of
their own efforts; and however powerful the imagination of poets may
be, and however subtle the reasoning of philosophers, the materials
which both use to form their monuments are exactly the same, and
these are nothing but the words derived from roots and collected in
dictionaries. Most decidedly Michael Angelo was something more than a
mason or bricklayer, but yet the basilica of St Peter’s is made only
of stones and bricks and a little cement, which, when brought down to
its final constituents, is nothing but pulverised stone. Most decidedly
one of Shakespeare’s plays is possessed of other qualities than a
mere assemblage of the letters of the alphabet arranged in a certain
order, but the materials of which the plays are formed were drawn from
the inexhaustible supply of words accumulated during thousands of
years, and which contain no single particle of gold or silver that is
not found in the thousand roots of our language and the 121 concepts
conceived in our minds.

Amongst the men who know how to think, many are astonished that the
so-called civilised portion of humanity should have advanced so little,
there is nothing astonishing in this; let us consider the point, and
remember that we are only now on the morrow of the day when we were
still immature humanity, and in which the human character, with its
germs of language and of thought, only began to be visible in us. The
universe obeys the unchangeable law which we name Divine Providence;
an irresistible law which compels matter to make certain predetermined
movements, and the mind to tend towards perfection; man knows that he
is morally free, and not necessarily subject to animal impulses.

Man’s moral liberty being conceded, he uses it as he will; at times he
seeks and finds opportunities for resisting the moral law; man, even
the nominal Christian, stifles the spirit’s higher voice and compels
himself to listen to the lower voice of the flesh. Pascal said plainly:
“According to the carnal Christian the Messiah has come to dispense us
from the necessity of loving God by providing sacraments which act as
charms apart from our co-operation,” and our hatred and our injustice
continue--under cover of a scrupulous observance of rites--to infect
the world as well as ourselves. He spoke truly, and saw clearly, who
first said: “Every being tends to preserve its existence.” With regard
to the man of whom Pascal speaks, this means to follow incessantly his
evil practices. But, happily, there exist other men who feel that,
besides oxygen and pleasure, they must also absorb science and true
prosperity for their well-being.

We read in the book of Ecclesiasticus: “In every good work trust thine
own soul” (Ecclesiasticus xxxii. 23). Yes, let us believe in our own
soul, which is the true Ego, and it will bid us live. I am far from
sharing Pascal’s opinion, which is, that the Ego always merits contempt.

Science, after having noted and counted the exact number of vibrations
of all kinds which from all parts affect us, at a certain point
ceases to have the power to calculate further, and recognises that
beyond and above all vibrations there exists that which can neither
be named nor counted. In my opinion that which is the best part of
science is that it knows its limitations; with some people it is a well
known experience that when they have once grasped the fact that their
inability rightly to comprehend something they desire to know arises
from an immutable decree, they become at once imbued with a profound
quiescence, closely allied to certainty.

After which there is but one step left to human reason, to forsake that
reason which is but temporary, and to lose oneself in that which has
neither beginning nor end. This last step is an act of faith. Someone,
who does not think sufficiently, calls this a leap in the dark, but for
him who accomplishes it this darkness becomes transparent as crystal.

“Yes,” these persons exclaim, “and such was Kant’s last act.” It would
be more correct to say Kant ended as he began, by an act of reason,
since he drew the logical conclusion of what he had learnt.


RÉSUMÉ

The evolution of the human race will not become clear to us unless we
remember that a time existed when man was without language and without
reason.

During this obscure period which we name the dawn of humanity, the
material wants and their satisfaction, comprised the whole being of
man, as it does that of the animal. With man commenced the line of
individuals leading to the higher order of social life. It is possible
that the feeling of being one of many was one of the first to awake
in man, since it was owing to the support afforded him by his fellows
that he obtained what he needed; he was also conscious of family ties,
this emotion and sentiment was the cradle of all his best qualities;
afterwards would come the attractions of race; this feeling might
so dominate the individual as to cause him to forget that he was a
separate entity; then by a concurrence of circumstances difficult to
define, national feelings were developed from the salient features of
the race, and national languages separated themselves from the central
source. The knowledge of being a portion of humanity arrived at a much
later period; he is still at this present time a part of a feeble few,
and he can be summed up in the well-known sentence, of which the first
words are, “Homo sum.” If we consider the meaning of this classical
quotation it is very striking.

