SCIENCE AND CULTURE
AND
OTHER ESSAYS
[Illustration]
SCIENCE AND CULTURE
AND
OTHER ESSAYS
BY
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY, LL.D., F.R.S.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1888
_All rights reserved_
_First Edition printed 1881
Reprinted 1882, 1888._
PREFACE.
The Addresses, Lectures, and Essays gathered together in this volume
have appeared at intervals during the past seven years, and I can give
no better reason for republishing them in their present form, than
the fact that three earlier collections of a similar nature have been
received with favour, and, indeed, have not yet ceased to be in request.
I beg leave to offer my best thanks to the Editors and Publishers of
the various publications in which these pieces have appeared, for their
kindly accorded permission to reprint them.
LONDON. _October 1881._
CONTENTS.
I.
SCIENCE AND CULTURE.
An Address delivered at the Opening of Sir Josiah Mason’s
Science College, at Birmingham, on the 1st of October
1880 Pages 1 to 23
II.
UNIVERSITIES: ACTUAL AND IDEAL.
The Inaugural Address of the Lord Rector of the
University of Aberdeen, 27th February 1874.—_Contemporary
Review_, 1874 24 to 64
III.
TECHNICAL EDUCATION.
An Address delivered to the Working Men’s Club and
Institute, 1st December 1877.—_Nineteenth Century_, 1878 65 to 85
IV.
ELEMENTARY INSTRUCTION IN PHYSIOLOGY.
Read at the Meeting of the Domestic Economy Congress at
Birmingham, 1877 86 to 93
V.
JOSEPH PRIESTLEY.
An Address delivered on the occasion of the Presentation
of a Statue of Priestley to the Town of Birmingham, on
the 1st of August 1874.—_Macmillan’s Magazine_, 1874 94 to 127
VI.
ON THE METHOD OF ZADIG.
A Lecture delivered at the Working Men’s College, Great
Ormond Street, 1880.—_Nineteenth Century_, 1880 128 to 148
VII.
ON THE BORDER TERRITORY BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE
VEGETABLE KINGDOMS.
An Evening Lecture at the Royal Institution, Friday,
January 28, 1876.—_Macmillan’s Magazine_, 1874 149 to 179
VIII.
ON CERTAIN ERRORS RESPECTING THE STRUCTURE OF THE HEART
ATTRIBUTED TO ARISTOTLE.
_Nature_, 6th November 1879 180 to 198
IX.
ON THE HYPOTHESIS THAT ANIMALS ARE AUTOMATA, AND ITS
HISTORY.
An Address delivered at the Meeting of the British
Association for the Advancement of Science, at Belfast,
1874.—_Fortnightly Review_, 1874 199 to 245
X.
ON SENSATION AND THE UNITY OF STRUCTURE OF THE
SENSIFEROUS ORGANS.
An Evening Lecture at the Royal Institution, Friday,
March 7, 1879.—_Nineteenth Century_, 1879 246 to 273
XI.
EVOLUTION IN BIOLOGY.
The _Encyclopædia Britannica_, Ninth Edition, vol. viii.
1878 274 to 309
XII.
THE COMING OF AGE OF “THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.”
An evening Lecture at the Royal Institution, Friday, 9th
April 1880.—_Nature_, 1880 310 to 324
XIII.
THE CONNECTION OF THE BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES WITH MEDICINE.
An Address delivered at the Meeting of the International
Medical Congress in London, 9th August 1881 325 to 349
I.
SCIENCE AND CULTURE.
Six years ago, as some of my present hearers may remember, I had the
privilege of addressing a large assemblage of the inhabitants of this
city, who had gathered together to do honour to the memory of their
famous townsman, Joseph Priestley;[1] and, if any satisfaction attaches
to posthumous glory, we may hope that the manes of the burnt-out
philosopher were then finally appeased.
No man, however, who is endowed with a fair share of common sense, and
not more than a fair share of vanity, will identify either contemporary
or posthumous fame with the highest good; and Priestley’s life leaves
no doubt that he, at any rate, set a much higher value upon the
advancement of knowledge, and the promotion of that freedom of thought
which is at once the cause and the consequence of intellectual progress.
Hence I am disposed to think that, if Priestley could be amongst us
to-day, the occasion of our meeting would afford him even greater
pleasure than the proceedings which celebrated the centenary of his
chief discovery. The kindly heart would be moved, the high sense
of social duty would be satisfied, by the spectacle of well-earned
wealth, neither squandered in tawdry luxury and vainglorious show,
nor scattered with the careless charity which blesses neither him
that gives nor him that takes, but expended in the execution of a
well-considered plan for the aid of present and future generations of
those who are willing to help themselves.
We shall all be of one mind thus far. But it is needful to share
Priestley’s keen interest in physical science; and to have learned, as
he had learned, the value of scientific training in fields of inquiry
apparently far remote from physical science; in order to appreciate, as
he would have appreciated, the value of the noble gift which Sir Josiah
Mason has bestowed upon the inhabitants of the Midland district.
