Linguistic Palæontology

NEARLY two centuries ago Leibnitz called attention to the “ collation of languages ” as the best method of conducting researches into the early history of mankind. But this seed-thought, like so many others which the erudite and encyclopædic German philosopher scattered lavishly by the wayside, fell upon barren soil, and remained inert, until the discovery and cultivation of Sanskrit opened a broad and fertile field, in which it could take root and bear fruit. As early as 1770, Sir William Jones pointed out the remarkable similarity between Persian and Greek and Latin. Here, too, he was anticipated by Leibnitz, who had already detected this affinity, and had expressed his sense of it by the rather extravagant assertion that “ entire verses may be written in Persian, and yet be understood by a German.”

The recognition of a radical connection between certain languages led to the assumption of blood-relationship of the peoples speaking them. It was taken for granted that the nations composing the so-called Aryan branch of the human race were all actually akin. They were constantly spoken of in terms implying consanguinity, and genealogical trees of the Indo-Germanic family in all its ramifications were drawn out from data furnished by linguistics. Sanskrit was at first supposed to be the mother of this numerous progeny ; but her claim was soon set aside, and it was finally agreed that no extant Aryan language could be regarded as the parent stock. They were all declared to be daughters of a mother long since deceased, — a mother who left no literary or artistic remains and no historical record of herself, and concerning whom the tenacious memory of tradition has not preserved the slightest reminiscence. No suspicion that such a person had ever lived would have arisen even in the minds of her eldest children, had it not been for the existence of offspring who could not otherwise be accounted for.

Naturally enough, an intense curiosity was aroused as to the home and habits, the moral code and religious creed, the social status and intellectual character, of this mysterious, hypothetical ancestress. Where was her abode, and in what manner did she live? What were her theories of the universe, her ethical notions, the objects of her worship, her system of theology, and the nature and extent of her mental endowments ? Were her stores of knowledge, her acquaintance with the arts and sciences, her domestic relations, and her observance of the amenities and comities of life such as to make her a worthy member of a civilized community, or to entitle her to a place among “ cultured people”? No sooner was it satisfactorily settled that this venerable mother of all Aryans had actually existed, a thing of real flesh and blood, and not a merely supposititious creature, born of a philologist’s heated imagination, than questions like these began to put themselves forward and press for an answer.

Assuming as a fundamental principle that what the children possess in common they must have inherited from the parent, it was only necessary to determine the exact extent of this heirloom in order to ascertain the nature and value of the original property. If, for example, all the daughters had radically the same word for “ dog,” it was deemed quite legitimate to infer that the mother had kept dogs. By this method of procedure a long list was formed of names of animals and plants and metals, industrial arts and implements, weapons of war and of chase; words expressing social customs and family ties, mental as well as material objects, and a great variety of ideas and conceptions with which the primitive Aryans were presumed to have been familiar. An attempt was made to reconstruct preëthnic society out of the elements of language, and to paint with simple word-pigments vivid genre pictures of prehistoric times. Thus a new science was born, and christened Linguistic Palæontology.

But linguistic palaeontology was rather unfortunate in its godfather. A quarter of a century has elapsed since Adolphe Pictet held this infant science at the font (baptismal and typographical), gave it its name, and thus made himself, in some sort, a surety for its proper discipline and development.¹ Unluckily, gossip Pictet proved to be a person quite devoid of the discernment and discretion essential to the fit exercise of the sponsorial office. He soon lost control of his precocious charge, indulged its wildest whims, admitted its most extravagant claims, nursed its budding vanity. mistook forwardness and frowardness for marks of genius, never questioned its assertions, and resented the slightest reprimand or suggestion of chastisement as an insult, until his pampered and over-petted godchild became the tyrant of the philological household and l’enfant terrible of the scientific world. In his foolish fondness and inordinate ambition, he was not content that the bantling should first creep, but wished that, like the dwarf Vishnu, it should suddenly swell into gigantic proportions, and step at once into full possession of heaven and earth. No wonder that many a lean and hungry-eyed ethnologist, as he peeped about under the huge legs of this upstart colossus, so presumptuously bestriding the world he had hitherto called his own, should indignantly exclaim, —

Why, my dear Cassius, he is a vegetarian of the most radical type, and subsists on roots of speech, which he gathers indiscriminately from every quarter, and usually eats crude, but does not scruple to cook them, whenever he finds them too tough for mastication.