We often mention the pre-historic times, but we seldom ask ourselves at
what date history can have begun. With the first heap of stones piled
up by the men of a certain tribe at the burial of a venerated chief,
history commenced; this heap became the point at which the past touched
the future, a visible link in the interminable chain of human thought.

At the origin of all this mental activity we find an inspiration--a
poetical fiat. It was a historical moment--no other similar to it has
ever been, before or since--when the first group of human creatures
acclaimed with inarticulate cries their first cavern, or the first den
dug by themselves. At a much later date when man, looking up at the
vault of heaven--his curiosity aroused--wished to know what were the
brilliant things he saw moving high above him, was he not impelled by
the feeling of the presence of a Being hitherto unknown, and to whom
he paid unconscious homage by giving Him a name? If the feeling had
not made itself felt simultaneously with the awakened attention caused
by the appearance of the sky, the electric spark would not have burst
forth.

At a later date still to what can we attribute the union of pure
thought and beating hearts but to the first definite perception of the
Divine breath, and the conception of an invisible yet longed for God,
whose name descended from generation to generation down to ourselves?
Aristotle, St Augustine, St Thomas Aquinas, Kant, and Max Müller, have
all described this ascension of the reason from the first thought which
contained the germ of the idea, up to God Himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

We thus arrive at a high level though starting from low ground; we
should be higher still, but that we are retarded equally by lack of
speech and of thought. As long as we fondly imagine that in possessing
a word we are also masters of the thought attached to it, and that
to penetrate to the heart of a thought is nothing but a linguistic
exercise, or an intellectual gymnastic feat, we shall not use the sole
method with which we are supplied, of growing morally, rationally, and
religiously.

We form ideas of many things, but we know them only partially and
disjointedly; sciences which we have learnt possess unity, since with
grammar is connected synthesis, and with mathematics, algebra; (this
word algebra is of Arab origin, “al djabroun,” and means the reduction
of dislocated members), is it possible that we--the creators of these
sciences--should be destined to wander around and away from unity, and
never attain it?

       *       *       *       *       *

It is time to end this study; I suspect that I am not the only one
of this opinion. It is possible that amongst my readers--if I have
any--some may already have found means of shortening it for themselves;
they will perhaps turn over the pages, read a few, and say, “How
tedious the old pedant is,” then shut the book and not open it again.

This would be a pity in my opinion; they should read a little more.

No philosophical work can be written without the words _perceive_
and _conceive_ appearing very frequently in it. The Latin language
possesses the word “capio,” which means to seize something with the
hand; only convincing facts can lead us to believe that these terms
to _perceive_ and to _conceive_ are derived from _capio_; thus the
word expressing the well-known physical movement of taking something
with the hand was the origin of the two words _percept_ and _concept_,
without which no philosophical idea could take shape or be developed in
us.

The space which separates the word _capio_ from _percept_ and _concept_
includes neither more nor less than the entire evolution of man; that
is, our own history.

That of which we think so little is in reality the indelible sign
impressed once for all on man, that which alone distinguishes him
from the animals, and which may yet help to form in man an excellence
hitherto unknown to us; this distinguishing mark is thought and speech.

We are men--but has the type of the “genus homo” been realised? Is it
impossible?

It has been undoubtedly proved that man is free in certain directions,
and not in others; happily he is not free not to be a man.

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[136] There is _one_ in the way in which St Paul speaks: “There is one
body, and one spirit, even as also ye were called in one hope of your
calling; one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all,
who is over all, and through all, and in all.”

[137] As Savonarola said: “Yes, from the Church militant, but not from
the Church in Heaven,” in answer to his excommunication.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRINTED BY
  TURNBULL AND SPEARS,
  EDINBURGH

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter and relabeled
consecutively through the document.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.

The following changes were made:

p. 23: Llamas changed to Lamas (the Lamas of)

p. 180: Lines below S and s have been standardized to acute accents
(Śraddhâ, śraddadhau, śraddhitam)

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64834 ***