IV.

ON THE RESULTS OF THE

SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE.

INAUGURAL LECTURE, DELIVERED IN THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY OF STRASSBURG, MAY 23, 1872.

You will easily understand that, in giving my first lecture in a German University, I feel some difficulty in mastering and repressing the feelings which stir within my heart. I wish to speak to you, as it becomes a teacher, with perfect calmness, thinking of nothing but of the subject which 1 have to treat. But here where we are gathered together to-day, in this old free imperial town, in this University, full of the brightest recollections of Alsatian history and German literature, even a somewhat gray-headed German professor may be pardoned if, for some moments at least, he gives free vent to the thoughts that are foremost in his mind. You will see, at least, that he feels and thinks as you all feel and think, and that in living away from Germany he has not forgotten his German language, or lost his German heart.

The times in which we live are great, so great, that we can hardly conceive them great enough; so great that we, old and young, cannot be great and good and brave and hardworking enough, if we do not wish to appear quite unworthy of the times in which our lot has been cast.

We older people have lived through darker times, when to a German, learning was the only refuge, the only comfort, the only pride; times when there was no Germany except in our recollection, and perhaps in our secret hopes. And those who have lived through those sadder days feel all the more deeply the blessings of the present. We have a Germany again, a united, great, and strong country; and I call this a blessing, not only in a material sense, as giving, at last, to our homes a real and lasting security against the inroads of our powerful neighbors, but also in a moral sense, as placing every German under a greater responsibility, as reminding us of our higher duties, as inspiring us with courage and energy for the battle of the mind even more than for the battle of the arm.

That blessing has cost us dear, fearfully dear, dearer than the friends of humanity had hoped; for, proud as we may be of our victories and our victors, let us not deceive ourselves in this, that there is in the history of humanity nothing so inhuman, nothing that makes us so entirely despair of the genius of mankind, nothing that bows us so low to the very dust, as war--unless even war becomes ennobled and sanctified, as it was with us, by the sense of duty, duty towards our country, duty towards our town, duty towards our home, towards our fathers and mothers, our wives and children. Thus, and thus only, can even war become the highest and brightest of sacrifices; thus, and thus only, may we look history straight in the face, and ask, “Who would have acted differently?”

I do not speak here of politics in the ordinary sense of the word,--nay, I gladly leave the groping for the petty causes of the late war to the scrutiny of those foreign statesmen who have eyes only for the infinitesimally small, but cannot, or will not, see the powerful handiwork of Divine justice that reveals itself in the history of nations as in the lives of individuals. I speak of politics in their true and original meaning, as a branch of ethics, as Kant has proved them to be, and from this point of view, politics become a duty from which no one may shrink, be he young or old. Every nation must have a conscience, like every individual; a nation must be able to give to itself an account of the moral justification of a war in which it is to sacrifice everything that is most dear to man. And that is the greatest blessing of the late war, that every German, however deep he may delve in his heart, can say without a qualm or a quiver, “The German people did not wish for war, nor for conquest. We wanted peace and freedom in our internal development. Another nation or rather its rulers, claimed the right to draw for us lines of the Main, if not new frontiers of the Rhine; they wished to prevent the accomplishment of that German union for which our fathers had worked and suffered. The German nation would gladly have waited longer still, if thereby war could have been averted. We knew that the union of Germany was inevitable, and the inevitable is in no hurry. But when the gauntlet was thrown in our face, and, be it remembered, with the acclamation of the whole French nation, then we knew what, under Napoleonic sway, we might expect from our powerful neighbor, and the whole German people rose as one man for defense, not for defiance. The object of our war was peace, and a lasting peace, and therefore now, after peace has been won, after our often menaced, often violated, western frontier has been made secure forever by bastions, such as nature only can build, it becomes our duty to prove to the world that we Germans are the same after as before the war, that military glory has nothing intoxicating to us, that we want peace with all the world.”

You know that the world at large does not prophesy well for us. We are told that the old and simple German manners will go, that the ideal interests of our life will be forgotten, that, as in other countries, so with us, our love for the True and the Beautiful will be replaced by love of pleasure, enjoyment, and vanities. It rests with us with all our might to confound such evil prophesies, and to carry the banner of the German mind higher than ever. Germany can remain great only by what has made her great--by simplicity of manners, contentment, industry, honesty, high ideals, contempt of luxury, of display, and of vain-glory. “_Non propter vitam vivendi perdere causas_,”-- “Not for the sake of life to lose the real objects of life,” this must be our watchword forever, and the _causæ vitæ_, the highest objects of life, are for us to-day, and will, I trust, remain for coming generations the same as they were in the days of Lessing, of Kant, of Schiller, and of Humboldt.

And nowhere, methinks, can this return to the work of peace be better inaugurated than here in this very place, in Strassburg. It was a bold conception to begin the building of the new temple of learning in the very midst of the old German frontier fortress. We are summoned here, as in the days of Nehemiah, when “the builders every one had his sword girded by his side and so builded.” It rests with us, the young as well as the old, that this bold conception shall not fail. And therefore I could not resist the voice of my heart, or gainsay the wish of my friends who believed that I, too, might bring a stone, however small, to the building of this new temple of German science. And here I am among you to try and do my best. Though I have lived long abroad, and pitched my workshop for nearly twenty-five years on English soil, you know that I have always remained German in heart and mind. And this I must say for my English friends, that they esteem a German who remains German far more than one who wishes to pass himself off as English. An Englishman wishes every man to be what he is. I am, and I always have been, a German living and working in England. The work of my life, the edition of the Rig-Veda, the oldest book of the Indian, aye, of the whole Aryan world, could be carried out satisfactorily nowhere but in England, where the rich collections of Oriental MSS., and the easy communications with India, offer to an Oriental scholar advantages such as no other country can offer. That by living and working in England I have made some sacrifices, that I have lost many advantages which the free intercourse with German scholars in a German university so richly offers, no one knows better than myself. Whatever I have seen of life, I know of no life more perfect than that of a German professor in a German school or university. You know what Niebuhr thought of such a life, even though he was a Prussian minister and ambassador at Rome. I must read you some of his words, they sound so honest and sincere: “There is no more grateful, more serene life than that of a German teacher or professor, none that, through the nature of its duties and its work, secures so well the peace of our heart and our conscience. How many times have I deplored it with a sad heart, that I should ever have left that path of life to enter upon a life of trouble which, even at the approach of old age, will probably never give me lasting peace. The office of a schoolmaster, in particular, is one of the most honorable, and despite of all the evils which now and then disturb its ideal beauty, it is for a truly noble heart the happiest path of life. It was the path which I had once chosen for myself, and how I wish I had been allowed to follow it!”

I could quote to you the words of another Prussian ambassador, Bunsen. He, too, often complained with sadness that he had missed his true path in life. He too, would gladly have exchanged the noisy hotel of the ambassador for the quiet home of a German professor.

From my earliest youth it has been the goal of my life to act as a professor in a German university, and if this dream of my youth was not to be fulfilled in its entirety, I feel all the more grateful that, through the kindness of my friends and German colleagues, I have been allowed, at least once in my life, to act during the present spring and summer as a real German professor in a German university.

This was in my heart, and I wanted to say it, in order that you might know with what purpose I have come, and with what real joy I begin the work which has brought us together to-day.

I shall lecture during the present term on “The Results of the Science of Language;” but you will easily understand that to sum up in one course of lectures the results of researches which have been carried on with unflagging industry by three generations of scholars, would be a sheer impossibility. Besides, a mere detailing of results, though it is possible, is hardly calculated to subserve the real objects of academic teaching. You would not be satisfied with mere results: you want to know and to understand the method by which they have been obtained. You want to follow step by step that glorious progress of discovery which has led us to where we stand now. What is the use of knowing the Pythagorean problem, if we cannot prove it? What would be the use of knowing that the French _larme_ is the same as the German _Zähre_ (tear), if we could not with mathematical exactness trace every step by which these two words have diverged till they became what they are?

