THE INVENTION OF THE GUN AND OF PRINTING
The period from the fall of Rome to the beginning of the fourteenth
century was almost destitute in the matter of inventions that can be
distinctly named: though the conception and carrying into effect of
Mohammedanism in the seventh century, the campaigns and governmental
systems of Charlemagne in the ninth century, the invasion of England by
William of Normandy in the eleventh century, and the Crusades in the
eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries, as well as all the numerous
wars and campaigns that succeeded each other so rapidly, indicate a
mental and nervous restlessness which sought relief in action, and
which received guidance in seeking that relief from the suggestions of
invention.
During the interval, paper is supposed by some to have been invented,
or at least the art of making it from rags. Paper itself, however, had
been invented long before in China.
The early part of the twelfth century opened a new era in Europe with
the introduction of one of the most important inventions ever made, the
gun. It is often said that gunpowder was invented then. Gunpowder, of
course, had been invented or discovered many centuries before.
There is much obscurity about the invention of gunpowder. It is usually
supposed to have been invented in China, and to have crept its way
first to the western Asian nations, and afterwards to Europe by way
of the Mediterranean. There can be little doubt that gunpowder was
known to the Romans in the days of the empire; and some accounts of
Alexander's campaigns declare that he used mines to destroy the walls
of Gaza.
It is supposed by many that the Chinese had cannon, from certain
embrasures in some of their ancient walls; but there seems to be no
absolute proof of this. It seems fairly well established that the Moors
used artillery in Spain in the twelfth century; though some writers
hold that what were called firearms in Europe before the fourteenth
century were only engines which threw fire into besieged places.
It seems probable that the gun was invented as the result of an
accident that occurred while some man was pounding the (gunpowder)
mixture of charcoal, saltpetre and sulphur in a receptacle of some
kind. According to one story, the mixture exploded and threw the pestle
violently out of the mortar. From this incident, the man who was
handling the pestle, or a bystander, is supposed to have conceived the
idea that the powder could be used intentionally to throw projectiles,
and he is supposed also to have actually proved that it could be done
at will, and to have produced a concrete appliance for doing it. From
the history of the case, it would seem that the first gun was what we
still call a "mortar."
It may occur to some that (conceding the story to be true, which it
possibly is, in essentials) the gun was not an invention so much as a
discovery. It may be pointed out, however, that while the fact that
gunpowder would blow a pestle out of a mortar might be truly called
a discovery, yet the conception of utilizing the discovery by making
a weapon, and the subsequent making of the weapon constituted an
invention of the most clean-cut kind.
Let us realize the extreme improbability that the phenomenon of the
expulsive force of gunpowder was then noted for the first time. It
seems probable that accidental ignition of the mixture had often
occurred before, and missiles hurled in all directions in consequence.
But, as happens in the vast majority of all incidents, no one imagined
any possible utilization of the facts disclosed by the incident; and
if the man who invented the gun, after witnessing the expulsion of the
pestle from the mortar, had not been endowed with both imagination
and constructiveness, he would have treated it as most of us treat
an incident--merely as an incident. But the imagination of this man
must at once have conceived a picture of what we now call a mortar,
which should be designed and constructed so that projectiles could
be expelled from it at will, in whatever direction the mortar were
pointing; and then his constructive faculty must have taken up the task
that imagination had suggested, and developed the conception into a
concrete thing.
Into the long, elaborate and exciting history of the development of
the gun, that has been carried on with enormous energy ever since, it
is not necessary at this point to enter. Since the sixteenth century,
its history is accurately known, and many large books are filled with
descriptions and diagrams and mathematical tables and formulæ that
recount its progress in detail; while the histories of all the nations
blaze with stories of the battles in which guns have been employed.
Of all the inventions ever made, it is doubtful if the development
and improvement of any other has enlisted the services of a greater
number of men and of more important men, than the gun. It is more than
doubtful if a greater amount of money has been expended on any other
invention, if a greater number of experiments have been made, or if
more mental and physical energy has been expended. Certain it is
that no other invention has had so direct and powerful an effect on
human beings; for the number of men it has killed and wounded must be
expressed in terms of millions.