By a skillful manipulation of piquant sauces a French cook can make a palatable and plausible dish out of the most meagre materials. Monsieur Pictet, although a Genevan by nationality, was a Frenchman by blood, and endowed with his full share of the culinary genius of the race. It is the cleverness of the chef de cuisine applied to literary production that puts into French books, whether belletristic or scientific, a savory and appetizing quality independent of their substantial merits, and composes an elegant and relishable ragout out of ingredients which, in the hands of a German, would at once betray their poverty, and produce only a vile and vapid hotchpotch.

Monsieur Pictet sets out with the intention of placing the primitive Aryans on the highest possible pinnacle of culture, and persistently ignores or brusquely pushes aside whatever interferes with this design. In order to prove, for example, that they “ already possessed most of the useful plants which form the basis of our agriculture,” he brings together a number of heterogeneous words, some arbitrarily compounded and others absolutely created, but scarcely one affording the slightest support to the proposition he wishes to maintain. No matter whether a Sanskrit word is found in the Vedas or in the later epic and dramatic poems, every watercourse is welcome that feeds his flume and grinds his grist. He introduces into philology the system of questioning by torture, long since banished from courts of law. Young and innocent words, which refuse to incriminate themselves, or to testify concerning events which occurred thousands of years before they were born, are put to the rack, and stretched or lopped to fit a Procrustean theory. The same process of reasoning by which it is shown that the ancient Aryans cultivated nearly all our cereals and were familiar with our principal metals would also prove, beyond a peradventure, that the punchbowl cheered their hearts and homes. The word “ punch” is common to all European languages, and is found in Sanskrit and Hindustânî. It means a drink composed of five (pancha) ingredients, arrack, sugar, tea, water, and lemons, each of which must have been known to the primitive punch-makers. Whether the name of this beverage came into Europe with the first Indo-Germanic migrations, or was introduced by Englishmen from India within the memory of men still living, is a matter of minor importance. It suffices that we have the word, and that Sanskrit explains it.

Again, Monsieur Pictet imagines some old Aryan exclaiming, Kabhara! quel aliment! Hence the old German habaro and the modern German hafer, oats. That this utterance expressed, not disgust, but admiration, is inferred from Pliny’s account of the fondness of the Germans for oatmeal gruel. It is pleasant to think of our remote ancestors as not “ men of squeamish taste to entertain,” but rather as sturdy, omnivorous feeders, who never vexed their good housewives by dainty appetites. If one went into iuterjectional ecstasies over oat-pap, another, as he sat down to his millet, cried out, also dans le sens laudatif Karasa! quelle nourriture! hence the German hirsi, hirse, and the English hyrse. The same exclamation gave us the word for cherry : Karasa! quel suc! — kέρασos, cerasus, and cerise. It is to be regretted that the ingenious discoverer of this new and fruitful etymological principle did not apply it to a fuller extent. Who can doubt that the aboriginal Aryan waterman, as he paddied his dugout on the Oxus or the Yaxartes, exclaimed in delight, Kanu! what a boat, canoe! What is more natural than that some mighty hunter of that day, as he saw a strange beast bounding through the primeval forest, should have shouted Kâñgaruha! what a body springing up, kangaroo! Would it be possible to find a more expressive term for the itinerant menagerie or caravan which pitched its tent on the Bactrian plains than karavana (what roaring) ? Perhaps, too, we owe the word cimeter to a warrior who, as he wiped the blood from his sword, condensed his Berserker exultation in the emphatic phrase, kim atere, how it went through them !

