Lectures delivered in connection with the dedication of the Graduate college of Princeton university in October, 1913

GIFT OF

(^A^^^Aycte.^^

Louis Clark Vanuxem Foundation

LECTURES

DELIVERED IN CONNECTION WITH THE

DEDICATION OF THE GRADUATE COLLEGE

OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

IN OCTOBER, 1913

EMILE BOUTROUX
ALOIS RIEHL
A. D. GODLEY
ARTHUR SHIPLEY

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

PRINCETON

LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

1914 .

Published October, 1914

#

7^

I

SCIENCE AND CULTURE

Emile Boutroux

Honorary Professor in the Faculty of the

University of Paris

Director of the Fondation Thiers

Member of the French Academy

II

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY AT THE

PRESENT DAY

Alois Riehl

Professor of Philosophy

and recently Rector in the University of Berlin

III

THE PRESENT POSITION OF CLASSICAL

STUDIES IN ENGLAND

A. D. GoDLEY, M.A.

Fellow of Magdalen College

Public Orator in the University of Oxford

IV

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE IN THE SEVEN-
TEENTH CENTURY
Arthur Shipley, F.R.S., D.Sc.
Professor of Zoology
Master of Christ's College, University of Cambridge

294^03

NOTE

The four lectures here printed were deliv-
ered in the East Room of McCosh Hall on the
two days preceding the dedication of the Grad-
uate College of Princeton University on Octo-
ber 22, 1914. The lectures of Professor
Boutroux and Professor Riehl have been trans-
lated for this volume.

SCIENCE AND CULTURE

SCIENCE AND CULTURE

By Emile Boutroux

Science and Culture — few words are heard
more often in our day and few words cause
so many controversies and discussions on all
sides.

\ Does culture — to use the word in its exact
sense — arise naturally from the progress of

\ science or has culture her own conditions, her
own laws, her progress or her decadence in a

. domain distinct from the true domain of
science?

More than this, might it not be maintained
that science in the state she has reached during
the ages, far from being favorable to culture

, in the classic sense of the word, rather tends,
by the growing importance she gives to spe-

3

4 EMIl.EBOUTROUX

cialization, to substitute for culture a mechani-
cal training of an entirely different sort?

These questions suggest themselves today to
all reflecting minds and it seems particularly
opportune to discuss them here, in this college,
which has set before itself the ideal of being
at the same time a laboratory of pure science
and a school of high culture.

We must not be surprised to find ourselves
confronted by this problem: it does not date
from yesterday. Humanity in the course of
its history has already, at many recurring in-
tervals, passed through crises analogous to the
situation we have before our eyes.

Long ago among the ancient Greeks, the
appearance of the Sophists meant a conflict
of this kind. Some bold investigators sketched
the foundations for a science of nature to be
constructed not as before, say in the cosmogonic
doctrines, from the standpoint of man, his be-
liefs and his desires, but from the standpoint
of nature itself. They were called physio-
^ logues. They tried to find out whether the
substance of things is one or multiple, changing
or immutable, formed of visible elements or of

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 5

numbers, or of atoms, or of particles infinitely
tiny but qualitatively different; whether the
action of an entirely mechanical necessity is
enough to account for the order and the mar-
vellous diversity of the phenomena of the uni-
verse. In magnificent systems, they displayed,
as in a vast panorama, the history of the world,
its orgin, its course, its destiny.

But what became of man in the midst of this
universe? His virtues, his thoughts, his arts,
his institutions, his life — had they any reality,
any value? Socrates, crowning by a positive
doctrine the critical work of the Sophists, was
not content with protesting against a science
which ignored or absorbed man; he put in the
foreground human duties and the knowledge
and culture of self. Then Plato and Aristotle
found a way to make human virtue itself the
point of departure for all wisdom, and the
crisis precipitated by the Sophists was resolved
into a harmony arising from the subordination
of the science of nature to ideal culture.

A second crisis arose, at the end of the
Middle Ages, when scholasticism seemed to
have established to all eternity a science ade-

:£mile boutroux

quate for all things human and divine, a
science before which man, as man, could not
pretend to take anj^ attitude but one of obed-
ient submission — complete and absolute.

Once more man protested. Every one
knows with what eloquence that protest is ex-
pressed by Goethe's Faust:

Was man nicht weiss, das eben brauchte man,
Und was man weiss, kann man nicht brauchen.

Weh! Stech' ich in dem Kerker noch?

Fliehl Auf! Hinaus in 's weite land!

The works of a Rabelais or a Montaigne are
nothing else but a continual revindication of
the rights of culture and of life, in the pres-
ence of the tyranny of abstract science,
y "Knowledge without conscience," said Rabe-
lais, "is simply the ruin of the soul." And
Montaigne: "Science without judgment is the
destruction of the mind."

Finally, with Descartes, the principle of cul-
ture triumphed, and triumphed, moreover, in
such a way as, at the same time, to maintain

SCIENCE vVND CULTURE 7

and strengthen the rights of science itself. For
Descartes insisted that human culture consis-
ted essentially in the culture of the reason,
which finds its satisfaction in science, as well
as in those moral truths which assure the dig-
nity of man and direct him towards God. The
treatise entitled Regulae ad Directionem In-
genii opens with this sentence;

''Studiorum finis esse debet ingenii directio
ad solida et vera de iis omnibus quae occurrunt
proferenda judicia. (The aim of study
should be the mind's culture, enabling us to
utter well founded and true judgments about
anything that may occur.)

The Scholastic logic has been the art of
reasoning; the Cartesian logic was the art of
thinking.

Very soon, nevertheless, scientism and in-
tellectualism dominated men's minds so com-
pletely that they threatened to destroy feeling
and spontaneity. That was the time which
is called the Epoch of the Enlightenment,
whose masterpiece is the "Encyclopedic."

Then another crisis arose with Rousseau
for herald. With a fire and an enthusiasm

8 KMII.E BOUTROUX

whose influence the world still feels, he exalted
the virtue and the happiness which spring
from a naive confidence in the simple sugges-
tions of the heart and of nature and claimed
for these the superiority over the intelligence
working apart from the soul and from the
sense of life. Not that he ended with the idea
of proscribing the sciences and the intelligence.
He was not long in recognizing that, once
lighted, the torch of science can never go out.
And so, although he rejects the idea of science
as the master of life he accepts the idea of
science as the servant of life: the sciences and
the intelligence have a wholesome and neces-
sary part in culture if they are directed by the
heart restored to its primitive rectitude.

In this way, at many recurrent intervals
during the course of human evolution, the
genius of culture has set itself face to face
with the genius of science threatening to take
possession of the entire man, and has tri-
umphed over the tyrannical pretensions of
its rival, without denying to science, kept in
its proper place, the right to its legitimate
development.

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 9

We are now passing through a new crisis.
Once more science proclaims: "All reality
belongs to me! The entire personality of
man belongs to me!" And once more man
feels astonished and asks: "Is it then definitely
proved that my personality is nothing but a
vain show? That I am really a thing like
other things and that human culture, like the
cultivation of trees or plants, ought to be
reduced to the passive application of laws for-
mulated by the theoretical sciences?"

The principle of culture up to the present
time has triumphed over the assaults which
have been made upon it. Is it to be expected
that the result of the present crisis will be the
same?

II

It might seem enough for the resolution of
this question to appeal to that law of rhythm
and alternation which in a general way gov-
erns the manifestations of life. Humanity
seems to be walking like a drunken man, now
escaping a fall to the left hand by an exag-
gerated movement to the right, now throwing

10 EMILE BOUTROUX

himself back, by a movement just as exag-
gerated, from right to left, and so on ad in-
finitum. Science — culture, culture — science
would thus become like the two extremes of the
oscillation of a pendulum and the very pre-
tension of the science of the present day to
a universal hegemony would be nothing but
the prelude to the compensating triumph of
culture.

That way of resolving the problem a priori,
is too simple. There is nothing to prove that
humanity must repeat itself to all eternity,
and it may very well be that, at a certain
moment of its development, the oscillatory
movement may give place to a definite prog-
ress in one of the two directions, to the exclu-
sion of the other.

Science, the champions of "Scientism" may
say, has, in our day especially, acquired new
characteristics and it is not proper to judge
of its destiny in the future by the vicissitudes
of a past dead beyond hope of resurrection.
Human affairs move not only by alternation
but also by evolution proper and all evolu-
tion is irreversible.

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 11

The physics of Herachtes, of Empedocles,
of Anaxagoras could easily bow in reverence
before a philosophy of culture, because it was
itself, to some extent, an art as well as a
science. The object of the researches of
Heraclites is, according to his own statement,
an invisible harmony more beautiful than the
visible one: ap^ovir) a^avr]<; ^aveprjf; ^peirrodv.

The scholasticism of the Middle Ages,
based on authority, could not maintain its
position before a criticism absolutely resolute
to submit without pity all human beliefs to
discussion by the reason and to the test of
nature.

And however extended the domain of sci-
ence and of intellectual systematization may
have been in the eighteenth century, it was
very far from embracing all parts of reality.
Science lacked instruments and appropriate
methods for extending the reign of its laws
beyond physical nature to life and the human
soul. That is why feeling, making head once
more, was able to stop the progress of its
adversary and, in a short while, to display

U KMILE BOUTROUX

itself triumphantly and without restraint in
the art and literature of Romanticism.

Conditions are not the same today; and
there is really place for the question whether
the pretensions of science, so often renewed,
to govern by her sole power, not only all hu-
man knowledge but all human life, are not on
the verge of a final triumph. The general
evolution of humanity could in that case be
formulated thus: from man to things, from
feeling to reason, from art to science.

The science of today, the apostles of "Sci-
entism" say, is aware of possessing certitude.
The science of today rests on facts and logic
and the history of human thought, as well as
the analysis of human knowledge, has demon-
strated that the observation of facts combined
with logic is the only means of reaching that
complete agreement between different minds,
apart from which there is no such thing as
true certitude.

That is not all. Claiming for its domain
all objects the knowledge of which can be
gained by experience and logic, science has
the right not only to claim the possession of

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 13

certitude but also to deny that there is cer-
titude anywhere else but in science.

Doubtless, according to the opinion of the
average man, there is a certitude based on
feeling alone and the energy which character-
izes it is no less than that which is inherent to
scientific certitude.

But science sees in it nothing but a condi-
tion of soul entirely subjective, comparable
to dream or desire. The word belief or fancy
would be better adapted to describe it. Far
from its being the case that truth depends on
certitude, we must rather say that certitude
depends on truth. Let nobody, then, pretend
to know, where science confesses ignorance.
Nothing is knowahlp for inqn hut whqt cqn he
scientifically known.

Consider also, the scientists urge, that, since
Galileo and Descartes, the whole domain of
being has come little by little under the con-
trol of science. Doubtless science is not sat-
isfied unless she measures and calculates and
many facts taken by themselves cannot be
measured; for instance, all vital phenomena;
and psychological phenomena are even more

14 EMILE BOUTROUX

intractable. But science has in that respect
invented the method of indirect measure or
equivalent. For phenomena immeasurable in
themselves she substitues phenomena directly
measurable, connected with the first by an
exact law. Thus, for example, heat is meas-
ured, not in itself, but by the height of a col-
umn of mercury. Thanks to the generaliza-
tion of this method, there is no phenomenon
which cannot theoretically be submitted to
scientific investigation, and Berthelot was able
to say from the standpoint of rights if not of
facts : "Nature has for us no more mysteries."

We are then told not only that there is no
certitude outside of science, but that the juris-
diction of science includes everything. How
then can there be a culture outside of science?

You may allege the irreducibility of feel-
ing, the opposition we perceive each day be-
tween the intelligence and the heart, science
and life. But the celebrated English philos-
opher, Leslie Stephen, has given for this fact
an explanation which very much diminishes
its importance. "The imagination," he says,
"lags behind the reason." Imagination, feel-

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 15

ing, will, do not follow the reason except at
a distance and, in a way, in spite of them-
selves. Yet little by little they must yield to
the action of reason, for this latter is intangi-
ble and irresistibly increases steadily in power,
while feeling, in spite of its repugnance, can
always be weakened and naturally grows
weaker with time. Drops of water falling
without ceasing finally wear away the solid
rock.

This solution of the conflict is certainly the
one a man of intelligence ought to hope for
and the one he ought to work to bring about.

Besides, adds the scientist, science as she
learns more perfectly her own nature and
power becomes more sufficient for education
and culture.

In the first place, she teaches better than
anyone the worship of truth, and what is more
noble, more sure, more just than to consecrate
oneself to that sublime religion? To seek for
truth — that is not only to realize in oneself,
in all its purity, intellectual virtue; it is — by
the subordination of material interests to an
ideal interest, by the friendship which the

16 EMILE BOUTROUX

seeker naturally forms with those who pursue
the solution of the same problems, by the joy
which one feels in possessing a blessing as real
as it is sublime — to develop in oneself, in the
most certain way, moral virtue.

By general consent, scientific study and re-
search are not only the acquisition of knowl-
edge— an external enriching of the mind ; they
are literally a culture. They may indeed be
called the necessary and sufficient culture.
There is, indeed, no essential faculty of the
human soul which science does not develop and
direct in the best way. And, so far as those
sides of our nature are concerned which require
for their development the rejection of scientific
influence, they should be considered — not as
permanent characteristics of man, but as sur-
vivals of a past condition which it is highly
desirable to obliterate.

Such seems to be today, in the words of
some of her representatives, the ambition of
science. If that pretension is well founded,
the ancient conflict of science and culture is
at last ended. Science has definitely con-
quered and no counter triumph of culture as

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 17

irreducible to science, is henceforth possible.
Science is herself theory and practice — truth
and action — the abstract and the concrete —
knowledge and life.

Ill

Before asking ourselves if that conception
is true or false, it might perhaps be interesting
to try to form a picture of what human life
would become if it were actually governed in
all its parts by science and only by science.
It is one thing indeed to sing hosannas in
honor of science; it is another thing to see
clearly all the consequences which the exclu-
sive sovereignty of science would bring to
pass. If it appears that these consequences
would be enormous and paradoxical, it by no
means follows that the principle is false, be-
cause the mission of truth is not to be agree-
able to us, yet such an outcome of the principle
will be an additional reason for not accepting
it without a close examination.

Auguste Comte loved to repeat that to sur-
render human life to the men of learning and

18 ]fiMILE BOUTROUX

nothing else, would be to break all the moral
and social bonds which exist at the present
moment among men and to divide humanity

>yinto groups of specialists, strangers or even
enemies to one another. Science knows no
other social relations except those which re-

^ suit from the division of labor. An entirely
external coordination would, then, replace
that community of feeling, thought and exis-
tence which characterizes our existing society,
born of the family and dominated by the idea
and the feeling of humanity. And, warming
to the discussion, the founder of positivism
plunged with growing passion into invective

^ against the professional vanity, the onesided

\ spirit, the absence of mutual understanding,

\ the lack of practical sense which he attributed
to men of learning who are nothing else. He
particularly disliked mathematicians or mathe-
matically-minded men, and held them respon-
sible for all the evils which afflict society —

"^^ especially for the French revolution, that
abomination of desolation.

— Auguste Comte was a little reckless in his
use of anathemas, and the men of learning

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 19

punished him by insinuating that his brain
probably never quite recovered from the de-
rangement which twice attacked it.