For us children of the nineteenth century, however, the establishment
of a college under the conditions of Sir Josiah Mason’s Trust, has a
significance apart from any which it could have possessed a hundred
years ago. It appears to be an indication that we are reaching the
crisis of the battle, or rather of the long series of battles, which
have been fought over education in a campaign which began long before
Priestley’s time, and will probably not be finished just yet.
In the last century, the combatants were the champions of ancient
literature, on the one side, and those of modern literature on the
other; but, some thirty years[2] ago, the contest became complicated by
the appearance of a third army, ranged round the banner of Physical
Science.
I am not aware that any one has authority to speak in the name of this
new host. For it must be admitted to be somewhat of a guerilla force,
composed largely of irregulars, each of whom fights pretty much for
his own hand. But the impressions of a full private, who has seen a
good deal of service in the ranks, respecting the present position of
affairs and the conditions of a permanent peace, may not be devoid
of interest; and I do not know that I could make a better use of the
present opportunity than by laying them before you.
From the time that the first suggestion to introduce physical science
into ordinary education was timidly whispered, until now, the advocates
of scientific education have met with opposition of two kinds. On the
one hand, they have been pooh-poohed by the men of business who pride
themselves on being the representatives of practicality; while, on the
other hand, they have been excommunicated by the classical scholars,
in their capacity of Levites in charge of the ark of culture and
monopolists of liberal education.
The practical men believed that the idol whom they worship—rule of
thumb—has been the source of the past prosperity, and will suffice
for the future welfare of the arts and manufactures. They were of
opinion that science is speculative rubbish; that theory and practice
have nothing to do with one another; and that the scientific habit of
mind is an impediment, rather than an aid, in the conduct of ordinary
affairs.
I have used the past tense in speaking of the practical men—for
although they were very formidable thirty years ago, I am not sure
that the pure species has not been extirpated. In fact, so far as mere
argument goes, they have been subjected to such a _feu d’enfer_ that it
is a miracle if any have escaped. But I have remarked that your typical
practical man has an unexpected resemblance to one of Milton’s angels.
His spiritual wounds, such as are inflicted by logical weapons, may be
as deep as a well and as wide as a church door, but beyond shedding a
few drops of ichor, celestial or otherwise, he is no whit the worse.
So, if any of these opponents be left, I will not waste time in vain
repetition of the demonstrative evidence of the practical value of
science; but knowing that a parable will sometimes penetrate where
syllogisms fail to effect an entrance, I will offer a story for their
consideration.
Once upon a time, a boy, with nothing to depend upon but his own
vigorous nature, was thrown into the thick of the struggle for
existence in the midst of a great manufacturing population. He seems
to have had a hard fight, inasmuch as, by the time he was thirty
years of age, his total disposable funds amounted to twenty pounds.
Nevertheless, middle life found him giving proof of his comprehension
of the practical problems he had been roughly called upon to solve, by
a career of remarkable prosperity.
Finally, having reached old age with its well-earned surroundings of
“honour, troops of friends,” the hero of my story bethought himself of
those who were making a like start in life, and how he could stretch
out a helping hand to them.
After long and anxious reflection this successful practical man
of business could devise nothing better than to provide them with
the means of obtaining “sound, extensive, and practical scientific
knowledge.” And he devoted a large part of his wealth and five years of
incessant work to this end.
I need not point the moral of a tale which, as the solid and spacious
fabric of the Scientific College assures us, is no fable, nor can
anything which I could say intensify the force of this practical answer
to practical objections.
We may take it for granted then, that, in the opinion of those best
qualified to judge, the diffusion of thorough scientific education is
an absolutely essential condition of industrial progress; and that the
College which has been opened to-day will confer an inestimable boon
upon those whose livelihood is to be gained by the practice of the arts
and manufactures of the district.
The only question worth discussion is, whether the conditions, under
which the work of the College is to be carried out, are such as to give
it the best possible chance of achieving permanent success.
Sir Josiah Mason, without doubt most wisely, has left very large
freedom of action to the trustees, to whom he proposes ultimately to
commit the administration of the College, so that they may be able to
adjust its arrangements in accordance with the changing conditions
of the future. But, with respect to three points, he has laid most
explicit injunctions upon both administrators and teachers.
Party politics are forbidden to enter into the minds of either, so
far as the work of the College is concerned; theology is as sternly
banished from its precincts; and finally, it is especially declared
that the College shall make no provision for “mere literary instruction
and education.”
It does not concern me at present to dwell upon the first two
injunctions any longer than may be needful to express my full
conviction of their wisdom. But the third prohibition brings us face to
face with those other opponents of scientific education, who are by no
means in the moribund condition of the practical man, but alive, alert,
and formidable.