Having thus provided the primitive Aryans with cherries, Monsieur Pictet would fain comfort them with apples. The Kelts had their ubhall, the AngloSaxons their œppel, the old Germans their aphul, the Lithuanians their óbůlas ; but there is no corresponding word in Sanskrit. Many a wary and timorous scholar would have turned back from the brink of such a chasm, and concluded that his quest of this fruit must be confined to certain European branches of the Aryan stock. Not so, however, a bold, creative genius. “No word ? Go to, let us make one. Phâla means fruit, and with the prefix â or a prosthenic a we have âphâla or aphdla : le voilà! ” To account for the absence of such a word in Sanskrit, it is suggested that the Indo-Aryans may have lost it in crossing the Himâlaya, and passing into the zone of tropical fruits. Historiographers and botanists, from Quintus Curtius Rufus to Alphonse de Candolle, uniformly describe Bactria as a fruitgrowing region. Our Aryan ancestors lived in Bactria; therefore they had fruit and ate apples. Thus a doubtful hypothesis is introduced as the minor premise of a syllogism, and made the basis of a still more questionable conclusion. In lack of linguistic data, this kind of reasoning is frequently employed, and by dint of it several important beasts, such as the camel, the lion, and the tiger, are added to the primitive Aryan fauna.

Although Pictet’s methods of conducting his researches were severely criticised by some of the more sober and circumspect philologists, and the results seriously called in question, they were, nevertheless, accepted by many others, who hastened to erect upon the newly won and rather queachy foundations prehistoric edifices, excessively florid in style and most fantastic in construction. French scholars, like Lenormant and De Rougemont, put implicit confidence in Pictet’s deductions, and took them as the starting-point for further investigations into the origin and growth of Semitic culture and civilization. Even the Germans, so keen and cautious and skeptical in matters of historical evidence, so strong against documental proof, were ready to receive the slightest suggestion and most equivocal testimony of words with eager and uncritical credulity. An essay published by Ferdinand Justi in Raumer’s Tascbenbuch for 1862 depicts “ the primeval period of the Indo-Germanic race” in the brightest and most attractive colors. It is a painting of scenes from Utopia, in which the German sets his palette to the key, and preserves the tone of the Genevan limner; a picture of the golden age, which might have borrowed its tints from Zuccheri’s Belli Anni d’Oro, and taken its models from Milton’s vision of Adam and Eve in Eden. Not only did men and women in this Aryan paradise dwell together in the most harmonious and delightful relations, but they were also exempt from the ills that flesh is heir to in our corrupt and degenerate age. Disease, with its dark and melancholy train of woes, found no admission there. Wounds received in battle and the natural decay which follows maturity in the development of the mental and physical powers were the only forms, we are told, in which death visited this happy people.

A prehistoric sketch of this kind is like an impressionist’s landscape. Seen from a distance, it stands out in distinct outlines and well-blended colors; but on closer inspection the forms grow dim and disappear, and the whole scene dissolves into a mass of blurs and blotches, with here and there only faint traces of a vague and vaporous shape, —

In either case, the result is not a reproduction or representation of any reality in nature, but merely the elaboration of a theory, the embodiment of a preconceived idea.

On the shore of Lake Leman, opposite Clarens, is a figure formed of the rocks and trees which cover the lower slope of the Savoyan Alps, and known as the “ lady of the lake.” It is so clearly defined against the mountain side that it can hardly escape the notice of even a Cook’s tourist on his perfunctory pilgrimage to Chillon. But whoever should attempt to approach this majestic dame of the olden time with hoopskirt and coal-scuttle bonnet would find that she had suddenly vanished into a jumble of rugged cliffs and tangled thickets. Such would be the fate of the traveler who, were a journey of this kind possible, should visit the old Aryan homestead with Justi’s essay as a guide-book, and Pictet’s two stout volumes as a work of reference. How many illusions of etymology would the autopsy dissipate ! What disenchantments, as the rude contact with actualities should break the spell woven of words, and the philological phantasm fade into a wild and savage waste !