This phase of the influence of the gun on history is clearly marked.
Not so clearly marked, but really more important, has been its
influence in deciding wars; for the ways in which wars have been
decided have been the turning points in the march of history. The issue
of Alexander's wars, for instance, had decided that Greek civilization
should not perish, but survive; the issue of Cæsar's wars in Gaul had
decided that Roman civilization should extend north over Europe, and
that the western incursion of the savage Germans should be stopped; the
issue of the wars between the vigorous Goths and degenerate Rome had
decided that Rome must die; and so forth, and so forth. So, after the
invention of the gun, the issue of every succeeding war supplied a new
turning point for history to follow. Naturally, those nations that took
the most skilful, prompt and thorough advantage of the power, range and
accuracy of the new invention gained in almost every case the victory
over their opponents.
So long as no weapons existed, struggles between men had to be
decided by physical strength and cunning and quickness only. When the
first flint fist-hammer was invented, a man who was sagacious enough
and industrious enough and skilful enough to make one, could gain
the victory over many another man of greater physical strength and
quickness, but who had not the sagacity, industry and skill to provide
himself with a flint fist-hammer.
Supposing the flint fist-hammer to be the first invention ever made,
as many think it was, we see here the first instance of the influence
of invention on history; because this first invention influenced the
course of history in favor of men possessing sagacity, industry and
skill, as against men not possessing those qualities. By doing this, it
not only decided that such men (and tribes composed of such men) should
prevail, but did even more to influence history; _it induced men and
tribes to make and develop and utilize inventions_. This resulted in
what we call civilization.
As each improved weapon followed its predecessor, a new demand was
made;--not only for a new kind of skill on the part of the man making
the weapon and on the part of the soldiers using it, but also for
foresight on the part of the tribe or nation that would supply the
weapon to its troops. It is easily realized that, if there were two
contiguous tribes about to go to war against each other, one of which
was ruled by a sagacious, energetic and far-seeing chief, while the
other was ruled by a dull, slothful and short-sighted chief, the former
chief would probably provide his warriors with the newest weapon (say,
the bow and arrow) and train them in its use; whereas the other would
ignore it and go to battle with clubs and javelins only. As between
two tribes otherwise equally matched, the result would be obvious; and
doubtless it was exceedingly obvious in hundreds of tribal battles,
before the dawn of history.
It is a characteristic of evolution, as has been pointed out by wise
men, that complexity eventually evolves from simplicity. In no one
department of man's endeavor does this truth stand out more clearly
than in the evolution of weapons. For the oldest weapon that we know of
was probably a stone, or a stick used as a club; and each succeeding
weapon has been more complicated than its predecessor,--needing
additional parts with which to secure the additional results achieved.
This increased complexity has entailed increased liability to
derangement, because the failure of any one part has entailed the
failure or the decreased effectiveness of the weapon as a whole. This
increased liability to derangement has entailed a demand for not only
increased care and skill in fabricating the weapon, but for increased
knowledge, diligence and skill in caring for it, and using it.
The superiority of the gun over all previously existing weapons was
quickly recognized, and every civilized nation soon adopted it as
its major implement of war. As the gun was a piece of mechanism, it
possessed the attribute which seems to give to pieces of mechanism an
element of superiority over every other thing in the universe, the
attribute of continual improvability. Human beings do not possess this
attribute, nor does any other thing in nature, so far as we know. Every
human being begins where his father did--and so does everything else
on the earth; though human invention has recently made it possible for
certain plants to be improved. No new invention ever dies as a man
does, even if the material parts or immaterial parts that compose it
are destroyed. On the contrary, it lives, in the sense that it exists
as a definite usable entity, and also in the sense that it continues to
propagate. And the things that it propagates do not begin as helpless
and useless babies, but as mature creations. The first completed gun is
still the model for the guns that men make now, and will continue to be
the model for all guns in the future. The man who made the first gun
has been succeeded by other men, as the first gun has been succeeded by
other guns; but the human successors have been no improvement on the
inventor of the first gun, while the guns that have succeeded the first
gun have been improvements on it to a degree that it is difficult--in
fact, impossible, to realize.