Without sharing the fury of Auguste
Comte, one can notice that scientific work
presupposes more and more an extreme spe-
ciahzation, and that, in conformity with this
requirement, the system of faculties distinct
and autonomous enjoj^s, in our universities,
a growing favor. In perfect calmness we
can observe that, in our society greedy for
progress and above all for scientific progress,
the certificates for elementary studies are,
more and more, the only ones which still keep
a general character. Have we not therefore
the right to suppose that, if men were guided
by science alone, they would be comparable,
looking at society as a whole, to workmen in
^ factories, each one shut up to the special task
which has been assigned to him.

But, you will say, does not man remain with
his social sense, with his love for the traditions
of his country and his race, with his ideal as-
pirations which the role of a wheel in a ma-
chine can never satisfy? Are not these real

20 EMII.E BOUTROUX

data which a science resolutely experimental
could not fail to recognize and respect?

These realities, it is to be noticed, gain their
moral and social meaning from the subjective
elements which they include. But the func-
tion of science is to eliminate the subjective
and to resolve it into the objective. She
would not, therefore, know how to attribute
the slightest value to our aesthetic, moral or
religious ideas as we are conscious of them.
If, at the present moment, science does not
see the way to resolve them completely into
objective elements, she thinks such a resolu-
tion possible, and the attachment of man to
those idols which he has created himself can
not be, for her eyes, anything but superstition,
routine, error. To sum up — the task which
science sets before herself, the task which she
thinks it both a right and a duty to consider
realizable, is to dissolve and to reduce to an
infinite number of units of energy entirely
\ physical everything which constitutes the es-
sence of man. Her manner of explaining
man means suppressing him. When man ate
the fruit of the tree of science, he signed.

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 21

in a very real sense his own death warrant.
If, some day, science reahzes her ambitions,
man, deprived of eveiything which gives him
a reason for Hving, will either disappear or
will be so changed as to resemble in nothing
what we call man. This is doubtless an ideal
limit which practically does not seem possible
of attainment. But, if science ought to be our
only guide, this is the goal we march towards,
and we ought to measure human progress by
the extent to which humanity is dehumanized.
Whatever may be the feelings which the
prospect of such a destiny arouses in us, we
have nothing to do, if we are reasonable, ex-
cept to accept it gracefully. For, even though
we rebel, we shall be none the less forced to
bow to it, and then we shall be at the same
time conquered and culprits.

rjv 8e fJLT) OeXo),

one could say, using the words of the Stoic
Cleanthes: What dignity would man pre-

«».—■<• 111^ II— M— »»niii m

serve if he put his pride above the truth?
But is this the truth? Is science reallv des-

22 :emile boutroux

tined to absorb the whole man and to reduce
him to the dust of atoms?

That hypothesis arises from a misunder-
standing which Descartes denounced long ago.
It supposes a confusion between science al-
ready formed or made and science which is in
the making, or rather, a confusion between
science considered as a thing in itself and
science as it actually exists. If science were
a thing in itself, ready made from all eternity
— if man had nothing to do but to discover it
as a treasure buried in the ground is discover-
ed, then it would be true that man does not
really exist except in a scientific form — that
is to say, so far as he is a man, he does not
exist at all. But that so-called science in
itself, is nothing but a creation of reason,
imagined by metaphysicians of the absolute or
by university professors inclined by profession
to dogmatism. The only science which exists
is the science which is being formed, the sci-
ence which is becoming science — and that is
not really a discovery — it is rather an inven-
tion. If there is one result which is plain
from the deep study which, in our day espe-

\

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 23

cially, has been made of the origin of science,
it is this: the essential and continuous part
which the original activity of the mind has
played and plays, both in the formation and
elaboration of scientific concepts and in es-
tablishing the relations of phenomena to those
concepts. I would be glad to apply to all
science the theory which I have seen my mas-
ter M. Michel Breal sustain in regard to lan-
guage. Against those who assume to explain
the phenomena of language by purely me-
chanical laws immanent in language itself, to
wit: by simple invariable connections of ele-
mentary linguistic phenomena, Michel Breal
sustains the proposition that the mind, for its
own ends and by its own activity, with its
capacity for trying, for groping its way, for
choice, for adaptation, for aesthetic arrange-
ment, for improving, is the true creator and
modifier of language. 31 ens agitat molem:
Mind moves the whole. Doubtless it would
be possible, to some extent, to reduce any
given language to a fixed mechanical system,
so that its constitution could be more easily
taught to students whose memory was better

24 EMII.E BOUTROUX

than their judgment. But the method of
teaching is not the way of creation. The real
development of language is not intelligible
without making an appeal to the living mind
as an essential factor.

Novs oLv eL7) TO)v apx^iv - ^ Intelligence should
be considered a principle, says Aristotle.
And the proud declaration of Descartes
stands more unassailable than ever: Scientiae
omnes nihil aliud sunt quarn humana sapientia
[sive bona mens^, quae semper una et eadem
manet, quantumvis differentihus subjectis
applicata:^ All the different sciences are but
human wisdom [or good sense], which always
remains the same, though it may be applied
to most different subjects.

The truth is that science herself, this lan-
guage par excellence, refers us to that living
spirit — to that subjective principle — which
she thought to dissolve into its elements and
to eliminate without pity. Not only is it true
that she was born from thought, but it is also
true that she can never preserve her value and

^Aristotle, Anal, post., s. f.
^Descartes, Reg. ad direct, ing., init.

SCIF.XCR y\ND CULTURE 2.5

her power of improvement except by remain-
ing substantially united to that spirit and ac-
tivity. "Separate words from the mind
which expresses itself in them," said Plato,
"and then ask them what they mean: they will
keep solemnly silent," ae^ivox^ irdw criya . Sci-
ence can no more do without spirit than the
colors produced by the reflection of light can
exist without the sun.

But if science, far from absorbing spirit and
reducing it to the mechanism she constructs,
depends as a matter of fact eternally on spirit,
as the leaves and the flowers depend on the
tree, it is of the greatest interest to science
that spirit should receive the culture which is
appropriate, the culture which best assures
the health, the vigor, the fecundity of spirit.

That culture, however, of which science is
at once the aim and the measure — is it suffi-
cient for our needs?

The scientific faculty is not the only one
which is essential for us. We find also in our-
selves other ruling faculties: the practical, the
artistic, the religious faculty.

If our spirit is really in itself a being, a

26 P^MILE BOUTROUX

principle, a power irreducible and original,
why would we not develop all parts of its
essential being? Science which presupposes
spirit and lives in its life, is herself interested
in a culture which will make the spirit as rich
and harmonious as possible.

Today, then, as in the epoch of the Renais-
sance, or in the age of the Sophists and Socra-
tes, it remains true that man ought not to
lose himself in science, even the largest and the
best established science, but that he ought to
recognize that he has the right and the duty
to cultivate in himself humanity as such, to be
truly a man in the sense at once the largest and
the most specific of the word. We can still
say with Menander:

'II9 \apUv iaO^ av6p(t)7ro^j orav avSpoiTTO^ f),
\ What an admirable thing is man when he is
truly man !

IV

How shall we conceive and practice today
that culture of man as man, which, in spite of
all the changes in society, and even in spite
of the unheard-of progress of science, remains

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 27

the condition of all progress and the supreme
goal to which all our efforts ought to be
directed?

Nothing is truer than the affirmation re-
peated incessantly among us, about the educa-
tive value of the sciences, provided the nature
and the service of science are correctly un-
derstood. True science is not a system of
compartments, built once for all, where all the
objects found in nature must come by consent
or by force to be arranged in order. Science
Y is the very mind of man, exerting itself to un-
derstand things and, to succeed in that, as far
as possible moulding itself, accommodating
itself, enlarging itself, diversifying itself in
order to pass in its vision beneath the super-
ficial and uniform aspect of beings and to pen-
etrate to some extent their infinite and subtle
individuality.

That is why the science which is truly edu-
cative is not the science which assumes to be
complete, finished and infallible in its logical
simplicity. It is the science which works,
which seeks, feels its way, criticises itself, cor-
rects itself, considers itself always provisional

i

28 EMILE BOUTROUX

and behaves itself as provisional. The science
useful in education is not a science fixed in
rigid definitions with a view to teaching and
examinations, it is the living science, grasped
in the very act of making itself in the labora-
tories.

The first sort of science is easily accepted
by professors and students whose laziness it
flatters; it favors dogmatism, routine, aprior-
\ ism, the assumption of ability to judge all
things according to exact and absolute rules.
The man who has allowed himself to be
moulded in this way by his scientific studies,
beholds with impatience the complexity and
the obscurities of real things, the secret spring
of life and activity which makes them rebel-
lious against arrangement in a logical system.
He likes to treat qualities like quantities, re-
alities like abstractions, and to believe that a
problem is resolved the moment; eliminating
every thing that cannot be reduced to exact
and clear concepts, he has deduced from cer-
tain principles, plausible in themselves, con-
sequences logically correct.

Living science on the other hand — the

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 29

science which follows reality instead of trying
to make reality conform to itself — steadily
teaches the mind to break away from that
tyranny of habit which is nothing but the sur-
render of the native liberty of spirit to the law
of inertia which is the particular quality of
matter. In the effort to proportion means to
ends, to recognize the complexity and the par-
ticular nature of objects in themselves, she
appeals to the spirit of sagacity as well as to
the spirit of geometry. She not only develops
the power of external observation and logical
deduction but she sharpens that sort of judg-
ment which discerns the agreement of meth-
ods and problems, the meaning and value of
results.

Of course we must reject the contention of
certain romanticists, that science ought to be
controlled by literature, unless we are pre-
pared to accept the cult of matter, figures and
force. But, we must recognize, on the other
hand, that, if the sciences are to take in the
education of mind their due place, they must
be taught, not by the dogmatic method of a
professor who is nothing but a professor, but.

80 EMILE BOUTROUX

as far as possible, by the heuristic method,
namely the method which a man of learning
uses in his researches.

On the other hand, since the object of cul-
ture is the development of man as man, it is
evident that the study of letters has as much
right to be a part of it as the study of science.
For, if the sciences show us the effort of the
human mind to take possession of things, let-
ters show us the very life of man, made visible
to himself in his consciousness and expressed
in the language best fitted not only to analyze
that life acutely, but to exalt it, to beautify
it, to ennoble it by the charm or the grandeur
of the very expression of it.

If letters are to fulfill their educational
function, we must not look on them as a mere
branch of scientific knowledge. It is true
that erudition, which is next door to the nat-
ural sciences, plays a necessary part in literary
studies. But erudition bears the same rela-
tion to literature which technique bears to art.
It puts us in possession of the elements and
the instruments: it takes no account of the
internal operation which from these minted

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 31

and banal data creates a living and personal
work of art. When we find in the authors
Pascal has read, in Montaigne for example,
more and more of the ideas and even the ex-
pressions which form the material of the im-
mortal "Pensees," we only demonstrate with
still greater clearness the incommensurability
between materials and form ; because, after all,
the work of Pascal differs radically from the
work of Montaigne. Pascal himself said:
"The thoughts of an author transplanted in
the mind of another writer make, sometimes, a
quite new and different growth." JLes memes
pensees poussent quelquefois tout autrement
dans un autre que dans leur auteur.

In spite of the marvellous progress which
erudition and the objective study of literary
phenomena are making from day to day, let-
ters remain essentially different from the sci-
ences, and that is just the reason why letters
have a part in education which is peculiarly
their own.

In a sense diametrically opposed to the su-
perstition of erudition, it is not uncommon
nowadays, to hear a defence of the proposition

S2 EMILE BOUTROUX

that, in order to take their proper place in
hfe, letters and art must become entirely con-
scious of their essential nature, and that this
principle peculiar to them, is seen to be, when
looked at in its purity, feeling entirely separa-
ted from intelligence. This doctrine is what
we may call Aestheticism. It affirms the in-
dependence and the sovereignty of art, the
supremacy of life and intuition, the superna-
tural and almost divine nature of genius as an
infinite and arbitrary power of creation.

Such a doctrine is very opportune and has
a useful place in epochs when humanity is
tempted to believe that the creative power of
the mind is an illusion, when learned men try
to persuade us that what we call new, original,
a work of genius, appears to be such only
because we do not know all its antecedents.
By exalting beyond measure the aesthetic fac-
ulty, this doctrine may awaken and excite it.
In order to develop the forces we possess it is
sometimes useful to think we have forces we
do not possess.

It is, however, worth noticing that the idea
of an art which rests on intuition alone, on

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 33

feeling separate from intelligence, scarcely
ever appears except at the beginning or end
of a great period in the history of art. At the
beginning, because science is not capable of
keeping pace with inspiration; in the age of
decadence, because, tired of beauty which has
become classic, certain refined spirits set them-
selves to look for strange sensations. Art, in
the time of full flower, is intellectual and prac-
tical, as well as properly aesthetic. In the
ages of its highest development, art tends to
express, in an idealizing manner, human life
in its totality. The Parthenon is not some-
thing luxurious, built only to satisfy dilettanti.
It expresses national beliefs, it possesses the
harmony, at once exact and delicate, of a
Greek tragedy. And the beauty which
streams from it, is the beauty of light, which
not only charms the eye but illuminates the
world and maintains life.

The truth is that the starting point of the
theory which sees in art a quite independent
activity of humanity is contrary to reality.
There is not in our consciousness any feeling
entirely isolated from thought, any intuition

34 EMILE BOUTROUX

empty of all concept, any creation indepen-
dent of ideas. If man should try to feel and
produce outside of all ideas and all rules, he
would become by his own consent, the slave of
chance and mechanical necessity, and would
produce nothing but bizarre and insignificant
works. The activity of genius is not pure cre-
ation; it is the production of beautiful things
' — of things stamped with the seal of perfec-
tion and eternity.

An intuition without a concept is for man
an impossibility or a simple datum without
determinable value.

The problem, then, is not to find out how
we can set feeling free from all connection
with the intellect, but to form an idea of the
way in which our intuitions and our intellect-
ual concepts can mingle with each other in
such a manner that, without losing sponta-
neity and freedom, the creations of our imagi-
nations may be regular, harmonious and in
conformity with the laws of intelligence. The
study of letters, consequently, ought not to
have for its object the development of the
imagination considered by itself as an arbi-

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 35

trary and capricious capacity for creating.
Its object is, rather, the cultivation of taste,
or judgment, of what in its highest form is
genius — that is to say, that marvellous faculty
whose characteristic it is to see, as if intuitive-
ly, and to produce, as if spontaneously, things
which subsequent analysis proves are perfectly
in accord with reason and truth. Literary
studies, if they are properly carried on, do not
in the least neglect the scientific side of knowl-
edge. But they incorporate science with the
imagination and the judgment to the extent
of transforming it, as it were, into sentiment
and intuition.

From the considerations we have laid before
you, we conclude that human culture, when
properly carried on, ought to be at the same
time scientific and literary — in a word, uni-
versal.

In reality, all things in nature cling to each
other. A thing isolated from other things,
is, because of that very fact, imperfectly and
inexactly understood. In order to see justly,
we must see everything in its relation to the
whole, and, to succeed in raising human nature

36 EMILE BOUTROUX

towards its ideal form, we must exercise and
develop harmoniously all the faculties of man.