The comparatively high culture which the linguistic palæontologist claims for primitive Aryan society is wholly inconsistent with the state of barbarism in which the descendants of the original stock are known to have lived at a period long after their supposed dispersion. It is incredible that a people which had already made some progress in the mechanic arts and acquired considerable skill in metallurgy, had learned to fabricate weapons and tools out of iron, copper, and bronze, and to make ornaments of gold and silver, should lose all this knowledge, and revert to the use of rude implements of stone, and to a condition of life scarcely superior to that of the cave-dweller and contemporary of the mammoth. The demoralizing and barbarizing tendencies of emigration are utterly inadequate to account for such retrogression. Besides, all the deductions of linguistic palæontology are based on the assumption that the emigrants took with them whatever acquisitions had been made in the arts and sciences, in domestic manners, in social organization and civil polity. If this assumption be false, then the science itself has no ground to rest upon, but is the baseless fabric of a vision, — a mere fata morgana, produced by the heated atmosphere of an enthusiast’s brain.

The Sanskrit kshura and the Greek ξυρóv led Benfey to infer that the primitive Aryans were familiar with the use of the razor ; although it seems strange that they should shave, and yet have no common word for beard. Furthermore, the excavations of Alba Longa brought no razors to light, so that it is quite certain that the forefathers of the ancient Latins did not possess such instruments. This objection Benfey parries by suggesting that the ancestors of the Prisci Latini, during their long wanderings from the Aryan homestead, and in consequence of the privations they endured, “ lost the desire and the art of taking off the beard, and also the instruments for doing it.” Kshura is from kshur, to cut or to scratch, and is applied to the hoof of a beast, the claw of a bird, and the barb of an arrow. It is extremely doubtful whether it ever means razor even in the Rig-Veda, where the barber (vaptri) is alluded to, and there is not the slightest ground for supposing that it had acquired this signification “ previous to the Aryan separation.”

This mistake of putting new wine into old bottles and vending it as a mature and mellow vintage is one to which the linguistic palæontologist is specially liable. An excellent illustration of the fallacy of such reasoning is furnished by the word write, which is common to all Germanic languages, and therefore implies that the primitive and as yet undivided Germans were acquainted with the art of writing. But the original meaning of the word was to prick or to mar with a pointed instrument, to tattoo. Indeed, the Polynesian tutu, which signified at first making indelible marks upon the body by pricking colors into the skin, afterwards, as civilization advanced among the Pacific Islanders, became a general term for drawing, painting, writing, reading, and counting. The Dinka negroes were also accustomed to scratch outlines of men and beasts with a thorn on gourds, and called the practice gor. The first time they saw a European writing they exclaimed, Jen a gor!— he makes gor; and in the Dinka language of the future this word will doubtless he used to denote the act of recording ideas by means of alphabetical characters, or other visible signs. Centuries hence, some Dinka philologist, finding that the word gor is common to all the Dinka tongues, may infer that his ancestors, previous to the Dinka separation, knew how to write, and had attained a considerable degree of culture.

In view of the radical affinity of damn, δóμos, domus, dom, etc., Max Müller affirms, “ We are fully justified in concluding that before any of these languages had assumed a separate existence, a thousand years at least before Agamemnon and before Manu, the ancestors of the Aryan races were no longer dwellers in tents, but builders of permanent houses.” The ground of this inference seems to he the supposed connection of dama with the Gothic timryan, to timber or to build; whereas the real connection is with the Gothic tamyan, to tame, and its cognate timan, ziemen, to befit. The word conveys no information whatever concerning the kind of dwellings inhabited by the primitive Aryans, and consequently throws no ray of light upon their social state or domestic life. So far as the signification of the root aids us in arriving at any conclusion as to the nature of the edifice, dama was originally a pen for unruly cattle, rather than a place of abode for man. The idea of restraint upon forces from within is far more prominent than that of protection against foes from without. Most probably it was a space inclosed by a hurdle, or by a fence made of logs and brushwood, in which the herdsman and bis herd dwelt together; primarily a cote for kine, and secondarily a habitation for man. The conception of structure is wholly lost sight of in that of subjugation. Damya is a bullock to be tamed or broken ; damana is a beast-tamer, a hero; even Nala’s spouse, the beautiful Damayantî, is so called because she is a " subduer of men.” Indeed, dama, in the sense of house, is peculiar to the Vedas, where it is used for the dwelling-place of the gods, especially for the fire-chamber of Agni and the storm-cloud of Indra ; but here the idea of waxing strong and breaking out of the dama, as a wild bull bursts through a barrier, is uniformly associated with it. In its application to human relations, dama signifies authority, jurisdiction, dominion; in no case, however, does it furnish the slightest clue to the kind of houses in which men lived. A similar process of investigation applied to the religious beliefs of savage tribes enabled M. De Lamennais to prove to his entire satisfaction “ que la croyance du vrai Dieu est universelle en Afrique

