(anilin) dyes. The cost of this investigation, which was
carried out in an improvised, private laboratory was
negligible. Yet, in 1905, the United States imported $5,635,164
worth of these dyes from Europe, and Germany exported
$24,065,500 worth to all parts of the world.[5] To-day we read
that great industries in this country are paralyzed because
these dyes temporarily can not be imported from Germany. All of
these vast results sprang from a modest little laboratory, a
meager equipment and the genius and patience of one man.
[5] U. S. Census Bureau Bull. 92.
W. R. Whitney, director of the research laboratory of the
General Electric Company, points out that the collective
improvements in the manufacture of filaments for electric
lamps, from 1901 to 1911, have saved the consumer and producer
no less than $240,000,000 annually. He adds with apparently
unconscious naivete that the expenses of the research
laboratory in his charge aggregate more than $100,000
annually![6] A handsome investment, this, which brings in some
two hundred million for an outlay of one hundred thousand.
[6] "Technology and Industrial Efficiency," McGraw-Hill Book
Co., 1911.
According to Huxley the discovery by Pasteur of the means of
preventing or curing anthrax, silkworm disease and chicken
cholera, a fraction of that great man's life work, added
annually to the wealth of France a sum equivalent to the entire
indemnity paid by France to Germany after the war of 1870.
Humanity has not finished its conquest of nature; on the
contrary, it has barely begun. The discipline of thought which
has carried humanity so far is destined to carry it further
yet. Business enterprise and politics, the all-absorbing
interests of the majority of mankind, work in an endless
circle. Scientific research communicates a thrust to this
rotation which converts the circle into a spiral; the apex of
that spiral lies far beyond our vision. We have, not decades,
not centuries, not thousands of years before us; but, as
astronomy assures us, in all probability, humanity has millions
of years of earthly destiny to realize. Barely three thousand
years of PURPOSEFUL scientific research have brought the
uttermost ends of the earth to our doors; have made
civilization and excluded much of the most brutal and
brutalizing in life. Not more than two hundred years of
research have made us masters where we were slaves; masters of
distance, of the air, of the water, of the bowels of the earth,
of many of the most dreaded aspects of disease and suffering.
Only for forty years have we practiced antisepsis; only for
sixty years have we had anesthetics; yet life to-day is
well-nigh inconceivable without them. And all of this has been
accomplished without any forethought on the part of the
acknowledged rulers and leaders of mankind or any save the most
trumpery and uncertain provision for research. What will the
millions of years which stretch in front of us bring of power
to mankind? We can barely foreshadow things too vast to grasp;
things that will make the imaginings of Jules Verne and H. G.
Wells seem puny by comparison. The future, with the uncanny
control which it will bring over things that seem to us almost
sacred--over life and death and development and thought
itself--might well seem to us a terrifying prospect were it not
for one great saving clause. Through all that may happen to
man, of this we may be sure, that he will remain human; and
because of that we can face the future unafraid and confident
that because it will be greater, it will also be better than
the present.
What can we do to accelerate the coming of this future? Not
very much, it is true, but we can surely do something. We can
not create geniuses, often we can not discern them, but having
discerned, surely we can use them to the best advantage. It is
true that all scientific research has depended and will depend
upon individuals; Simon Newcomb expresses the matter thus:
'It is impressive to think how few men we should have to remove
from the earth during the past three centuries to have stopped
the advance of our civilization. In the seventeenth century
there would only have been Galileo, Newton and a few other
contemporaries, in the eighteenth they could almost have been
counted on the fingers, and they have not crowded the
nineteenth.'[7]
[7] "Inventors at Work," Iles, Doubleday Page, 1906.
The first thing we have to do is to discover such men, to learn
to know them or suspect them when we meet them or their works.
The next is to give them moral and financial recognition, and
the means of doing their work. Our procedure in the past has
been the reverse of this. I quote from a letter of Kepler to
his friend Moestlen:
'I supplicate you, if there is a situation vacant at Tubingen,
do what you can to obtain it for me, and let me know the prices
of bread, wine and other necessaries of life, for my wife is
not accustomed to live on beans.'
The founder of comparative psychology, J. H. Fabre, that
"incomparable observer" as Darwin characterized him, is now
over ninety years of age, and until very recently was actually
suffering from poverty. All his life his work was stunted and
crippled by poverty, and countless researches which he was the
one human being qualified by genius and experience to
undertake, remain to this day unperformed because he never
could command the meager necessary equipment of apparatus.
Once again, what can we do?
No small proportion of the population of a modern community are
alumni of some institution of higher learning, and one thing
that these can do is to see to it by every means in their power
that some measure of the spirit of academic freedom is
preserved in their alma mater. That the spirit of inquiry and
research is not merely tolerated therein but fostered and
substantially supported, morally and financially.