The results of the Science of Language are enormous. There is no sphere of intellectual activity which has not felt more or less the influence of this new science. Nor is this to be wondered at. Language is the organ of all knowledge, and though we flatter ourselves that we are the lords of language, that we use it as a useful tool, and no more, believe me there are but few who can maintain their complete independence with respect to language, few who can say of her, Ἔχω Λαΐδα, οὐκ ἔχομαι. To know language historically and genetically, to be able more particularly to follow up the growth of our technical terms to their very roots, this is in every science the best means to keep up a living connection between the past and the present, the only way to make us feel the ground on which we stand.

Let us begin with what is nearest to us, _Philology_. Its whole character has been changed as if by magic. The two classical languages, Greek and Latin, which looked as if they had fallen from the sky or been found behind the hedge, have now recovered their title-deeds, and have taken their legitimate place in that old and noble family which we call the Indo-European, the Indo-Germanic, or by a shorter, if not a better name, the Aryan. In this way not only have their antecedents been cleared up, but their mutual relationship, too, has for the first time been placed in its proper light. The idea that Latin was derived from Greek, an idea excusable in scholars of the Scipionic period, or that Latin was a language made up of Italic, Greek, and Pelasgic elements, a view that had maintained itself to the time of Niebuhr, all this has now been shown to be a physical impossibility. Greek and Latin stand together on terms of perfect equality; they are sisters, like French and Italian:--

“Facies non omnibus una, Nec diversa tamen qualem decet esse sororum.”

If it could be a scientific question which of the two is the elder sister, Greek or Latin, Latin, I believe, could produce better claims of seniority than Greek. Now, as in the modern history of language we are able to explain many things that are obscure in French and Italian by calling in the Provençal, the Spanish, the Portuguese, nay, even the Wallachian and the Churwälsch, we can do the same in the ancient history of language, and get light for many things which are difficult and unintelligible in Greek and Latin, by consulting Sanskrit, Zend, Gothic, Irish, and even Old Bulgarian. We can hardly form an idea of the surprise which was occasioned among the scholars of Europe by the discovery of the Aryan family of languages, reaching with its branches from the Himalayan mountains to the Pyrenees. Not that scholars of any eminence believed at the end of the last century that Greek and Latin were derived from Hebrew: that prejudice had been disposed of once for all, in Germany at least, by Leibniz. But after that theory had been given up, no new truly scientific theory had taken its place. The languages of the world, with the exception of the Semitic, the family type of which was not to be mistaken, lay scattered about as _disjecta membra poëtæ_, and no one thought of uniting them again into one organic whole. It was the discovery of Sanskrit which led to the reunion of the Aryan languages, and if Sanskrit had taught us nothing else, this alone would establish its claim to a place among the academic sciences of our century.

When Greek and Latin had once been restored to their true place in the natural system of the Aryan languages, their special treatment, too, became necessarily a different one. In grammar, for instance, scholars were no longer satisfied to give forms and rules, and to place what was irregular by the side of what was regular. They wished to know the reasons of the rules as well as of the exceptions; they asked why the forms were such as they were, and not otherwise; they required not only a logical, but also an historical foundation of grammar. People asked themselves for the first time, why so small a change as _mensa_ and _mensæ_ could express the difference between one and many tables; why a single letter, like _r_, could possess the charm of changing I love, _amo_, into I am loved, _amor_. Instead of indulging in general speculations on the logic of grammar, the riddles of grammar received their solution from a study of the historical development of language. For every language there was to be a historical grammar, and in this way a revolution was produced in philological studies to be compared only to the revolution produced in chemistry by the discoveries of Lavoisier, or in geology by the theories of Lyell. For instance, instead of attempting an explanation why the genitive singular and the ablative plural of the first and second declensions could express rest in a place--_Romæ_, at Rome; _Tarenti_, at Tarentum; _Athenis_, at Athens; _Gabiis_, at Gabii--one glance at the past history of these languages showed that these so-called genitives were not and never had been genitives, but corresponded to the old locatives in _i_ and _su_ in Sanskrit. No doubt, a pupil can be made to learn anything that stands in a grammar; but I do not believe that it can conduce to a sound development of his intellectual powers if he first learns at school the real meaning of the genitive and ablative, and then has to accept on trust that, somehow or other, the same cases may express rest in a place. A well-known English divine, opposed to reform in spelling, as in everything else, once declared that the fearful orthography of English formed the best psychological foundation of English orthodoxy, because a child that had once been brought to believe that t-h-r-o-u-g-h sounded like “through,” t-h-o-u-g-h like “though,” r-o-u-g-h like “rough,” would afterwards believe anything. Be that as it may, I do not consider that grammatical rules like those just quoted on the genitive and ablative, assuming the power of the locative, are likely to strengthen the reasoning powers of any schoolboy.

Even more pernicious to the growth of sound ideas was the study of etymology, as formerly carried on in schools and universities. Everything here was left to chance or to authority, and it was not unusual that two or three etymologies of the same word had to be learnt, as if the same word might have had more than one parent. Yet it is many years since Otfried Müller told classical scholars that they must either surrender the whole subject of the historical growth of language, etymology, and grammatical morphology, or trust in these matters entirely to the guidance of Comparative Philology. As a student at Leipzig, I lived to see old Gottfried Hermann quoting the paradigms of Sanskrit grammar in one of his last _Programs_; and Boeckh declared in 1850, at the eleventh meeting of German philologists, that, in the present state of the science of language, the grammar of the classical languages cannot dispense with the coöperation of comparative grammar. And yet there are scholars even now who would exclude the Science of Language from schools and universities. What gigantic steps truly scientific etymology has made in Greek and Latin, every scholar may see in the excellent works of Curtius and Corssen. The essential difference between the old and the new systems consists here, too, in this, that while formerly people were satisfied if they knew, or imagined they knew, from what source a certain word was derived, little value is now attached to the mere etymology of a word, unless at the same time it is possible to account, according to fixed phonetic laws, for all the changes which a word has undergone in its passage through Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit. How far this conscientiousness may be carried is shown by the fact that the best comparative philologists decline to admit, on phonetic grounds, the identity of such words as the Latin _Deus_, and the Greek Θεός, although the strongest internal arguments may be urged in favor of the identity of these words.[1]

Let us go on to _Mythology_. If mythology is an old dialect, outliving itself, and, on the strength of its sacred character, carried on to a new period of language, it is easy to perceive that the historical method of the Science of Language would naturally lead here to most important results. Take only the one fact, which no one at present would dare to question, that the name of the highest deity among the Greeks and Romans, Ζεύς, and _Jupiter_, is the same as the Vedic +Dyaus+, the sky, and the old German _Zio_, Old Norse _Tyr_, whose name survives in the modern names of _Dienstag_ or _Tuesday_. Does not this one word prove the union of those ancient races? Does it not show us, at the earliest dawn of history, the fathers of the Aryan race, the fathers of our own race, gathered together in the great temple of nature, like brothers of the same house, and looking up in adoration to the sky as the emblem of what they yearned for, a father and a God. Nay, can we not hear in that old name of _Jupiter_, _i.e._, Heaven-Father, the true key-note which still sounds on in our own prayer, “Our Father which art in heaven,” and which imparts to these words their deepest tone, and their fullest import? By an accurate study of these words we are able to draw the bonds of language and belief even more closely together. You know that the nom. sing. of Ζεύς has the acute, and so has the nom. sing. of +Dyaus+; but the vocative of Ζεύς has the circumflex, and so has likewise the vocative of +Dyaus+ in the Veda.[2] Formerly the accent might have been considered as something late, artificial, and purely grammatical: the Science of Language has shown that it is as old as language itself, and it has rightly called it the very soul of words. Thus even in these faint pulsations of language, in the changes of accent in Greek and Sanskrit, may we feel the common blood that runs in the veins of the old Aryan dialects.