It was Jacob Grimm who first suggested “ milkmaid ” as the literal meaning of duhitri, the Sanskrit word for daughter. To the imagination of Max Müller this etymology disclosed new and charming features in the pastoral life of the primitive Aryans, and revealed idyllic scenes in which the father, with peculiar tenderness and playful humor, calls his little girl his milkmaid. How gentle must have been the life of such a parent! How beautiful and affectionate must have been the relations of a family in which a pet name, so expressive of the father’s fondness and the daughter’s function, could have sprung up and taken enduring root ! Unless the Aryans, as a highly favored and exceptional race, came into the world in a civilized state, they must have lived a long time and begotten many generations of sons and daughters before they possessed milch cows. But if daughter means milkmaid, it presupposes milch cow ; yet there is every reason to believe that it is the oldest word for female offspring in the Aryan languages, and not a mere epithet superseding an earlier appellation. Thus we are brought by this etymology to the absurd but inevitable conclusion that the Aryans had milch cows before they had daughters. It is utterly impossible that any primitive term should be derived from an industrial occupation which implies a somewhat advanced social condition. An unmarried woman was formerly called a spinster, because she made herself useful chiefly by spinning. But this was nothing more than a title, and could not be a primitive designation, since maidens existed and grew up unwooed and unwedded long before the art of spinning was known. Duh means not only to milk, but to yield milk ; duhitri would then signify milk-giver. The daughter was simply the future nurse of men children ; indeed, among primitive peoples and barbaric tribes this is the sole function for which she is prized, the only reason for which she is even permitted to live. All we know of Zarathushtra’s mother is that she was called Dughdâ; that is, the suckler of the Iranian prophet. The definition which Monier Williams gives of duhitri, “ drawing milk from the mother,” is equally untenable, not as an anachronism, but as an incongruity, since male as well as female infanta draw milk from the mother.

Again, we are informed that the mother of the primitive Aryan household was called mâtri, because she measured out and distributed the things needful for the family. Justi speaks of her as “ die schaffende, ornenende Hausfrau,” the precursor and prototype of the modern German housewife, bustling about with a big bunch of keys at her belt, assigning to the servants their several tasks, and apportioning with economic care their allowances of food. The exercise of such an office implies an organization of domestic life, which, under the most favorable circumstances, must have been the result of generations and perhaps centuries of development. But the mother began to exist with the birth of the first child, and it was from this event that she received her name as the mâtri, μήτηρ, mater, matrix, and maker of the new-born babe. Indeed, all primitive designations of members of the family, so far as they are not mere products of infantine onomatopœia, like papa and mama, refer to the preservation and propagation of the race. In early times this was the chief end of man, and even in the Vedic age the boons for which the singer is constantly entreating the gods are much cattle and many vigorous sons. Such sentimental etymologies as those which make sister (svasri) mean “ one who pleases or consoles,” and represent the brother-in-law (devri) as the playmate or l’ami badin of the wife, and the daughter-in-law (snushâ) as a person who lives in a state of emotional dissolution, always “ melting with fear and respect in the presence of her father-in-law,” are really too childish to merit serious consideration. Words denoting relationship by marriage often assume a humorous or satirical signification, originating in circumstances of which we are now ignorant. Thus the Indo-Aryans called a wife’s brother a burglar (kumbhila), and a sister’s husband a village buffoon (grâmahâsaka) ; and the Germans recognize a brotherin-law in a stage-driver (schwager), and characterize a mother-in-law as a marplot or disturber of the peace (störenfried), in justification of which they might safely appeal to the general opinion of mankind.

