BY RICHARD GRANT WHITE.

Learning the reason of anything, by which we generally mean the cause of it, is a process the instructive benefit of which is not limited by the subject immediately under consideration. To trace the relation of cause and effect is a very great and very important part of true education; of which, it needs hardly here to be said, book-learning is only a help and adjunct. Indeed, this learning or finding of causes is an education or discipline which for those who give themselves to intellectual pursuits, continues all their lives. It is the chief occupation of philosophers, of men of science, of investigators, of all real students. Virgil—who was not a very great poet, being of the second, or even of the third rank, because of his moderate creative power, his lack of vividness of imagination and liveliness of fancy, but who is remarkable for a broad and serene thoughtfulness—said: “Happy is he who is able to discover the causes of things.”[A] And indeed this process of finding causes is one of the most delightful and fascinating, and, to the soul of man, most profitable, in which man can engage. Of which the chief reason is the close and intimate relation that exists between all facts and thoughts and things. Isolation and independence are conditions hardly discoverable. Men can not be independent of each other, as we all find very early in life, if we observe and think. But yet, a man may isolate himself upon the top of a pillar; or he may build himself a hut in the woods, and give himself up to contemplation; thinking that in this way he will discover or evolve something that otherwise would be concealed. The discoveries and the evolutions in these cases, however, do not prove of much value, either to the individuals or to mankind. An isolated man, although monstrous, abnormal, unnatural, is possible, but not an isolated fact. An isolated fact is almost, if not quite, a contradiction in terms; for a fact implies conditions and causes from which it can not be separated. We shall thus find that the inquiry into the cause of such a simple, every-day fact as our speaking English will lead us through, although not over, the whole range of the history, known and conjectured, of that great family of the human race to which the people of Europe and of civilized America belong. To follow the steps of this inquiry will not be difficult, and, I hope, not uninteresting to the least learned reader of this magazine.

Why, then, do we in the United States of America speak English? Because that language is the speech of the English, or the so-called, Anglo-Saxon people? Because our forefathers came from England? Partly so. These facts have certain relations with that into the causes of which we are inquiring, but they do not wholly account for it. For although we are, in the main, an English people, and the forefathers of most of us did come from England, there are now many, although comparatively few, of us who are of Irish or of German blood. Moreover, in Ireland there are millions of Irishmen, Celts, who hate “the Saxon” (that is the English), but who speak English, and whose forefathers have spoken it for many generations. Now, the first reason why those Irishmen speak, and so long have spoken English, is a very simple, bald and cogent one, and it is the very reason of our speaking that language. It is, necessity: nothing more. The Celtic Irishman whose race-tongue was Erse, spoke English for the very reason that we, whose race-tongue it is, speak it; because he must speak it to be understood; for no other reason. But how came this necessity about? How came English speech into Ireland or into America, or, for that matter, into England?

Language is a mere instrument of man’s convenience; as much so as a spade or a knife, or any other tool. He uses it for the purpose of communicating with those by whom he is surrounded; and he must give to things and thoughts the names which they give them, or he might as well be dumb. If they call a certain animal a horse, it will not do for him to call it a cheval; and if they call it un cheval, it will not do for him to call it ung shovel, as many persons have found in France to their surprise and inconvenience. And if he is born and bred in France, no matter how thoroughly English or Irish he may be in blood, he will call it un cheval, without effort and without thought.

These are obvious facts; but for our present purpose they are not trite, nor is the consideration of them trifling. They have bearing upon the very common belief, or assumption, that language is a product of race; that there is some mysterious and inevitable connection between man’s physical and mental constitution and the language that he speaks. There is no such connection. Manner of speech and style of writing are peculiar in various peoples, as their manner and their style in other things and acts are peculiar. There is a French style of speaking, as there is an Italian, an Irish, and an English, which pertains to those various peoples, and which is a product of their national spirit, their genius, as we say. But there is no such influence of national spirit, or of physiological traits or conditions upon the substance of language—words. The Irish did not speak Erse, because Erse was a natural product of the Irish physical or mental constitution. So with the English; so with all peoples. An English, a German or a French boy, born and brought up in Russia, would speak Russian; and (personal peculiarities apart) they all would speak it alike, and without the least modification dependent upon their respective English, German, and French physical and mental constitution. If, however, their mothers were with them, and their mothers could speak no Russian, each of those boys would speak two languages, English and Russian, or German and Russian, or French and Russian, and, accidents apart, each of them would speak his two equally well, and with equal freedom. He would think with equal freedom in both.