History, too, particularly the most ancient history, has received new light and life from a comparative study of languages. Nations and languages were in ancient times almost synonymous, and what constitutes the ideal unity of a nation lies far more in the intellectual factors, in religion and language, than in common descent and common blood. But for that very reason we must here be most cautious. It is but too easily forgotten that if we speak of Aryan and Semitic families, the ground of classification is language, and language only. There are Aryan and Semitic languages, but it is against all rules of logic to speak, without an expressed or implied qualification, of an Aryan race, of Aryan blood, of Aryan skulls, and to attempt ethnological classification on purely linguistic grounds. These two sciences, the Science of Language and the Science of Man, cannot, at least for the present, be kept too much asunder; and many misunderstandings, many controversies, would have been avoided, if scholars had not attempted to draw conclusions from language to blood, or from blood to language. When each of these sciences shall have carried out independently its own classification of men and of languages, then, and then only, will it be time to compare their results; but even then, I must repeat, what I have said many times before, it would be as wrong to speak of Aryan blood as of dolichocephalic grammar.[3]

We have all accustomed ourselves to look for the cradle of the Aryan languages in Asia, and to imagine these dialects flowing like streams from the centre of Asia to the South, the West, and the North. I must confess that Professor Benfey’s protest against this theory seems to me very opportune, and his arguments in favor of a more northern, if not European, origin of the whole Aryan family of speech, deserve, at all events, far more attention than they have hitherto received.

For the same reasons it seems to me at least a premature undertaking to use the greater or smaller number of coincidences between two or more of the Aryan languages as arguments in support of an earlier or later separation of the people who spoke them. First of all, there are few points on which the opinions of competent judges differ more decidedly than when the exact degrees of relationship between the single Aryan languages have to be settled. There is agreement on one point only, viz., that Sanskrit and Zend are more closely united than any other languages. But though on this point there can hardly be any doubt, no satisfactory explanation of this extraordinary agreement has as yet been given. In fact, it has been doubted whether what I called the “Southern Division” of the Aryan family could properly be called a division at all, as it consisted only of varieties of one and the same type of Aryan speech. As soon as we go beyond Sanskrit and Zend, the best authorities are found to be in open conflict. Bopp maintained that the Slavonic languages were most closely allied to Sanskrit, an opinion shared by Pott. Grimm, on the contrary, maintained a closer relationship between Slavonic and German. In this view he was supported by Lottner, Schleicher, and others, while Bopp to the last opposed it. After this, Schleicher (as, before him, Newman in England) endeavored to prove a closer contact between Celtic and Latin, and, accepting Greek as most closely united with Latin, he proceeded to establish a Southwestern European division, consisting of Celtic, Latin, and Greek, and running parallel with the Northwestern division, consisting of Teutonic and Slavonic; or, according to Ebel, of Celtic, Teutonic, and Slavonic.

But while these scholars classed Greek with Latin, others, such as Grassmann and Sonne, pointed out striking peculiarities which Greek shares with Sanskrit, and with Sanskrit only, as, for instance, the augment, the voiceless aspirates, the _alpha privativum_ (a, not an), the +mâ+ and μή _prohibitivum_, the +tara+ and τερο as the suffix of the comparative, and some others. A most decided divergence of opinion manifested itself as touching the real relation of Greek and Latin. While some regarded these languages not only as sisters, but as twins, others were not inclined to concede to them any closer relationship than that which unites all the members of the Aryan family. While this conflict of opinions lasts (and they are not mere assertions, but opinions supported by arguments), it is clear that it would be premature to establish any historical conclusions, such, for instance, as that the Slaves remained longer united with the Indians and Persians than the Greeks, Romans, Germans, and Celts; or, if we follow Professor Sonne, that the Greeks remained longer united with the Indians than the other Aryan nations. I must confess that I doubt whether the whole problem admits of a scientific solution. If in a large family of languages we discover closer coincidences between some languages than between others, this is no more than we should expect, according to the working of what I call the Dialectic Process. All these languages sprang up and grew and diverged, before they were finally separated; some retained one form, others another, so that even the apparently most distant members of the same family might, on certain points, preserve relics in common which were lost in all the other dialects, and _vice versâ_. No two languages, not even Lithuanian and Old Slavonic, are so closely united as Sanskrit and Zend, which share together even technical terms, connected with a complicated sacrificial ceremonial. Yet there are words occurring in Zend, and absent in Sanskrit, which crop up again sometimes in Greek, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in German.[4] As soon as we attempt to draw from such coincidences and divergences historical conclusions as to the earlier or later separation of the nations who developed these languages, we fall into contradictions like those which I pointed out just now between Bopp, Grimm, Schleicher, Ebel, Grassmann, Sonne, and others. Much depends, in all scientific researches, on seeing that the question is properly put. To me the question, whether the closer relations between certain independent dialects furnish evidence as to the successive times of their separation, seems, by its very nature, fruitless. Nor have the answers been at all satisfactory. After a number of coincidences between the various members of the Aryan family have been carefully collected, we know no more in the end than what we knew at first, viz., that all the Aryan dialects are closely connected with each other. We know--

1. That Slavonic is most closely united with German (Grimm, Schleicher);

2. That German is most closely united with Celtic (Ebel, Lottner);

3. That Celtic is most closely united with Latin (Newman, Schleicher);

4. That Latin is most closely united with Greek (Mommsen, Curtius);

5. That Greek is most closely united with Sanskrit (Grassmann, Sonne, Kern);

6. That Sanskrit is most closely united with Zend (Burnouf).

Let a mathematician draw out the result, and it will be seen that we know in the end no more than we knew at the beginning. Far be it for me to use a mere trick in arguing, and to say that none of these conclusions can be right, because each is contradicted by others. Quite the contrary. I admit that there is some truth in every one of these conclusions, and I maintain, for that very reason, that the only way to reconcile them all is to admit that the single dialects of the Aryan family did not break off in regular succession, but that, after a long-continued community, they separated slowly, and, in some cases, contemporaneously, from their family-circle, till they established at last, under varying circumstances, their complete national independence. This seems to me all that at present one may say with a good conscience, and what is in keeping with the law of development in all dialects.

If now we turn away from the purely philological results of the Science of Language, in order to glance at the advantages which other sciences have derived from it, we shall find that they consist mostly in the light that has been shed on obscure words and old customs. This advantage is greater than, at first sight, it might seem to be. Every word has its history, and the beginning of this history, which is brought to light by etymology, leads us back far beyond its first historical appearance. Every word, as we know, had originally a predicative meaning, and that predicative meaning differs often very considerably from the later traditional or technical meaning. This predicative meaning, however, being the most original meaning of the word, allows us an insight into the most primitive ideas of a nation.

Let us take an instance from jurisprudence. _Pœna_, in classical Latin, means simply punishment, particularly what is either paid or suffered in order to atone for an injury. (_Si injuriam faxit alteri, viginti quinque æris pœnœ sunto, fragm. xii. tab._) The word agrees so remarkably, both in form and meaning, with the Greek ποινή, that Mommsen assigned to it a place in what he calls Græco-Italic ideas.[5] We might suppose, therefore, that the ancient Italians took _pœna_ originally in the sense of ransom, simply as a civil act, by which he who had inflicted injury on another was, as far as he and the injured person were concerned, restored _in integrum_. The etymology of the word, however, leads us back into a far more distant past, and shows us that when the word _pœna_ was first framed, punishment was conceived from a higher moral and religious point of view, as a purification from sin; for _pœna_, as first shown by Professor Pott (and what has he not been the first to show?) is closely connected with the root pu, to purify. Thus we read in the “Atharva-veda,” xix. 33, 3:--

“Tvám bhû́mim átyeshi ójasâ Tvám védyâm sîdasi cấrur adhvaré Tvấm pavítram ṛshayo bhárantas Tvám puníhi duritấni asmát.”