It is not impossible that we shall hear this express exclusion
of “literary instruction and education” from a College which,
nevertheless, professes to give a high and efficient education, sharply
criticised. Certainly the time was that the Levites of culture would
have sounded their trumpets against its walls as against an educational
Jericho.
How often have we not been told that the study of physical science
is incompetent to confer culture; that it touches none of the higher
problems of life; and, what is worse, that the continual devotion to
scientific studies tends to generate a narrow and bigoted belief in
the applicability of scientific methods to the search after truth of
all kinds. How frequently one has reason to observe that no reply to
a troublesome argument tells so well as calling its author a “mere
scientific specialist.” And, as I am afraid it is not permissible to
speak of this form of opposition to scientific education in the past
tense; may we not expect to be told that this, not only omission, but
prohibition, of “mere literary instruction and education” is a patent
example of scientific narrow-mindedness?
I am not acquainted with Sir Josiah Mason’s reasons for the action
which he has taken; but if, as I apprehend is the case, he refers to
the ordinary classical course of our schools and universities by the
name of “mere literary instruction and education,” I venture to offer
sundry reasons of my own in support of that action.
For I hold very strongly by two convictions—The first is, that neither
the discipline nor the subject-matter of classical education is of
such direct value to the student of physical science as to justify
the expenditure of valuable time upon either; and the second is, that
for the purpose of attaining real culture, an exclusively scientific
education is at least as effectual as an exclusively literary education.
I need hardly point out to you that these opinions, especially the
latter, are diametrically opposed to those of the great majority of
educated Englishmen, influenced as they are by school and university
traditions. In their belief, culture is obtainable only by a liberal
education; and a liberal education is synonymous, not merely with
education and instruction in literature, but in one particular form of
literature, namely, that of Greek and Roman antiquity. They hold that
the man who has learned Latin and Greek, however little, is educated;
while he who is versed in other branches of knowledge, however deeply,
is a more or less respectable specialist, not admissible into the
cultured caste. The stamp of the educated man, the University degree,
is not for him.
I am too well acquainted with the generous catholicity of spirit, the
true sympathy with scientific thought, which pervades the writings
of our chief apostle of culture to identify him with these opinions;
and yet one may cull from one and another of those epistles to the
Philistines, which so much delight all who do not answer to that name,
sentences which lend them some support.
Mr. Arnold tells us that the meaning of culture is “to know the best
that has been thought and said in the world.” It is the criticism of
life contained in literature. That criticism regards “Europe as being,
for intellectual and spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound
to a joint action and working to a common result; and whose members
have, for their common outfit, a knowledge of Greek, Roman, and Eastern
antiquity, and of one another. Special, local, and temporary advantages
being put out of account, that modern nation will in the intellectual
and spiritual sphere make most progress, which most thoroughly carries
out this programme. And what is that but saying that we too, all of us,
as individuals, the more thoroughly we carry it out, shall make the
more progress?”[3]
We have here to deal with two distinct propositions. The first, that
a criticism of life is the essence of culture; the second, that
literature contains the materials which suffice for the construction of
such a criticism.
I think that we must all assent to the first proposition. For
culture certainly means something quite different from learning or
technical skill. It implies the possession of an ideal, and the habit
of critically estimating the value of things by comparison with a
theoretic standard. Perfect culture should supply a complete theory of
life, based upon a clear knowledge alike of its possibilities and of
its limitations.
But we may agree to all this, and yet strongly dissent from the
assumption that literature alone is competent to supply this knowledge.
After having learnt all that Greek, Roman, and Eastern antiquity have
thought and said, and all that modern literatures have to tell us, it
is not self-evident that we have laid a sufficiently broad and deep
foundation for that criticism of life which constitutes culture.
Indeed, to any one acquainted with the scope of physical science, it is
not at all evident. Considering progress only in the “intellectual and
spiritual sphere,” I find myself wholly unable to admit that either
nations or individuals will really advance, if their common outfit
draws nothing from the stores of physical science. I should say that
an army, without weapons of precision and with no particular base of
operations, might more hopefully enter upon a campaign on the Rhine,
than a man, devoid of a knowledge of what physical science has done in
the last century, upon a criticism of life.
When a biologist meets with an anomaly, he instinctively turns to the
study of development to clear it up. The rationale of contradictory
opinions may with equal confidence be sought in history.
It is, happily, no new thing that Englishmen should employ their wealth
in building and endowing institutions for educational purposes. But,
five or six hundred years ago, deeds of foundation expressed or implied
conditions as nearly as possible contrary to those which have been
thought expedient by Sir Josiah Mason. That is to say, physical science
was practically ignored, while a certain literary training was enjoined
as a means to the acquirement of knowledge which was essentially
theological.
The reason of this singular contradiction between the actions of men
alike animated by a strong and disinterested desire to promote the
welfare of their fellows, is easily discovered.