Some of my readers must know, from their own observation, that this is true; and yet I do not doubt that even of these there are not a few who have never thought of it as evidence that, although certain languages are spoken by certain races, this is not because there is any natural and peculiar fitness of the words of any one language to the character or the spirit of any one people. The language used by any and every people has a historical origin; and the peculiar forms of its words are the product of time, of circumstance, and probably, in a certain very moderate measure, of climate, and of physiological conditions.

The sun and the moon received their names for good reasons; the former because it is the creator (light and heat being the causes of inorganic life), and the latter because it was the first measurer of time; and these names they have borne for at least four thousand years—we do not know how much longer. But now those words have become mere names; mere sounds which are the vocal indications of the objects to which they are applied, so that if by some wizardry we were all, with one exception, to wake up to-morrow calling the light which rules the day, moon, and that which rules the night, sun, we should be perfectly satisfied, and find in it no inconvenience; and moreover we should look upon him who used the words in the converse senses, that we had forgotten, as a madman.

Words however have, with very few exceptions, a real meaning, or at least a reason for their use, as sun and moon have. The words without such meaning may be all told upon the fingers. Two words of scientific origin, but very common use, are illustrative examples—chloroform and gas, both of which are of recent, the former of very recent, fabrication. Chloroform is so called because it is, or is supposed to be, a chloride of formyl, which is the base of formic acid, a fluid found in red ants; formica being the Latin for ant. It was desirable to have a convenient name for this substance, and the name was made by uniting the first syllable of chloride, or chlorine, with the first syllable of formyl; whence we have chloro-form. The name gas was invented, we know not why or wherefore, by a Dutch chemist, some two hundred and fifty years ago, for all those compressible, air-like fluids to which it is now applied. It was convenient and came first into scientific and then into general use, so that now it is one of the commonest words, even in a sarcastic, metaphorical sense, in the speech of all civilized peoples. Now nearly all words have a significant origin, like chloroform. Those which are without inherent significance, like gas, are very few indeed. Words like these, and like oxygen (which is only about one hundred and fifty years old, and means acid-maker), are called coined words, because they were recently and deliberately made. The words which form the bulk of language are of very remote origin, and, until lately, of untraced growth.

The tracing of the growth of words which has been scientifically—that is, historically and logically—prosecuted for a little more than fifty years, has brought to light the important fact—a fact the discovery of which is second in importance only to that of the discovery of the law of gravitation—that all the languages of the civilized peoples of Europe and America, together with some in Asia, have a common origin. At one time there was no English, no French, no German, no Russian language, no Erse or GÆlic, no Latin, no Greek; but at that time the germ of all these languages, and of others which need not be mentioned, existed in a tongue which for more than four thousand years has been unspoken, but which from the people who spoke it has been called Aryan (pronounced Ahrian). This discovery was sure to have been made in one way or another; but the immediate cause of it was the presence in Hindostan of the British East India Company. In 1776, N. B. Halhed, a servant of that company, who had been an early friend of Sheridan, the orator and dramatist, published a Bengali grammar, in which he mentions as very remarkable, “the similitude of Sanskrit words with those of Persian and Arabic (?), and even of Latin and Greek; and these not in technical and metaphorical terms, which the mutation of refined arts and improved manners might have occasionally introduced, but in the main groundwork of the language, in monosyllables, in the names of numbers, and the appellations of such things as would be first discriminated on the first dawn of civilization.” Soon afterward, in 1786, Sir William Jones, who had gone to Bengal as a judge, in a paper in “Asiatic Researches,” expressed a like opinion more strongly and in more comprehensive terms. “The Sanskrit language,” he says, “whatever may be its antiquity is of a wonderful structure, more perfect than the Greek, more copious than the Latin, and more exquisitely refined than either, yet bearing to both of them a stronger affinity, both in the roots of verbs and in the forms of grammar[B] than could have been produced by accident, so strong that no philologer could examine all the three without believing them to have sprung from one common source, which perhaps no longer exists. There is a similar reason, though not quite so forcible, for supposing that both the Gothic and the Celtic, though blended with a different idiom, had the same origin with the Sanskrit. The old Persian may be added to the same family.”