“Thou, O God of Fire, goest mightily across the earth; thou sittest brilliantly on the altar at the sacrifice. The prophets carry Thee as the Purifier; purify us from all misdeeds.”

From this root +pu+ we have, in Latin, _pūrus_, and _pŭtus_, as in _argentum purum putum_, fine silver, or in _purus putus est ipse_, Plaut. Ps. 4, 2, 31. From it we also have the verb _purgare_, for _purigare_, to purge, used particularly with reference to purification from crime by means of religious observances. If this transition from the idea of purging to that of punishing should seem strange, we have only to think of _castigare_, meaning originally to purify, but afterwards in such expressions as _verbis et verberibus castigare_, to chide and to chasten.

I cannot convince myself that the Latin _crimen_ has anything in common with κρίνειν. The Greek κρίνειν is no doubt connected with Latin _cer-no_, from which _cribrum_, sieve. It means to separate, to sift, so that κρῖμα may well signify a judgment, but not a crime or misdeed. _Crīmen_, as every scholar knows or ought to know, meant originally an accusation, not a crime, and, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, has nothing whatever in common with _discrīmen_, which means what separates two things, a difference, a critical point. _In crimen venire_ means to get into bad repute, to be calumniated; _in discrimine esse_ means to be in a critical and dangerous position.

It is one of the fundamental laws of etymology that in tracing words back to their roots, we have to show that their primary, not their secondary meanings agree with the meaning of the root. Therefore, even if _crīmen_ had assumed in later times the meaning of judgment, yet its derivation from the Greek κρίνειν would have to be rejected, because it would explain the secondary only, but not the primary meaning of _crīmen_. Nothing is clearer than the historical development of the meanings of _crīmen_, beginning with accusation, and ending with guilt.

I believe I have proved that _crīmen_ is really and truly the same word as the German _Verleumdung_, calumny.[6] _Verleumdung_ comes from _Leumund_, the Old High-German _hliumunt_, and this _hliumunt_ is the exact representative of the Vedic +śromata+, derived from the root +śru+, to hear, _cluere_, and signifying good report, glory, the Greek κλέος, the Old High-German _hruom_. The German word _Leumund_ can be used in a good and a bad sense, as good or evil report, while the Latin _crī-men_, for _croe-men_ (like _liber_ for _loeber_), is used only _in malam partem_. It meant originally what is heard, report, _on dit_, gossip, accusation; lastly, the object of an accusation, a crime, but never judgment, in the technical sense of the word.

The only important objection that could be raised against tracing _crīmen_ back to the root +śru+, is that this root has in the Northwestern branch of the Aryan family assumed the form +clu+, instead of +cru+, as in κλέος, _cliens_, _gloria_, O.Sl. _slovo_, A.S. _hlûd_, loud, _inclutus_. I myself hesitated for a long time on account of this phonetic difficulty, nor do I think it is quite removed by the fact that Bopp (“Comp. Gr.” § 20) identified the German _scrir-u-mês_, we cry (instead of _scriw-u-mês_), with Sk. +śrâv-ayâ-mas+, we make hear; nor by the _r_ in _in-cre-p-are_, in κράζω, as compared with κλάζω, nor even by the _r_ in ἀ-κρο-ά-ομαι, which Curtius seems inclined to derive from +śru+. The question is whether this phonetic difficulty is such as to force us to surrender the common origin of +śromata+, _hliumunt_, and _crīmen_; but even if this should be the case, the derivation of _crīmen_ from _cerno_ or κρίνειν would remain as impossible as ever.

This will give you an idea in what manner the Science of Language can open before our eyes a period in the history of law, customs, and manners, which hitherto was either entirely closed, or reached only by devious paths. Formerly, for instance, it was supposed that the Latin word _lex_, law, was connected with the Greek λόγος. This is wrong, for λόγος never means law in the sense in which _lex_ does. λόγος, from λέγειν, to collect, to gather, signifies, like κατάλογος, a gathering, a collection, an ordering, be it of words or thoughts. The idea that there is a λόγος, an order or law, for instance, in nature, is not classical, but purely modern. It is not improbable that _lex_ is connected with the English word _law_, only not by way of the Norman _loi_. English _law_ is A.S. _lagu_ (as _saw_ corresponds both to the German _Sage_ and _Säge_), and it meant originally what was laid down or settled, with exactly the same conception as the German _Gesetz_. It has been attempted to derive the Latin _lex_, too, from the same root, though there is this difficulty, that the root of _liegen_ and _legen_ does not elsewhere occur in Latin. The mere disappearance of the aspiration would be no serious obstacle. If, however, the Latin _lex_ cannot be derived from that root, we must, with Corssen, refer it to the same cluster of words to which _ligare_, to bind, _obligatio_, binding, and the Oscan ablative _lig-ud_ belong, and assign to it the original meaning of _bond_. On no account can it be derived from _legere_, to read, as if it meant a bill first read before the people, and afterwards receiving legal sanction by their approval.

From these considerations we gain at least this negative result, that, before their separation, the Aryan languages had no settled word for law; and even such negative results have their importance. The Sanskrit word for law is +dharma+, derived from +dhar+, to hold fast. The Greek word is νόμος, derived from νέμειν, to dispense, from which _Nemesis_, the dispensing deity, and perhaps even _Numa_, the name of the fabulous king and lawgiver of Rome.

Other words might easily be added which, by the disclosure of their original meaning, give us interesting hints as to the development of legal conceptions and customs, such as marriage, inheritance, ordeals, and the like. But it is time to cast a glance at theology, which, more even than jurisprudence, has experienced the influence of the Science of Language. What was said with regard to mythology, applies with equal force to theology. Here, too, words harden, and remain unchanged longer even than in other spheres of intellectual life; nay, their influence often becomes greater the more they harden, and the more their original meaning is forgotten. Here it is most important that an intelligent theologian should be able to follow up the historical development of the _termini technici_ and _sacrosancti_ of his science. Not only words like _priest_, _bishop_, _sacrament_, or _testament_, have to be correctly apprehended in that meaning which they had in the first century, but expressions like λόγος, πνεῦμα ἅγιον, δικαιοσύνη have to be traced historically to the beginnings of Christianity, and beyond, if we wish to gain a conception of their full purport.

In addition to this, the Philosophy of Religion, which must always form the true foundation of theological science, owes it to the Science of Language that the deepest germs of the consciousness of God among the different nations of the world have for the first time been laid open. We know now with perfect certainty that the names, that is, the most original conceptions, of the Deity among the Aryan nations, are as widely removed from coarse fetichism as from abstract idealism. The Aryans, as far as the annals of their language allow us to see, recognized the presence of the Divine in the bright and sunny aspects of nature, and they, therefore, called the blue sky, the fertile earth, the genial fire, the bright day, the golden dawn their +Devas+, that is, their bright ones. The same word, +Deva+ in Sanskrit, _Deus_ in Latin, remained unchanged in all their prayers, their rites, their superstitions, their philosophies, and even to-day it rises up to heaven from thousands of churches and cathedrals,--a word which, before there were Brahmans or Germans, had been framed in the dark workshop of the Aryan mind.