But, if that is the case, is not the task which
a true culture implies really chimerical, and
is it not more practical, instead of aiming to
reach something sublime but inaccessible, to
restrict ourselves to specialization and the
division of labor which is the method approved
by human industry and by nature herself.

Certainly the task is just now more difficult
than it ever was. But it has not lost its glory
and it is worth while not to give up the ideal
without having done all in our power to come
nearer to its realization.

The universality whose reconciliation with
specialization concerns us, can be understood
in several ways.

It can be defined as the possession of all the
knowledge and of all the talents which human
nature is capable of possessing.

Now it is only too clear that, in this sense,
universality is an Utopia, not to say an ab-
surdity. A very small number of men, in
the past, are reputed to have united in them-
selves all knowledge then possessed by the na-

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 37

tion to which they belonged. Such a preten-
sion, today, would be madness: if we were to
divide among so many different objects the
small amount of intellectual force we possess,
we should condemn ourselves to have nothing
but vague and useless ideas in regard to every
one of them.

Universality can, in the second place, be
understoood in a perfectly logical sense as the
possession of the general ideas which are the
underlying principles of the different sciences
and the different arts.

But such ideas, taken by themselves —
that is to say, separated from the consideration
of the details of things — are scarcely more than
empty rubrics, useful at best only to furnish
subjects for commonplace conversations or
for abstract and sterile disputations.

There is a third way of understanding uni-
versality, and that is to look for it, not in the
objects of knowledge, or, even, in the con-
cepts which interpret their common character-
istics, but in the spirit of man as a living
nature, the virtualities of which surpass both
the concepts of the intelligence, and the objects

38 ^MILE BOUTROUX

of science. In a general way what we call
life, soul, spirit, is the conciliation and reunion
by a sort of fusion and internal transfiguration
of qualities which, in the world of space and
matter, are invincibly exterior and impenetra-
ble to each other. How can, for example,
identity and change get united? An insolu-
ble problem in the material or logical world.
But life conciliates these two terms. The liv-
ing being remains himself, while he is evolving.
How, in the world of matter, can anything be
at the same time young and old, live in the
present, the past and the future, inhabit simul-
taneously different regions of space? The
mode of existence which we call consciousness
solves those paradoxical problems.

Cannot the spirit of man solve in its own
way the problem of general culture?

When a man practices a science for a long
time and intelligently, he acquires not only a
certain amount of knowledge but, in addition,
a certain intellectual disposition which cannot
be expressed in any formula, but which is,
none the less, real and usable. Thanks to
that intellectual disposition, the man of learn-

\

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 39

ing makes an easy and assured progress in
the science he has studied. He has assimilated
the spirit of that sort of knowledge in such a
way that, henceforth, he finds himself at home
there.

Now it is a characteristic of human nature,
that when several individuals have intercourse
with each other, they not only exchange from
without certain definite pieces of information
or methods of action, but, by a sort of internal
contagion from soul to soul and mind to mind
exert a reciprocal influence. "It is the peculiar
characteristic of mind," says Goethe, "t^
arouse perpetually the activity of mind."
Dies ist die Eigenschaft des Geistes, dass er
den Geist ewig anregt.

And that influence of one spirit upon an-
other, is much more certain and effectual,
when there is not only an exchange of intel-
lectual ideas, but a union of hearts. Who
knows, indeeed, whether that may not be an
indispensable condition? "It is impossible,"
said Xenophon, "to learn anything from a
master one does not love": ^jnqhevl fjurj^eixLav
eivai Trdihevcriv irapa tov firj apicrKovro^;.

40 EMILE BOUTROUX

What then is needed in order that human
intelhgence may make real for men, in
the sense in which it is proper and possible,
that universality of culture towards which we
ought to strive?

The means of encouraging in the most in-
timate and fruitful way that mutual mingling
of intelligences, would be to unite under the
same roof and to invite to a common life, men,
devoted to different sciences, already some-
what advanced in their respective studies, but
still young enough to have supple minds.

If these young men form bonds of friend-
ship, as is natural between noble and generous
hearts in love with higher culture, their life
together will not only be charming and a joy,
it will bring about insensibly an enlargement
of their minds, it will give to each of them
an idea of sciences and of methods of intel-
lectual activity which he, by himself, has not
the leisure to cultivate, and so it will lead the
young men on the road towards that univer-
sality of comprehension and of sympathy
which is the ideal of human culture.

The creation of a community like the Grad-

\

SCIENCE AND CULTURE 41

uate College of Princeton is a method very
happily conceived of solving, so far as the
education of the mind is concerned, the great
problem already admirably formulated by the
Sages of Greece:
IIw? Se fjiOL ev TL TOL TTOLvr icrraL kol x<wp^5 eKaarov;

"What can be done to bring it to pass that
the totality of things may be a unit, and, at
the same time, each part of it may be a unit?"

For the honor of humanity, as well as for
that of the United States of America, I wish
success and prosperity for this wise and beau-
tiful institution.

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY
AT THE PRESENT DAY

i

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY
AT THE PRESENT DAY

By Alois Riehl

When you did me the honor of inviting me
to dehver an address before this illustrious
university upon the occasion of the opening
of the new Graduate College, having decided
to comply with your request, I could not long
remain in doubt as to the choice of a subject.
Only a subject of general import seemed to
me appropriate to the end in view. For this
reason it will be my endeavor to unfold to you
a few thoughts on the vocation of philosophy
in our time.

A renewed and deepened study of Kant in
the concluding third of the last century marks
the point at which the philosophical movement
of the present day begins. The speculative
construction of nature was an adventure which
ended in disaster, and by a natural reaction

45

46 AI.OIS RIEHL

philosophy found itself, in Helmholtz's words,
once more upon a healthy footing in Kant.
From its position here it first proceeded to a
fresh self-examination. Meanwhile natural
science had issued in discoveries and views of
philosophical significance, among others the
discovery of the Conservation of Energy — the
principle which made it possible for the first
time to combine all the parts of physics into
a single system. The idea of development
had been applied to the investigation of or-
ganic nature in the doctrine of the Origin of
Species. In proportion as scientific research
assumed exacter forms it became more and
more conscious of the conditions under which
it labored. A physiologist of repute spoke of
"the limits of our knowledge of nature." Be-
tween a natural science grown critical and a
philosophy which had made it its principal bus-
iness to examine the sources and determine
the limits of knowledge a rapprochement,
which was soon to develop into an alliance,
became feasible. Mathematicians and physi-
cists of standing, Ludwig Boltzmann, Henri
Poincare, Ernst Mach and others, following

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 47

the example of Helmholtz, took part in the
philosophical controversies on the foundations
of knowledge. Those two long divided and
hostile forces, science and philosophy, did not
stop at a mere reconciliation, but went on to
establish something in the nature of a confed-
eracy. Yet, promising as was the movement
thus inaugurated, and short as is the interval
that has elapsed since then, the period of
Scientific Philosophy seems to many in our
day to be already at an end.

The young generation of the nineties, com-
pared with the preceding, evinced a new spir-
itual attitude, a change of direction in their
thought. Mere science failed to satisfy them.
Nietzsche became their spokesman. Life, more
exultant Life, their cry. And who would deny
them a certain right to this change of view?
Science, or what then passed for almost the
same thing, natural science, had, one might
almost say, over-reached itself. It had ex-
tended its claim to dominion beyond its legiti-
mate province — not indeed on the part of its
proper representatives but of those who had
appropriated its conclusions to dogmatic pur-

48 ALOIS RIEHL

poses. Historians, not professional investiga-
tors, seriously endeavored to make a natural
science of history itself. For them man was a
product of his environment. To turn a pro-
verb round, they did not see the trees for the
wood, the personal forces of history for the
massive groupings of phenomena and their
statistics. No, came the rejoinder, science is
inhuman. It has as good as nothing to do
with us and with the true tendencies of our
spiritual life. It cannot take the place of re-
ligion. It cannot take the place of art. It
only thinks, it does not act. Its kingdom is the
dead. In face of its conceptions the living
\turns to stone.

Where opposing currents meet, the usual
course of events is a onesided movement fol-
lowed by another in the opposite direction. So
it happened now. The reaction against Scien-
tific Intellectualism passed beyond the mark.
Men went so far as to deny all intrinsic
epistemological value to the science of Galileo
and Newton, restricting its legitimacy to the
sphere of practical and technical application.
Once more men began to philosophize without

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 49

science and against science. Once more phil-
osophy bowed the neck to letters, and it is at
best as literature that the productions of that
movement can be regarded. The conceptions
of science were explained as symbols, and in
their stead was devised a philosophy of meta-
phors— in this case veritable symbols. The
place of clear and definite thoughts that could
be grasped was taken by interpretative feel-
ing, "intellectual sympathy." Here was the
power to transplant us into the inwardness
of things, to enable us to lay hold upon the
Absolute. This new philosophy of Intuition
is in truth nothing but a return of Roman-
ticism to life. Like the former, this Romanti-
cism was a reaction of feeling and imagination
against reason and clearness. It was the sub-
jugation of philosophy by poetry. Its signifi-
cance is that of a genuinely literary epoch.
"Creative evolution" is a legend which
breathes the very spirit of Romanticism.
Against this kind of a philosophy of nature,
which is neither philosophy nor natural science,
the last word was spoken at a later point in
his career by Fichte: "Incapable of basing its

50 ALOIS RIEHL

obscure thoughts upon reasons, in place of
these it points to the faculty whereby it is car-
ried away, and calls this intellectual insight/'
To-day this faculty is known as intellectual
sympathy or intuition.

The opposition to science assumes another
form, and one which has preserved itself from
all ostensible bias in a romantic direction.
Had Pragmatism only aimed at uniting
knowledge with life instead of separating it
from life, it must have claimed our recognition.
As it was it could not overlook the fact that to
know also belongs to the life of the spirit, and
if knowledge is not the one and only spiritual
value, still it has a value of its own. Truth is
no mere adjunct to utility. It is not made true
because it is useful. It is not made at all, not
yet invented: it is discovered. We must not
be misled by the term verification^ which is
not meant to imply that truths are made. Its
meaning is that truths are made good; and
that, not as Pragmatism would have it, by
feelings and wishes, but, as natural science
shows, by facts which are independent of our
liking and of all reference to our interests. In

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 51

view of this uncertain and, to some extent,
confused position of contemporary philosophy,
the search for a criterion by which to estimate
its endeavors is indispensable. The way to
find this criterion is through an historical con-
sideration of the matter.

Philosophy and science are of simultaneous
origin. More exactly, science came to life
in the guise of philosophy. Centuries later
Aristotle saw in its creation something more
than human. Thales and his successors had
sought scientific knowledge for its own sake
and not for the sake of its utility. Here we
see the reason why they thought science alone
free and reckoned its possession as something
divine — viz., that it does not make utility the
object of its pursuit. And we to-day repeat
with veneration the names of those early fath-
ers of our men of science and our philosophers,
Anaximander, Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Par-
menides, and seek through an obscure tradi-
tion to catch a glimpse of their personalities.
Those thinkers of the pre-Socratic era antici-
pated all the fundamental conceptions involved
in the general scientific view of things, and

52 ALOIS RIEHL

thus erected the frame which, it is true, the
scientific investigation of following ages was
to fill out with a richer content, but which it
could not enlarge. For the general points of
view from which nature is investigated and
which these thinkers discovered one by one —
the conception of substance and the quantita-
tive invariability of the given, the subordina-
tion of events to law, the mathematical deter-
minateness of phenomena — are derived in the
last resort from the constitution of the human
spirit which carries out the investigation.

But it was not possible that philosophy
should ever be content to remain mere science,
else it would not have been philosophy. For
the latter applies itself as such not only to
the whole of things but also to the whole spirit-
ual life and its creative tendencies.

Socrates, the pedagogical genius of phil-
osophy, discovered in man a spiritual force
superior to all the motives of the sensuous
nature. He not only discovered this, he lived
it out. His life and its culminating act, his
death, appear to us, as to the ancients, the rev-
elation of an unconditioned might of the spirit,

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 53

the triumph of the clearness of consciousness
and of a sovereign will over the instincts.

From the age of Socrates on, philosophy
has come to apprehend its scientific mission in
a practical sense — that of being an art to guide
the spirit and mould the life. It became in
consequence a living power, which developed
first in the culture of the Greeks, and latterly
in the culture of mankind.

In Plato's teaching the two tendencies of
philosophy, the theoretical and the practical,
enter into a combination which in its complete-
ness has remained the pattern for all succeed-
ing time. If we wish to see ancient philosophy
at work in its twofold calling, we must view it
at its culminating point, the point which it
reached in the Academy founded and directed
by Plato. The Academy united in a common
life a wide circle of disciples and learners and
a narrower circle of investigators and teachers,
with Plato at their head. The aim of the asso-
ciation was twofold, the organization of
knowledge and the mastery of the forms of
life through knowledge — the knowledge of
the "Ideas."

54 ALOIS RIEHL

In the Academy all the fields of knowledge
were systematically investigated from central
points of view. Plato in person set their prob-
lems to the friends who joined him in re-
search. Thus he introduced the analytic
method into the solution of geometrical prob-
lems: he gave the initial impetus to the study
of solids through his pupil Theaetetus ; and to
him is due the well-known astronomical prob-
lem of estimating, by means of hypotheses, the
uniform and regular movements required to
keep the phenomena of the planetary move-
ments as they are. The aco^eiv tol (f)aLv6fjieva,
the demand that phenomena shall be kept in-
tact, is altogether in the spirit of present-day
positive science, and is the guiding maxim of
our exact investigation. We too endeavor to
approach the understanding of reality through
mathematical assumptions, comparing the en-
suing results with the actual appearances. We
too "preserve" phenomena in our scientific
investigations.

Just as the Academy occupied a central
position in the common work of research, so it
speedily became a court of appeal in questions

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 55

of government as well. When doubtful issues
arose men turned to it for instruction. Plato
lived in the conviction that nothing but clear
insight into the highest ends of conduct could
bring salvation into the affairs of men. From
this conviction arose his demand that the
rulers of the state should be philosophers.

In the Academy knowledge and moral liv-
ing were alike placed under the guidance of
philosophy.

In modern times also this double calling of
philosophy has never been forgotten. Spin-
oza's philosophy is and is called Ethics, It
culminates in a more than rational, an intui-
tive, apprehension of the unity of our spiritual
life with the creative substance of the Divine
Being, the actuosa essentia Dei, Kant dis-
tinguishes the "Schulbegriff" of philosophy
from its "Weltbegriff." From the former
point of view philosophy is "a system of
knowledge pursued as science," from the lat-
ter, philosophy relates all knowledge to the
essential ends of human reason, and in the
sense implied in this conception the philoso-
pher is the Lawgiver of Reason and an In-

56 ALOIS RIEHI.

structor in the Ideal. In more emphatic tones
Nietzsche enounces the same thought. The
true philosopher, he declares, is a commander
and lawgiver. He is one who says: It
shall be so. With him to know is to create ; to
create, to issue laws. But it was Fichte above
all who revived the Platonic conception of
philosophy and the type of the Platonic
philosopher. The philosopher, or, as Fichte
calls him, the Man of Learning, carries within
him in idea the form of the coming age; his
life is the very "life of the divine Idea as it
makes and unmakes the world." According
as this life comes out in action or confines it-
self to the concept, we have two main classes
of philosophers. The first of these Fichte
designates the class of rulers — a name which
recalls Plato's Archons. To this class be-
long all those who have the right and the
natural call to form an independent judgment
and to decide in a way that will hold good,
upon the regulation of human affairs. The
second class, that of the philosophers or "men
of learning" in the narrower sense, falls again
into two divisions: a class who educate the

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 57

scholars and a class of writers or investigators.
It is matter of knowledge how great was the
value which Fichte, the orator and edifier of
his nation placed upon education. We think
instinctively of the meaning of education in
Plato's Republic.

