Servants of Nature: A History of Scientific Institutions, Enterprises and Sensibilities

2 Teaching: From the Time of the Scientific Revolution

Henry Adams, who as a Harvard University professor brought the history seminar to North America from Germany, pondered a thousand years of European culture and proposed, early in the twentieth century, laws for what he saw. In his view, the civilization of western Europe had reached a crisis, as the foundations of medieval faith sank into the shifting sands of technological change. Changes occurred at an ever increasing pace. Knowledge grew and events accelerated. Even with the finest tutors, a person could not keep up with all that was new. Cast adrift in the modern age, Adams dropped his anchor at the cathedral of Chartres, France. From this mooring, he reckoned the meaning of the world, and he calculated its demise in the year 1921. Adams (1838–1918) lived almost from the advent of electromagnetism through the observational verifications of general relativity; he himself measured his life by the technological inventions that he had experienced. He called himself a child of the eighteenth century who struggled to come to terms with the twentieth.

The literate speculations of Henry Adams – who contemplated regularities in the development of Western culture – spawned scientometrics, the science of measuring science. Derek de Solla Price, a firm advocate of the new science who found inspiration in Henry Adams, proposed that the rate of scientific change, however one measured the rate, obeyed a law first formulated by Alfred Lotka (1880–1949). The number of discoveries, periodicals, pages of print, individual researchers, and so on, all grow exponentially for a time until the growth levels off at a plateau. This S-shaped curve, in Price’s view, reflected a basic fact of civilization.

The take-off point for Price’s exponential curves occurred around 1650. At this time, the institutions of science – whether educational facilities, scientific societies, or scientific journals – blossomed. A host of new ideas, from the heliocentric universe to the circulation of the blood, shook the foundations of Western thinking about the natural world. This constellation of institutional and intellectual factors has been called the Scientific Revolution, a term that describes a period of rapid and radical change.

The Scientific Revolution

The Scientific Revolution of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries developed to a considerable extent outside the universities, which were bastions of scholasticism and Aristotelian thought. When the Catholic canon Nicholas Copernicus’s (1473–1543) book on the revolutions of the heavens appeared in 1543, universities could trace their traditions and prerogatives back more than three centuries. Yet a large percentage of contributors to the new natural philosophy (however it may be defined) were employed by universities, and by far the majority were university alumni. Over the latter half of the sixteenth century, university lecturers at Wittenberg (Georg Joachim Rheticus [1514–1574] and his colleagues Erasmus Reinhold [1511–1553] and Kaspar Peucer [1525–1602]), Tübingen (Michael Maestlin [1550–1631]), Oxford (Henry Savile [1546–1604]), and possibly Cambridge (Henry Briggs [1561–1630]) constructively criticized and otherwise promoted Copernicanism. Salamanca permitted, by statute, Copernicus’s thought to be taught. Although by 1600 only a dozen men had lined up solidly behind heliocentrism, the new doctrine was widely disseminated at various universities.

Without labouring the point, it is well to mention some among the architects of the Scientific Revolution with significant university connections. Copernicus attended universities at Crakow, Bologna, Padua, and Ferrara; in Italy he studied medicine and canon law. Andreas Vesalius (1514–1564) learned medicine at Louvain and Paris and then taught surgery and anatomy at Padua. Galileo Galilei (1564–1642) went to Pisa for medicine and then at the end of the sixteenth century taught mathematics at Pisa and Padua. William Harvey (1578–1657) studied medicine at Cambridge and Padua. René Descartes (1596–1650) received instruction in (among other things) Galileo’s telescopic discoveries from the Jesuits at La Flèche and read law at Poitiers. Christiaan Huygens (1629–1695) attended the University of Leiden. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716) went to Leipzig, Jena, and Altdorf (where he took a doctorate). Isaac Newton (1642–1727) took a BA at Cambridge and then became Lucasian professor there. Their innate conservatism notwithstanding, universities have indeed served as crucibles for new ideas in natural knowledge.

As the example of Newton indicates, the universities did respond to the ‘new science’. Experimental and mathematical natural philosophy at once transcended and underlay the professional interests of the three traditional, higher faculties. The faculties of arts and sciences (or as they were known in northern Europe, faculties of philosophy) were the natural home for this learning, for they had long harboured professors of astronomy, mechanics, and mathematics. Furthermore, by the sixteenth century, schools to prepare students for the university assumed increasing importance, building on a tradition found in several of the medieval English Public Schools (Winchester and Eton) and the Dutch teaching order known as the Brothers of the Common Life. In St Paul’s, Shrewsbury, Westminster, the Merchant Taylors’, Rugby, and Harrow (all sixteenth-century English creations), and in the profusion of Jesuit colleges in Western Europe generally, adolescents could acquire the basic skills – languages and mathematics – that had previously been retained by university professors of the liberal arts. This preparation freed at least some arts-and-sciences professors from elementary instruction and allowed them to spend more time on the latest word. Clever professors in Italy, the Netherlands, and Germanic Europe were increasingly able to transmit the news and add to their income by attracting interested students. Since the seventeenth century, the prestige of a university has related to the situation of its professors on the research front.