That the natural sciences, too, should have felt the electric shock of our new science is not surprising, considering that man is the crown of nature, the apex to which all other forces of nature point and tend. But that which makes man man, is language. _Homo animal rationale, quia orationale_, as Hobbes said. Buffon called the plant a sleeping animal; living philosophers speak of the animal as a dumb man. Both, however, forget that the plant would cease to be a plant if it awoke, and that the brute would cease to be a brute the moment it began to speak. There is, no doubt, in language a transition from the material to the spiritual: the raw material of language belongs to nature, but the form of language, that which really makes language, belongs to the spirit. Were it possible to trace human language _directly_ back to natural sounds, to interjections or imitations, the question whether the Science of Language belongs to the sphere of the natural or the historical sciences would at once be solved. But I doubt whether this crude view of the origin of language counts one single supporter in Germany. With one foot language stands, no doubt, in the realm of nature, but with the other in the realm of the spirit. Some years ago, when I thought it necessary to bring out as clearly as possible the much neglected natural element in language, I tried to explain in what sense the Science of Language had a right to be called the last and the highest of the natural sciences. But I need hardly say that I did not lose sight, therefore, of the intellectual and historical character of language; and I may here express my conviction that the Science of Language will yet enable us to withstand the extreme theories of the evolutionists, and to draw a hard and fast line between spirit and matter, between man and brute.

This short survey must suffice to show you how omnipresent the Science of Language has become in all spheres of human knowledge, and how far its limits have been extended, so that it often seems impossible for one man to embrace the whole of its vast domain. From this I wish, in conclusion, to draw some necessary advice.

Whoever devotes himself to the study of so comprehensive a science must try never to lose sight of two virtues: conscientiousness and modesty. The older we grow, the more we feel the limits of human knowledge. “Good care is taken,” as Goethe said, “that trees should not grow into the sky.” Every one of us can make himself real master of a small field of knowledge only, and what we gain in extent, we inevitably lose in depth. It was impossible that Bopp should know Sanskrit like Colebrooke, Zend like Burnouf, Greek like Hermann, Latin like Lachmann, German like Grimm, Slavonic like Miklosich, Celtic like Zeuss. That drawback lies in the nature of all comparative studies. But it follows by no means that, as the French proverb says, _qui trop embrasse, mal étreint_. Bopp’s “Comparative Grammar” will always mark an epoch in linguistic studies, and no one has accused the old master of superficiality. There are, in fact, two kinds of knowledge; the one which we take in as real nourishment, which we convert _in succum et sanguinem_, which is always present, which we can never lose; the other which, if I may say so, we put into our pockets, in order to find it there whenever it is wanted. For comparative studies the second kind of knowledge is as important as the first, but in order to use it properly, the greatest conscientiousness is required. Not only ought we, whenever we have to use it, to go back to the original sources, to accept nothing on trust, to quote nothing at second-hand, and to verify every single point before we rely on it for comparative purposes, but, even after we have done everything to guard against error, we ought to proceed with the greatest caution and modesty. I consider, for instance, that an accurate knowledge of Sanskrit is a _conditio sine quâ non_ in the study of Comparative Philology. According to my conviction, though I know it is not shared by others, Sanskrit must forever remain the central point of our studies. But it is clearly impossible for us, while engaged in a scholarlike study of Sanskrit, to follow at the same time the gigantic strides of Latin, Greek, German, Slavonic, and Celtic philology. Here we must learn to be satisfied with what is possible, and apply for advice whenever we want it, to those who are masters in these different departments of philology. Much has of late been said of the antagonism between comparative and classical philology. To me it seems that these two depend so much on each other for help and advice that their representatives ought to be united by the closest ties of fellowship. We must work on side by side, and accept counsel as readily as we give it. Without the help of Comparative Philology, for instance, Greek scholars would never have arrived at a correct understanding of the Digamma--nay, a freer intercourse with his colleague, Bopp, would have preserved Bekker from several mistakes in his restoration of the Digamma in Homer. Latin scholars would have felt far more hesitation in introducing the old _d_ of the ablative in Plautus, if the analogy of Sanskrit had not so clearly proved its legitimacy.

On the other hand, we, comparative philologists, should readily ask and gladly accept the advice and help of our classical colleagues. Without their guidance, we can never advance securely; their warnings are to us of the greatest advantage, their approval our best reward. We are often too bold, we do not see all the difficulties that stand in the way of our speculations, we are too apt to forget that, in addition to its general Aryan character, every language has its peculiar genius. Let us all be on our guard against omniscience and infallibility. Only through a frank, honest, and truly brotherly coöperation can we hope for a true advancement of knowledge. We all want the same thing; we all are _etymologists_--that is, lovers of truth. For this, before all things, the spirit of truth, which is the living spirit of all science, must dwell within us. Whoever cannot yield to the voice of truth, whoever cannot say, “I was wrong,” knows little as yet of the true spirit of science.

Allow me, in conclusion, to recall to your remembrance another passage from Niebuhr. He belongs to the good old race of German scholars. “Above all things,” he writes, “we must in all scientific pursuits preserve our truthfulness so pure that we thoroughly eschew every false appearance; that we represent not even the smallest thing as certain of which we are not completely convinced; that if we have to propose a conjecture, we spare no effort in representing the exact degree of its probability. If we do not ourselves, when it is possible, indicate our errors, even such as no one else is likely to discover; if, in laying down our pen, we cannot say in the sight of God, ‘Upon strict examination, I have knowingly written nothing that is not true;’ and if, without deceiving either ourselves or others, we have not presented even our most odious opponents in such a light only that we could justify it upon our death-beds--if we cannot do this, study and literature serve only to make us unrighteous and sinful.”

Few, I fear, could add, with Niebuhr: “In this I am convinced that I do not require from others anything of which a higher spirit, if He could read my soul, could convict me of having done the contrary.” But all of us, young as well as old, should keep these words before our eyes and in our hearts. Thus, and thus only, will our studies not miss their highest goal: thus, and thus only, may we hope to become true etymologists--_i.e._, true lovers, seekers, and, I trust, finders of truth.

NOTES.

NOTE A.

Θεός AND DEUS.

That Greek θ does not legitimately represent a Sanskrit, Latin, Slavonic, and Celtic _d_ is a fact that ought never to have been overlooked by comparative philologists, and nothing could be more useful than the strong protest entered by Windischmann, Schleicher, Curtius, and others, against the favorite identification of Sk. +deva+, _deus_, and θεός. Considering it as one of the first duties, in all etymological researches, that we should pay implicit obedience to phonetic laws, I have never, so far as I remember, quoted θεός as identical with _deus_, together with the other derivatives of the root +div+, such as +Dyaus+, Ζεύς, _Jupiter_, +deva+, Lith. _deva-s_, Irish _día_.

But with all due respect for phonetic laws, I have never in my own heart doubted that θεός belonged to the same cluster of words which the early Aryans employed to express the brightness of the sky and of the day, and which helped them to utter their first conception of a god of the bright sky (+Dyaus+), of bright beings in heaven, as opposed to the powers of night and darkness and winter (+deva+), and, lastly, of deity in the abstract.[7] I have never become an atheist; and though I did not undervalue the powerful arguments advanced against the identity of _deus_ and θεός, I thought that other arguments also possessed their value, and could not be ignored with impunity. If, with our eyes shut, we submit to the dictates of phonetic laws, we are forced to believe that while the Greeks shared with the Hindus, the Italians, and Germans the name for the bright god of the sky Zeus, +Dyaus+, _Jovis_, _Zio_, and while they again shared with them such derivatives as δῖος, heavenly, Sk. +divyas+, they threw away the intermediate old Aryan word for god, +deva+, _deus_, and formed a new one from a different root, but agreeing with the word which they had rejected in all letters but one. I suppose that even the strongest supporters of the atheistic theory would have accepted δεός, if it existed in Greek, as a correlative of +deva+ and _deus_; and I ask, would it not be an almost incredible coincidence, if the Greeks, after giving up the common Aryan word, which would have been δοιϝός or δειϝός or δεϝός, had coined a new word for god from a different root, yet coming so near to δεϝός as θεϝός? These internal difficulties seem to me nearly as great as the external: at all events it would not be right to attempt to extenuate either.