At that time, in fact, if any one desired knowledge beyond such as
could be obtained by his own observation, or by common conversation,
his first necessity was to learn the Latin language, inasmuch as
all the higher knowledge of the western world was contained in works
written in that language. Hence, Latin grammar, with logic and
rhetoric, studied through Latin, were the fundamentals of education.
With respect to the substance of the knowledge imparted through this
channel, the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, as interpreted and
supplemented by the Romish Church, were held to contain a complete and
infallibly true body of information.
Theological dicta were, to the thinkers of those days, that which
the axioms and definitions of Euclid are to the geometers of these.
The business of the philosophers of the middle ages was to deduce
from the data furnished by the theologians, conclusions in accordance
with ecclesiastical decrees. They were allowed the high privilege of
showing, by logical process, how and why that which the Church said
was true, must be true. And if their demonstrations fell short of or
exceeded this limit, the Church was maternally ready to check their
aberrations, if need be, by the help of the secular arm.
Between the two, our ancestors were furnished with a compact and
complete criticism of life. They were told how the world began and
how it would end; they learned that all material existence was but a
base and insignificant blot upon the fair face of the spiritual world,
and that nature was, to all intents and purposes, the playground of
the devil; they learned that the earth is the centre of the visible
universe, and that man is the cynosure of things terrestrial; and more
especially was it inculcated that the course of nature had no fixed
order, but that it could be, and constantly was, altered by the agency
of innumerable spiritual beings, good and bad, according as they were
moved by the deeds and prayers of men. The sum and substance of the
whole doctrine was to produce the conviction that the only thing really
worth knowing in this world was how to secure that place in a better
which, under certain conditions, the Church promised.
Our ancestors had a living belief in this theory of life, and acted
upon it in their dealings with education, as in all other matters.
Culture meant saintliness—after the fashion of the saints of those
days; the education that led to it was, of necessity, theological; and
the way to theology lay through Latin.
That the study of nature—further than was requisite for the
satisfaction of everyday wants—should have any bearing on human life
was far from the thoughts of men thus trained. Indeed, as nature had
been cursed for man’s sake, it was an obvious conclusion that those who
meddled with nature were likely to come into pretty close contact with
Satan. And, if any born scientific investigator followed his instincts,
he might safely reckon upon earning the reputation, and probably upon
suffering the fate, of a sorcerer.
Had the western world been left to itself in Chinese isolation, there
is no saying how long this state of things might have endured. But,
happily, it was not left to itself. Even earlier than the thirteenth
century, the development of Moorish civilisation in Spain and the
great movement of the Crusades had introduced the leaven which, from
that day to this, has never ceased to work. At first, through the
intermediation of Arabic translations, afterwards, by the study of the
originals, the western nations of Europe became acquainted with the
writings of the ancient philosophers and poets, and, in time, with the
whole of the vast literature of antiquity.
Whatever there was of high intellectual aspiration or dominant
capacity in Italy, France, Germany, and England, spent itself for
centuries in taking possession of the rich inheritance left by the dead
civilisations of Greece and Rome. Marvellously aided by the invention
of printing, classical learning spread and flourished. Those who
possessed it prided themselves on having attained the highest culture
then within the reach of mankind.
And justly. For, saving Dante on his solitary pinnacle, there was no
figure in modern literature at the time of the Renascence to compare
with the men of antiquity; there was no art to compete with their
sculpture; there was no physical science but that which Greece had
created. Above all, there was no other example of perfect intellectual
freedom—of the unhesitating acceptance of reason as the sole guide to
truth and the supreme arbiter of conduct.
The new learning necessarily soon exerted a profound influence upon
education. The language of the monks and schoolmen seemed little better
than gibberish to scholars fresh from Virgil and Cicero, and the study
of Latin was placed upon a new foundation. Moreover, Latin itself
ceased to afford the sole key to knowledge. The student who sought the
highest thought of antiquity, found only a second-hand reflection of
it in Roman literature, and turned his face to the full light of the
Greeks. And after a battle, not altogether dissimilar to that which
is at present being fought over the teaching of physical science, the
study of Greek was recognised as an essential element of all higher
education.
Thus the Humanists, as they were called, won the day; and the great
reform which they effected was of incalculable service to mankind.
But the Nemesis of all reformers is finality; and the reformers of
education, like those of religion, fell into the profound, however
common, error of mistaking the beginning for the end of the work of
reformation.
The representatives of the Humanists, in the nineteenth century, take
their stand upon classical education as the sole avenue to culture, as
firmly as if we were still in the age of Renascence. Yet, surely, the
present intellectual relations of the modern and the ancient worlds are
profoundly different from those which obtained three centuries ago.
Leaving aside the existence of a great and characteristically modern
literature, of modern painting, and, especially, of modern music,
there is one feature of the present state of the civilised world which
separates it more widely from the Renascence, than the Renascence was
separated from the middle ages.