The relations of the gun to civilization are reciprocal, and are
therefore in accord with most of the other phenomena of our lives; for
just as the gun furthered the improvement of civilization, civilization
furthered the improvement of the gun. Nearly every step taken in the
physical sciences, and afterward in engineering and general mechanics,
has had a direct effect in improving the gun. The gun began as an
exceedingly rough, awkward and crude appliance; the gun today is one
of the most highly specialized and perfect appliances that the world
possesses.
But it is not only the gun itself that has been improved; the powder
has also been improved, and to a degree almost equal, if not quite.
When we realize that modern gunnery is so exact that if a gun is fired
in any direction and at any angle of elevation, the projectiles will
fall so close to a designated spot that all considerable variations
in the points of fall from that spot are usually attributed to other
causes than imperfection in the powder; and if we realize also that
a variation of one per cent. in the initial velocity imparted to a
projectile by its powder would result in a variation (practically
speaking) of one per cent. in the range attained, we then may realize
how perfectly understood the laws of the combustion of powder and the
development of powder gas have become, and how perfect are the methods
of manufacturing, storing and using it. Books upon books have been
written on the subject of making and using gunpowder; and as high a
grade of experimental ability has been employed as on the development
of any other art.
It is not quite clear whether stationary cannon or small guns carried
by soldiers were the first to be used; but the probability seems to be
that cannon were the first. It soon became desirable to devise and to
make appliances for holding the cannon in position, elevating them to
predetermined angles, and transporting them from place to place. To
accomplish these things, gun-carriages were invented. These appliances
have kept pace with guns and gunpowder in the march of improvement;
countless minor inventions have been made; countless experiments
have been conducted; countless books and articles have been written;
countless millions of money have been expended. That the field has
been large can readily be realized, when we remind ourselves of the
numberless situations that gun-carriages have had to be adapted to, on
the level plains of Central Europe, in the mountains, on the sands of
the desert,--in cold and heat and wet; and on the ocean also, in small
vessels and great battleships, to handle cannon great and small, on the
uneasy surface of the sea. But it will not be enough for us to realize
that it has been necessary to construct gun-carriages so ingeniously
that guns can be handled on them under all these circumstances; for we
will fall short of a realization of what must be attained, unless we
realize that the guns must be handled with safety, and (which is more
difficult of attainment) with precision and yet with quickness.
Now to bring the gun and its accessories to the high standard they have
now reached, the resources of virtually all the physical sciences have
been required and utilized; so that, while modern civilization was made
possible by the gun, and could not have been made possible without it,
the modern gun has been made possible by civilization, and could not
have been made possible without it.
This mutuality between civilization and the gun is evident in the
relations between civilization and every other great invention. It is
very clearly evident in the case of material mechanism; for it has been
plainly impossible for any material invention to exist without directly
and indirectly contributing to the improvement, and even to the birth,
of others. Any improvement in the process of making any metal or any
compound has always been of assistance to every mechanism using that
metal or that compound; and it seems impossible to name any mechanism
or process whose invention has not helped some other mechanism or
process. In the matter of the invention of immaterial things, the
effect may not be quite so obvious; and yet it is plain that most of
those inventions have contributed to the safety, intelligence and
stabilization of peoples, and therefore to a condition of mentality and
of tranquillity that permitted and often encouraged the improvement of
existing appliances, and the invention of new ones. Of one class of
immaterial invention, such as new books on the physical and engineering
sciences, the influence on material inventions is, of course, as
obvious as it is profound.
The boom of the gun may be said, by a not forced figure of speech, to
have ushered in the new civilization that rose from the mental lethargy
of the Middle Ages; for it was the first great invention of all in the
long line that have followed since. As it was the first, and because
without it the others would have been impossible, we can hardly avoid
the conclusion that it was the most important.