From a comparison of śvan, śpâ, Kúωυ, canis, and hund, Weber infers that among the primitive Aryans “ the dog protected the herd.” This may have been the case, inasmuch as the dog is one of the oldest of domesticated animals ; but language furnishes no proof of it. So far as any information conveyed by these words is concerned, the dog may have been known at that early period only in a wild state, as a wolfish beast of prey, against which it was necessary to protect the herd. It is also strange that in the Big-Veda, where cattle are frequently mentioned as constituting the chief wealth of the country, the dog is referred to only half a dozen times, and never as a companion of the herdsman and a protector of the herd. In the A vesta, on the contrary, dogs are often spoken of, and categorized with women, children, flocks, and fire as essential to a prosperous and perfect life. Allusions to Indra’s bitch Saramâ and her four-eyed brindled whelps, the watchdogs of Yama, or to other canine monsters which guard the portals and the treasures of the lower world, do not warrant the conclusion that at the time when those myths arose dogs had been trained to perform similar services for man. In mythologies the same office is assigned to dragons, and yet no one would infer from this fact that dragons had ever been domesticated and taught to protect human habitations and human property. The same is true of the horse, aśυa or âśu,aśpa, ἳππos, equus, the root of which (as or ak) denotes speed, but does not imply domestication. The great diversity in words for drawing and riding would indicate that the fleet animal had not yet been used for either of these purposes. The equestrian art was unknown both to the Indo-Aryans of the Rig-Veda and to the Greeks of Homer. The IranoAryans of the Avesta were horsemen ; but they acquired this knowledge from their Tatar neighbors.

Benfey says of the primitive Aryans, “ They had weapons, especially arrows ; they painted and composed poems, especially hymns.” On all these points the evidence of language is extremely vague and illusive. Clubs, stone missiles, and spears seem to have been the earliest weapons. Arrows are of later origin, and imply a bow; but in these terms the correspondence is very slight and limitary. The word “ bow,” for example, meant originally elbow (Sanskrit ûhu) and the bough of a tree ; and the fact that it is common to all the Germanic languages would not afford the least proof that our Germanic ancestors, previous to their separation, were skilled in archery. To speak of the primitive Aryans as having painted and poetized is simply an abuse of terms which are now used to express some degree of artistic and literary culture. The rudest savage who stains his body with wood might describe this operation by the word piñj, and yet no one would call such a man a painter. Whatever poetry the old Aryans may have possessed appears to have consisted of magic spells and exorcisms. Primitive peoples and barbaric tribes, the world over, feel a superstitious reverence for spoken words, and ascribe a peculiar virtue to rhyme, alliteration, and all kinds of assonance and rhythmic utterance. Hence these crystallized forms of speech served at a very early period for purposes of sorcery. They are found among the most ancient records of the human race, and the decipherer of cuneiform inscriptions is surprised to come upon conjuring formulæ which might be recited, without apparent anachronism, at a sabbat of modern witches. The word “ charm ” (Latin carmen, Sanskrit sásmen) means a song, and is often used in this sense by Spenser and other old English poets ; even Milton speaks of the “ charm of earliest birds.” An incantation is a chant for conciliating heavenly or infernal powers and for producing enchantment, and still survives in the liturgical intonation. The Brâhmans called this mystical potency chhandasâm rasa, the sap of the metres, and the whole aim of the priestly ceremonial was to develop and direct to its proper object this sap or essence of the sacred texts. Indeed, the phrase “ the charm’s wound up,” with which the witches of the Scotch heath conclude their conjuration, is a survival of the Brâhmanical conception of the sacrifice as a coil of thread capable of generating supernatural force (brahma), as a galvanic battery generates electricity, and which could be wound up and discharged (vitan is the technical term) by the proper performance of the prescribed rites.

A Vedic verse was called sûktam, that is, something well said; not because it was thought to be beautiful from a poetical point of view, but because it was thought to be potent from a magical point of view. Doubtless the two conceptions were usually combined, inasmuch as man would naturally make his own taste an absolute and universal standard, and assume that what pleased him would also be pleasing to the gods. Nevertheless, the idea of beauty æsthetically considered was wholly subordinate to that of ritual efficiency. The same notion lies embedded in the word hymn, úμvos, Avestan humna, Sanskrit sumna (su-mna) ; that is, well thought. The Vedic poet compares himself to a wainwright, and fashions a hymn as a cunning workman fabricates a chariot.