This distinctive character of our own times lies in the vast and
constantly increasing part which is played by natural knowledge. Not
only is our daily life shaped by it, not only does the prosperity
of millions of men depend upon it, but our whole theory of life has
long been influenced, consciously or unconsciously, by the general
conceptions of the universe, which have been forced upon us by physical
science.
In fact, the most elementary acquaintance with the results of
scientific investigation shows us that they offer a broad and striking
contradiction to the opinions so implicitly credited and taught in the
middle ages.
The notions of the beginning and the end of the world entertained
by our forefathers are no longer credible. It is very certain that
the earth is not the chief body in the material universe, and that
the world is not subordinated to man’s use. It is even more certain
that nature is the expression of a definite order with which nothing
interferes, and that the chief business of mankind is to learn that
order and govern themselves accordingly. Moreover this scientific
“criticism of life” presents itself to us with different credentials
from any other. It appeals not to authority, nor to what anybody
may have thought or said, but to nature. It admits that all our
interpretations of natural fact are more or less imperfect and
symbolic, and bids the learner seek for truth not among words but among
things. It warns us that the assertion which outstrips evidence is not
only a blunder but a crime.
The purely classical education advocated by the representatives of
the Humanists in our day, gives no inkling of all this. A man may be
a better scholar than Erasmus, and know no more of the chief causes
of the present intellectual fermentation than Erasmus did. Scholarly
and pious persons, worthy of all respect, favour us with allocutions
upon the sadness of the antagonism of science to their mediæval way
of thinking, which betray an ignorance of the first principles of
scientific investigation, an incapacity for understanding what a man
of science means by veracity, and an unconsciousness of the weight of
established scientific truths, which is almost comical.
There is no great force in the _tu quoque_ argument, or else the
advocates of scientific education might fairly enough retort upon the
modern Humanists that they may be learned specialists, but that they
possess no such sound foundation for a criticism of life as deserves
the name of culture. And, indeed, if we were disposed to be cruel,
we might urge that the Humanists have brought this reproach upon
themselves, not because they are too full of the spirit of the ancient
Greek, but because they lack it.
The period of the Renascence is commonly called that of the “Revival of
Letters,” as if the influences then brought to bear upon the mind of
Western Europe had been wholly exhausted in the field of literature.
I think it is very commonly forgotten that the revival of science,
effected by the same agency, although less conspicuous, was not less
momentous.
In fact, the few and scattered students of nature of that day picked
up the clue to her secrets exactly as it fell from the hands of the
Greeks a thousand years before. The foundations of mathematics were so
well laid by them, that our children learn their geometry from a book
written for the schools of Alexandria two thousand years ago. Modern
astronomy is the natural continuation and development of the work of
Hipparchus and of Ptolemy; modern physics of that of Democritus and of
Archimedes; it was long before modern biological science outgrew the
knowledge bequeathed to us by Aristotle, by Theophrastus, and by Galen.
We cannot know all the best thoughts and sayings of the Greeks unless
we know what they thought about natural phenomena. We cannot fully
apprehend their criticism of life unless we understand the extent
to which that criticism was affected by scientific conceptions. We
falsely pretend to be the inheritors of their culture, unless we are
penetrated, as the best minds among them were, with an unhesitating
faith that the free employment of reason, in accordance with scientific
method, is the sole method of reaching truth.
Thus I venture to think that the pretensions of our modern Humanists
to the possession of the monopoly of culture and to the exclusive
inheritance of the spirit of antiquity must be abated, if not
abandoned. But I should be very sorry that anything I have said should
be taken to imply a desire on my part to depreciate the value of
classical education, as it might be and as it sometimes is. The native
capacities of mankind vary no less than their opportunities; and while
culture is one, the road by which one man may best reach it is widely
different from that which is most advantageous to another. Again,
while scientific education is yet inchoate and tentative, classical
education is thoroughly well organised upon the practical experience
of generations of teachers. So that, given ample time for learning and
destination for ordinary life, or for a literary career, I do not think
that a young Englishman in search of culture can do better than follow
the course usually marked out for him, supplementing its deficiencies
by his own efforts.
But for those who mean to make science their serious occupation; or who
intend to follow the profession of medicine; or who have to enter early
upon the business of life; for all these, in my opinion, classical
education is a mistake; and it is for this reason that I am glad to see
“mere literary education and instruction” shut out from the curriculum
of Sir Josiah Mason’s College, seeing that its inclusion would probably
lead to the introduction of the ordinary smattering of Latin and Greek.
Nevertheless, I am the last person to question the importance of
genuine literary education, or to suppose that intellectual culture can
be complete without it. An exclusively scientific training will bring
about a mental twist as surely as an exclusively literary training. The
value of the cargo does not compensate for a ship’s being out of trim;
and I should be very sorry to think that the Scientific College would
turn out none but lop-sided men.
