The human mind is addicted to the creation of types, a process which
implies classification and generalization of a somewhat low order. Some
prominent feature of the thing classified is selected for emphasis,
and there is often a degree of exaggeration which leads, in the end,
to caricature. John Bull, Brother Jonathan, the Jew of the comic
papers, and the stage Irishman are examples of this tendency. So, too,
a profession or occupation is summed up in one conventional character,
with a little truth distorted as if seen reflected from the surface of
a curved mirror. The likeness is there, but unlike the reality. The
individual embodiment of the type is rarely, if ever, encountered.
The man of science deals with questions which commonly lie outside
of the range of ordinary experience, which often have no immediately
discernible relation to the affairs of everyday life, and which
concentrate the mind upon apparent abstractions to an extraordinary
degree. Accordingly, the scholar, the scientific investigator, is
typified as an elderly dreamer in spectacles, who is so uncouth, so
self-forgetful, so absent-minded, and so ignorant of practical matters
as to be hardly more than a child. He is one to be cared for and
humored, like an imbecile--treated with some consideration, perhaps,
on account of his learning, but never to be trusted in the transaction
of business nor in the administration of public affairs. With him, as
an antithesis, is contrasted the practical man, who knows whither his
steps are tending, who has learned to control others, and who never
dreams of abstractions during office hours, if indeed he troubles
himself about them at all. The one is thought to be vague, visionary,
and unpractical; the other is deemed efficient, precise, prompt,
and clear. Has this distinction any basis in reality? Do scientific
pursuits disqualify a man for administrative responsibility?
These questions, like all other legitimate questions, are to be
answered by evidence, and the popular impression is entitled to no
weight whatever. This evidence is to be found by a study of the thing
itself, the man of science as he actually is; by an examination of
the training which he receives, the character of the work which he
does, and the results which he accomplishes. By this method it will be
found that the supposed type is purely imaginary, that the workers in
science exhibit all the variations which are found in any other group
of occupations, that the human race as a whole is their only symbol
or representative. The man of science may be grave or gay, moral
or immoral, social or unsocial, keen or visionary--in short, he may
exemplify any trait of human nature, except the traits of ignorance and
stupidity. He must be intelligent and educated, methodical and exact;
apart from these qualifications he may resemble any other man, chosen
from any other vocation. Indeed, his nearest analogue is the so-called
man of business, and the chief distinction between the two is that one
deals with unfamiliar, the other with familiar things.
The direct tendency of the scientific training is to develop as fully
as possible the positive traits which have been mentioned. Each
science is a body of systematic, well-organized knowledge, with clear
fundamental principles and distinct outlines. The study of science
is a continual discouragement of obscurity or vagueness; it is a
discipline in the statement and solution of definite problems, and it
trains one to see things as they are, apart from all irrelevancies. The
technicalities of science, so bewildering to the layman, are merely
aids to exactness, avoidances of circumlocution--in short, they are
practical devices whereby labor is saved. Economy of effort is one of
the features in which the scientific training excels.
The results of such a training vary, of course, with the individual,
and depend upon his personal peculiarities. A broad man is broadened by
it; a narrow man shuts himself up within the limits of a specialty. To
some extent specialization is necessary, but there is a wide difference
between the man who sees only his own province and one who realizes its
relations to other fields. The same distinction is found in commercial
life, and with the same results. The specialist in money, in stocks, in
iron, or in cotton may be just as narrow as the specialist in stars,
or reactions, or insects, and know little or nothing of any subject
outside his own. Neither narrowness nor breadth of view is monopolized
by any vocation. The mere fact that men of science rarely devote their
attention to accumulating wealth does not prove them to be unpractical.
They are not, as a rule, careless or thriftless in money matters;
they are as likely to handle their financial affairs intelligently
as any one else, but their main business lies in other directions.
If seldom a millionaire, the man of science is still more seldom a
bankrupt. In wild speculation the so-called practical man takes the
lead, and anything which bears the trade mark of electricity, from
the electrical refining of sugar to the extraction of gold from sea
water, can secure from otherwise shrewd financiers the support which
a worker in science would contemptuously refuse to give. A few years
ago the would-be rain-makers obtained the money for their experiments
from men of business, and from Congress even, in spite of advice based
upon scientific knowledge, and failure was the inevitable end. In that
borderland between business and research, which is known as applied
science, the scientific student is more practical than the financier.
When both work together, wealth is produced, but the seedtime of
abstract investigation always precedes the harvest. The commercial
value of exact knowledge is often very great, but to the prospective
investor this truth is not always evident.
The practical value of the scientific training is perhaps most fully
recognized in Germany. There the importance of the investigator, the
apparently abstract scholar, is thoroughly understood, and to his work
the great industrial advance of Germany is largely attributable. In
chemical and electrical industries this is particularly true, and their
growth can be directly traced to the influence of the universities.
The German professor is a man trained to research, and from among his
students many of the best investigators are chosen for service in
the factories. German competition in the commercial world is to-day
the bugbear of other European countries, and its success is due,
first of all, to the utilization of trained intelligences. In our own
country the importance of applied science is fully realized and its
achievements are beyond dispute, but the scholar as yet receives less
consideration than the commercial expert. The latter is practical, the
former is regarded as visionary. Accurate knowledge is a good thing,
but rule-of-thumb experience is often thought to be better. It is only
when knowledge and experience join hands that the highest practical
results are attainable, the one factor tending to advance, the other to
perpetuate, industry. The man of affairs is not a practical man until
he appreciates the force of these propositions.
