“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.