Inversely to Latham, some anthropologists have given, in our opinion, too little importance to language: we speak especially of Edwards and M. Omalius d’Halloy.[346] The truth lies, doubtless, between these two extremes. It must be acknowledged that language can very often furnish excellent evidence, but it must not be forgotten that it shows at the same time a more rapid liability to change than moral characteristics and corporal form. Niebuhr seems to us to be right when he insists upon the precautions to be taken in order to apply philology in a useful manner to the determination of races, and he concludes that we must give the greatest attention to physical configuration.[347] This is also the opinion of Humboldt[348] and M. Vivien.[349] A language, like every custom, and every act of individual relation, can transmit itself from one race to another which is very different. The unity of a family of languages is not always sufficient to establish that the people who speak these idioms are of one and the same origin; we can only conclude from it that they have been in relation one with the other, and it is even reasonable to admit that this cause has been able to act with a decisive influence at the epoch when man first commenced to lisp.[350] These two tribes meeting for the first time, physically strangers one to the other, were doubtless able to borrow mutually certain habits, and to mingle in a decided manner their two manners of explaining their thoughts, from which has resulted one sole language, in which we cannot distinguish except by analysis the two different branches which have contributed to its formation. This hypothesis has been even elevated to a general thesis by several philologists, and M. d’Escayrac de Lauture, among others, believes that the centre of Africa, that land of the unknown and of mystery, is reserved to us as a spectacle of this phenomenon.[351] Without going back to origin, it is evident that two neighbouring peoples, in continual relation one with the other, ought to end by borrowing mutually the forms of language, letters, and articulation, especially when they have neither of them any literature capable of retaining the language within its limits, and of preserving it from all separation.
Hence it results that anthropology must take its most precious authorities from the study of languages, in the language of the islands, for instance, and in the idioms spoken at the extremity of the continents: thus surrounded by the sea, in relation by its less extent with the others, these idioms will be preserved even more intact. We shall find here the real expression of the most ancient state of things which we can directly recognise by philology. The click language, so peculiar to one single race,[352] exists only in the most southern part of Africa. They still speak the ancient Pali[353] in the south of Asia and at Ceylon. The most ancient language of Europe, so far as we know, namely the Celtic, still remains in Britanny and in Wales.
From all which has gone before, we may then conclude that in order to establish a rational classification of human species, the first characteristics to be considered will be the external aspect, and perhaps the moral characteristics; the rest will come in the second rank: at first, language, then deep anatomical varieties which do not strike us at the first glance, then physiological and pathological varieties, etc. Such is, we think, the only certain basis upon which anthropology can rest—the true distinctions between human species. We do not even yet know exactly their number, and naturalists do not at all agree on this subject; the work is to be done over again, by following a new route.
Without troubling ourselves with enquiring into the whole system of the genus homo, we must at first examine these well-characterised centres of population which are entirely distinct as regards aspect and physiognomy. We must mark these centres with care, paying attention to all the physical, moral, and philological varieties which we are able to notice. M. Flourens has given some excellent principles for the study of animal species; he wishes simply to apply them to the study of human species; and from this connection, which nobody can contradict as a means of investigation, there arises a farther proof of the rank which we must give to man in the organic series. “We must observe the living animal,” said M. Flourens; “we must observe him for a long time, and also both sexes and all ages. We must study his nature, his instincts, and his intellect. Each of these things has its own characteristic in each animal, and it is by the whole of these characteristics put together that species is defined.” It is impossible to trace in a better manner the anthropologists’ task.