As members of the body politic, we can assist the development
of science in two ways. Firstly, by doing each our individual
part towards ensuring that endowment for the university must
provide not only for "teaching adolescents the rudiments of
Greek and Latin" and erecting imposing buildings, but also for
the furtherance of scientific research. The public readily
appreciates a great educational mill for the manufacture of
mediocre learning, and it always appreciates a showy building,
but it is slow to realize that that which urgently and at all
times needs endowment is experimental research.
Secondly, it is vital that public sentiment should be educated
to the point of providing the legal machinery whereby some
proportion, no matter how small, of the wealth which science
pours into the lap of the community, shall return automatically
to the support and expansion of scientific research. The
collection of a tax upon the profits accruing from inventions
(which are all ultimately if indirectly results of scientific
advances) and the devotion of the proceeds from this tax to the
furtherance of research would not only be a policy of wisdom in
the most material sense, but it would also be a policy of bare
justice.
THE PHYSICAL MICHELANGELO
BY JAMES FREDERICK ROGERS, M.D.
NEW HAVEN, CONN.
You will say that I am old and mad, but I answer that there is
no better way of keeping sane and free from anxiety than by
being mad.
HAD Michelangelo been less poetic and more explicit in his
language, he might have said there is nothing so conducive to
mental and physical wholeness as saturation of body and mind
with work. The great artist was so prone to over-anxiety and
met (whether needlessly or not) with so many rebuffs and
disappointments, that only constant absorption in manual labor
prevented spirit from fretting itself free from flesh. He
toiled "furiously" in all his mighty undertakings and body and
mind remained one and in superior harmony--in abundant
health--for nearly four score and ten years.
This Titan got his start in life in the rugged country three
miles outside Florence: a place of quarries, where stone
cutters and sculptors lived and worked. His mother's health was
failing and it was to the wife of one of these artisans that
her baby was given to nurse. Half in jest, half in earnest,
Michelangelo said one day to Vasari:
'If I have anything good in me, that comes from my birth in the
pure air of your country of Arezzo, and perhaps also from the
feet that with the milk of my nurse, I sucked in the chisels
and hammers wherewith I make my figures.'
He began his serious study of art (and with it his course in
"physical training") at fourteen, when he became apprenticed to
a painter. He was not vigorous as a child, but his bodily
powers unfolded and were intensified through their active
expression of his imagination.
His life was devoted with passion to art. He had from the start
no time for frivolity. Art became his religion--and required of
him the sacrifice of all that might keep him below his highest
level of power for work. His father early warned him to have a
care for his health, "for," said he, "in your profession, if
once you were to fall ill you would be a ruined man." To one so
intent on perfection and so keenly alive to imperfection such
advice must have been nearly superfluous, for the artist could
not but observe the effect upon his work of any depression of
his bodily well-being. He was, besides, too thrifty in all
respects to think of lapsing into bodily neglect or abuse. He
was severely temperate, but not ascetic, save in those times
when devotion to work caused him to sleep with his clothes on,
that he might not lose time in seizing the chisel when he
awoke. He ate to live and to labor, and was pleased with a
present of "fifteen marzolino cheeses and fourteen pounds of
sausage--the latter very welcome, as was also the cheese." Over
a gift of choice wines he is not so enthusiastic and the
bottles found their way mostly to the tables of his friends and
patrons. When intent on some work he usually "confined his diet
to a piece of bread which he ate in the middle of his labors."
Few hours (we have no accurate statement in the matter) were
devoted to sleep. He ate comparatively little because he worked
better: he slept less than many men because he worked better in
consequence. Partly for protection against cold, partly perhaps
for economy of time, he sometimes left his high dog-skin boots
on for so long that when he removed them the scarf skin came
away like the skin of a moulting serpent.
He dressed for comfort and not to mortify the flesh. Upon the
receipt of a present of some shirts from his nephew he writes:
'I am very much surprised ye should have sent them to me, for
they are so coarse that there is not a farm laborer here who
would not be ashamed to wear them.'
He is much pleased with a finer lot selected later by his
nephew's new wife. Perhaps he did not come up to modern notions
of cleanliness (he was early advised by his father never to
bathe but to have his body rubbed instead) but he was clean
inside, which can not be said of all who make much of a
well-washed skin.
His intensity of purpose and fiery energy expressed themselves
in his features and form. "His face was round, his brow square,
ample," and deeply furrowed: "the temples projected much beyond
the ears"; his eyes were "small rather than large," of a dark
(some said horn) color and peered, piercingly, from under heavy
brows. The flattened nose was the result of a blow from a rival
apprentice. He evidently looked the part, though for such
mental powers one of his colossal statues would seem a more
fitting mold.
