By misunderstanding and sometimes, unless I am greatly mistaken, willfully closing his eyes to the real views of other scholars, Professor Whitney has created for himself a rich material for the display of his forensic talents. Like the poor Hindu grammarian, we are first made to say the opposite of what we said, and are then brow-beaten as holding opinions “obviously and grossly incorrect and hardly worth quoting.” All this is clever, but is it right? Is it even wise?
Much of what I have here written sounds very harsh, I know; but what is one to do? I have that respect for language and for my friends, and, may I add, for myself, to avoid harsh and abusive words, as much as possible. I do not believe in the German saying, Auf einen groben Klotz gehört ein grober Keil. I have tried hard, throughout the whole of my literary career, and even in this “Defense,” not to use the weapons that have been used against me during so many years of almost uninterrupted attacks. Much is allowed, however, in self-defense that would be blamable in an unprovoked attack, and if I have used here and there the cool steel, I trust that clean wounds, inflicted by a sharp sword, will heal sooner than gashes made with rude stones and unpolished flints.
Professor Whitney might still, I feel convinced, do some very useful work, as the apostle of the Science of Language in America, if only, instead of dealing in general theories, he would apply himself to a critical study of scientific facts, and if he would not consider it his peculiar calling to attack the personal character of other scholars. If he must needs criticise, would it be quite impossible for him, even in his character of Censor, to believe that other scholars are as honest as himself, as independent, as outspoken, as devoted at all hazards to the cause of truth? Does he really believe in his haste that all men who differ from him, or who tell him that he has misapprehended their teaching, are humbugs, pharisees, or liars? Professor Steinthal was a great friend of his, does he imagine that his violent resentment was entirely unprovoked? I have had hundreds of reviews of my books, some written by men who knew more, some by men who knew less than myself. Both classes of reviews proved very useful, but, beyond correcting matters of fact, I never felt called upon to answer, or to enter into personal recriminations with any one of my reviewers. We should not forget that, after all, reviews are written by men, and that there are often very tangible reasons why the same book is fiercely praised and fiercely abused. No doubt, every writer who believes in the truth of his opinions, wishes to see them accepted as widely as possible; but reviews have never been the most powerful engines for the propaganda of truth, and no one who has once known what it is to feel one’s self face to face with Truth, would for one moment compare the applause of the many with the silent approval of the still small voice of conscience within. Why do we write? Chiefly, I believe, because we think we have discovered facts unknown to others, or arrived at opinions opposed to those hitherto held. Knowing the effort one has made one’s self in shaking off old opinions or accepting new facts, no student would expect that everybody else would at once follow his lead. Indeed, we wish to differ from certain authorities, we wish to be criticised by them; their opposition is far more important, far more useful, far more welcome to us, than their approval could ever be. It would be an impossible task were we to attempt to convert personally every writer who still differs from us. Besides, there is no wheat without bran, and nothing is more instructive than to watch how the millstones of public opinion slowly and noiselessly separate the one from the other. I have brought my harvest, such as it was, to the mill: I do not cry out when I see it ground. From my peers I have received the highest rewards which a scholar can receive, rewards far, far above my deserts; the public at large has treated me no worse than others; and, if I have made some enemies, all I can say is, I do not envy the man who in his passage through life has made none.
Even now, though I am sorry for what Professor Whitney has done, I am not angry with him. He has great opportunities in America, but also great temptations. There is no part of the civilized world where a scholar might do more useful work than in America, by the bold and patient exploration of languages but little known, and rapidly disappearing. Professor Whitney may still do for the philology of his country what Dr. Bleek has done for the languages of Africa at the sacrifice of a lifelong expatriation, alas! I have just time to add, at the sacrifice of his life.
But I admit that America has also its temptations. There are but few scholars there who could or would check Professor Whitney, even in his wildest moods of asseveration, and by his command of a number of American papers, he can easily secure to himself a temporary triumph. Yet, I believe, he would find a work, such as Bancroft’s “On the Native Races of the Pacific States of North America,” a far more useful contribution to our science, and a far more permanent monument of his life, than reviews and criticisms, however brilliant and popular.
It was because I thought Professor Whitney capable of rendering useful service to the Science of Language in America that I forbore so long, that I never for years noticed his intentional rudeness and arrogance, that I received him, when he called on me at Oxford, with perfect civility, that I assisted him when he wanted my help in procuring copies of MSS. at Oxford. I could well afford to forget what had happened, and I tried for many years to give him credit for honorable, though mistaken, motives in making himself the mouthpiece of what he calls the company of collaborators.
In fact, if he had arraigned me again and again before a tribunal of competent judges, I should gladly have left my peers to decide between me and my American traducer. But when he cleverly changed the venue and brought his case before a tribunal where forensic skill was far more likely to carry the day than complicated evidence that could be appreciated by a special jury only, then, at last, I had to break through my reserve. It was not exactly cowardice that had kept me so long from encountering the most skillful of American swordsmen, but when the duel was forced upon me, I determined it should be fought out once for all.
I might have said much more; in fact, I had written much more than what I here publish in self-defense, but I wished to confine my reply as much as possible to bare facts. Professor Whitney has still to learn, it seems, that in a duel, whether military or literary, it is the bullets which hit, not the smoke, or the report, however loud. I do not flatter myself that with regard to theories on the nature of language or the relation between language and thought there ever will be perfect unanimity among scholars, but as to my bullets or my facts, I believe the case is different. I claim no infallibility, however, and would not accept the papal tiara among comparative philologists, even though it was offered me in such tempting terms by the hands of Professor Whitney. In order, therefore, to satisfy Mr. Darwin, Professor Haeckel, and others whose good opinion I highly value, because I know that they care for truth far more than for victory, I now appeal to Professor Whitney to choose from among his best friends three who are Professores ordinarii in any university of England, France, Germany, or Italy, and by their verdict I promise to abide. Let them decide the following points as to simple matters of fact, the principal bones of contention between Professor Whitney and myself:—
1. Whether the Latin of the inscription on the Duilian Column represents the Latin as spoken in 263 B.C. (p. 430);
2. Whether Ahura-Mazda can be rendered by “the mighty spirit” (p. 430);