But how can philosophy at the present day
fulfill the twofold vocation which she once
exercised in the Academy? To begin with,
how can she solve the problem of organizing
knowledge?

The age of the positive sciences has brought
with it, along with the increasing separation
of the departments of knowledge, an ever ad-
vancing division of scientific labour; and no
one man can any longer master the sum total
of the knowledge of his day, or take upon him
to prescribe the problems for investigation.
The process of specialization in knowledge,
the autonomous development of separate dis-
ciplines, is irresistible, and irresistible it needs
must be. All the more insistent is the de-
mand which arises, that we should not lose in
^ specialization the consciousness of the unity
of all knowledge. The sciences in their total-

58 ALOIS IlIEHL

ity, as Descartes showed, are nothing else than
human knowledge, and this is always one and
the same, however different the objects to
which it may be applied — just as the light of
the sun is one and the same however different
the things on which it shines. We have indeed
ceased to believe in the possibility of a sys-
tem of all knowledge which can be rounded off
at any one moment. We have even ceased to
desire this possibility. Its realization would
seem to us like the extinction, the very death,
of the motive to knowledge. But in giving up
the idea of a system in the sense of a work
which, once accomplished, had only to be
learnt and passed on, we do not necessarily
relinquish system in the sense of a tendency.
All real knowledge is distinguished from mere
knowledge of fact by its inherent inclination
for system. It is here that the significance of a
theory of knowledge, the significance of a uni-
versal doctrine of science, comes into view.
Historically too this central philosophical dis-
cipline made its appearance and developed as
a consequence and demand of the age of the
special sciences. Science as such has become

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 59

a problem of philosophy. In examining the
element of knowledge in all we know, and in
unearthing the presuppositions involved,
epistemology provides positive research with a
criterion by which it can judge its work and
determine its relation to the sum of knowledge.
Every science leads to epistemological prob-
lems, and hence the study of these problems is
a way by which we may hope once more to
achieve the organization of knowledge in these
days.

Moreover a kind of Platonic Academy
adapted to the altered position of science is
even yet possible. I mean the restoration and
manifold development of living relations
among those who are to carry on the future
work of the sciences in different fields. This
way the Graduate College has marked out as
its own — provided it seeks to create such rela-
tions among its sons while they are still learn-
ers and at the fresh and receptive age in which
the fundamental principles of investigation are
customarily set on a firm basis for a whole life
of scientific activity.

Still more essential for the present day,

GO ALOIS RIEHL

however, appears that other caUing of phil-
osophy over and above the theoretical — her
call to lead the spirit on the ground that
science has made sure.

Our time craves a new spiritual content for
life, a rejuvenescence of inward culture. This
craving, which no progress of external civiliza-
tion can satisfy, is met on the side of science
by the rising philosophy of history — taking the
latter word in the wider sense of a philosophy
of spiritual values. Here it is that the phi-
losophy of the present day joins hands with the
great tendencies of German Idealism, from
which it inherits that most priceless heirloom,
a sense for the life of history.

Historically, everything has had its origin
in spiritual behavior complicated by reaction
with the world of sense. Hence history has
not, nor can it have, any existence apart from
the life of the spirit. History is time's con-
tent : what works through it, what perpetuates
itself in it, is not cut off from the present by
the form of time. History happens; history
lasts; of history Bergson's conception of time
really holds good. "Objective spirit" — that

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 61

term of Hegel's coining, so expressive, so
a propos, means more to us than it could have
meant to him who first used it. It means not
a mere stage in the process of development,
but the very essence of history itself. It
means that in all outward manifestations of
the historical life, taken individually or as a
whole, there is a single set of energies at work.
Under this enlarged conception of the objec-
tive spirit fall alike education, morality, the
state and right, religion, art, science. All
these are objectivations of the life of the spirit
in the field of history.

So far, however, in our treatment of this
matter, we have been dealing only with theory.
But philosophy is no mere contemplation of
life, it is a form of life, it is "objective spirit"
itself. The realm of "Ideas" to which it leads
us must be not merely known; it must be
actualized. Practical principles do not exist
in order to be proved ; they exist in order to be
followed out. Their proof is their power to
be the guide of conduct. All science, says
Fichte in the same strain, provides grounds
for action.

62 ALOIS RIEHL

^ The life of the spirit is by nature an active
hfe. It knows no power that can compel it
from without or from above. In all its crea-
tions it is the determining agent, carrying its
law with it. In knowledge it is the logical
postulates and the a priori elements in what we
know, which take their rise in the active nature
of the spirit ; in art it is the dominion of form
over matter; in the sphere of moral conduct,
the obligation and responsibility imposed hy
the self; in that of religious experience, the
inward conviction of the heart and the volun-
tary surrender to the divine. In every one of
its forms and in all its spheres the life of
the spirit is an autonomous life. Freedom
through self-imposed laws is its element, the
realization of freedom its destination. We
think of it as drawn from an original fund
of activity deep down in the heart of things.
But it has been in the past, and is now being
developed through the associations that bind

y individuals together, the family, society, the
state, the religious community. And the con-
summation is attained in the great personality,
who is at once the creator of culture and its
highest point.

THE VOCATION OF PHILOSOPHY 63

There exists a system of values. As surely
as the Spirit is a living unity, there is a har-
mony to be created between the fundamental
tendencies of the spiritual life. It is the voca-
tion of philosophy as a guide to the spirit, to
raise the knowledge of values and of the sys-
tem of values to the clearness of the concept —
to maintain, at whatever cost of struggle and
effort, the harmonious disposition of our life.

It was this vocation which, over and above
its scientific calling, philosophy fulfilled in
days gone by, and this same twofold calling is
still its mission to the present day.

THE PRESENT POSITION OF

CLASSICAL STUDIES

IN ENGLAND

THE PRESENT POSITION OF

CLASSICAL STUDIES

IN ENGLAND

By a. D. Godley

The moral of the recent history of classical
study in England seems to be that disestab-
lishment— whatever we may think of it in the
political world — is not always and everywhere
bad for the disestablished. It may at times
serve as a salutary tonic. Certainly one may
say that the modern development of interest
in classical literature dates from about the
period — the sixties of the last century — when
writers on liberal education proposed to de-
throne Latin and Greek from the educational
supremacy which they then held, and to sub-
stitute the study of modern subjects, more
especially natural science. The volume called
"Essays on a Liberal Education," is probably
not much read now, and there is no great
reason why it should be read, — for our present

67

68 A. D. GODLEY

guidance, at any rate. As usually happens at
the beginning of a controversy, the issues were
presented rather crudely, and, in some cases,
over-polemically ; compromise, not war, was
the deciding method later. Some of the sug-
gestions have since been adopted; others have
been tried and found wanting. All the ques-
tions raised have been fully and freely dis-
cussed, and not much is to be gained by going
back to their earliest inception.

But one may say parenthetically that this
earliest phase of a long controversy has a cer-
tain historical interest. It illustrates the ad-
mirable optimism of the nineteenth century,
more especially that part of it in England
which is usually described as the heyday of
liberalism. Something or other was always
going to be a panacea in those days : something
or other, provided always it could be credited
to English liberalism, was always going to
bring the millennium, — that millennium which
nowadays only politicians promise us, and
that only because it is part of a politician's
business. The 1851 exhibition was going to do
it; free competition and ''laisser faire' was

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 69

going to do it; in the more limited sphere of
education, it was sometimes comparative phi-
lology, and more often science, that held the
key to all mental elevation. And in the six-
ties thoughtful men imagined that the world
was to be regenerated — in the true spirit of
the sadly iconoclastic liberalism of those days
— by getting rid of a classical education. At
least, that was the way these early contro-
versialists put it, in their first fine, careless
rapture. The time for half measures and com-
promises was not yet. Probably they felt that
the best way to inaugurate reform was to at-
tack with more vehemence than was really
right and necessary; to strike a little harder
than they need in order that they might have
a stronger position in the day of negotiation.
What they really meant to do, and what the
fairest of their critics read between the lines,
was not to expel but to equalize; to assert the
right, too much neglected at that time, of
other subjects; to give modern things, as well
as Latin and Greek, their place in the sun.

Well, it is needless to point out that that
place in the sun has been very amply con-

70 A. D. GODLEY

ceded. The whole fabric of European and
American education bears testimony to that.
Science and modern languages have so many
of the rooms on the south side that the classics
now have to put up with the cold shade of
neglect. They have been, educationally, dises-
tablished; they have been ousted from their
proud supremacy; but it looks as if disestab-
lishment had made classical teaching more en-
ergetic than ever, and given it stronger claims
on popular sympathy. It is difficult to speak
of cause and effect here. I do not know
whether it would be an insult or a compliment
to teachers of the classics to suggest that they
were intimidated by the threats of essayists
into setting their house in order and infusing
more life into their instruction: it would be a
compliment to their adaptability and power
of dealing with circumstances, but it might be
a reflection on the character which needed the
stimulus of terror to achieve its full perfection.
It is better, I think, to take the safe ground
of showing that the English-speaking world
was at that particular period really ripe for a
new start in the matter of Latin and Greek.

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 71

Probably the forces which made for attack,
differently applied, made also for defence.
Growing wealth and increasing population,
and the levelling up of a democratic period,
meant more schools and colleges; and more
schools and colleges meant the direction of a
greater variety of minds to the subjects of
education, and a consequent tendency to strike
out new lines. And, granting that the classics
were still to be studied, work must find some-
thing new to its hand. The older scholars, the
Bentleys and Porsons, the Lachmanns and
Hermanns, the Gaisfords and Linwoods later,
had done the necessary pioneer work in the
constitution of the texts of the great classics,
and the Munros and Mayors and Coningtons
had continued the opening up of the routes.
Grammarians who

settled Hotis business — let it be!

Properly based Oun —
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic Ge,

Dead from the waist down,

had left indeed much that could be done, and
has been nobly done by the Jebbs and Ellises
and Goodwins who came a little later; but the

72 A. D. GODLEY

field of possibilities within the sphere of the
greatest classics was certainly diminished. To
speak in the language of an Alpinist, the
great peaks had been won: the routes to them
were clear, as regards their main lines: suc-
ceeding climbers must go farther afield, or
invent new routes, — just as the De Saussures
and the Leslie Stephens have made it neces-
sary for the modern mountaineer, who wants
to associate something memorable with his
name to try how near he can go to breaking
his neck. And the direction of new lines was
indicated.

Whatever judgments the twentieth century
may pass on the nineteenth — and it seems
that they are pretty severe, at least in Eng-
land— even the ardent spirits of to-day will
not deny that ever since the Romantic move-
ment one guiding motive was to get right
away from cant and convention, and see things
as they are, steadily and whole. One sees that
in fiction, in Dickens and Thackeray and
George Eliot. One sees it in the changed spirit
which has come over historical research in the
last forty years, and has made history so

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 73

much duller reading than it used to be, be-
cause the historian's object is now merely to
arrive at the truth, while it used to be to
annoy his political opponents. Poetry has
great difficulties with that problem, and paint-
ing too. And I do not say that as the century
progressed to its end this meritorious attempt
has not produced some remarkable and not
wholly pleasing results; but it is not to be de-
nied that the development of "realism" in
fiction coincided roughly in time with the
endeavour to read newer and truer meanings
into a classical literature which was accepted
as a matter of course from its very familiarity.
People began to suspect a real humanity —
something nearer to ourselves, and naturally
explainable — in what was before regarded as a
direct and somewhat inhuman emanation from
Parnassus. What our rude forefathers easily
accepted began to bristle with problems.
Homer, of course, became a mere playground
for critics and theorists in England, as he had
long been on the continent of Europe. Thucy-
dides had been the model historian, and
Herodotus the father of lies. Now, I under-

74 A. D. GODLEY

stand, on a poll of scholars it is Thucydides
who would get most votes for deliberate
mendacity, for Herodotus' character seems to
have been, on the whole, reestablished. And
Horace, whom our ancestors thovightlessly re-
cited in youth and pretended to read for
pleasure in mature age, was seen to be as full
of cypher phrases and hidden meanings as
Shakespeare under the lens of a Baconian.
Whatever the conclusion, the fact remains that
scholars are reading the classics with opener
minds and a more awakened attention. No
wonder; for the great archaeological discover-
ies, besides being in themselves profoundly in-
teresting, were shedding new light on Greek
literature, and placing the Greek of historical
and legendary times in a wholly different posi-
tion. What has been regarded as gratuitous
invention appeared now as an echo from an
earlier world — the adornment and transmis-
sion of dim, prehistoric stories; Greece was
an intermediary between us and the earlier
civilization of Cnossos and Mycenae and the
Troad. Nothing could supply better food for
the imagination. Altogether, with the open-

CLASSICAI. STUDIES IN ENGLAND 75

ing of new vistas, Greek history and Greek
scholarship became a much more exciting
business than it had been in the old days when
Thucydides was presented to schoolboys and
undergraduates as a series of exercises in syn-
tax, and Greek tragedy formed the mind by a
study of metrical rules and exceptions.

Far be it from me, or from any English
critic, to decry or disparage the "grand old
fortifying classical curriculum." It has played
its part, and a very important one, in English
education, and, one may really say, in the
making of English history. For a long time
classical culture, as it was understood, repre-
sented practically the whole of the secondary
education enjoyed or suffered by our govern-
ing classes. And least of all ought an Oxonian
to speak lightly of it; for its earliest habitat
was in the university, and I think I may say
especially in the University of Oxford. It was
there, I mean, that some knowledge of Greek
and Latin began to be associated with the
status of a gentleman; and both the status
of a gentleman and the study of Latin and
Greek have been variously affected by it. The

76 A. D. GODLEY

eighteenth century is an unpopular period —
even now, when the nineteenth, which was
always cavilling at it, is itself falling into some
disrepute — and one does not readily associate
beneficent changes with it, least of all in the
University of Oxford, which has been sup-
posed to represent the eighteenth century at its
worst and blackest. Nevertheless, this
maligned period was the parent of many re-
forms, or changes, for which the nineteenth
century afterwards got the credit; and one
of these was certainly a great change in the
condition of universities. Educationally and
socially, Oxford was profoundly modified ; and
it was the coincidence of the educational with
the social alternative which brought about the
state of things with which one is familiar, —
the idea of the classics being a necessary part
of the education of a gentleman. The middle
of the century found Oxford, one may say,
with no university curriculum of any profitable
kind. There were exercises for a degree; but
they consisted mainly in the repetition of stock
formulae, founded on the logic of the mediaeval
schoolmen. Practically, so far as the univer-

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 77

sity was concerned, a man might leave Oxford
as ignorant of literature as he had come to it.
It is very creditable to the college teachers of
that day that, with no encouragement but their
own sense of what was right and proper, they
did inaugurate a kind of classical renaissance.
It was not a period, I think, of profound or
abstruse classical learning. But young men
were encouraged to read a good deal of the
great authors, and elegant scholarship was cul-
tivated. Colleges competed with each other
in the making of Latin verses, an art which
indeed had an early popularity even in Oxford.
It was all part of the civilizing process, and
came all the more naturally as such, because it
happened that about 1750, or so, the Oxford
colleges were becoming, for good or evil, in
great measure "Finishing Academies for
Young Gentlemen," at any rate were becom-
ing much more the special preserve of the so-
called upper classes than had previously been
the case. So it was that, as many colleges
catered for the governing classes, the govern-
ing classes came to reckon elegant scholarship
as their own peculiar attribute.