The mutual reactions between the gun and civilization have resulted,
and are still resulting, in widening the distance between the civilized
and the uncivilized, placing more and more power in the hands of the
civilized, and putting the uncivilized more and more into subjection
by the civilized. The process that began with the invention of the
fist-hammer, and was continued through the centuries by all the
improvements in weapons that followed, was brought to a halt when
Rome fell, and not revived until the gun came into general use in the
fourteenth century. During the interval of nearly nine hundred years,
civilization indeed went backward with the advance of the barbarians
into Europe, checked but not wholly stopped by Charles Martel at the
Battle of Tours in 732, and later by Charlemagne, his grandson, in
numerous campaigns. But the gun, being adopted and improved by peoples
having the mentality needed to discern its usefulness, stabilized the
conditions of living afterward by keeping in check the barbarians,
especially east of Europe. Its greatest single usefulness followed from
this by making possible the development and utilization of the next
great invention. This invention was next to the gun in point of time.
It was next to the gun in influence on history also; and some people
think it has had even more influence than the gun. This invention is
usually called the invention of printing.
Of course, printing had been invented centuries before, probably in
China, and had been practiced during all the intervening centuries,
in China, Egypt, Babylonia, Assyria, Greece, Rome, the Hellenistic
countries and Italy. But the printing had been done from blocks on
which were cut or carved many characters, that expressed whole words or
sentences. Naturally, printing done from them was not adaptable to the
recording of discussions, the making of connected narratives, or the
publishing of books.
Suddenly, about the year 1434, John Gutenberg, who lives at Mayence,
conceives the idea of cutting only one letter on each block, putting
the blocks in forms so arranged that the blocks can be put in such
sequence as may be desired for spelling words, and all the blocks
secured firmly in position. In other words, he invented movable type.
Objection may be made to this statement, and the declaration urged that
movable type were used in China before the Christian era. Possibly
they were; some declarations have been made to that effect. But
even if they were, we cannot see that their invention there had any
considerable influence on history. China was separated from western
Asia and from Africa and Europe by the long stretch of the dry lands
of Central Asia, across which little communication passed. It is
more nearly certain than most things are in ancient history, that
the civilized peoples of western Asia, Africa and Europe, including
Gutenberg himself, did not know of movable type until Gutenberg
invented them.
It is absolutely certain that virtually the whole of the influence
that printing by movable type has exercised on history sprang from the
invention of Gutenberg. It started almost immediately; and it increased
with a rapidity and a certainty that are amazing. No invention made
before, not even the gun, was seized upon with such avidity. The
world wanted it. The world seemed to have been waiting for it, though
unconsciously.
It may be well at this point to impress upon our minds the fact that
no invention has ever been recognized as an invention, unless it has
been put into a concrete form. The U. S. Patent Office, for instance,
will not award a patent for any invention unless it is described and
illustrated so clearly that "any one skilled in the art can make and
use it." It is an axiom that a man "cannot patent an idea." In many
countries a patentee is required to "work" his invention, to make
apparatus embodying it, and to put the apparatus to use. The underlying
idea of the patent laws of all countries is that the good of the public
is the end in view, and not the good of the inventor; that rewards
are held out to the inventor, merely to induce him to put devices of
practical value into the hands of the people. From this point of view,
which seems to be the correct one, the mere fact that a man conceives
of a device, even if he afterward develops his device to the degree
that he illustrates it and describes it to someone in such a way that a
person skilled in the art can make and use it, does not entitle him to
any reward. He must use "due diligence" in communicating full knowledge
of his invention to the public, through the Patent Office, ask for a
patent, and pay to the Government the prescribed fee.
Now, Gutenberg "worked" his invention so energetically that, with the
assistance of Faust, Schaeffer and others, an exceedingly efficient
system of printing books was in practical operation as early as 1455.