There is no need, however, that such a catastrophe should happen.
Instruction in English, French, and German is provided, and thus the
three greatest literatures of the modern world are made accessible to
the student.
French and German, and especially the latter language, are absolutely
indispensable to those who desire full knowledge in any department
of science. But even supposing that the knowledge of these languages
acquired is not more than sufficient for purely scientific purposes,
every Englishman has, in his native tongue, an almost perfect
instrument of literary expression; and, in his own literature, models
of every kind of literary excellence. If an Englishman cannot get
literary culture out of his Bible, his Shakspeare, his Milton, neither,
in my belief, will the profoundest study of Homer and Sophocles, Virgil
and Horace, give it to him.
Thus, since the constitution of the College makes sufficient provision
for literary as well as for scientific education, and since artistic
instruction is also contemplated, it seems to me that a fairly complete
culture is offered to all who are willing to take advantage of it.
But I am not sure that at this point the “practical” man, scotched but
not slain, may ask what all this talk about culture has to do with
an Institution, the object of which is defined to be “to promote the
prosperity of the manufactures and the industry of the country.” He
may suggest that what is wanted for this end is not culture, nor even
a purely scientific discipline, but simply a knowledge of applied
science.
I often wish that this phrase, “applied science,” had never been
invented. For it suggests that there is a sort of scientific knowledge
of direct practical use, which can be studied apart from another sort
of scientific knowledge, which is of no practical utility, and which
is termed “pure science.” But there is no more complete fallacy than
this. What people call applied science is nothing but the application
of pure science to particular classes of problems. It consists of
deductions from those general principles, established by reasoning and
observation, which constitute pure science. No one can safely make
these deductions until he has a firm grasp of the principles; and he
can obtain that grasp only by personal experience of the operations of
observation and of reasoning on which they are founded.
Almost all the processes employed in the arts and manufactures fall
within the range either of physics or of chemistry. In order to improve
them, one must thoroughly understand them; and no one has a chance
of really understanding them, unless he has obtained that mastery
of principles and that habit of dealing with facts, which is given
by long-continued and well-directed purely scientific training in
the physical and the chemical laboratory. So that there really is no
question as to the necessity of purely scientific discipline, even if
the work of the College were limited by the narrowest interpretation of
its stated aims.
And, as to the desirableness of a wider culture than that yielded
by science alone, it is to be recollected that the improvement of
manufacturing processes is only one of the conditions which contribute
to the prosperity of industry. Industry is a means and not an end; and
mankind work only to get something which they want. What that something
is depends partly on their innate, and partly on their acquired,
desires.
If the wealth resulting from prosperous industry is to be spent upon
the gratification of unworthy desires, if the increasing perfection
of manufacturing processes is to be accompanied by an increasing
debasement of those who carry them on, I do not see the good of
industry and prosperity.
Now it is perfectly true that men’s views of what is desirable depend
upon their characters; and that the innate proclivities to which we
give that name are not touched by any amount of instruction. But it
does not follow that even mere intellectual education may not, to an
indefinite extent, modify the practical manifestation of the characters
of men in their actions, by supplying them with motives unknown to the
ignorant. A pleasure-loving character will have pleasure of some sort;
but, if you give him the choice, he may prefer pleasures which do not
degrade him to those which do. And this choice is offered to every man,
who possesses in literary or artistic culture a never-failing source of
pleasures, which are neither withered by age, nor staled by custom, nor
embittered in the recollection by the pangs of self-reproach.
If the Institution opened to-day fulfils the intention of its founder,
the picked intelligences among all classes of the population of
this district will pass through it. No child born in Birmingham,
henceforward, if he have the capacity to profit by the opportunities
offered to him, first in the primary and other schools, and afterwards
in the Scientific College, need fail to obtain, not merely the
instruction, but the culture most appropriate to the conditions of his
life.
Within these walls, the future employer and the future artisan may
sojourn together for a while, and carry, through all their lives, the
stamp of the influences then brought to bear upon them. Hence, it is
not beside the mark to remind you, that the prosperity of industry
depends not merely upon the improvement of manufacturing processes,
not merely upon the ennobling of the individual character, but upon a
third condition, namely, a clear understanding of the conditions of
social life on the part of both the capitalist and the operative, and
their agreement upon common principles of social action. They must
learn that social phenomena are as much the expression of natural laws
as any others; that no social arrangements can be permanent unless
they harmonise with the requirements of social statics and dynamics;
and that, in the nature of things, there is an arbiter whose decisions
execute themselves.