Now I think that, though much has been said against θεός for δεϝός, something may also be said in support of δεϝός assuming the form of θεός. Curtius is quite right in repelling all arguments derived from Sk. +duhitar+ = θυγάτηρ, or Sk. +dvâr+ = θύρ-α; but I think he does not do full justice to the argument derived from φιάλη and φιαρός. The Greek φιάλη has been explained as originally πιϝάλη, the lost digamma causing the aspiration of the initial π. Curtius says: “This etymology of φιάλη is wrecked on the fact that in Homer the word does not mean a vessel for drinking, but a kind of kettle.” That is true, but the fact remains that in later Greek φιάλη means a drinking cup. Thus Pindar (“Isthm.,” v. 58) says:--

Ἄνδωκε δ’ αὐτῷ φέρτατος οἰνοδόκον φιάλαν χρυσῷ πεφρικυῖαν Τελαμών,

which refers clearly to a golden goblet, and not a kettle. Besides, we have an exactly analogous case in the Sk. +pâtram+. This, too, is clearly derived from +pâ+, to drink, but it is used far more frequently in the sense of vessel in general, and its etymological meaning vanishes altogether when it comes to mean a vessel for something, a fit person. I see no etymology for φιάλη, except πιϝάλη, a drinking vessel.

Secondly, as to φιαρός, which is supposed to be the same as πιαρός, and to represent the Sanskrit +pîvaras+, fat, Curtius says that it occurs in Alexandrian poets only, that it there means bright, resplendent, and is used as an adjective of the dawn, while πιαρός means fat, and fat only. Against this I venture to remark, first, that there are passages where φιαρός means sleek, as in Theocr. ii. 21, φιαρωτέρα ὄμφακος ὠμᾶς, said of a young plump girl, who in Sanskrit would be called +pîvarî+; secondly, that while πῖαρ is used for cream, φιαρός is used as an adjective of cream; and, thirdly, that the application of φιαρός to the dawn is hardly surprising, if we remember the change of meaning in λιπαρός in Greek, and the application in the Veda of such words as +ghṛta pratîka+, to the dawn. Lastly, as in φιάλη, I see no etymology for φιαρός, except πιϝαρός.

I think it is but fair therefore to admit that θεός for δεϝός would find some support by the analogy of φιάλη for πιϝάλη, and of φιαρός for πιϝαρός. There still remain difficulties enough to make us cautious in asserting the identity of θεός and _deus_; but in forming our own opinion these difficulties should be weighed impartially against the internal difficulties involved in placing θεός as a totally independent word, by the side of +deva+ and _deus_. And, as in φιάλη and φιαρός, may we not say of θεός also that there is no etymology for it, if we separate it from Ζεύς and δῖος, from +Dyaus+ and +divyas+? Curtius himself rejects Plato’s and Schleicher’s derivation of θεός from θέω, to run: likewise C. Hoffmann’s from +dhava+, man; likewise Bühler’s from a root +dhi+, to think or to shine; likewise that of Herodotus and A. Göbel from θες, a secondary form of θε, to settle. Ascoli’s analysis is highly sagacious, but it is too artificial. Ascoli[8] identifies θεός, not with +deva+, but with _divyá-s_. +Divyás+ becoming διϝεός (like +satya+, ἐτεός), the accent on the last syllable would produce the change to δϝεό-ς, ϝ would cause aspiration in the preceding consonant and then disappear, leaving θεός = +divyás+. All these changes are just possible phonetically, but, as Curtius observes, the point for which the theists contend is not gained, for we should still have to admit that the Greeks lost the common word for god, +deva+ and _deus_, and that they alone replaced it by a derivative +divya+, meaning heavenly, not bright.

Curtius himself seems in favor of deriving θεός from θες, to implore, which we have in θεσ-σάμενοι, θέσσαντο, πολύθεστος, etc. Θεός, taken as a passive derivative, might, he thinks, have the meaning of ἀρητός in πολυάρητος, and mean the implored being. I cannot think that this is a satisfactory derivation. It might be defended phonetically and etymologically, though I cannot think of any analogous passive derivatives of a root ending in _s_. Where it fails to carry conviction is in leaving unexplained the loss of the common Aryan word for deity, and in putting in its place a name that savors of very modern thought.

I think the strongest argument against the supposed aspirating power of medial _v_, and its subsequent disappearance, lies in the fact that there are so many words having medial _v_, which show no trace of this phonetic process (Curtius, p. 507). On the other hand, it should be borne in mind, that the Greeks might have felt a natural objection to the forms which would have rendered +deva+ with real exactness, I mean δοιός or δέος, the former conveying the meaning of double, the latter of fear. A mere wish to keep the name for god distinct from these words might have produced the phonetic anomaly of which we complain; and, after all, though I do not like to use that excuse, there are exceptions to phonetic laws. No one can explain how ὄγδοος was derived from ὀκτώ or ἕβδομος from ἑπτά, yet the internal evidence is too strong to be shaken by phonetic objections. In the case of θεός and _deus_ the internal evidence seems to me nearly as strong as in ὄγδοος and ἕβδομος, and though unwilling to give a final verdict, I think the question of the loss in Greek of the Aryan word for god and its replacement by another word nearly identical in form, but totally distinct in origin, should be left for the present an open question in Comparative Philology.

NOTE B.

THE VOCATIVE OF +DYAÚS+ AND Ζεύς.

The vocative of +Dyaus+, having the circumflex, is one of those linguistic gems which one finds now and then in the Rig-Veda, and which by right ought to have a place of honor in a Museum of Antiquities. It is a unique form. It occurs but once in the Rig-Veda, never again, as far as we know at present, in the whole of Vedic literature, and yet it is exactly that form which a student of language would expect who is familiar with the working of the laws of accent in Sanskrit and in Greek. Without a thorough knowledge of these laws, the circumflexed vocative in Sanskrit, +Dyaûs+, corresponding to Greek Ζεῦ, would seem a mere anomaly, possibly an accidental coincidence, whereas in reality it affords the most striking proof of the organic working of the laws of accent, and at the same time an unanswerable testimony in favor of the genuineness of the ancient text of the Rig-Veda.

The laws of accent bearing on this circumflexed vocative are so simple that I thought they would have been understood by everybody. As this does not seem to have been the case, I add a few explanatory remarks.

It was Benfey who, as on so many other points, so on the accent of vocatives, was the first to point out (in 1845) that it was a fundamental law of the Aryan language to place the acute on the first syllable of all vocatives, both in the singular, and in the dual and plural.[9] In Sanskrit this law admits of no exception; in Greek and Latin the rhythmic accent has prevailed to that extent that we only find a few traces left of the original Aryan accentuation. It is well known that in vocatives of nouns ending in _ius_, the ancient Romans preserved the accent on the first syllable, that they said _Vírgili_, _Váleri_, from _Virgílius_ and _Valérius_. This statement of Nigidius Figulus, preserved by Gellius, though with the remark that in his time no one would say so, is the only evidence of the former existence of the Aryan law of accentuation in Latin. In Greek the evidence is more considerable, but the vocatives with the accent on the first syllable are, by the supreme law of the rhythmic accent in Greek, reduced to vocatives, drawing back their accent as far as they can, consistently with the law which restricts the accent to the last three syllables. Thus while in Sanskrit a word like Ἀγαμέμνων would in the vocative retract the accent on the first syllable Ἄγαμεμνον, the Greek could do no more than say Ἀγάμεμνον with the accent on the antepenultimate. In the same manner the vocative of Ἀριστοτέλης, can only be Ἀριστότελες, whereas in Sanskrit it would have been Ἄριστοτελες.