78 A. D. GODI.EY

When Gibbon, in the rather grudging
pahnodia in which he takes back some part of
his attack on the university (founded, it should
be remembered, on some very juvenile impres-
sions of a short residence at Magdalen), —
when Gibbon says that learning has become "a
duty, a pleasure, and even a fashion," it is
noticeable that the foundation to which he
is especially referring is Christ Church, then,
as afterwards, the special training-ground for
sprigs of nobility, and those who wish to culti-
vate the society of "the great." Such were the
early days of classical scholarship at Oxford;
and this kind of revival was fixed and stereo-
typed when the university, at the beginning of
the nineteenth century, established its first
honor examination. Classical scholarship
was duly recognized from the earliest begin-
ning of a Litterae Humaniores examination;
though some critics considered that the Aris-
totelian logic should have been ousted alto-
gether instead of being left as a partner to
literature. Anyhow, such knowledge of Greek
and Latin as sufficed for the gaining of a class
at Oxford was now endowed with additional

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 79

prestige, because academic honors were rec-
ognized as a sure road to later success. In
political and ecclesiastical circles especially,
young men who had distinguished themselves
at the university were much in demand. Greek
scholarship, as it has been said, led not only to
knowledge of the means of salvation in the
next world, but to positions of emolument in
this. Fellows of colleges who wanted church
preferment edited Greek plays. I fear bishops
have other qualifications now. In and outside
the church some sort of classical knowledge
was the appanage of the governing classes. In
"Friendship's Garland" M. Arnold depicts the
Rev. Esau Hittall, the sporting parson of the
mid- Victorian era, whose claims to culture
rested on a legendary copy of verses ("longs
and shorts") on the Calydonian boar. If a
man had no other considerable claims to re-
spect, he was, if an elegant scholar, entitled to
look down on those who, like Shakespeare, had
small Latin and less Greek. You may remem-
ber Thackeray's somewhat ungentle picture
of a Fellow of a College, often drunk and quite
useless to the world (as Thackeray says) when

80 A. D. GODLEY

sober, who still considers that he is something
above ordinary mortals because he can turn
anything in the world into Greek iambics.

So classical culture was the fashion; parlia-
mentary oratory was tricked out with classical
quotations; the House, less candid, or less vir-
tuous than ours, must at least pretend to
understand its Virgil and Horace. The second
Aeneid, I have been told, furnishes the great
majority of the Latin parliamentary quota-
tions. Mr. Gladstone, in his day the typical,
brilliant young politician, fresh from the tri-
umphs of the schools, continued the habit of
quotation through his life ; and I have heard it
said that he was the only speaker who in his
later years could venture to quote Greek in the
House. We have changed all that now. Per-
haps their association with a ruling clique has
given the classics an unpleasant flavor of aris-
tocracy. Perhaps a knowledge of extinct and
mysterious tongues implies sinister designs.
Anyhow, for whatever reason, an acquaintance
with even Latin and a fortiori Greek is sup-
posed to corrupt democratic virtue. It is a
fact that Greek literature is singularly out-

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 81

spoken, and plain speaking is not always
agreeable to democracies, — English democra-
cies, I mean, of course.

Now-a-days, the old undisputed prerogative
of a classical education is extinct. Classical
study is fighting for its life, with very credita-
ble success, so far, and, as I said, the exercise
is quite good for its muscles. Naturally, no
result has been achieved which one can con-
sider permanent. There is no finality, for-
tunately, in educational matters. But it is
perhaps worth while to register the state of
things at this particular moment in England.
So far the result of the battle amounts to this:
in nearly all secondary schools, Latin main-
tains its position as a necessary part of the
curriculum. It is for the moment fairly
secure. The Homeric combats of to-day
rather centre round Greek. The modern sides
of our public schools do not teach Greek; and
from many secondary schools it has been ban-
ished altogether. In the universities, its fate
trembles in the balance. Most of the newer
foundations have settled the matter for the
present : their students may begin and continue

82 A. D. GODLEY

Greekless. Oxford and Cambridge still stand
firm and make some modicum of Greek a nec-
essary part of their initial examination. This
is not always a popular attitude. During the
battle which has been raging now intermit-
tently for ten years and more, we have been
told the truth about ourselves with remarkable
candor, and our future has been painted in
very lurid colors. We are the homes of
dead languages and undying prejudice.
We are obstacles in the path of progress.
Multi-millionaires will not assist our poverty,
and eventually the State will make a clean
sweep of our colleges, and start us afresh on
lines more in harmony with the best traditions
of democracy. These threats are backed up
by the sweetly reasonable and enlightened per-
sons who love Greek so much that they cannot
bear to associate it with a compulsion which
runs counter to our finer instincts; nobody, in
fact, ought to be compelled to learn anything,
— except perhaps a little mathematics. And
compulsion, they say, is quite unnecessary ; for
they refuse to believe that the world will ever
not wish to learn Greek. Somehow or other

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 83

advocacy of compulsory Greek has come to be
identified with a reactionary obscurantist habit
of mind. I have heard it said, "so and so is
a Liberal in politics: very strange that he
should be in favour of retaining Greek in
Responsions !" Political terms are strange
things in their use and abuse. In England
Liberal is a political term, liberal is a moral
one: but what of that? It is only to be ex-
pected that we should get credit for liberality,
when it is only Liberalism after all.

The defenders of compulsory Greek at Ox-
ford (and I suppose I may speak for Cam-
bridge too) are not all of them merely
hidebound pedants, timid reactionaries, dull
obscurantists. They hardly look forward to a
period when the British workman will demand
a knowledge of Greek with the same enthu-
siasm as that with which he now demands beer.
But they do hold that our civilization would
suffer if Greek ceased to be fairly widespread
and became the study of a few savants, like
Sanskrit. They see that Greek suffers in
schools (in some, perishes altogether) where
it is not supported by universities; and they

84 A. D. GODLEY

see, too, that when Greek goes Latin is apt
to go too. It is, of course, impossible that all
universities should include Greek in their ex-
aminations, as of course it is neither possible
nor desirable that all schools should teach it.
But it does need protection. "There are few
studies which it would be so easy to lose as that
of Greek, few which it would be so hard to re-
gain" (Conington) ; and that protection can
only be given by Oxford and Cambridge. In
these circumstances Oxford and Cambridge
still insist on Greek. But let the facts be
noted: one often hears garbled accounts.
Greek is only, for everyone, a part of the initial
examination, — an examination which can be
passed before the candidate comes into resi-
dence at Oxford. After that, the passman,
the man who aims at no academic honors,
must certainly offer the classics as part of his
curriculum; but the honors man need never
open a Greek or Latin book during the whole
period of his residence. Thus the much-
abused "burden of Greek" does not weigh very
heavily on the student. A natural science can-
didate must certainly get up an acquaintance

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 85

with a couple of Greek plays or so, and a little
Greek grammar. But he can do this before he
comes into residence; once at Oxford he can
devote himself entirely to any "ology" that he
pleases, without further interruption. And
some of his most eminent leaders say that the
interruption, such as it is, does him no harm,
but rather good. These are thorny subjects.

The controversy has really been creditable
to both sides. It shows, after all, how zealous
we are about education, and that is the great
thing; and if universities have come in for
hard knocks, they have only to expect it : suf-
fering is the badge of all their tribe. I should
not leave this subject without acknowledging
the great help which the "defenders of Greek"
have received from America, — ^sympathy
shown in printed words or viva voce. Espe-
cially, coming as the help does from that coun-
try, it has done a great deal to show that the
cause is not one of irrational, pig-headed
conservatism.

We may claim, as I said, to have in view the
wide dissemination of some sort of Greek cul-
ture,— Greek for science men is one way to

86 A. D. GODLEY

that. Another, and a less controversial
method, is to popularize the classics educa-
tionally by doing what we can to adopt our
classical curriculum to the needs of the average
man, who is not going to be a specialist in any
particular line of study. We have him to
think of, — perhaps even more than the serious
student. And for him, what is a classical cur-
riculum? One is at once confronted with a
number of excellent maxims, all applicable to
the matter in hand, and for the most part
mutually destructive : a little knowledge, says
one, is a dangerous thing: tt\4ov rjixia-v TrdpTos
and juLTjSev oiyav says another. "Good are the
Ethics, I wis: good absolute: not for me
though" — says the not very serious student in
A. H. Clough's poem. Things absolutely ex-
cellent may be relatively embarrassing. While
the productivity of our writers on classical
subjects is an excellent thing, and the exam-
ination system if not excellent, appears to me
for the present to be indispensable, — yet in-
conveniences arise from both. There is the
danger, for the average student of the classics
at our schools and universities, of a kind of in-

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 87

tellectual indigestion produced by a too rash
indulgence in the pleasures of the library. He
wants to have some kind of knowledge of part
of Greek and Roman literature, some acquaint-
ance with the best that antiquity can give him;
and it is all served up to him in a highly at-
tractive and stimulating form. So many
master hands are employed in cooking the
classics for him; there are so many books,
English and American, which are delightful
to read, and so many lecturers who present the
theories of the learned in an interesting way,
like powder in jam; new lights on Aegean civ-
ilization, new lights on Homer and Virgil,
brilliant literary appreciations of Greek
tragedy, — any one might be beguiled by them,
and, of course, it is all to the good. The
classics have no doubt been enormously popu-
larized. But a classical curriculum ought not
to mean, primarily, reading translations, or
books about books; all the "Realien" and all
the brilliant speculations in the world are not
quite the same thing, do not give the same
mental exercise, as reading the classics for
one's self : and life is so short. One realizes the

88 A. D. GODLEY

brevity of life especially when sixth-form mas-
ters, themselves interested in modern research
and criticism, try to give their pupils some
idea at second hand of what is going on in the
intellectual firmament where professors live, —
where they lie (or at least develop pleasing
hypotheses) beside their nectar, and hurl bolts
at one another.

Once you embark on that "Cretan sea" of
theories about Aegean civilization, or the inner
meaning of Horace, or the relation of Eurip-
ides to Athenian literary coteries, you are in
an atmosphere of controversial statements and
somewhat enterprising logic which is rather
too rarefied for the young. They have not
the means of judging between the learned:
the collation, the cold collation, of rival the-
ories is strong meat for babes. Is it even quite
right for young students, not yet sure of them-
selves in mathematics and logic, to move in a
world where two plus two sometimes equal
five (or, let us optimistically say, four and one
half) and knowledge advances by a bold use
of the petitio principii? Personally I cannot
but think it is rather a pity that there is a

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 89

tendency to disparage composition in the dead
languages, to sacrifice it to general reading
about them. Latin verse-making may pro-
duce, as Dean Farrar said, a "finical fine-
lady ism of the intellect"; it may be an exotic
which flourishes most luxuriantly in the thin
artificial soil of vain and second rate minds:
but at least it does teach a knowledge of the
language.

If too much reading of books about books
is not an unmitigated blessing, still less is it so
when the end and object of reading is an exam-
ination. Getting up facts for examination
purposes is rather a weary business; cram-
ming theories has really nothing to be said
for it; and cramming some one else's literary
appreciation is the worst of all. There is this
great justification of the examinational sys-
tem,— that it shows a man at his worst and pro-
tects the public by destroying any illusions
about him. And if papers of questions are not
well adapted to a course of general reading
about classical antiquity, what is to be said
about their relation to specialized studies and
"intensive culture"? One need not enlarge on

90 A. D. GODI.EY

the miscellaneous activities of modern special-
ism,— especially in America, — on the admir-
able seminar system, and the microscopic in-
dustry which is filling the world of to-day with
such a multitude of monographs. Nobody can
regard otherwise than with admiration the im-
mense industry which our rising generation of
students is putting into classical research, —
provided always that the youthful specialist, in
his passion for intensive culture, gives himself
time enough to acquire that competent knowl-
edge of Latin and Greek, and that general
acquaintance with ancient history, without
which his researches lose some of their value.
Seminar work is premature when a man does
not yet know Greek. But here, again, we are
face to face with the examination system. Ex-
amination papers are set by examiners who are
only human (even if the candidate holds a dif-
ferent opinion at times) and naturally welcome
the opportunity of showing that they too are
acquainted with those monuments of erudition
which choke their waste-paper baskets. Any-
how, it is only natural that the specialist should
set the pace, and the candidate who is not a

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 91

specialist has to keep up as well as he can.
Now it is eternally creditable to a student to
ascertain by his own careful research precisely,
^ let us say, how many times KaC occurs in
Thucydides. He has gone through an exer-
cise which could hardly be bettered by a tread-
mill, and at least he has read his Thucydides.
But there is very little mental or moral ele-
vation to be gained from acquiring from some
one else's labors the result of those investiga-
tions in a tabulated form. The important
thing is that as large a number as possible of
intelligent men should be trained in the class-
ics; but they will not begin to do this if they
are to be forced into a specialism which is un-
congenial to them, and because it is uncon-
genial, and, for them, leads to nothing, will
never be of any profit. It is well that uni-
versities should insist on teaching what the
world calls useless; but there are different
kinds of inutility, some profitable and some
not.

However the classics may be popularized
for cultured circles in the world, in universities
and schools they are, I think, endangered by

92 A. D. GODLEY

the wholly admirable activities of their teach-
ers. We have our Classical Review and
Classical Quarterly; we have our Classical As-
sociations; but we are in danger of dragging
the average man too uncomfortably at our
chariot-wheels. If we want to protect our-
selves against the people who make a great
outcry about schoolboys giving too much
time to the classics, — time which should be
wholly devoted, they say, to useful subjects, —
I should suggest very humbly that teachers of
the higher classes in schools forget for the
moment the demand of the future palaeogra-
pher and archaeologist. He will look after
himself in due course. They should really
shorten the hours of instruction in Latin and
Greek, and content themselves with a thor-
ough grounding in the elements of both lan-
guages, as well as, of course, in the broad lines
of ancient history; and a thorough grounding
in the languages I take to include practice in
Latin and Greek composition, which is to my
mind, for most boys, a much pleasanter, more
stimulating, and more educative exercise than
hearing about the theories of the learned.