What Halhed and Jones put forth as strong probability was ere long found, was clearly proved, to be the truth. Persian, Greek, Latin, Gothic, Celtic, and of course all languages derived from them, were discovered to be identical in origin with Sanskrit. Now, what was this Sanskrit, this wonderful language which so suddenly and so surely unlocked the mystery of the world’s speech, and revealed the source of all the languages of civilized Europe, and some of those of Asia? Sanskrit, (the name means worked-together, elaborated, highly finished,) is the sacred language of the Brahmans, in which was preserved the religious teachings and legends of the people of India, whom we call Hindoos. It is quite four thousand years old in its existing form. For a very long time it was unwritten, the Brahmans having no letters; and the sacred books (so we must call them) were transmitted orally, but with such veneration not only for their doctrine and their story, but their phraseology in its minutest particulars, that among the Brahmans grammar became a religion, and the slightest variation from the text of the Vedas—this was the name of the sacred books—was regarded as a sin. Punctilio in this respect was carried so far that when letters were borrowed from the West, and an alphabet was formed, and the Vedas were written, it was protested against by the conservatives as a sacrilege. Common sense and convenience, however, carried the day. Sanskrit is the most elaborate, the most minutely divided, the most elaborately inflected speech known to man. The sight of a Sanskrit grammar is appalling to the common sense of our day. There are ten conjugations of verbs; and a verb has ten tenses; and each one of these tenses has three numbers, singular, dual and plural; and each tense has two sets of terminations. Nouns, adjectives and pronouns are singular, dual and plural, and have eight cases. Inflections of all words are distracting for multitude and intricacy. Yet this elaborately intricate language was spoken in what we think of as the wilds of Asia long before the history of the human race is known; at least four thousand years ago.

A Frenchman named de ChÉsy learned Sanskrit from a British officer named Hamilton, who, on his way from India, was detained in France, and taught it, as he says, to Franz Bopp, a German philologist, who made use of it in a work on the system of conjugation, and thus became, unintentionally, a Columbus-like discoverer of the great science of Comparative Philology. For Bopp “builded better than he knew.” His purpose was merely to work out his system of conjugation; but in doing this he revealed and established the unity of speech in all the Aryan or Indo-European peoples. This he himself afterward elaborated in his “Comparative Grammar” of the chief Aryan languages. Then came another great German philologist, Jacob Grimm, who discovered the law, or method, according to which words changed their forms; and the great end was accomplished. This happened in 1816-19; and since that time Comparative Philology has worked upon the lines indicated by Bopp and Grimm. Bopp’s great “Comparative Grammar,” however, did not appear until 1833.

One of the most important, if not the most important of the results of the discovery of Sanskrit, and the consequent prosecution of the study of language upon the historical and comparative method—the only safe method for the study of any subject—is the revelation of the origin, and to a certain and very remarkable degree, of the early unrecorded history of the Aryan or Indo-European peoples; that race which has received the latter name because it occupies, and for two thousand years and more has occupied, all India and Europe. Let us glance at this history as it is thus revealed, for it is very much to our present purpose.

Take a good map of Asia, one which shows the eastern confines of Europe, and turn your attention to the country now called Joorkistan, lying between the Caspian Sea and the western boundary of the Chinese Empire. There, some five or six thousand years ago, (it will not do to be too particular, all the more because we can not, if we would,) about the foot of the Hindoo Kosh, and around the sources of the Oxus, there lived, we have good reason to believe, a people who called themselves Aryan. They were a white race; much fairer, at least, than the people who were then occupying Europe and the other parts of Asia. They were strong of body, intelligent and enterprising. They did not live only by hunting and herding, like the nomadic peoples, their neighbors, but cultivated the ground. Their name, Aryan, means honorable, noble; and there is some reason for believing that it is connected with their agricultural pursuits and distinction. For reasons which of course we do not know, but probably from the pressure of population, more than four thousand years ago this people began to send out bodies of emigrants. They moved westward, toward the Caspian Sea, of the existence of which they were probably ignorant. They had used boats upon the Oxus, but the history of their language shows that they knew nothing of what we call navigation. Their progress seems to have been slow, but continuous, one body of emigrants being ere long followed by another. We may be sure that they had to fight their way. So late as eight hundred years ago all emigration was armed. The strong took the land red-handed from the weak, or at least from those who were not so strong and so numerous as they were themselves. The Aryans reached the Caspian Sea; and took possession of the country lying south of it, since known as Persia. After a time, we know not how long, emigration began again from this point. But here the advancing people divided. Some of them moved in a south-westerly direction; and this stream of emigration continued until it overflowed all the vast territory now known as Afghanistan, Belochistan and Hindostan. Another stream moved westward and northward, and passed through Turkey in Asia into Europe.