But this knowledge is only to be obtained by the application of
the methods of investigation adopted in physical researches to the
investigation of the phenomena of society. Hence, I confess, I should
like to see one addition made to the excellent scheme of education
propounded for the College, in the shape of provision for the teaching
of Sociology. For though we are all agreed that party politics are to
have no place in the instruction of the College; yet in this country,
practically governed as it is now by universal suffrage, every man who
does his duty must exercise political functions. And, if the evils
which are inseparable from the good of political liberty are to be
checked, if the perpetual oscillation of nations between anarchy and
despotism is to be replaced by the steady march of self-restraining
freedom; it will be because men will gradually bring themselves to deal
with political, as they now deal with scientific questions; to be as
ashamed of undue haste and partisan prejudice in the one case as in
the other; and to believe that the machinery of society is at least
as delicate as that of a spinning-jenny, and as little likely to be
improved by the meddling of those who have not taken the trouble to
master the principles of its action.
In conclusion, I am sure that I make myself the mouthpiece of all
present in offering to the venerable founder of the Institution,
which now commences its beneficent career, our congratulations on the
completion of his work; and in expressing the conviction, that the
remotest posterity will point to it as a crucial instance of the wisdom
which natural piety leads all men to ascribe to their ancestors.
II.
UNIVERSITIES: ACTUAL AND IDEAL.
Elected by the suffrages of your four Nations, Rector of the ancient
University of which you are scholars, I take the earliest opportunity
which has presented itself since my restoration to health, of
delivering the Address which, by long custom, is expected of the holder
of my office.
My first duty in opening that Address, is to offer you my most hearty
thanks for the signal honour you have conferred upon me—an honour
of which, as a man unconnected with you by personal or by national
ties, devoid of political distinction, and a plebeian who stands by
his order, I could not have dreamed. And it was the more surprising
to me, as the five-and-twenty years which have passed over my head
since I reached intellectual manhood, have been largely spent in no
half-hearted advocacy of doctrines which have not yet found favour
in the eyes of Academic respectability; so that, when the proposal
to nominate me for your Rector came, I was almost as much astonished
as was Hal o’ the Wynd, “who fought for his own hand,” by the Black
Douglas’s proffer of knighthood. And I fear that my acceptance must be
taken as evidence that, less wise than the Armourer of Perth, I have
not yet done with soldiering.
In fact, if, for a moment, I imagined that your intention was simply,
in the kindness of your hearts, to do me honour; and that the Rector of
your University, like that of some other Universities, was one of those
happy beings who sit in glory for three years, with nothing to do for
it save the making of a speech, a conversation with my distinguished
predecessor soon dispelled the dream. I found that, by the constitution
of the University of Aberdeen, the incumbent of the Rectorate is, if
not a power, at any rate a potential energy; and that, whatever may
be his chances of success or failure, it is his duty to convert that
potential energy into a living force, directed towards such ends as may
seem to him conducive to the welfare of the corporation of which he is
the theoretical head.
I need not tell you that your late Lord Rector took this view of
his position, and acted upon it with the comprehensive, far-seeing
insight into the actual condition and tendencies, not merely of his
own, but of other countries, which is his honourable characteristic
among statesmen. I have already done my best, and, as long as I hold
my office, I shall continue my endeavours, to follow in the path which
he trod; to do what in me lies, to bring this University nearer to the
ideal—alas, that I should be obliged to say ideal—of all Universities;
which, as I conceive, should be places in which thought is free from
all fetters; and in which all sources of knowledge, and all aids to
learning, should be accessible to all comers, without distinction of
creed or country, riches or poverty.
Do not suppose, however, that I am sanguine enough to expect much to
come of any poor efforts of mine. If your annals take any notice of my
incumbency, I shall probably go down to posterity as the Rector who was
always beaten. But if they add, as I think they will, that my defeats
became victories in the hands of my successors, I shall be well content.
The scenes are shifting in the great theatre of the world. The act
which commenced with the Protestant Reformation is nearly played
out, and a wider and a deeper change than that effected three
centuries ago—a reformation, or rather a revolution of thought, the
extremes of which are represented by the intellectual heirs of John
of Leyden and of Ignatius Loyola, rather than by those of Luther
and of Leo—is waiting to come on, nay, visible behind the scenes to
those who have good eyes. Men are beginning, once more, to awake to
the fact that matters of belief and of speculation are of absolutely
infinite practical importance; and are drawing off from that sunny
country “where it is always afternoon”—the sleepy hollow of broad
indifferentism—to range themselves under their natural banners.
Change is in the air. It is whirling feather-heads into all sorts of
eccentric orbits, and filling the steadiest with a sense of insecurity.
It insists on reopening all questions and asking all institutions,
however venerable, by what right they exist, and whether they are, or
are not, in harmony with the real or supposed wants of mankind. And
it is remarkable that these searching inquiries are not so much forced
on institutions from without, as developed from within. Consummate
scholars question the value of learning; priests condemn dogma; and
women turn their backs upon man’s ideal of perfect womanhood, and seek
satisfaction in apocalyptic visions of some, as yet unrealised, epicene
reality.