CLASSICAL STUDIES IN ENGLAND 93

Given good teaching, a sufficient familiarity
with the languages might, one would think, be
imparted without taking up a disproportion-
ate amount of school time. Then let the boy
who elects to take up classics at his univer-
sity as a subject for his degree not be en-
couraged to cover quite so much ground as he
attempts — under the stress of examinations —
at present; let him broaden his studies, of
course, but only carry them (like Mr. Casau-
bon) up to a certain point: not being intro-
duced to the world of advanced study and
research till he has taken his degree. Then is
the time for him to judge between Minoan and
post-Minoan, and to embark on such archseo-
logical or palseographical exercises as captivate
his fancy: exercises which are delightful and
profitable for the real student, but which
should be kept as long as possible — until they
show results which are really important to our
understanding of classical literature — out of
the cold atmosphere of examinations. But it
is to the researches of our trained specialists
that we look for the advancement of learning ;
and those universities which recognize the value

94 A. D. GODLEY

of graduate work and its distinction from an
undergraduate course are best serving that
great cause. Never was classical culture so
popular. It is for us so to direct it that it may
inspire indeed the industry of the savant, but,
what is more important, may be not dissevered
from the life of the nation.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE IN THE
SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE IN THE

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY^

By Arthur E. Shipley

With one or two exceptions — astronomy on
the physical side, human anatomy on the bio-
logical— the reawakening in science lagged a
century or more behind the renascence in lit-
erature and in art. What the leaders of
thought and of practice in the arts of writing,
of painting and of sculpture in western Europe
were effecting in the latter part of the fifteenth
and throughout the sixteenth century began to
be paralleled in the investigations of the
physical laws of nature only at the end of the
sixteenth century and throughout the first
three quarters of the seventeenth.

Writing broadly, we may say that, during
the Stewart time, the sciences, as we now class

* This address, revised and enlarged, formed part of a
chapter in the eighth volume of The Cambridge History of
English Literature.

97

98 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

them, were slowly but surely separating them-
selves out from the general mass of learning,
segregating into secondary units; and, from
a general amalgam of scientific knowledge,
mathematics, astronomy, physics, chemistry,
geology, mineralogy, zoology, botany, agricul-
ture, even physiology (the offspring of anat-
omy and chemistry) were beginning to assert
claims to individual and distinct existence. It
was in the Stewart reigns that, in England at
any rate, the specialist began to emerge from
those who hitherto had "taken all knowledge
to be" their "province."

Certain of the sciences, such as anatomy,
physiology and, to a great extent, zoology and
botany, had their inception in the art of medi-
cine. But the last two owed much to the
huntsman and the agriculturist. During the
preceding century, the great Belgian anatom-
ist Vesalius had broken loose from the bond of
the written word which had strangled research
for a thousand years, and had looked at the
structure of the human body for himself; he
taught what he could himself see and what he
could show to his pupils. Under him, anatomy

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 99

was the first of the natural sciences to break
loose from the scholastic domination which
had hitherto ever placed authority above
experiment.

As anatomy on the biological side, so
astronomy on the physical, led the way.
Copernicus had claimed that the sun was the
center of our system; but it was not until the
following century, when the truth of his views
was mathematically proved, that, first, men of
science, and, later, the world at large, aban-
doned the views of Ptolemy, which, like those
of Aristotle, of Galen and of Hippocrates, had
obsessed the learned world since classical times.

The great outburst of scientific enquiry
which occurred during the seventeenth century
was partly the result, and partly the cause, of
the invention of numerous new methods and
innumerable new instruments, by the use of
which advance in natural knowledge was
immensely facilitated. Early in the century
(1614), Napier of Merchiston had made
known his discovery of logarithms, and log-
arithmic tables were first published in 1617.
Seven years later, the slide rule, which today

100 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

plays a large part in physical and engineering
science, was invented by Edmund Gunter.
Decimals were coming into use and, at the
close of the sixteenth century, algebra was be-
ing written in the notation we still employ.
William Gilbert, physician to Queen Elizabeth,
published his experiments on electricity and
magnetism in the last year of the sixteenth
century. Galileo was using his newly con-
structed telescope; and, for the first time,
Jupiter's satellites, the mountains in the
moon and Saturn's rings were seen by human
eye. The barometer, the thermometer and
the air pump, and, later, the compound
microscope, all came into being at the earlier
part of our period, and by the middle of the
century were in the hands of whoever cared
to use them. Pepys, in 1664, acquired

a microscope and a scotoscope. For the first I did
give him £5. 10. 0, a great price, but a most curious
bauble it is, and he says, as good, nay, the best he
knows in England. The other he gives me, and is
of value; and a curious curiosity it is to discover
objects in a dark room with.

Two years later, on 19 August 1666 "comes
by agreement Mr. Reeves, bringing me a Ian-

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE :;0l

tern" — it must have been a magic lantern —
"with pictures in glass, to make strange things
appear on a wall, very pretty."

As we pass from Elizabethan to Stewart
times, we pass, in most branches of literature,
from men of genius to men of talent, clever
men, but not, to use a Germanism, epoch-
making men. In science, however, where
England led the world, the descent became an
ascent. We leave Dr. Dee and Edward Kelly,
and we arrive at Harvey and Newton.

The gap between the medieval science
which still obtained in Queen Elizabeth's time
and the science of the Stewarts was bridged by
Francis Bacon, in a way, but only in a way.
He was a reformer of the scientific method.
He was no innovator in the inductive method;
others had preceded him, but he, from his great
position, clearly pointed out that the writers
and leaders of his time observed and recorded
facts in favour of ideas other than those hither-
to sanctioned by authority.

Bacon left a heritage to English science.
His writings and his thoughts are not always
clear, but he firmly held, and, with the au-

102 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

thority which his personal eminence gave him,
firmly proclaimed, that the careful and system-
atic investigation of natural phenomena and
their accurate record would give to man a
power in this world which, in his time, was
hardly to be conceived. What he believed,
what he preached, he did not practise. "I only
sound the clarion, but I enter not into the
battle"; and yet this is not wholly true, for,
on a wintry March day, 1626, in the neighbor-
hood of Barnet, he caught the chill which
ended his life while stuffing a fowl with snow,
to see if cold would delay putrefaction. Har-
vey, who was working whilst Bacon was writ-
ing, said of him: "He writes philosophy like
a Lord Chancellor." This, perhaps, is true,
but his writings show him a man, weak and
pitiful in some respects, yet with an abiding
hope, a sustained object in life, one who sought
through evil days and in adverse conditions
"for the glory of God and the relief of man's
estate."

Though Bacon did not make any one single
advance in natural knowledge — though his
precepts, as Whewell reminds us, "are now

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 103

practically useless" — yet he used his great
talents, his high position, to enforce upon the
world a new method of wrenching from nature
her secrets and, with tireless patience and un-
tiring passion, impressed upon his contem-
poraries the conviction that there was "a new
unexplored Kingdom of Knowledge within
the reach and grasp of man, if he will be
humble enough, and patient enough, and
truthful enough to occupy it."

The most sublime of English poets survived
our period by a few years. A comparison
between Dante's and Milton's great epics af-
fords some indication of the advance in knowl-
edge of this world and in the outlook on a
future state which measures the progress made
between the Middle Ages and the seventeenth
century. As a poet (and, indeed, often in
other activities of his life) Milton stood above,
or at least, outside, the stream of tendency of
the times through which he lived. Yet, in his
poems (not in his political tractates — the most
ephemeral of all literature) we see effects of
the rising tide of science on literature.

Milton, one must never forget — and indeed.

104 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

it is not easy to do so — was, for some years, a
schoolmaster. He took a view of his profes-
sion which even now would be thought liberal;
he advocated the teaching of medicine, agri-
culture and fortification, and, when studying
the last of these, remarked that it would be
"seasonable to learn the use of the Globes and
all the maps." Like Lord Herbert of Cher-
bury, he held that the student should acquire
some knowledge of medicine, he should know
"the tempers, the humors, the seasons and
how to manage a crudity." Himself, a suf-
ferer from gout, he learnt, at any rate, the
lesson of moderation. Mathematics, in his
curriculum, led to the "instrumental science of
Trigonometry and from thence to Fortifica-
tion, Architecture, Enginery or Navigation."

At the time of the writing of Paradise
Lost, the learned had accepted the theory of
Copernicus, although the mathematical proof
afforded a few years later by Newton was still
lacking. But the world at large still accepted
the Ptolemaic system, a system which,^ as a
schoolmaster, Milton taught. Mark Pattison
has pointed out that these two

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 105

systems confront each other in the poem, in much
the same relative position which they occupied in the
mind of the public. The ordinary, habitual mode of
speaking of celestial phenomena is Ptolemaic;^ the
conscious or doctrinal exposition of the same phe-
nomena is Copernican.^

But the incongruity between these two
statements is no greater than will be found
today in authors writing of subjects still suh
judice. Further, we must not forget that
Milton never saw either of his great epics in
writing or in print. His power of impressing
his visions on the world was, however, such that
Huxley held that it was not the cosmogony of
Genesis but the cosmogony of Milton which
had enthralled and misled the world.

More distinctly than in his epics, Milton,
in his history, showed a leaning to the scientific
method. Firth has lately told us that "his
conclusions are roughly those of modern schol-
ars, and his reasoning practically that of a
scientific historian." In one respect, however,
he was less than lukewarm. He had no sym-

2 Mark Pattison cites Paradise Lost, VII, 339-356; III, 420-
481. And yet, in 1639, Milton had visited Galileo.
^See ibid. VIII, 77, 122-140.

106 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

pathy with antiquarian researches and sneered
at those "who take pleasure to be all their life-
time raking the foundations of old abbeys and
cathedrals."

To turn to other evidence, the better diaries
of any age afford us, when faithfully written,
as fair a clue as do the dramatists of the aver-
age intelligent man's attitude towards the gen-
eral outlook of humanity on the problems of
his age, as they presented themselves to
society at large. The seventeenth century
was unusually rich in volumes of autobiogra-
phy and in diaries which the reading world will
not readily let die. The autobiography
of the complaisant Lord Herbert of Cher-
bury gives an interesting account of the
education of a highly-born youth at the end
of the sixteenth and the beginning of the
seventeenth century. Lord Herbert seems to
have had a fair knowledge of Latin and Greek
and of logic when, in his thirteenth year, he
went up to University College, Oxford. Later,
he "did attain the knowledge of the French,
Italian and Spanish languages," and, also,
learnt to sing his part at first sight in music

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 107

and to play on the lute. He approved of "so
much logic as to enable men to distinguish be-
tween truth and falsehood and help them to
discover fallacies, sophisms and that which the
schoolmen call vicious arguments" ; and this, he
considered, should be followed by "some good
sum of philosophy." He held it also requisite
to study geography, and this in no narrow
sense, laying stress upon the methods of gov-
ernment, religions and manners of the several
states as well as on their relationships inter se
and their policies. Though he advocated an
acquaintance with "the use of the celestial
globes," he did "not conceive yet the knowledge
of judicial astronomy so necessary, but only
for general predictions; particular events
being neither intended by nor collected out of
the stars." Arithmetic and geometry he
thought fit to learn, as being most useful for
keeping accounts and enabling a gentleman to
understand fortifications.

Perhaps the most characteristic feature of
Lord Herbert's acquirements was his knowl-
edge of medicine and subjects allied thereto.
He conceived it a "fine study, and worthy a

108 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

gentleman to be a good botanic, that so he
may know the nature of all herbs and plants."
Further, "it will become a gentleman to have
some knowledge in medecine, especially the
diagnostic part"; and he urged that a gentle-
man should know how to make medicines
himself. He gives us a list of the "Pharmaco-
paeias and anechodalies" which he has in his
own library and certainly he had a knowledge
of anatomy and of the healing art — he refers
to a wound which penetrated to his father's
"pia mater," a membrane for a mention of
which we should look in vain among the rec-
ords of modern ambassadors and gentlemen of
the court. His knowledge, however, was en-
tirely empirical and founded on the writings
of Paracelsus and his followers; nevertheless,
he prides himself on the cures he effected, and,
if one can trust the veracity of so self-satisfied
an amateur physician, they certainly fall but
little short of the miraculous.

John Evelyn, another example of a well-to-
do and widely cultivated man of the world,
was acquainted with several foreign languages,
including Spanish and German, and was in-

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 109

terested in hieroglyphics. He studied medi-
cine in 1645 at Padua, and there acquired
those "rare tables of veins and nerves" which
he afterwards gave to the Royal Society; at-
tended Le Felure's course of chemistry at
Paris in 1647; was skilled in more than one
musical instrument, learned dancing and,
above all, devoted himself to horticulture.

When travelling abroad, he made a point of
visiting the "cabinets" of collectors, for, at that
time, public museums, which, in fact, grew
out of these cabinets, were non-existent. The
following quotation records the sort of curi-
osities at which men marvelled in the year
1645:—

Feb. 4th. We were invited to the collection of
exotic rarities in the museum of Ferdinando Im-
perati, a Neapolitan nobleman, and one of the most
observable palaces in the citty, the repository of in-
comparable rarities. Amongst the naturall herbals
most remarkable was the Byssus marina and Pinna
marina ; the male and female cameleon ; an Onacratu-
lus ; an extraordinary greate crocodile ; some of the
Orcades Anates, held here for a great rarity ; likewise
a salamander ; the male and female Manucodiata, the
male having an hollow in the back, in wch 'tis reported
the female both layes and hatches her egg; the man-

110 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

dragoras of both sexes ; Papyrus made of severall
reedes, and some of silke; tables of the rinds of trees
written wth Japoniq characters ; another of the
branches of palme; many Indian fruites; a chrystal
that had a quantity of uncongealed water within its
cavity ; a petrified fisher's net ; divers sorts of tarantu-
las, being a monstrous spider with lark-like clawes,
and somewhat bigger.

But Evelyn's chief contribution to science,
as already indicated, was horticultural. He
was devoted to his garden, and, both at his
native Wotton, and, later, at Sayes court,
Deptford, spent much time in planting and
planning landscape gardens, then much the
fashion.

In the middle of the sixteenth century, the
fact that "nitre" promoted the growth of plants
was beginning to be recognised. Sir Kenelm
Digby and the young Oxonian John Mayow,
experimented de Sal-Nitro; and, in 1675,
Evelyn writes: "I firmly believe that where
saltpetre can be obtained in plenty we should
not need to find other composts to ameliorate
our ground." His well-known Sylva, pub-
lished in 1664, had an immediate and a wide-
spread effect, and was, for many years, the

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 111

standard book on the subject of the culture of
trees. It is held to be responsible for a great
outbreak of tree-planting. The introduction
to Nisbet's edition gives figures which demon-
strate the shortage in the available supply of
oak timber during the seventeenth century.
The charm of Evelyn's style and the practical
nature of his book, which ran into four editions
before the author's death, arrested this decline
("be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing,
Jock, when ye're sleeping" as the laird of
Dumbiedykes counselled his son), and to the
Sylva of John Evelyn is largely due the fact
that the oak timber used for the British ships
which fought the French in the eighteenth cen-
tury sufficed, but barely sufficed, for the
national needs.

Pepys, whose naive and frank self -revela-
tions have made him the most popular and
the most frequently read of diarists, was not
quite of the same class of student to which
Lord Herbert of Cherbury or John Evelyn
belonged. But, gifted as he was with an undy-
ing and insatiable curiosity, nothing was too
trivial or too odd for his notice and his record ;

\

112 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

and, being an exceptionally able and hard-
working government servant, he took great in-
terest in anything which was likely to affect
the navy. He discoursed with the ingenious
Dr. Kuffler "about his design to blow up
ships," noticed "the strange nature of the sea-
water in a dark night, that it seemed hke fire
upon every stroke of the oar" — an effect due,
of course, to phosphorescent organisms float-
ing near the surface — and interested himself
incessantly in marine matters. His troubled
eyesight and his love of music account for the
attention he paid to optical appliances, the
structure of the eye, musical instruments of
every kind and musical notation; for this last,
he seems to have invented a mechanical means
of composing which is still preserved at Mag-
dalene College, but which no one now quite
understands.