Here, however, the question arises, whether in words like Ἀγαμέμνων[10] and Ἀριστοτέλης[11] the accent was not originally on the antepenultimate, but drawn on the penultimate by the rhythmic law. This is certainly the case in ἥδιον, as the vocative of ἡδίων, for we know that both in Sanskrit and Greek, comparatives in ιων retract their accent as far as possible, and have it always on the first syllable in Sanskrit, always on the penultimate in Greek, if the last syllable is long. But, _cessante causâ cessat effectus_, and therefore the accent goes back on the antepenultimate, not only in the vocative, but likewise in the nom. neuter ἥδιον.

It is possible that the same process may explain the vocative δέσποτα from δεσπότης, if we compare Sanskrit compounds with +pati+, such as +dâsápati+, +gấspati+, +dámpati+, which leave the accent on the first member of the compound. In Δημήτηρ also all becomes regular, if we admit the original accentuation to have been Δήμητηρ, changed in Δημήτηρ, but preserved in the genitive Δήμητρος, and the vocative Δήμητερ.[12]

But there are other words in which this cannot be the case, for instance, ἄδελφε, πόνηρε, μόχθερε from ἀδελφός, πονηρός, μοχθηρός. Here the accent is the old Aryan vocatival accent. Again, in πατήρ, πατέρα, Sk. +pitấ+, +pitáram+, in μήτηρ, μητέρα, Sk. +mâtấ+, +mâtáram+, in θυγάτηρ, θυγατέρα, Sk. +duhitấ+, +duhitáram+, the radical accent was throughout on the suffix +tár+, nor would the rules of the rhythmic accent in Greek prevent it from being on the antepenultimate in the accusative. The fact therefore that it is retracted on the penultimate and antepenultimate in the vocative, shows clearly that we have here, too, the last working of the original Aryan accentuation. The irregular accent in the nom. sing. of μήτηρ, instead of μητήρ, is probably due to the frequent use of the vocative (an explanation which I had adopted before I had seen Benfey’s essay), and the same cause may explain the apparently irregular accentuation in θύγατρα, by the side of θυγατέρα, in θύγατρες, and θύγατρας. Similar vocatives with retracted accent are δᾶερ, nom. δαήρ, εἴνατερ, nom. εἰνάτηρ, γύναι, nom. γυνή, σῶτερ, nom. σωτήρ, ἄνερ, nom. ἀνήρ, Ἄπολλον, nom. Ἀπόλλων, Πόσειδον, nom. Ποσειδῶν, Ἥρακλες, nom. Ἡρακλῆς.

We have thus established the fact that one feature of the primitive Aryan accentuation, which consisted in the very natural process of placing the high accent on the first syllable of vocatives, was strictly preserved in Sanskrit, while in Greek and Latin it only left some scattered traces of its former existence. Without the light derived from Sanskrit, the changes in the accent of vocatives in Greek and Latin would be inexplicable, they would be, what they are in Greek grammar, mere anomalies; while, if placed by the side of Sanskrit, they are readily recognized as what they really are, remnants of a former age, preserved by frequent usage or by an agent whom we do not like to recognize, though we cannot altogether ignore him,--viz. chance.

Taking our position on the fact that change of accent in the vocative in Greek is due to the continued influence of an older system of Aryan accentuation, we now see how the change of nom. Ζεύς into voc. Ζεῦ, and of nom. +Dyaús+, into voc. +Dyaû́s+, rests on the same principle. In Sanskrit the change, though at first sight irregular, admits of explanation. What we call the circumflex in Sanskrit, is the combination of a rising and falling of the voice, or, as we should say in Greek, of an acute and grave accent. As +Dyaús+ was originally +Diaús+, and is frequently used as two syllables in the Veda, the vocative would have been +Díaùs+, and this contracted would become +Dyaus+. Thus we have +paribhvế+ from +paribhûs+. In Greek the facts are the same, but the explanation is more difficult. The general rule in Greek is that vocatives in ου, οι, and ευ, from oxytone or perispome nominatives, are perispome; as πλακοῦ, βοῦ, Λητοῖ, Πηλεῦ, βασιλεῦ, from πλακοῦς, οῦντος, placenta, βοῦς, Λητώ, Πηλεύς, βασιλεύς. The rationale of that rule has never been explained, as far as Greek is concerned. Under this rule the vocative of Ζεύς becomes Ζεῦ; but no Greek grammarian has attempted to explain the process by which Ζεύς becomes Ζεῦ, and nothing remains for the present but to admit that we have in it an ancient Aryan relic preserved in Greek long after the causes which had produced it had ceased to act. It would fall into the same category as εἶμι and ἴμεν. Here, too, the efficient cause of the length and shortness of the radical vowel _i_, viz., the change of accent, Sk. +émi+, but +imás+, has disappeared in Greek, while its effect has been preserved. But whatever explanation may hereafter be adopted, the simple fact which I had pointed out remains, the motive power which changed the nom. +dyaús+ into the vocative +dyaû́s+, is the same which changed Ζεύς into Ζεῦ. Those who do not understand, or do not admit this, are bound to produce, from the resources of Greek itself, another motive power to account for the change of Ζεύς into Ζεῦ; but they must not imagine that a mere reference to a Greek elementary grammar suffices for explaining that process.

The passage in the Rig-Veda (VI. 51, 5) to which I referred is unique, and I therefore give it here, though it has in the meantime been most ably discussed by Benfey in his “Essay on the Vocative” (1872).

“Dyaû́ḥ pítaḥ pṛthivi mấtaḥ ádhruk Ζεῦ πάτερ πλατεῖα μῆτερ ἀτρεκ(ές) Ágne bhrấtaḥ vasavaḥ mṛláta naḥ[13] Ignis φράτερ ϝέΣηϝες μέλδετε nos.”

This passage is clearly one of great antiquity, for it still recognizes +Dyaús+, the father, as the supreme god, Earth, the mother, by his side, and Agni, fire, as the brother, not of Heaven and Earth, but of man, because living with men on the hearth of their houses. +Vasu+, as a general name of the bright gods, like +deva+ in other hymns, corresponds, I believe, to the Greek adjective ἐΰς. The genitive plural ἐάων is likewise derived from ἐΰς or +vásus+, by Benfey (l.c. p. 57), and +dâtấ vásûnâm+ (Rv. VIII. 51, 5) comes certainly very near to δοτὴρ ἐάων. The only difficulty would be the ā instead of the η, as in ἐῆος, the gen. sing. of ἐΰς in Homer, a difficulty which might be removed by tracing the gen. plur. ἐάων back to a fem. ἐά, corresponding to a Sk. +vasavî+ or +vasavyâ+. As to μέλδετε, it is phonetically the nearest approach to +mṛlata+, _i.e._, *+mardata+, though in Greek it means “make mild” rather than “be mild.” Mild and _mollis_ come from the same root.

What gives to this passage its special value is, that in all other passages when +dyaus+ occurs as a vocative and as bisyllabic, it appears simply with the _udâtta_, thus showing at how early a time even the Hindus forgot the meaning of the circumflex on _dyaû́s_, and its legitimate appearance in that place. Thus in Rv. VIII. 100, 12, we read,--

“Sákhe Vishṇo vitarám ví kramasva, Dyaúḥ dehí lokám vájrâya viskábhe Hánâva vṛtrám riṇácâva síndhûn Índrasya yantu prasavé vísṛshṭâḥ.”