If there be a type of stability in this world, one would be inclined
to look for it in the old Universities of England. But it has been my
business of late to hear a good deal about what is going on in these
famous corporations; and I have been filled with astonishment by the
evidences of internal fermentation which they exhibit. If Gibbon
could revisit the ancient seat of learning of which he has written so
cavalierly, assuredly he would no longer speak of “the monks of Oxford
sunk in prejudice and port.” There, as elsewhere, port has gone out
of fashion, and so has prejudice—at least that particular fine, old,
crusted sort of prejudice to which the great historian alludes.
Indeed, things are moving so fast in Oxford and Cambridge, that, for my
part, I rejoiced when the Royal Commission, of which I am a member, had
finished and presented the Report which related to these Universities;
for we should have looked like mere plagiarists, if, in consequence
of a little longer delay in issuing it, all the measures of reform
we proposed had been anticipated by the spontaneous action of the
Universities themselves.
A month ago I should have gone on to say that one might speedily
expect changes of another kind in Oxford and Cambridge. A Commission
has been inquiring into the revenues of the many wealthy societies, in
more or less direct connection with the Universities, resident in those
towns. It is said that the Commission has reported, and that, for the
first time in recorded history, the nation, and perhaps the Colleges
themselves, will know what they are worth. And it was announced that a
statesman, who, whatever his other merits or defects, has aims above
the level of mere party fighting, and a clear vision into the most
complex practical problems, meant to deal with these revenues.
But, _Bos locutus est._ That mysterious independent variable of
political calculation, Public Opinion—which some whisper is, in the
present case, very much the same thing as publican’s opinion—has willed
otherwise. The Heads may return to their wonted slumbers—at any rate
for a space.
Is the spirit of change, which is working thus vigorously in the South,
likely to affect the Northern Universities, and if so, to what extent?
The violence of fermentation depends, not so much on the quantity of
the yeast, as on the composition of the wort, and its richness in
fermentable material; and, as a preliminary to the discussion of this
question, I venture to call to your minds the essential and fundamental
differences between the Scottish and the English type of University.
Do not charge me with anything worse than official egotism, if I say
that these differences appear to be largely symbolised by my own
existence. There is no Rector in an English University. Now, the
organisation of the members of an University into Nations, with their
elective Rector, is the last relic of the primitive constitution of
Universities. The Rectorate was the most important of all offices in
that University of Paris, upon the model of which the University of
Aberdeen was fashioned; and which was certainly a great and flourishing
institution in the twelfth century.
Enthusiasts for the antiquity of one of the two acknowledged parents
of all Universities, indeed, do not hesitate to trace the origin of
the “Studium Parisiense” up to that wonderful king of the Franks and
Lombards, Karl, surnamed the Great, whom we all called Charlemagne, and
believed to be a Frenchman, until a learned historian, by beneficent
iteration, taught us better. Karl is said not to have been much of a
scholar himself, but he had the wisdom of which knowledge is only the
servitor. And that wisdom enabled him to see that ignorance is one of
the roots of all evil.
In the Capitulary which enjoins the foundation of monasterial and
cathedral schools, he says: “Right action is better than knowledge;
but in order to do what is right, we must know what is right.”[4] An
irrefragable truth, I fancy. Acting upon it, the king took pretty full
compulsory powers, and carried into effect a really considerable and
effectual scheme of elementary education through the length and breadth
of his dominions.
No doubt the idolaters out by the Elbe, in what is now part of Prussia,
objected to the Frankish king’s measures; no doubt the priests, who had
never hesitated about sacrificing all unbelievers in their fantastic
deities and futile conjurations, were the loudest in chanting the
virtues of toleration; no doubt they denounced as a cruel persecutor
the man who would not allow them, however sincere they might be, to go
on spreading delusions which debased the intellect, as much as they
deadened the moral sense, and undermined the bonds of civil allegiance;
no doubt, if they had lived in these times, they would have been able
to show, with ease, that the king’s proceedings were totally contrary
to the best liberal principles. But it may be said, in justification of
the Teutonic ruler, first, that he was born before those principles,
and did not suspect that the best way of getting disorder into order
was to let it alone; and, secondly, that his rough and questionable
proceedings did, more or less, bring about the end he had in view. For,
in a couple of centuries, the schools he sowed broadcast produced their
crop of men, thirsting for knowledge and craving for culture. Such men
gravitating towards Paris, as a light amidst the darkness of evil days,
from Germany, from Spain, from Britain, and from Scandinavia, came
together by natural affinity. By degrees they banded themselves into a
society, which, as its end was the knowledge of all things knowable,
called itself a “_Studium Generale_;” and when it had grown into a
recognised corporation, acquired the name of “_Universitas Studii
Generalis_,” which, mark you, means not a “Useful Knowledge Society,”
but a “Knowledge-of-things-in-general Society.”