The types were of metal, and were cast from a matrix that had been
stamped out by a steel punch, and could therefore be so accurately
fashioned that the type had a beautiful sharpness and finish. In
addition, certain mechanical apparatus of a simple kind (printing
presses) were invented, whereby the type could be satisfactorily
handled, and impressions could be taken from them with accuracy and
quickness.
News of the invention spread so rapidly that before the year 1500
printing presses were at work in every country of Europe. The first
books printed were, of course, the works of the ancient authors,
beginning with three editions of Donatus. These were multiplied in
great numbers, and gave the first effective impulse to the spread of
civilization from the Græco-Oriental countries, where it had been
sleeping, to the hungry intellects of Europe.
The new birth of civilization (usually called the Renaissance) began
in Italy, where civilization had never quite died out, at some time
during the fourteenth century, and took the form at first of the
study of classical literature. This led naturally to a search for old
manuscripts; and so ardent did this search become that the libraries
of cathedrals and monasteries in all the civilized countries were
ransacked. Many new libraries were founded, especially in Italy, to
hold the old manuscripts that were discovered. A great impetus was
given to the movement by the exodus of scholars from Constantinople,
and their migration west to Italy, during the half century between the
year 1400 and the fall of Constantinople before the Ottoman Turks in
1453.
[Illustration: The Printing of Books]
Therefore, when the news of the invention of Gutenberg reached
the scholars of Italy and other lands, they seized upon it as an
undreamed-of blessing for bringing about that widespread study of
the classical authors which they had been struggling under so many
difficulties to accomplish.
To narrate and describe the progress made since then in the art of
printing would be to rewrite what has been written from time to time in
books and magazines and papers. To describe and point out the other
arts that have sprung directly from the art of printing, such as the
manufacture of printing presses and allied machinery, would require an
enormous book of a wholly technical nature; to describe and point out
the arts that have been made necessary, and the arts that have been
made possible, by the invention of printing would entail a history of
most of the industrial arts of the present day; while to mention and
adequately describe the measures that have resulted from the invention
of printing, and those made necessary and possible by it, would entail
a history of all the civilization that has come into being since
printing was invented.
The effects of the invention of printing are most of them so obvious
that it would be unnecessary to call attention to them. No other
one art seems to be so directly and clearly to be credited with the
progress of civilization. In the minds of many people, perhaps of most
people, printing is considered the most important invention ever made.
Maybe it is; but let us remind ourselves that the gun came before
the printing-press, and that the civilization contributed to by the
printing press would not have been possible without the gun. It may be
answered that, nevertheless, the printing press contributed more than
the gun; in the same way that a bank contributes more to the welfare of
a city than does the policeman who guards the bank.
Such an argument would have much to commend it, and it may be based
on the correct view of the situation. But to the author, the gun
seems to constitute the foundation of modern civilization, and the
printing press to be part of the structure built upon it; for the
fundamental enemy to civilization has always been the barbarian, be
he a savage under Attila or a Bolshevik in New York. It is true that
civilization may be considered as more important than the means that
makes it possible, but even this seems to be discussible; but that the
gun constitutes more distinctly the preservative influence of modern
civilization than any other one thing constitutes civilization itself
seems hardly to be discussible. The whole system of defense of all the
nations against foes outside and anarchy inside has rested on the gun
ever since it was invented; whereas, not even the printing press can
be said to be the only element, or even the main element, in modern
civilization.
This brief discussion is perhaps not very important; but it does not
wholly lack importance, for the reason that it brings into clear
relief the fact that we cannot reasonably discuss civilization without
realizing the dangers that confront it, and have always confronted
it, and will continue to confront it. _Civilization is an artificial
product_, that some people think has more evil in it than good for the
majority of mankind, and that certainly has been forced on mankind by a
very small minority. The foundation on which the force has rested for
four hundred years has been the gun.