At bottom the scientific training is a training in clear thought,
precise statement, accurate observation, the verification of evidence,
and the ascertainment of truth. Why should its recipient be unfitted
for practical things? Good administration, the effective transaction
of business, implies system, exactness, the judgment of evidence upon
its merits, and the prompt solution of problems as they arise, and to
each of these requisites the scientific education is directly related.
What other training is less likely to produce dreamers, or more likely
to develop efficient men? The main distinction between the workers
in science and men of other vocations is one of aim, a difference in
ambition, perhaps a difference in the point of view. The scientific
scholar seeks to discover and possibly to apply new truth; and after
that his ambition is to win the recognition of his fellows, to gain
reputation, rather than to acquire wealth. He may not be indifferent to
the latter purpose, but it is not his chief end. It is difficult to do
both things well.
For the administration of large interests, involving the control of men
and the building-up of great institutions, men of science have over
and over again demonstrated their fitness. In the scientific societies
of the world they have shown their capacity for organization, and in
the management of schools and colleges their ability has often been
proved. Among the presidents of universities and technical schools
who have been drawn from the ranks of science I may mention Eliot,
of Harvard; Gilman, of the Johns Hopkins; Drown, of Lehigh; Jordan,
of the Leland Stanford; Chamberlin, of Wisconsin; Morton, of the
Stevens Institute; and Mendenhall, of the Worcester Polytechnic. The
Institute of Technology in Boston has been directed successively by
Rogers, Runkle, Walker, and Crafts; the Columbia School of Mines was
built up by a group of scientific workers, aided by President Barnard;
and the list might be lengthened almost indefinitely. Have these men
fallen below the average of their fellows? Have they not shown at
least as high administrative ability as has been found elsewhere? The
mere statement of their names is a sufficient answer, and renders
argument unnecessary. With them the scientific training has not been
a disqualification, nor even a handicap; it has rather been to their
advantage, for to it they owe much of the insight, the power to grasp
great problems intelligently, the ability to interpret evidence, and
the tendency to prompt and decisive action, without which successful
administration is impossible.
Again, consider the scientific institutions of the world, the museums
and observatories, and the various governmental organizations in which
science is recognized. In our own country, the Smithsonian Institution
and National Museum were built up by Henry and Baird, in spite of
great and varied difficulties; the Coast Survey was created by Hassler
and Bache; and the Geological Survey was developed by a group of men
among whom Hayden, King, and Powell were pioneers. The last-named
organization has been controlled from the beginning by men of science,
and the Coast Survey has been weak only when under nonscientific
management. The Commission of Fish and Fisheries owes its existence
and a great part of its effectiveness to its creator, Baird; the Army
Medical Museum and Library represents the executive genius of Billings;
and in none of these institutions has partisan politics ever exerted
an appreciable influence. No bureaus of the Government have been more
wisely or more efficiently handled than those which men of science have
controlled; in none have there been fewer errors or scandals; there is
not one in which the essential purpose of its existence has been better
fulfilled.
Instead, then, of excluding the scholar, the investigator, the man
who knows, the man of scientific training, from his fair share of
public responsibility, we should do well to call him into service
more and more. He may be, he often is, averse to administrative work,
for the reason that it interferes with his chosen occupation, and
hinders the prosecution of research. But his training and his mental
bias are both needed in public affairs, wherein the scientific method
is too often unapplied. In European countries men of high scientific
rank are frequently found in legislative bodies and ministries; men
like Playfair, Roscoe, and Lubbock in England, Virchow in Germany,
Quintino Sella in Italy, and Berthelot in France. With us in America
the maker of speeches outranks the thinker in popular esteem, and is
given duties to perform in which he may become ridiculous. Both in
legislation and in diplomacy many questions arise which demand the most
careful scientific treatment, or which can be answered only by thorough
scientific knowledge, and many of these have been intrusted for
settlement to men of no specific training whatever. Of late years we
have had the fur-seal controversy, the question of forest reserves, the
irrigation of our arid lands, problems of sanitation and water supply,
and in each of these the man of science has played a part which was too
often subordinate to that of the politician. In an ideal government
the two should work together, each supplementing the peculiar ability
of the other. Many details of the tariff, and a notable part of the
coinage question, require scientific data for their proper settlement,
but the true expert has not always been consulted. The result of
this neglect is sometimes seen in courts of law, where questions
of interpretation arise which might have been averted, obscurity
in legislation being often due to the careless use of scientific
terminology or to ignorance of the relations in science between two
branches of industry. The voice of the trained investigator might well
be heard in Congress, but his testimony now is limited to the committee
room. Even there it is received with an attention which is too often
mingled with incredulity. The myth of the dreamer, the visionary, is
more than half believed.
The supposed type, then, is not a type, but an exception--a man of
straw, which is hardly worth overthrowing. But the belief in it has
been and still is mischievous, a hindrance to wise action, an obstacle
to progress. The misconception has worked injury to science. These
words of protest, therefore, are not wholly superfluous.