We have reason for believing that up to the time when this division took place in the country south of the Caspian Sea, the Aryan people spoke one language; but sufficient time had already elapsed for a considerable change to have taken place in the tongue which was spoken on the plains at the foot of the Hindoo Kosh. Language changes rapidly among people in a low state of civilization, without literature, without letters which are the landmarks and conservators of speech. But this point of time and of place is that of a great division in the speech of the Aryan people. Of the language of those who moved westward into Europe there are no remains which date within many centuries of this period; but of the language of those who moved south into Hindostan, we have in the existing Sanskrit a representative which is of almost indefinable antiquity, and the perfect preservation of which is marvelous. It is no rude, ruinous relic, but complete, elaborate, and finished to the highest point of perfection in its kind. It will be seen (and this must be constantly borne in mind) that Sanskrit is not the original Aryan language, but only the oldest existing offshoot from that language. The great, the inestimable value of the discovery of Sanskrit was not that we find in it the source of other languages, not that in it was the origin of the words spoken by the various peoples of Europe; but that it furnished evidence of the most important fact in the history of language, one of the most important facts in the history of the world. It had been assumed that the countless words which were similar in the language of the European peoples, and the many which were identical, were derived one from another; that they were adopted by one people from the language of another; that they were the product of neighborhood, of intercourse, of imitation, of convection—that is that they were carried from one country and people into another. The discovery and the study of Sanskrit proved that these words, or most of them, came into the various languages in which they are found, not by any or by all of these methods, but by direct descent from a speech which was at one time common to the forefathers of all the peoples in India, in Persia, and in Europe. Of these various languages Sanskrit is not only the oldest, but so very much the oldest that it carries us up very far toward the original speech of the Aryan or Indo-European race; so far that we are not without reasonable hope that philological science may elaborate by its help a proximate form of the elements of the original Aryan speech.

It is worthy of remark that the European language most like the Sanskrit, most like it in substance, and notably most like it in grammatical structure, is the Greek; the language of the people nearest Asia, nearest the point of the division of the Aryan people into two great streams of emigration.[C] And here, too, it may well be remarked that the book of Genesis, in one of those ethnological passages which reveal a knowledge of prehistoric man so perfectly in accordance with the results of modern historical inquiry and scientific investigation that it would seem that they must have been a revelation from Omniscience, makes the confusion of tongues and the consequent dispersion of nations take place upon the plains of Shinar, in the very region, at least, where the Aryan dispersion began.

To resume our brief story of the Aryan advance to take possession of the world; for we are no longer concerned with what went on in India or the East. Many centuries had now elapsed, and the Aryan people had multiplied into many millions of men, and had formed themselves into nations or peoples ignorant of their common origin, and regarding each other as all peoples then regarded each other, as enemies, rivals in the possession of the earth and its products. The emigration continued; those in advance being driven and pushed on by those who followed. Europe once entered, there was again a division of the stream of advancing, conquering men. The dispersion was doubtless greater than before, but again there were two main bodies, one keeping to the south along the northern shores of the Mediterranean Sea, the other moving northward, toward the Baltic. The former has been designated from the principal peoples involved in it, or resulting from it, the Italo-GrÆco-Celtic strain; the latter is the Gothic. It is with this that we are chiefly, but by no means exclusively, concerned. We are Goths.