When we have well studied a homogeneous centre of population under all its aspects, when we have rendered an account of its physiological, psychological, and philological characteristics, we may stop; and without prejudging anything concerning the area of this race, may then pass on to another centre, which we shall notice in the same way, without troubling ourselves with intermediary varieties, which will always be in a greater or lesser number wherever we do not happen to meet with a physical barrier, like the sea or a chain of mountains, which may separate the two centres which are to be observed. Then we shall, doubtless, have numberless shades and transitions; but these are merely the phenomena of hybridity, entirely secondary, and which ought not at all to influence our essays on anthropological classification. At a later period, when we know more, we shall be able to review all these intermediary varieties, when we understand their conditions of existence better. In this manner we must take care at the beginning to study certain countries, places of travel, and meeting, to which all the neighbouring races have given some portion of their blood. Such are most European countries, and such always was the Valley of the Nile and the Blue Nile. The streets of Cairo are not only a picturesque spectacle; from thence did Étienne Geoffroy borrow his grand views about the position of the genus homo in nature; the man of science profits here as much in his search after truth as the artist in his search after the beautiful.
Who can forget, even if he has only once seen it, this phantasmagoria of customs and physiognomies which developes itself before our eyes at every moment; here a gigantic Circassian, there a smaller sized Copt, with an arched nose; a Nubian, with his “violet ebony” colour, but with a pleasing figure, nose straight and small, thin lips, well arranged teeth; a Turk, with as white and transparent a skin as a man of the north; a Negro, with crisped hair, flat nose, prominent cheek-bones, thick lips, large and projecting teeth; a Fellah, with olive complexion; a Bedouin, almost as black as a Nubian, but tall, with aquiline nose, thin lips, and kingly bearing.
We must not seek for a pure population in the streets of Paris, London, Marseilles, Trieste, or Constantinople: we only find in these capitals isolated facts, good specimens, perhaps, of different species, but lost in the multitude of hybrids. We can only study in these places individuals, not species. In those parts alone which we must make centres of observation, can we see the same man indefinitely multiplied among really primitive people, still free from intermixture, or with the least possible taint of the same. Then we must hasten to seize his general characteristics, and take both his physical and moral portrait.
The physical portrait in particular comprises two series of data, features and colour. As to feature, photography is an unequalled resource, but it belongs to anthropological study to settle its application in a clear manner: we must always choose some individual presenting the usual type of the population in the midst of which he is found, rather than among the chiefs or nobles of the land. We must select this type in the prime of life, when the animal œconomy has arrived at its perfect development, and has not yet commenced to decay, and still shines in all the splendour of its reproductive force; this would be, for man, from twenty-two to twenty-seven years of age. For photographic portraits to be of real utility to anthropologists, they ought to represent the individual completely full face, or in profile; thus only can they be of use in measurements. For it is important not to confound anthropology with ethnology, as is done every day. They are two things entirely different. Dressed-up portraits are the domain of the latter, the natural history of man demands always absolutely nude representations, and the best will be those which show us the individual with untouched beard and hair.
As to colour, we must refer as much as possible to oil-painting. In fact, the colour of the human skin, as we have formerly said,[354] is, in reality, a complex visual impression; all the coloured rays (we employ the term here in the conventional sense given to it in physics) which emanate from the skin, and which strike the eye of the observer, are not formed by the same plane surface; they arise from the more or less profound parts seen by transparency, through a more or less diaphanous medium, more or less favourable for the emission of these rays. Hence results, as regards the eye, a special sensation, and as regards the mind, a special notion, which we explain in the arts by the word transparency or diaphaneity.
Now, this kind of sensation will not be reproduced by the artist unless he employs certain processes recalling to the mind those of nature itself. This is not the case with water-colour painting. The colouring matter, reduced to extremely fine particles, is applied, it is true, in a transparent vehicle—water; but this, destined to evaporate almost immediately, leaves the colour on the surface of the paper, stretched into an extremely fine layer, without appreciable thickness. We perceive from this the radical imperfection of water-colour for portraiture, and the impossibility of rendering by such means, at least with truth, the effect of skin colours. Oil painting offers far better resources, and here is the secret of its incomparable superiority. The colouring matter, diluted by the oil, remains suspended as before in its transparent medium when the painting is dry; so that the luminous rays, in order to arrive at the eye, start from the surface of the paint as well as from its interior substance. We find exactly the same process in nature; an impalpable powder, like the pigmentary granulations, or the globules of blood in the capillaries of the skin, is spread over a diaphanous substance.