But whatever the comparative amount of influence of the gun and the
printing press, there can be no doubt that they have worked together
hand in hand: that one guarded, and the other assisted, the first
tottering steps of the Renaissance movement, and that both have
continued to guard and assist the grand march that soon began, and that
is still advancing.
As the circumstances surrounding the invention of both the gun and the
art of printing are sufficiently well known to warrant the belief that
each was made, not by a king or any other man of high position, but by
a man relatively obscure, and that the surroundings and early life of
both were not those of courts or palaces, but those of a humble kind,
it may be well to note how enormous are the results that have flowed
from causes that seem to be very small. We have been told that "great
oaks from little acorns grow"; but the consequences that have grown
from the conception of the idea of printing are larger than any oak;
and an acorn is probably much larger than the part of the brain in
which an idea is conceived.
As a matter of interest, let us realize the strong resemblance between
the impression we receive from a material object actually seen by the
eye and the memory of that impression afterwards. Let us then realize
the strong resemblance between it and another impression of that same
object seen mentally but not physically; for instance, let us realize
the strong resemblance between the impression made on us by actually
seeing some friend and the impression received by _imagining_ him
receiving a letter which we are now writing to him. The first picture
was an image of the external object that was physically made on the
retina, as a picture or image is made by a camera on a screen; but that
picture on the retina must have been seen by the brain, or we would not
have known of it. The other pictures were not made physically on the
retina, so far as we know. Yet we all realize that we can make pictures
on our minds the more readily if we close our eyes. The fact of our
eyes being open seems to operate adversely to our receiving a clear
mental picture.
Now it is a matter of fact that an object (for instance, a pole) can
be seen by a person with normal eyesight, if it subtends an angle as
great as one minute; that a pole a foot thick can be seen clearly from
a distance of 3600 feet, at which distance it subtends that angle. The
rays of light pass through the crystalline lens of the eye and are
focussed on the retina, as they pass through the lens of the camera,
and are focussed on the sensitized paper. Assuming the distance from
the crystalline lens to the retina to be about three-quarters of an
inch, the pole would be represented on the retina by an image 3/(4 x
3600) or less than 1/4000 of an inch wide. During daylight our retinas
are continually receiving images of which all lines as wide as 1/4000
of an inch (and much narrower) are very clearly apprehended by the mind.
But very few of those images are noticed by us. It is only when some
incident calls them to our attention, or when the mind voluntarily
seizes on them, that any conscious impression is made upon the brain.
Similarly, images of physical objects unseen by the physical eye are
continually made on the mind: we are continually thinking of our
friends and of past incidents and possible future incidents; and our
thoughts of these things take the form of pictures. We see the man
with whom we had a conversation yesterday, and we see him with a
clearness that is proportional to the interest taken by the mind in the
conversation and the circumstances surrounding it. If our conversation
was uninteresting and the circumstances tame, we see him dimly. But if
our conversation was angry and the circumstances were exciting, we see
him and the surroundings very vividly--so vividly that our anger is
again aroused; perhaps to as high degree as on the day before, or even
higher.
This image-making is, of course, voluntary sometimes; but most images
come without volition on our part, and require no effort that we are
conscious of. To call up an image voluntarily requires conscious
effort; and to keep it in position while we gaze upon it requires
effort that is great in proportion to the time during which it is
exerted. Psychologists speak of this act of keeping an image in
position as one of giving attention, or paying attention.
To perform this act requires the exercise of will, unless the act gives
pleasure, or the image suggests danger; in each of these cases, of
course, the act is almost involuntary.
A man who is observant notes consciously the incidents that are passing
around him: he seizes on certain of the millions of pictures passing
before him, concentrates their images on his retina, and gazes on
each one for a while. Similarly, a man who is contemplative, seizes
on certain of the vague mental pictures passing through his mind,
concentrates his attention on them, and gazes at each one for a while.
We call the former an observant man and the other a thoughtful man.
Sometimes an observant man learns a great deal from what he sees, in
the same way that sometimes a studious man learns a great deal from
what he studies; but the learning of course cannot be accomplished
without the assistance of the memory. One is often surprised to see
how little some observant and studious men have remembered. Many
impressions have been received, but few retained.