Physiology and mortuary objects had, for
him, an interest which was almost morbid. He
is told that "negroes drounded look white, and
lose their blackness, which I never heard be-
fore," describes how "one of a great family was
. . . hanged with a silken halter ... of his

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 113

own preparing, not for the honour only" but
because it strangles more quickly. He at-
tended regularly the early meetings of the
Royal Society at Gresham College, and
showed the liveliest interest in various investi-
gations on the transfusion of blood, respira-
tion under reduced air pressure and many
other ingenious experiments and observations
by Sir George Ent and others. On 20 Janu-
ary 1665, he took home Micrographia,
Hooke's book on microscopy — "a most excel-
lent piece, of which I am very proud."

Although Pepys had no scientific training
— he only began to learn the multiplication
table when he was in his thirtieth year, but,
later, took the keenest pleasure in teaching it
to Mrs. Pepys — he, nevertheless, attained to
the presidentship of the Royal Society. He
had always delighted in the company of "the
virtuosos" and, in 1662, three years after he
began to study arithmetic, he was admitted a
fellow of their — the Royal' — Society. In
1681, he was elected president. This post he
owed, not to any genius for science, or to any
great invention or generalisation, but to his

114 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

very exceptional powers as an organiser and
as a man of business, to his integrity and to
the abiding interest he ever showed in the
cause of the advancement of knowledge.

If we pass from the interest taken in scien-
tific progress by men of superior intelligence
to the obstacles opposed to it by popular ignor-
ance and superstition, we are brought face to
face with the long-lived crew of witches, wiz-
ards and alchemists. It is often said that the
more rationalistic outlook of the seventeenth
century, due to Hobbes and others, did much
to discredit these practitioners. But the obser-
vant dwellers in our British cities or remote
country villages, pestered as they are with
advertisements of those who practise palmis-
try, and of those who predict the future by
crystal-gazing or by the fall of sand, of fol-
lowers of the sporting prophet, and of far
more presumptuous and more dangerous im-
postors, or confronted by the silent, indomita-
ble belief of the rustic in the witchery of his
ancestors, may well hold the opinion that the
stock of superstition is a constant stock and
permeates now, as it did in Elizabeth's time.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 115

every class of society. What improvement
there was in the seventeenth century, and it is
extremely doubtful if there was much, was
largely due to the advent of James I and the
later rise of puritanism, associated as they
were with the most cruel and most inhuman
torture of sorcerers. When the alchemist and
the astrologer ran the risk of suffering as a
sorcerer or a warlock, he paused before pub-
licly embarking on that trade.

Under the Tudors, the laws against witch-
craft were milder than those of other coun-
tries, but, under James I, these laws were
repealed and he himself took — as he had done
before in Scotland — an active part in this cruel
and senseless persecution. During the first
eighty years of the seventeenth century, no less
than 70,000 men and women are said to have
been executed for alleged offences under the
new act. The king even wrote a book on
demonology, attacking the more sensible and
reasonable views of Scot and Wier. It must
be remembered, however, that, in these times,
the generality of learned and able men be-
lieved in the maleficent effects of sorcery and

116 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

the black art. The bench of bishops and the
bench of judges alike took part in what seems
to us a hideous and wanton brutality. Even
so great a writer as Sir Thomas Browne, who
tells us, "for the sorrows of others he has quick
sympathy," gave evidence against two un-
happy women charged before Sir Matthew
Hale at Bury St. Edmunds, and his evidence
helped to secure their iniquitous conviction.

Browne, like many of his day, was a firm
believer in horoscopes — "I was born in the
planetary hour of Saturn and I think I have
a piece of that leaden planet in me." He was,
however, perhaps a little in advance of some of
his contemporaries; at any rate, he recognised
that foretellings based on star-gazing do not
always "make good." "We deny not the influ-
ence of the stars but often suspect the due
application thereof." During the civil war,
both sides used astrologers and acted on their
prognostications; but, on the whole, the firm
belief that future events could be foretold by
a study of the planetary system was waning.
"They" (i.e. the stars) "incline but do not com-
pel . . . and so gently incline that a wise man

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 117

may resist them; sapiens dominahitur astris:
they rule but God rules them."* This was said
by Robert Burton, and it probably represents
the average opinion of the more educated in
our period.

The part played by alchemy in the life of
the times can be judged by Ben Jonson's
Alchemist, first acted in 1610, which affords
a true insight into the fashionable craze of the
time. The play was constantly presented
from that date until the closing of the theatres
and, on the restoration, was one of the first
plays to be revived. Jonson certainly had
mastered the jargon of this form of quackery,
and showed a profound knowledge of the art
of its professors. In Epicoene, or the Silent
Woman, he refers to the love pliiltres of one
Forman, a most flagrant rascal who was mixed
up with the Overbury trial.

It has been said that a competent man of
science should be able to put into language
''understanded of the people" any problem, no
matter how complex, at which he is working.
This seems hardly possible in the twentieth

* Anatomy of Melancholy, part Ij sec. II, Mem. 1, sec. IV.

118 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

century. To explain to a trained histologist
double 9 functions or to a skilled mathemati-
cian the intricacies of karyokinesis would
take a very long time. The introduction in all
the sciences of technical words is due not to any
spirit of perverseness on the part of modern
savants; these terms, long as they usually are,
' serve as the shorthand of science. In the
Stewart times, however, an investigator could
explain in simple language to his friends what
he was doing, and the advance of natural
science was keenly followed by all sorts and
conditions of men.

Whatever were the political and moral de-
ficiencies of the Stewart kings, no one of them
lacked intelligence in things artistic and
scientific. The pictures at Windsor and at
Buckingham Palace which the nation owes to
Charles I and Charles II are only approached
by those it owes to the knowledge and taste of
Queen Victoria's consort. At Whitehall,
Charles II had his "little elaboratory, under
his closet, a pretty place,"^ and was working
there but a day or two before his death, his

= Pepys, 16 Jan. 1669.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 119

illness disinclining him for his wonted exercise.
The king took a curious interest in anatomy;
on 11 May 1663, Pierce, the surgeon, tells
Pepys "that the other day Dr. Gierke and he
did dissect two bodies, a man and a woman
before the King with which the King was
highly pleased." Pepys also records, 17 Feb-
ruary 1662-3, on the authority of Edward
Pickering, another story of a dissection in the
royal closet by the king's own hands.

It has, I think, seldom been pointed out
that Charles II's ancestry accounts for many
of his qualities and especially for his interest
in science. He was very unlike his father,
but his mother was the daughter of a Medici
princess, and the characteristics of that fam-
ily are strongly marked in the "merry mon-
arch." His gaiety and wit and his skill in
money matters when he chose to apply himself,
all bring to mind the Italian family from
which he sprang. Even the swarthy com-
plexion of Charles II was probably due to his
Italian blood, and his fondness for outdoor
sports is another trait which is often observed
in the Medici themselves. There is an old en-

120 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

graving of a portrait of Lorenzo (d. 1648),
the brother of Cosimo II, which shows an as-
tonishing resemblance to Charles II ; and it is
interesting to remember that Cosimo II earned
his chief claim to the gratitude of posterity
by his courageous encouragement, protection
and support of Galileo, who owed to him the
opportunity and means of making his famous
astronomical discoveries.

Another royal personage, Prince Rupert,
"full of spirit and action, full of observation
and judgment," about this time invented his
"chemical glasses which break all to dust by
breaking off a little small end: which is a
great mystery to me."^' He had, says Gra-
mont, quelques talens for chemistry and in-
vented a new method for making gunpowder,
for making "hails hot" and for boring cannon.
His traditional invention of the almost lost
art of mezzotint is probably due to the fact
that, at an early date, the real inventor, Lud-
wig von Siegen, explained to him his process
and that Prince Rupert demonstrated with
his own hands this new method of engraving
to Evelyn.

•Pepys, 13 Jan. 1662.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 121

Another aristocratic inventor, Edward
Somerset, second marquis of Worcester, has
received more credit than he deserved. He
was interested in mechanics and employed a
skilled mechanician, one Kaltoff, in his labora-
tory, but his claims to have invented a steam-
engine do not bear critical investigation, and
his well-known Century of Inventions does
not rise to the level of The Boy's Own Booh
of the last century. Many of his suggestions,
though ingenious, are based on fallacies, and
comparatively few of them were practical.

A curiously versatile amateur in science was
Sir Kenelm Digby. Like most prominent
men of his time, he intervened in theological
questions, besides playing an active part in
public affairs. He was an original member of
the Royal Society, but although he is reported
to have been the first to record the importance
of the "vital air" — we now call it oxygen — to
plants, and although he had gifts of observa-
tion, his work lay largely in the paths of
alchemy and astrology, and he seems to have
had recourse to a lively imagination in esti-
mating the results of his experiments. He

122 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

trafficked in the transmutation of metals, and
his name was long associated with a certain
"powder of sympathy" which, like the "absent
treatment" of the twentieth century practi-
tioners of Christian Science, "acted at a dis-
tance." Evelyn looked on him as a quack, "a
teller of strange things," and Lady Fanshawe
refers to his infirmity of lying ; he was certainly
a great talker. Still, other men of his epoch
spoke well of him and his conversation was
doubtless stimulating if profuse.

In mathematics, John Wallis was, to some
extent, a forerunner of Newton. At Felsted
School and at Emmanuel College, he received
the curiously wide education of his age. He
was a skilled linguist; although he had taken
holy orders, he was the first of Francis Glis-
son's pupils to proclaim in public Harvey's
discovery on the circulation of the blood, but
his bent was towards mathematics, and he pos-
sessed an extraordinary memory for figures.
His Arithmetica Infinitorum is described as
"the most stimulating mathematical work so
far published in England." It contained the
germs of the differential calculus, and it sug-

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 123

gested to Newton, who "read it with dehght,"
the binomial theorem. In it tt was evaluated,
and it must not be forgotten that to Wallis
we owe the symbol for infinity, oo. Living in
troublesome times, under many rulers, he con-
trived, not without some loss of popularity, to
remain on good terms with all. His services
were, indeed, indispensable to a succession of
governments, for he had a power of decipher-
ing which was almost miraculous. Cromwell,
who seems to have had a great respect for his
powers, appointed him Savilian Professor of
geometry at Oxford in 1649.

Another mathematical ecclesiastic was Seth
Ward, bishop of Exeter and afterwards of
Salisbury. Ward was educated at Sidney
Sussex College and, in 1643, was chosen as
mathematical lecturer to the University at
Cambridge. But, like Wallis, he was ap-
pointed, and in the same year, to a Savilian
professorship, that of astronomy — another
instance, not uncommon at the time, of men
educated at Cambridge but recognised and
promoted at Oxford. He took the place of the
ejected John Greaves, who magnanimously

124 ARTHUR j^:. SHIPLEY

used his influence in his successor's favor.
Ward was renowned as a preacher; but his
later fame rested chiefly on his contributions to
the science of astronomy, and he is remem-
bered in the world of science mainly for his
theory of planetary motion. Ward and
Wallis — but the burden of the attack was
borne by the latter — laid bare Hobbes's at-
tempted proof of the squaring of the circle;
there was also a little controversy "on the
duplication of the cube," and mixed up with
these criticisms in the realm of pure reason
were political motives. Hobbes had not be-
gun to study Euclid until he was forty; and,
after Sir Henry Savile had founded his pro-
fessorships at Oxford, Wood says that not a
few of the foolish gentry "kept back their
sons" in order not "to have them smutted by
the black art" — so great was the fear and the
ignorance of the powers of mathematics.
Ward was a pluralist, as was the manner of
the times, and Burnet tells us "he was a pro-
found statesman but a very indifferent clergy-
man." Yet, what money he got he lavishly
spent on ecclesiastical and other purposes. As

THE RF.VIVAL OF SCIENCE 125

Bishop of Exeter, he restored, at the cost of
£25,000, the cathedral; repaired the palace;
considerably increased the value of the poorer
benefices of his diocese and of the prebends of
his cathedral; and gave a considerable sum of
money towards the cost of making the river
navigable from his cathedral city to the sea.
He founded the Seth Ward almshouses at
Salisbury, and he gave certain farms and fee-
farm rents for scholarships at Christ's College,
Cambridge.

Like the distinguished mathematicians just
mentioned, Isaac Newton took a keen interest
in certain forms of theology current in his day ;
but in his intellectual powers he surpassed not
only them but all living mathematicians and
those who lived after him. His supreme
genius has ensured him a place in the very
small list of the world's thinkers of the first
order. He, too, exercised a certain influence
in affairs, and, during his later years, he took
a keen interest in theological speculations ; but
his activities in these fields are completely
overshadowed by the far-reaching importance
of his great discoveries as a natural philoso-

126 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

pher and a mathematician. As the discoverer
of the decomposition of white hght in the spec-
trum, he may be regarded as the founder of
the modern science of optics. His discovery
of the law of gravitation, and his appHcation
of it to the explanation of Kepler's laws of
planetary motion and of the principal inequal-
ities in the orbital motion of the moon, made
him the founder of the science of gravitational
astronomy. His discovery of the method of
fluxions entitles him to rank with Leibnitz as
one of the founders of mathematical analysis.
All these great discoveries gave rise to long
and sometimes acrimonious controversies
among his contemporaries, relating both
to the subjects themselves and to priority of
discovery. In a letter to Halley refer-
ring to one of these disputes, Newton
writes :

Philosophy is such an impertinently litigious lady,

\ that a man has as good be engaged in lawsuits, as

have to do with her. I found it so formerly, and now

I am no sooner come near her again, but she gives me

warning.

His chief work, Principia, has been described

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 127

by Dean Peacock as "the greatest single tri-
umph of the human mind."^

The second man of outstanding genius in
British science in the seventeenth century was
Harvey, who, hke Newton, worked in one of
the two sciences which, in Stewart times, were,
to some extent, ahead of all the others. Har-
vey, "the little choleric man" as Aubrey calls
him, was educated at Cambridge and at Padua
and was in his thirty-eighth year when, in his
lectures on anatomy, he expounded his new
doctrine of the circulation of the blood to the
College of Physicians, although his Eocercitatio
on this subject did not appear till 1628. His
notes for the lectures are now in the British
Museum. He was physician to Charles I;
and it is on record how, during the battle of
Edgehill, he looked after the young princes as
he sat reading a book under a hedge a little
removed from the fight.

In the chain of evidence of his convincing
demonstration of the circulation of the blood,

^ Newton held the office of president of the Royal Society
for the last twenty-five years of his life, a period exceeded only
in the case of one president, Sir Joseph Banks.

128 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

one link, only to be supplied by the invention
of the compound microscope, was missing.
This, the discovery of the capillaries, was due
to Malpighi, who was amongst the earliest
anatomists to apply the compound microscope
to animal tissues. Still, as Dryden has it.