Michelangelo experienced some illnesses, all but two of them of
minor moment. In 1531 he "became alarmingly ill, and the Pope
ordered him to quit most of his work and to take better care of
his health." That the illness was a storm merely of the surface
is evidenced sufficiently in that his fresco of the "Last
Judgment," probably the most famous single picture in the
world, was begun years later and completed in his sixty-sixth
year. In the work of this epoch there is more than ever the
evidence of a pouring forth of energy amounting almost to what
the critics call violence--to terribleness of action. It was
not until the age of seventy that an illness which seemed to
mark any weakening of his bodily powers came upon him. At
seventy-five, symptoms of calculus (a disease common in that
day at fifty) appeared, but, though naturally pessimistic, he
writes, "In all other respects I am pretty much as I was at
thirty years." He improved under careful medical treatment, but
the illness and his age were sufficient to cause him to "think
of putting his spiritual and temporal affairs in better order
than he had hitherto done."
He wielded the brush and the chisel with consummate skill in
his seventy-fifth year. With the later loss of cunning his
energy found vent more in the planning and supervising of
architectural works, culminating in the building of St.
Peter's, but even in these later years he took up the chisel as
an outlet for superfluous energy and to induce sleep. Though
the product of his hand was not good, his health was the better
for this mutual exercise of mind and body. In his eighty-sixth
year he is said to have sat drawing for three consecutive hours
until pains and cramps in his limbs warned him that he had not
the endurance of youth. For exercise, when manual labor proved
a disappointment, he often took horseback rides. There was no
invalidism about this great spirit, and it was not until the
day before his death that he would consent to go to bed.
In a poem of his last years he burlesques his infirmities in
his usual vigorous manner.
'I live alone and wretched, confined like the pith within the
bark of the tree.... My voice is like a wasp imprisoned within
a sack of skin and bone. ... My teeth rattle like the keys of
an old musical instrument.... My face is a scarecrow.... There
is a ceaseless buzzing in my ears--in one a spider spins his
web, in the other a cricket chirps all night.... My catarrh,
which causes a rattle in my throat, will not allow me to
sleep.--Fatigue has quite broken me, and the hostlery which
awaits me is Death.'
Few men at his age have had less reason to find in themselves
other than the changes to be expected with the passing of years
and in prose he acknowledged that he had no more affections of
the flesh than were to be expected at his age. Codiva pictures
him in his last years as "of good complexion; more muscular and
bony than fat or fleshy in his person: healthy above all
things, as well by reason of his natural constitution as of the
exercise he takes, and habitual continence in food and sexual
indulgence." His temperance and manual industry and his
"extraordinary blamelessness in life and in every action" had
been his source of preservation. He was miserly, suspicious,
quarrelsome and pessimistic, but the effects of these faults
were balanced by his better habits of thought and action. That
he, like most great men, felt keenly the value of health, is
evidenced not only by his own practice, but by his oft repeated
warnings to his nephew when choosing a wife to see that
whatever other qualities she might have she be healthy. The
blemish of nearsight he considered a no small defect and
sufficient to render a young woman unworthy of entry into the
proud family of the Buonarroti. To his own father he wrote:
"Look to your life and health, for a man does not come back
again to patch up things ill done."
One of those who look beneath unusual human phenomena for signs
of the pathologic finds Michelangelo "affected by a degree of
neuropathy bordering closely upon hysterical disease." What a
pity that more of us do not suffer from such degrees of
neuropathy--and how much better for most of us if we had such
enthusiasm for perfection, and such mania for work, at least of
that health-bringing sort in which there is absorbing colabor
of brain and hand. True it is that "there is no better way of
keeping sane and free from anxiety than by being mad."
THE CONSERVATION OF TALENT THROUGH UTILIZATION
BY PROFESSOR JOHN M. GILLETTE
STATE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH DAKOTA
TO raise the question of how to conserve talent is not an idle
inquiry. We are in no immediate danger of famine. Yet there is
an enormous interest being devoted to what is known as the
conservation of soil. Our forests contain an abundance of
timber for near purposes, and when they are gone we shall
probably find a better substitute in the direction of concrete.
Still agitation and discussion proceed relative to the
conservation of our timber supply. We hear of conservation of
childhood, of conservation of health, of conservation of
natural scenery. It is a period of agitation for conservation
of resources all along the line. This is all good. Real
intelligent foresight is manifesting itself. Civilized man
demonstrates his superiority over uncivilized man most in the
exercise of anticipation and prescience.
As compared with other natural resources, genius and talent are
relatively scarce articles. This is at least the popular
impression as to their quantity. Even scientific men, for the
most part, incline to this opinion. Unless we are able to
demonstrate that they are quite abundant this opinion must be
accepted. I shall seek to show that the estimate of the amount
of talent in existence which is usually accepted is too small.