The thoughtful man, of course, cannot in the nature of things receive
so many conscious impressions as the merely observant or studious man;
for the reason that he continually seizes on one and then another, and
holds each for a time, while he fixes his attention on it. Usually,
however, the thoughtful man memorizes his observations or his studies
for some specific purpose; he moves the various images about in his
mind; and arranges them in classes: for otherwise, the various images
would form merely an aggregation of apparently unrelated facts. The
value of such aggregations is, of course, enormous; they compose what
we call data, and include such things as tables of dates, etc.
But data, even tables of dates, have no value in themselves; it is only
from their relations to other things that they have value. There would
be no value, for instance, in knowing that William of Normandy invaded
England in 1066, unless we knew who William was, and what England
was, and what the effect of his invading it was. Now the thoughtful
man, like the man who arranges a card-catalogue in such a way that
it will be useful, not only notes isolated facts, but puts them into
juxtaposition with each other, and sees what their relations are.
The mental pictures that he finally fixes in his mind are of related
things, seen in their correct perspective. They are like the pictures
which are made on the mind of anyone by--say, a landscape: whereas the
mental pictures made by an unthoughtful man are such as little children
probably receive from nature; pictures in which the trees and hills and
valleys of a landscape do not appear as such, but merely as a great
aggregation of numberless separate images, confused and meaningless
like the colored pieces of a kaleidoscope.
To the thoughtful man, therefore, life seems not quite so meaningless
as to his neighbor; though even the most thoughtful can fix very few
complete and extensive pictures in his mind. If his thoughtfulness
takes him no further than simply forming pictures that enable him to
see things as they are, and in their correct relations to each other,
he becomes "a man of good judgment," a man valuable in any community,
especially for filling positions in which the ability to make correct
deductions is required.
Such a man, however, no matter how correctly he may estimate any
situation, no matter how clearly he may see all the factors in it,
no matter how accurately he may gauge their relative values and
positions, may be unable to suggest any way for utilizing its possible
benefits, or warding off its possible dangers. That is, he may lack
constructiveness. He is like a man who possesses any desirable thing or
dangerous thing, and who understands all there is to understand about
it, but _does not know what to do with it_. The various factors are in
his (mental) hands, but he can make nothing of them.
The constructive man can construct concrete entities out of what
are apparently wholly individual factors having no relation to each
other; he can, for instance, take two pieces of wood and a piece of
string, and make a weapon with which he can kill living animals at a
considerable distance. With neither the pieces of wood nor the string
could he do that; and he could not do it with all three, unless he were
able to construct them into a bow and arrow. That is, he could make the
weapon if he had ever seen it made before. If he were only constructive
and not inventive, he could not make it unless he had seen it done
before, or knew it had been done.
Men of purely constructive ability have not of themselves taken very
conspicuous parts on the stage of history; and yet the things that they
have constructed comprise nearly all that we can see and hear and touch
in the world of civilization. Thus history, while it is a narrative
of things that have been done, is not a narrative of all the things
that have been done, but only of the new and striking things. It is a
narrative of wars, of the rise and fall of nations, of the founding of
cities, of the establishment of religions and theories, of the writing
of books, of the invention of mechanisms, of the painting of pictures,
of the carving of statues; in general, of the creative work that man
has done.
The merely constructive man, unless he has been inventive also, has
never constructed anything of a really novel kind. It is a matter of
everyday experience that nearly all the things that are constructed
are according to former patterns and the lessons of experience. All
the constructive and engineering arts and sciences are studied and
practiced for the purpose of enabling men to build bridges and houses
and locomotives, etc., in such ways, as experience has shown to be
good. Nearly all our acts, nearly all our utterances, nearly all our
thoughts, are of stereotyped and conventional forms.