This figurative expression indicates the real function of the hymn, not as a vehicle of poetic sentiment, but as a means of conveying to the gods the objects of their desire, and bringing down in exchange such things as promote human happiness and welfare. The song originated not in any love of melody, or merely æsthetic pleasure of singing, but in the incantatory power supposed to inhere in this metrical form of utterance. Such was clearly the character of primitive Aryan poetry, if we may apply this term to the rude magic spells, which the Eskimos call serrats, and which it would be absurd to cite as indications of an advanced state of civilization. Pictet connects the Latin pulcher with the Sanskrit pulaka (from pul, to rise up or stand erect), and endows the old Aryans with an intensity of æsthetic appreciation that made their hair stand on end in the presence of the beautiful. These transports of delight, he tells us, were produced especially by beautiful poesy. Horripilation is the effect of any strong emotion, and with the Hindûs expresses sensations of pleasure as well as of terror. The rhapsodist Sûta was surnamed Lomaharshana (hair erector), on account of his thrilling recitals of the Mahâbhârata, which caused the Rishis’ hair to bristle on their heads. All deductions of this nature are pure illusions, which may please the fancy, but have no scientific value. Instead of inferring that the old Aryans were peculiarly susceptible to æsthetic impressions, it would be as logical, and more reasonable, to conclude that they had only the barbaric sense of the beautiful, which identifies it with the horrible.

Nothing is easier than to reconstruct ancient society out of such elements. Indeed, this sort of historiography requires so little research and is so rich in results that one can hardly help wishing that alphabetical characters had never been invented, or that the chronicles of the human race might be lost, so that the whole history of mankind could be composed in this manner, with no written or printed records to put a check upon the philologist’s imagination. An assayer of ores can readily detect the exact amount of metal they contain, and determine their intrinsic value, even to

But the analyzer of words sets to a task of far greater difficully, and often finds that, after all his labor, he has been smelting counters instead of coin ; toiling and achieving nothing, like the fairy of the mine. Words have unquestionably a real historical kernel; but they grow also by conventional and purely accidental accretions, and it is not easy to separate the essential from the accessory. Whether they are descended collaterally from the same original stock, or have passed, at a later period, from one branch to another through commercial intercourse, is a question which it is very important, and yet very difficult, to decide. Peoples differ greatly in this respect, owing chiefly to difference in intellectual endowment. The indebtedness of the Finns to the Germans and Slavs betrays itself at once in the words used to designate these foreign acquisitions. The Greeks, on the contrary, while they borrowed many of their conceptions and elements of their culture from the East, created Greek names for them. Whatever they appropriated they Hellenized, so that it is almost impossible to distinguish between native and imported products.

It is due to factors like these that so great uncertainty prevails in the whole province of linguistic palæontology. Widely different conclusions are drawn from the same facts of speech, not only by different philologists, but also by the same philologist at different times. Everything depends upon the values assigned to the variable quantities which play such an important part in the solution of the problem. Thus the question whether the primitive Aryans were acquainted with the use of iron receives an affirmative or negative answer according to the special signification assigned to ayas. Pictet is quite sure that they employed this metal, but finds no indication that they had learned to manufacture steel ; Fick and Justi indorse this view ; Max Müller proves conclusively that iron could not have been known to them, and then declares that it undoubtedly was, and that they fully appreciated its worth in offensive and defensive weapons. Benfey thinks ayas meant bronze; afterwards he extends the definition so as to include iron, and finally accepts the affirmative opinion as probably correct.

But notwithstanding the vagueness and vacillation, the constant alternation of pros and cons, which characterize these researches, the linguistic palæontologist can lend efficient aid and contribute valuable material to the reconstruction of ancient civilization. Only let bis investigations be conducted with soberness and circumspection, and his conclusions controlled and rectified by the anthropologist and the archæologist. The somewhat flighty and flawy testimony of words must be supplemented, confirmed, and corrected by less equivocal witnesses, — kitchen-middens, remains of pile-dwellings and tumuli, psychology, sociology, and ethnology, — before its authority can be admitted as incontestable, and its attestations recorded as science.

E. P. Evans.