“Friend Vishṇu, stride further, Dyaus give room for the lightning to leap, Let us both kill Vṛtra and free the rivers, Let them go, sent forth at the command of Indra.”

Here, I have little doubt, the ancient Rishis pronounced +Dyaû́s+, but the later poets, and the still later +Âcâryas+ were satisfied with the acute, and with the acute the word is written here in all the MSS. I know.

NOTE C.

ARYAN WORDS OCCURRING IN ZEND, BUT NOT IN SANSKRIT.

It has been objected that the three instances which I had quoted of Zend words, not occurring in Sanskrit, but preserved in one or the other of the Indo-European languages, were not sufficient to establish the fact which I wished to establish, particularly as one of them, +kehrp+, existed in Sanskrit, or, at least, in Vedic Sanskrit, as +kṛp+. I admit that I ought to have mentioned the Vedic +kṛp+, rather than the later +kalpa+; but I doubt whether the conclusions which I wished to draw would have been at all affected by this. For what I remarked with regard to +kalpa+, applies with equal force to +kṛp+; it does not in Sanskrit mean body or flesh, like +kehrp+, and _corpus_, but simply form. But even if +kehrp+ were not a case in point, nothing would have been easier than to replace it by other words, if at the time of printing my lecture I had had my collectanea at hand. I now subjoin a more complete list of words, present in Zend, absent in Sanskrit, but preserved in Greek, Latin, or German.

Zend +ana+, prep., upon; Greek ἀνά; Goth, _ana_, upon.

Zend +erezataêna+, adj., made of silver; Lat. _argentinus_. In Sk. we have +rajatam+, silver, but no corresponding adjective.

Zend +içi+, ice; O.N. _îss_; A.S. _îs_; O.H.S. _îs_.

Grimm compares the Irish _eirr_, snow, and he remarks that the other Aryan languages have each framed their own words for ice, Lith. _ledas_, O.S. _led_, and distantly connected with these, through the Russian _cholodnyi_, the Latin _glacies_, for _gelacies_, Greek κρύος, κρυμός, κρύσταλλος.

The root from which these Greek words for ice are derived has left several derivatives in other languages, such as Lat. _cru-s-ta_, and O.N. _hrî-m_, rime, hoar-frost, and in Zend +khrûta+, used as an adjective of +zim+, winter, originally the hard winter. In Zend +khrûma+, and +khrûra+, Sk. +krûra+, as in Greek κρυόεις, the meaning has changed to _crudus_, _crudelis_. In the English _raw_, O.H.G. _hrâo_, a similar change of meaning may be observed.

Another name connected with ice and winter is the Zend +zyâo+, frost, from the root +hi+, which has given us χι-ών, Sk. +hi-ma+, Lat. _hiem-s_, O.S. _zima_, but which in the simplest form has been preserved in Zend only and in the O.N. _gȩ_. Fick quotes _gȩ_ with the doubtful meanings of cold and snow, Curtius with that of storm, identifying it with Norw. _gjö_, _nix autumni recens_.

There is still another name for snow, absent in Sanskrit, but fully represented in Zend and the other Aryan languages, viz., Zend _çnizh_, to snow, Lat. _nix_, Goth. _snaív-s_, Lith. _snig-ti_, to snow, Ir. _snechta_, snow, Gr. νίφ-α (acc).[14]

Zend +aêva+, one; Gr. οἶος.

Zend +kamara+, girdle, vault; Gr. καμάρα, vault, covered carriage; A.S. _himil_. Connected with this we find the Zend +kameredhe+, skull, vault of head, very nearly connected with κμέλεθρον, μέλαθρον.

Zend +kareta+, knife; Lith. _kalta-s_, knife; cf. _culter_, Sk. +kart-ari+, etc. The Slav. _korda_, O.N. _kordi_, Hung. _kard_, are treated by Justi as words borrowed from Persian.

Zend +cvant+, Lat. _quantus_. Sk. has +tâvat+, _tantus_, and +yâvat+, but not +kâvat+.

Zend +garaṇh+, reverence; Gr. γέρας.

Zend +thrâfaṇh+, food; Gr. -τρέφες.

Zend +da+, _e.g._ +vaêçmen-da+, towards the house; Gr. οἶκόν-δε; cf. Goth. _du_, to, O.S. _do_.

Zend +daiti+, gift; Gr. δόσις, Lat. _dôs_, _dôti-s_, Lith. _důti-s_.

Zend +dâmi+, creation; Gr. θέμις, law.

Zend +naçu+, corpse; Gr. νέκυς; Goth. _nau-s_.

Zend +napo+, nom. sing.; A.S. _nefa_; O.H.G. _nefo_.

Zend +paithya+ in +qaêpaithya+, own; Lat. _sua-pte_, _ipse_; Lith. _pati-s_, self.

Zend +peretu+, bridge; Lat. _portus_.

Zend +fraêsta+, most, best; Gr. πλεῖστος.

Zend +brvat+, brow; Gr. ἀβροῦτες (Macedon.); Lat. _frons_.

Zend +madh+, to cure; Lat. _mederi_.

Zend +man+, in +upa-man+, to wait; Lat. _manere_.

Zend +mîzhda+; Gr. μισθός; Goth. _mizd-ô_; O.S. _mîzda_.

Zend +yâre+, year; Goth. _jer_; O.S. _jarŭ_, spring.

Zend +yâoṇh+, +yâh+, to gird; +yâonha+, dress; Gr. ζωσ in ζώννυμι; O.S. _po-yasu_, girdle.

Zend +râçta+, straight; Lat. _rectus_; Goth. _raiht-s_.

Zend +rap+, to go; Lat. _repere_.

Zend +varez+, to work, +vareza+, work, +varstva+, work; Goth, _vaurkjan_, to work; Gr. ἔοργα, ῥέζω; Goth. _vaurstv_.

Zend +vaêti+, willow; Lith. _vỹti-s_, withy; Lat. _vîtis_.

Zend +çtaman+, mouth; Gr. στόμα.

[Footnote 1: Note A, p. 227.]

[Footnote 2: Note B, p. 230.]

[Footnote 3: See M. M.’s _Letter to Chevalier Bunsen, on the Turanian Languages_, 1854, second chapter, second section, “Ethnology versus Phonology.”]

[Footnote 4: Note C, p. 235.]

[Footnote 5: “Judgment (_crimen_, κρίνειν), penance (_pœna_, ποινή), retribution (_talio_, ταλάω, τλῆναι, are Græco-Italic conceptions.” Mommsen, _Röm. Geschichte_, vol. i. p. 25.]

[Footnote 6: See my article in Kuhn’s _Zeitschrift_, vol. xix. p. 46.]

[Footnote 7: _Lectures on the Science of Language_, vol. ii. p. 467.]

[Footnote 8: _Rendiconti del Reale Instituto Lombardo, classe de lettre_, iv. fasc. 6.]

[Footnote 9: See Benfey, _Über die Enstehung des Indo-germanischen Vocativs_, Göttingen, 1872, p. 35.]

[Footnote 10: The rule is that vocatives in ον from proper names in ων retract the accent, except Λακεδαῖμον, and those in φρον, as Λυκόφρον from Λυκόφρων.]

[Footnote 11: Vocatives in ες from proper names in ης retract the accent, as Σώκρατες, except those in ωδες, ωλες, ωρες, ηρες, as Δειῶδες.]

[Footnote 12: Benfey, l.c. p. 40.]

[Footnote 13: See, also, M. M.’s _Lectures on the Science of Language_, vol. ii, p. 472.]

[Footnote 14: See M. M.’s _Introduction to the Science of Religion_, p. 372, note.]