The circling streams once thought but pools of

blood —
(Whether life's fuel or the body's food),
From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall save.^

Harvey was happy in two respects as re-
gards his discovery. It was, in the main and
especially in England, recognised as proven
in his own lifetime, and, again, no one of
credit claimed or asserted the claim of others to
priority. In research, all enquirers stand on
steps others have built up; but, in this, the
most important of single contributions to
physiology, the credit is Harvey's and almost
Harvey's alone. His other great work, Exer-
citationes de Generatione Animalium, is of
secondary importance. It shows marvellous
powers of observation and very laborious re-
search; but, although, to a great extent, it led

"Epistle to Dr. Charleton.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 129

the way in embryology, it was shortly super-
seded by works of those who had the com-
pound microscope at their command. Cowley,
a man of wide culture, wrote an Ode on
Harvey in which his achievement was con-
trasted with a failing common to scientific
men of his own time, and, so far as we can
see, of all time:

Harvey sought for Truth in Truth's own Book
The Creatures, which by God Himself was writ ;

And wisely thought 'twas fit,
Not to read Comments only upon it.
But on th' original it self to look.
Methinks in Arts great Circle, others stand

Lock't up together. Hand in Hand,

Every one leads as he is led.

The same bare path they tread,
A Dance like Fairies a Fantastick round.
But neither change their motion, nor their ground:
Had Harvey to this Road confin'd his wit.
His noble Circle of the Blood, had been untrodden
yet.

Harvey's death is recorded in a characteris-
tic seventeenth century sentence, taken from
the unpublished pages of Baldwin Harvey's
Bustorum Aliquot Reliquiae:

130 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

Of William Harvey, the most fortunate anatomist,
the blood ceased to move on the third day of the
Ides of June, in the year 1657, the continuous move-
ment of which in all men, moreover he had most truly
asserted. . .

'^Ev T€ Tpo)(<a TravTcs /cat cvt ttolctl rpo^oi^

Among other great physiologists and phy-
sicians, Sir Theodore Turquet de May erne
(godson of Theodore Beza), who settled in
London in 1611, has left us Notes of the dis-
eases of the great which, to the medically
minded, are of the greatest interest. He
almost diagnosed enteric, and his observations
on the fatal illness of Henry, Prince of Wales,
and the memoir he drew up in 1623 on the
health of James I, alike leave little to be de-
sired in completeness or in accuracy of detail.

Before bringing to a close these short notices
of those who studied and wrote on the human
body, whole or diseased, a few lines must be
given to John Mayow of Oxford, who fol-
lowed the law, "especially in the summer time
at Bath." Yet, from his contributions to
science, one might well suppose that he had

® The writer is indebted for this quotation to Dr. Norman
Moore's History of the Study of Medicine in the British Isles,
Oxford, 1908.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 131

devoted his whole time to research in chemistry
and physiology. He it was who showed that,
in respiration, not the whole air but a part
only of the air breathed in takes an active part
in respiration, though he called this part "by
a different name, he meant what we now call
oxygen. "^^

Thomas Sydenham was one of the first phy-
sicians who was convinced of the importance
of constant and prolonged observation at the
bedside of the patient. He passed by all
authority but one — "the divine old man Hip-
pocrates," whose medicine rested also on obser-
vation. He, first in England, "attempted to
arrive at general laws about the prevalence
and the course and the treatment of disease
from clinical observation." He was essentially
a physician occupied in diagnosis, treatment
and prognosis. When he was but twenty-five
years old, he began to suffer from gout, and
his personal experience enabled him to write
a classic on this disease, which is even now
unsurpassed.

^' Foster, Sir Michael, The History of Physiology, Cam-
bridge, 1901.

132 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

Francis Glisson, like Sydenham, was essen-
tially English in his upbringing, and did not
owe anything to foreign education. His work
on the liver has made "Glisson's capsule"
known to every medical student, and he wrote
an authoritative book on rickets. He, like
Harvey, was educated at Gonville and Caius
College, and, in 1636, became Regius Professor
of physic at Cambridge, but the greater part
of his life he spent at Colchester. We must
perforce pass by the fashionable Thomas
Willis and his more capable assistant Richard
Lower, with Sir George Ent, and others.

The invention of the microscope mentioned
above gave a great impetus to the study of
the anatomical structure of plants and later of
animals; and in relation to this we must not
overlook the work of Nehemiah Grew (1641-
1712) who, with the Italian Malpighi, may be
considered a co-founder of the science of plant-
anatomy. He was the son of a clergyman,
who, as clergymen were apt to do in those
days, got into trouble under the Act of
Uniformity.

Nehemiah studied at Pembroke Hall, Cam-

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 133

bridge, and afterwards took his Doctor's De-
gree at Leiden. He published numerous
treatises deahng with the anatomy of vege-
tables, and with the comparative anatomy of
trunks, roots, etc., illustrated with admirable
and somewhat diagrammatic plates. Although
essentially an anatomist he made certain
investigations into plant physiology and sug-
gested many more. Perhaps his most inter-
esting contribution to the science, however,
was his discovery that flowering plants, like
animals, have male and female sexes. It
seems odd to reflect that this discovery is only
about two hundred and fifty years old. When
Grew began to work the study of botany was
in a very neglected condition — ^the old herbal
had ceased to interest, and with its contempo-
rary the bestiary, was disappearing from cur-
rent use, and the work of some of Grew's
contemporaries notably Robert Morison and
John Ray, hastened their disappearance. Of
these two systematists Ray was, on the whole,
more successful: Morison's efforts at classify-
ing the vegetable kingdom received much
criticism at the time and by no means came up

134 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

to the great expectations that he himself had
formed of them. Ray's system at any rate
obtained in England until the latter half of
the eighteenth century, when it was gradu-
ally replaced by the Linnaean method of
classification.

But Ray has other claims on our regard.
He and Francis Willughby, both of Trinity
College, Cambridge, attacked a similar prob-
lem in the animal kingdom. Willughby was
the only son of wealthy and titled parents,
whilst Ray was the son of a village blacksmith.
But the older Universities are great levellers,
and Ray succeeded in infusing his fellow stu-
dent at Cambridge with his own genuine love
for natural history. With Willughby he
started out on his methodical investigations of
animals and plants in all the accessible parts of
the world. Willughby died young and be-
queathed a small benefaction and his manu-
scripts to his older friend. After his death
Ray undertook to revise and complete his
*' Ornithology" and therein paid great attention
to the internal anatomy and to the habits and
to the eggs of most of the birds he described.

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 135

All the innumerable fables which had passed
from book to book in the old bestiaries disap-
peared, for Ray ever showed a healthy scepti-
cism with regard to the marvellous. He,
further, edited Willughby's "History of
Fishes," but perpetuated the mistake of his
predecessors in retaining whales amongst that
group. In a rather rationalistic mood he
argues that the fish which swallowed Jonah
must have been a shark. Perhaps the weakest
of the three great histories — the History of
Insects — was due to the fact that Ray edited it
in his old age.

Ray was always a fine field naturalist, and
his catalogues of Cambridgeshire plants long
remained a classic. We may perhaps sum up
the contributions of this great naturalist in
the words of Professor Miall. "During his
long and strenuous life he introduced many
lasting improvements — fuller descriptions,
better definitions, better associations, better
sequences. He strove to rest his distinctions
upon knowledge of structure, which he person-
ally investigated at every opportunity . . .
His greatest single improvement was the divi-

136 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

sion of the herbs into Monocotyledons and
Dicotyledons . . . He made things much
easier for Linnaeus, as did Linnaeus in his
turn for naturalists who now smile at his mis-
takes. Both were capable of proposing hap-
hazard classifications, a fact which need not
surprise us, when we reflect how much reason
we have to suspect that the best arrangements
of birds, teleostean fishes, insects and flower-
ing plants known to our own generation need
to be largely recast."

Great as were the seventeenth century phi-
losophers in the biological and medical sciences,
they were paralleled if not surpassed by
workers on the physical and mathematical
side. Robert Boyle — who has been described
as the Father of Chemistry and Brother of the
Earl of Cork — was, even as a boy of eighteen,
one of the leaders in the comparatively new
pursuit of experimental science. His first love
was chemistry, "Vulcan has so transported and
bewitched me as to make me fancy my labor-
atory a kind of Elysium," thus he wrote in
1649. A few years later (1652-3), in Ireland,
where he was called to look after the family

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 13T

estates, he found it *'hard to have any Hermetic
thoughts," and occupied his mind with anatomy
and confirming Harvey's discovery of the cir-
culation of the blood. A year later, he settled
at Oxford, where he arranged a laboratory and
had as assistant Robert Hooke. Meetings
were held alternately at Boyle's lodgings and
at John Wilkins's lodge at Wadham, and were
frequented by Seth Ward and Christopher
Wren and by many others.

Stimulated by Otto von Guericke's contriv-
ance for exhausting air from a vessel, Boyle,
aided by Hooke, invented what was called the
"machina Boyliana," which comprised the es-
sentials of the air-pump of today. At this
time, Boyle busied himself with the weight,
with the pressure and with the elasticity of
air — the part it played in respiration and in
acoustics. Like Newton, he took a deep in-
terest in theology, and not only spent consid-
erable sums in translating the Bible into for-
eign tongues, but learnt Greek, Hebrew,
Syriac and Chaldee so that he might read it at
first hand. He was, indeed, a very notable
character. Suffering under continued ill-

138 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

health, with weak eyes, a shght stammer, and
a memory treacherous to the last degree, he
was yet one of the most helpful of friends and
universally popular alike at the court of three
kings, and in the society of men of letters, men
of business and men of science. In spite of
the fact that he was the first to distinguish a
mixture from a compound, to define an ele-
ment, to prepare hydrogen though he did not
recognise its nature, he had in him the touch
of an amateur, but an amateur of genius. His
style in writing was unusually prolix and he
seldom followed out his discoveries to their
ultimate end.

It was men such as these that re-established
the Royal Society in 1660. Exactly a century
earlier, the first scientific society, the Aca-
demia Secretorum Naturae of Naples had its
origin. This was followed by several others in
Italy and in France, most of them but short-
lived. Among English or Teutonic folk, the
Royal Society was the earliest to appear, and,
even if we include the scientific societies of the
world, it has had the most continuous exist-
ence. Indeed, before its birth, it underwent a

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 139

long period of incubation, and its inception
was in reality in 1645. At that date, a society
known as the Philosophical, or, as Boyle
called it, the "Invisible," College came into be-
ing, which met from time to time at Gresham
College and elsewhere in London. During
the civil war, this society was split in two,
some members meeting in London, some at
Oxford, but the meetings, wherever held, were
at irregular intervals. On the restoration, the
meetings were resumed in London and, in
1662, the society received the royal charter.

Of all the poets of the time, Cowley took,
perhaps, the greatest interest in science. He
had, indeed, like Evelyn and at about the
same date, developed a plan for the institution
of a college of science. Evelyn explains his
scheme in a letter addressed to Robert Boyle,
dated 3 September 1659 from Sayes court,
which contains minute details as to the build-
ings, the maintenance, and the government of
his college, the inmates of which were to "pre-
serve science and cultivate themselves." Cow-
ley's scheme was also elaborately thought out,
and had the original and admirable suggestion

140 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

that, out of the twenty salaried professors, six-
teen should be always resident and four always
travelling in the four quarters of the world, in
order that they might "give a constant account
of all things that belong to the learning and
especially Natural Experimental Philosophy,
of those parts." To his "Philosophical Col-
ledge" was to be attached a school of two hun-
dred boys. Both these schemes, according to
Bishop Sprat, hastened the foundation of the
Royal Society, of which both projectors were
original members.

Cowley's poems were greatly admired dur-
ing his lifetime, later critics have considered
him affected, perhaps because, like Donne, he
understood, and was not afraid to use, the
technical language of the schools. We have
quoted some of his lines on Harvey, and may
add a few from the ode with which he greeted
the birth of the Royal Society:

From all long Errors of the way,

In which our Praedecessors went,

And like th' old Hebrews many years did stray

In Desarts but of small extent.
Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 141

The barren Wilderness he past,

Did on the very Border stand

Of the blest promis'd Land,
And from the Mountains Top of his Exalted Wit,

Saw it himself, and shewed us it.
But Life did never to one Man allow
Time to Discover Worlds, and Conquer too ;
Nor can so short a Line sufficient be
To f adome the vast depths of Natures Sea :

The work he did we ought t' admire
And were unjust if we should more require
From his few years, divided 'twixt th' Excess
Of low Affliction, and high Happiness.
For who on things remote can fix his sight,
That's alwayes in a Triumph, or a Fight?

Donne, who, like Cowley, indulged in
quaint poetical conceits and who founded a
new school of poetry, abjuring classical con-
ventions and classical characters, and treating
of topics and objects of everyday life, was not
afraid of realism. "Upon common objects,"
Dr. Johnson tells us, he was "unnecessarily
and unpoetically subtle." Time limits us to
one quotation:

Marke but this flea, and marke in this.
How little that which thou deny'st me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee.
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee.

143 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

Donne did not of course foresee the appalling
part that these insects, by the habits he men-
tions, play in the spread of such diseases as
bubonic plague and many epizootics in
animals.

The dramatists of the Stewart period hardly
afford us the help we need in estimating the
position occupied by science and by men of
science in the world of the seventeenth century.
The astrologer and the alchemist were then
stock characters of the drama of everyday life,
just as the company promoter and the multi-
millionaire are now. "The Gentlemen of
Trinity Colledge" presented "before the King's
Majesty" a comedy entitled Alhumazar,
which takes its name from the chief character,
an astrologer, a very arrant knave, and the
type of the false man of science. This play,
originally printed in 1615, was soon forgotten,
but it was revived in 1668 and met with great
success.

Samuel Butler, who was not a Fellow of the
Royal Society, for some reason difficult to
explain, spent much time in attacking it. He
wrote his entertaining satire on the virtuosi

THE REVIVAL OF SCIENCE 143

entitled The Elephant in the Moon in short
verse, and was so pleased with it that he wrote
it over again in long verse. Though this
"Satire upon the Royal Society" remains a
fragment, enough of it is extant to show But-
ler did not appreciate what even in these days
is not always appreciated, that the minute in-
vestigation of subjects and objects which to
the ordinary man seem trivial and vain often
lead to discoveries of the profoundest import
to mankind.

Ben Jonson, with his flair for presenting
what zoologists call "type species," showed, as
has been seen, in his Alchemist an unusual but
a thorough, mastery of the half scientific and
half quack jargon of the craft, so that this play
is a quarry for all interested in the history of
chemical and physical studies. To the play-
writer of the time, the man of science or of
pseudo-science was a vague, peevish pedant,
much occupied with physiognomies, dreams,
and fantastic ideas as to the properties and
powers of various substances. But there seems
to have been a clear distinction drawn between

144 ARTHUR E. SHIPLEY

a real and a false astrology, as is shown in
Dryden's An Evening's Love (1668).

The above is but an all too brief record of
the founding of modern science by our ances-
tors, your ancestors and mine, under the Stew-
arts. Not until our own times, your times and
mine, did we see a parallel awakening in the
Scientific Spirit.

May I in conclusion say again in the son-
orous prose of Queen Elizabeth's age there is
now as then "a new unexplored Kingdom of
Knowledge within the reach and grasp of man,
if he will be humble enough, and patient
enough, and truthful enough to occupy it."

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