This condition of affairs possesses so many advantages that we cannot
even imagine any other to exist. It enables a man to act nearly
automatically in most of the situations of life. The main reason for
drilling a soldier is that when confronted with the conditions of
battle, he shall fire his musket and do his other acts automatically,
undisturbed by the danger and excitement. Similarly, all our experience
in life tends to automaticity. It is a very comfortable condition,
for it demands the minimum amount of mental and nervous energy. The
conductor demands your fare, and you pay it almost automatically.
That a condition of automaticity prevails in nature, as we see it,
one is tempted to suppose: for the seasons succeed each other with a
regularity suggestive of it.
But even if the machine of nature and the machine of civilization are
automatic now, we have no reason for believing that they always were
so. Even the most perfect automatic engine had to be started at some
time, and it had to be invented before it could be started; and it had
also to go through a long process of development. Similarly, a man
reads a paper almost automatically; but it required years of time to
develop his ability to do so.
Now it has happened from time to time in history that some invention
has broken in on the smoothly running machine of civilization and
introduced a change. The gun did this, and so did the printing press.
In every such case, a few men have welcomed the invention, but the
majority have resented the change: some of them because their interests
were threatened by it; others because of the instinctive but powerful
influence of dislike of change.
The purely constructive man does not cause any such jolt. His work
proceeds smoothly, uniformly, and usually with approval. But the
inventive man, "his eye in a fine frenzy rolling," is visited with some
vision which he cannot or will not dismiss, and which compels him to
try to embody it in some form, and to continue to try until he succeeds
in doing so, or gives up, confessing failure. The inventive man, having
seen the vision, becomes a constructive man, and (in case he succeeds)
_puts the vision which he sees into such form that other people can see
it also_.
It is obvious therefore that two kinds of ability are needed to produce
a really good invention of any kind, inventive ability and constructive
ability; and it is also obvious that they are separate, though they
cooperate. Many an invention of a quality that was mediocre or even
inferior in originality, novelty and scope, has been quite acceptable
by reason of the excellent constructive work that was done upon it:
many a book and many an essay has succeeded almost wholly because of
the skilful construction of the sentences; many a picture because of
the accuracy of the perspective and the mixing of the colors; many a
new mechanical device because of the excellent workmanship bestowed
upon it. Conversely, many a grand and beautiful conception has failed
of recognition because of the poor constructive work that was done on
it. But occasionally a Shakespeare has given to the world an enduring
masterpiece, the joint work of the highest order of invention and the
highest order of constructive skill; occasionally a Raphael has painted
a picture similarly conceived and executed; and occasionally an Edison
has given the world a mechanical invention, comparably wonderful and
perfect.
In all such cases, the start of the work was a picture on the mental
retina; an image of something that was not, but might be made to be.
A physical picture is actually made on the physical retina, but it
cannot be recognized by the owner of the retina, unless a healthy optic
nerve transmits it to his brain. Every mental picture must also be
transmitted to the brain; and some mental pictures are very bright and
clear. In some forms of insanity, the mental pictures are so clear that
the patient cannot be persuaded that they are not physical; the patient
sees a man approaching him, when there is no man approaching him; but
the impression made on the patient's mind is the same as if there were.
The thought of the enormousness of the consequences that have followed
the appearing of some visions to men (the vision of the gun, for
instance) is almost stunning, if we try to realize the small area of
the brain that the vision must have covered. If a line 1/4000 of an
inch wide made on the physical retina and afterwards transmitted to the
brain is seen with perfect clearness by the mind, what a small area of
the brain must have been covered by the original vision of the gun! Yet
how vast have been its consequences!
The fact that the inventor sees a vision, and then mentally arranges
and rearranges the various material elements available in order to
embody his vision in a painting, a project, a machine, a poem or a
sonata, indicates that the essential processes of invention are wholly
mental. This truth is illustrated by the work of every inventor, great
or small. Possibly, the most convincing illustration is that given by
the deaf Beethoven, who conceived and composed some of his grandest
works when he could not physically hear a note.
Reference to the work of Roger Bacon has not been made, because
of the doubts surrounding it.