However, we are in no peril of so inflating the potential
supply of talent and genius in the course of our remarks that
they may be regarded as universal. Nor are we likely to
discover such a rich lode of this commodity that the world may
run riot in its consumption of the visible supply. Talent
promises to remain so scarce that, granting for the moment that
it is a useful agent, its supply must be conserved.
I shall use the term talent so as to include genius. Both
talent and genius are of the same kind. Their essential
difference consists in degree. Increase what is commonly called
talent in the direction of its manifestation and it would
develop into genius. Genius is commonly thought of as something
abnormal, in the sense that it is essentially eccentric. A
genius is generally spoken of as an eccentric, erratic,
unbalanced, person. The eccentricity is then taken as
constituting the substance of the quality of genius. This is
undoubtedly a mistake. Because some geniuses have been erratic,
the popular imagination has formed its picture of all genius as
unbalanced. The majority of the world's men of genius have been
as balanced and normal in their judgments as the average man.
We may think of a genius as like the ordinary man in his
constitution. He has the same mental faculties, the same
emotions, the same kind of determinizing ability. What makes
him a genius is his power of concentration in his given field
of work. The moral quality, or zeal to accomplish, or energy
directed toward intellectual operations stands enormously above
that of the average individual. If we could confer this quality
of moral will on the common normal man possibly we would raise
him to that degree which we term genius.
In order to determine the worth of conserving talent we must
estimate its value as a commodity, as a world asset. I shall,
therefore, turn my attention first to discovering a method of
reckoning the value of eminent men.
One method open to us is what may be called the individualistic
test. Under this method we think of the individual as
individual or of his work as a concrete case of production. One
phase of this is the individual's estimate of his own powers.
We may inquire what is the man's appreciation of his own worth.
This is precarious because of two difficulties. There is an
egotistical element in individuals. It is inherent as a
historical agent of self-preservation. Most of us are like
primitive groups. The ethnologist expects to find every tribe
or horde of savages claiming to be THE PEOPLE. They ascribe
superior qualities to their group. In their names for their
group they call themselves the people, the men, and so on,
indicating their point of view.
Again, an individual, however honestly he might try, could not
estimate his own worth accurately. Let any of us attempt to see
ourselves as others see us and we shall discover the difficulty
of the undertaking. We are not able to get the perspective
because our personal feelings, our necessary selfish
self-appreciation, puts our judgments awry. Others close to us
may do little better. They are likely to either underrate us or
to exaggerate our qualities and powers. In the United States we
are called on to evaluate Mr. Taft and Mr. Roosevelt. Is either
of them a great man? Has either of them been a great president?
Opinions differ. We are too close to them. We do not know. We
give them credit, perhaps, for doing things which the age would
have worked out in spite of them. Or we think things would have
come inevitably which their personal efforts, it will be found,
were responsible for establishing. We have not yet been able to
determine accurately just how great Abraham Lincoln was. It is
almost half a century since he did his work. But we live in the
presence of the personal relative to him yet. Sentiment enters
in and obfuscates judgment.
If we turn to the product itself as mere product we are at a
loss. Unless we ask what is the import of the work we confess
we do not know. A man in Connecticut has made a manikin. It
walks, talks, does many of the things which human beings do.
But it is not alive, it is not serviceable, it can accomplish
nothing. Suppose the maker passes his life in making probably
the most intricate and perfect mechanism which has been made.
Is he a genius? We may admit that the products manifest great
ingenuity on the part of their creator, yet we feel repelled
when we think of calling the maker a genius.
The community method of rating talent is far more satisfactory.
The inventor is related to his time or to human society by
means of the usefulness of his invention. The statesman is
rated by means of the deep-seated influence for improvement he
has had on his age. The educator finds his evaluation in the
constructive spirit and method he displays in bringing useful
spirit and methods to light. The scientist is measured by the
uplift his discovery gives to the sum and substance of human
welfare. If a product which some individual creates can not be
utilized by society, its creator is not regarded as having made
a contribution to human progress. As a consequence he does not
get a rating as genius. To get the appraisal of mankind the
product of the man of talent must get generally accepted, must
fill the want of society generally or of some clientele. If a
man produces something merely ingenious, something which does
not serve a considerable portion of humanity in the way of
satisfying a want, if his creation does not pass into use, he
does not step into the current of the world's history as a
fruitful factor, he fails to attain to the rank of talent.
This objective measure of the value of the producer puts talent
into direct relation to the concept of social evolution and
progress. Society has been an evolution. Collective humanity
has gone through distinctive metamorphoses. Distinct strides in
advance have been made, tendencies have manifested themselves,
conditions have changed so that larger satisfactions have
ensued, democracy in the essential wants of mankind has been
wrought out. Society is more complex in its quantitative
aspect. It is more serviceable by reason of its greater
specialization. Since progress stands for improvement it has
come to be regarded as a desirable thing.