It has just been said that those who were in the advance in this great emigration were pushed on by those who followed. Who were the advance of this westward movement, the first Aryans who entered Europe? There is no reasonable doubt that they were the Celts, the people who, some thirteen hundred years ago, were in absolute and complete possession of the islands of Great Britain and Ireland, and a small part of the northwestern coast of what is now, but was not then, France. These people, this head of the Aryan column, passed through southern Europe, (we know it by the names they left behind them, given to places during their temporary, but not short occupation of the soil,) and coming to the ocean, went northward, then crossed the English channel, and took possession of Britain and Ireland. There they stopped simply because they could go no farther. But they were still pushed by those who followed. The invasion of Britain by the Romans, and yet more, the after invasion and occupation of it by the so-called Anglo-Saxons, our forefathers, were a mere continuation of the Aryan emigration which had begun at the foot of the Hindoo Kosh, in Asia, thousands of years before.

These Celts who went first were followed by the people who, in close connection with them as to time and affiliation of blood, became the Latin races (old Romans, Italians, Spaniards, French), and the Greeks. It was natural that the first stream of Aryan emigration into Europe should take its course through the countries of these peoples, because they lie at the south, on the borders of the Mediterranean Sea. Men never go northward to find homes amid snows and ice one half the year, if they can find land of more genial clime unoccupied or occupyable. The leading bodies of the Celts having reached the ocean in the southern part of Europe, and being pushed on by the steady flow from behind, moved northward, and as we have already seen, at last left the continent, and rested in Britain and Ireland. Here, from their insular position, they were able to maintain their footing firmly, if not undisturbed, for many centuries. They were not displaced in Britain until about thirteen centuries ago; and then they were not driven onward, as before they had been driven; for there was no place whither to drive them. They were, in the words of an old adage, perhaps as old as this very time, “between the devil and the deep sea;” and most of them were slain to make room for their fellow Aryans, their far-away kindred, whom they knew not, and had no reason to know, and whom they hated with good reason.

The Goths, of whose race we are, and from whom we directly come, moved northwestward from the western shores of the Black Sea, where they are first heard of. Their language, in its original form, is lost like the great original Aryan tongue; but as in the case of that tongue, a very early offshoot of it has been happily preserved. This is the MÆso-Gothic, into which Ulphilas, a bishop of the MÆso-Goths, who had become Christians, translated the New Testament and part of the Old about one thousand five hundred years ago. Of the former a very considerable part remains. It is written in large silver letters, on parchment of a beautiful purple tint. This work shows us all of the structure and much of the substance of the MÆso-Gothic language; and in the former even more than in the latter affords, like the Greek, evidence of an origin identical with that of Sanskrit.

The Gothic people pushed, and were pushed, northward, and began, in their turn, to divide and to disperse, and soon to be unable to understand each other’s speech, and to regard each other as foreigners and enemies. For it must be remembered that these migrations were slow, extending through centuries; that they consisted of alternate movement and settlement; settlement for many generations in one place; so that the mountains and streams and forests still retain evidences of this residence, in the names given to them by these tribes or sub-tribes of the Aryan people. It must be remembered, too, that in these remote times, at that early stage of civilization, when there were no books, except a few manuscripts on parchment, no strongly built towns, no stability of government, and when inter-communication was slow, difficult and dangerous, an interval of a hundred years was quite as long as one of five hundred of the years last passed, in its effect of separation and isolation of peoples, in its dividing families into tribes, and tribes into strange and hostile little nations.

From the Goths there was now a new offshoot, one destined to power and preËminence in the future of the human race. While the greater number of them remained in the country which for some eighteen centuries has been loosely called Germany, a large body of them moved northward and took possession of the countries now known as Denmark, Sweden and Norway, with the neighboring islands. These people are known ethnologically as the Scandinavians; and it is from them, and from some very near neighbors of theirs, also of Gothic race, who settled in the country in and about the lower part of Jutland (the old name of Denmark), that the English people, of whom we are a part, are descended.[D] It so happened that in the continuance of the westward movement of the Aryan people there was a union on the island of Great Britain, of emigrants from Denmark and the neighboring country on the continent, and from the western part of the great northern Scandinavian peninsula (Norway); and the result of that union, which was some eight centuries in forming, was the English people, by whom chiefly this country was settled only some two hundred and fifty years ago, and by whom its laws, its religion, its manners and customs and its language were determined and established. It is with the last of these, language, that we are here concerned. What that language is, and how it became what it is, will be the subject of our next paper.

[A] “Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas.” Georgicon II, 490.