Studentenzimmer; in the middle, a long plain table, and by it an uncushioned arm-chair. That, said she, was Professor Whitney's chair, and in it he used to sit for hours at that table, almost without moving. When he moved the chair more than a little, I knew that it was time for me to take him his mug of beer, and perchance a bit of bread. And, as a very small girl then, I wondered at the table, which was covered with little bits of paper, which he had arranged in a certain order, and was very particular that no one should disturb. The only adornment which he had in the room was an American flag draped over the mirror; and on the Fourth of July he said he would work an hour less than usual, as it was the anniversary of American independence. The flag was the symbol of a true passion; and in his toils for truth he felt that he was working, first for the welfare, and second for the glory of his country. And as for the latter, how many an American student in Germany has been proud of the generous recognition of Whitney's success! Years ago, continues the letter, I was exchanging a few words with a famous Orientalist. The Herr Professor kindly asked me from what part of America I came. New Jersey, I told him, and his face grew very blank. I know Connecticut, said he. And he knew Connecticut, as did his colleagues, largely because he knew Whitney. So much for the letter of a loving and beloved pupil.
It suggests withal an inquiry: What was the secret of Whitney's great productivity? In the first instance,—it is almost needless to say,—his native gifts. But it is far from true that native gifts are always fruitful. Next to them came his power of discerning what was the really important thing to do, and his habit—self-imposed, and enforced with Spartan rigor—of doing something every working-day upon that really important thing, and, above all, of doing that something first. Such was his regularity that even the dire necessity—which arose in 1882—of moving from one dwelling-house into another did not break it. "Even moving," he writes, "I expect to find consistent with regular doses of Talavakāra, etc." The "art of judicious slighting" was a household word in his family, a weapon of might; its importance to the really great is equalled only by its perilousness in the hands of the unskilful. His plans were formed with circumspection, with careful counting of the cost, and then adhered to with the utmost persistence, so that he left behind him nothing fragmentary. We may change Goldsmith's epitaph to suit the case, and say that Whitney put his hand to nothing that he did not carry out,—nihil quod incepit non perfecit.
And what shall I say of the lesser virtues that graced him? As patient as the earth, say the Hindus. And endless patience was his where patience was in place. And how beautiful was his gentleness, his kindness to those from whom he looked for nothing again, his gratitude to those who did him a service! And how especially well did the calm dignity which was ever his wont become him when he presided at the meetings of learned societies! How notable the brevity with which he presented his papers! No labored reading from a manuscript, but rather a simple and facile account of results. An example, surely! He who had the most to say used in proportion the least time in saying it. And this was indeed of a piece with his most exemplary habit, as editor of the publications of the Oriental Society, of keeping his own name so far in the background. For how genuine was his modesty of bearing, of speech, and of soul!
And in harmony therewith was his reverence for things hallowed.
He counted not himself to have attained,
This doughty toiler on the paths of truth;
And scorned not them who lower heights had reached.