The liberation of natural philosophers in the universities is not unrelated to a general climate of tolerance for diverse religions and credos. This openness governed the golden age of the Dutch Republic (1581–1795), offering a haven to giants like René Descartes and Benedict de Spinoza (1632–1677). Dutch universities were much frequented by foreigners, notably the British, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. By the eighteenth century, Leiden featured an unusually strong corps of science professors, including Herman Boerhaave (1668–1738), Willem Jacob ’s Gravesande (1688–1742), and Petrus van Musschenbroek (1692–1761, originator in 1746 of the electrical capacitor known as the Leiden jar). The brilliant Dutch expositors of experimental science had at their command the unparalleled Dutch instrument trade. They were stimulated by the daily arrival of colonial exotica on the one hand and the deadly struggle against the North Sea on the other hand. In their hands, the dissertation for the doctorate became what it is today – a passport in the world of science. Indeed, from the eighteenth through the twentieth centuries, the Dutch doctoral dissertation – much longer than its German or French counterparts – has set the standard for the unwieldy tomes that now issue from the hands of aspiring scholars around the world.

An atmosphere of tolerance also characterized late seventeenth-century and eighteenth-century Scotland. There, as in the Netherlands (and unlike in England, France, or Spain), a student’s religious views were his own business; and like the Netherlands, Scotland enjoyed close contacts with both Lutheran Germany and Catholic France. Aberdeen, Glasgow, and especially Edinburgh cultivated mighty traditions in medicine and natural philosophy. James Gregory (1638–1675) and Colin Maclaurin (1698–1746), prominent Newtonians, taught at Edinburgh, as did the three anatomists called Alexander Monro (father, son, and grandson). Monro primus’s physician father had studied at Leiden where he formed a friendship with fellow student Boerhaave. Monro primus (1697–1767) cultivated the friendship and brought Edinburgh to rival Boerhaave’s Leiden as a medical school. Chemists William Cullen (1710–1790) and Joseph Black (1728–1799) both taught at Glasgow and ended up at Edinburgh. By the middle of the eighteenth century Edinburgh and Glasgow variously featured David Hume (1711–1776) and Adam Smith (1723–1790). The glow of a Scottish scientific education lasted through the nineteenth century – the tenures at Glasgow and Edinburgh of physicist William Thomson, Lord Kelvin (1824–1907) and physician Joseph, Lord Lister (1827–1912) reflect the brilliance of eighteenth-century predecessors. English speakers from the time of Charles Darwin (1809–1882) have gone down to Oxbridge to make social connections and up to Scotland to learn the sciences that were ancillary to medicine.

Autocratic theocracies of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, France and Spain, did not encourage freedom of thought in independent academic institutions that might ultimately threaten their own stability. The seventy-odd educational institutions of higher learning in French and Spanish lands (adding in engineering and mining schools as well as large colleges to the list of ‘universities’, properly speaking) did not blaze with scientific learning. In France, the universities receded before large establishments for scientific research created by royal patronage: the Paris Academy of Sciences and the Paris Observatory in the seventeenth century and their eighteenth-century offspring, the Paris botanical gardens and the natural history museum. Spain did not see comparable royal research institutions until the mid eighteenth century, and by then there were not many of them (notably the Madrid and Cadiz observatories and the Barcelona Academy of Sciences), but it maintained a string of institutions of higher learning in its colonial possessions.

The rise of the German university

Scottish universities possessed drawing power and brilliant professors; Dutch universities had these attributes as well as a tradition of publishing science doctorates. German universities were something of a question mark. ‘The total annual matriculations in the German universities averaged 4200 from 1700 to 1750,’ writes historian of science John Heilbron, ‘and then declined almost linearly to about 2900 in 1800.’1 Why, then, do we associate the modern research university with Germany?

Part of the answer relates to a medieval and Renaissance heritage that left Germany with a large number of institutions of higher learning. In the eighteenth century there were four times as many German-language universities as Dutch (five) and Scottish (four) together. The smallest of the German universities, Herborn and Duisburg, shrank to virtual extinction (sixty and eighty students respectively), but nearly all of them awarded a philosophical doctorate. German professors had their hand in scientific research from the very advent of printing, around 1450, and in old-style Jesuit universities and colleges (where philosophy still preceded professional studies), there was adequate employment for science researchers.

Part of the answer relates to historical accident. Only three Dutch universities (plus Louvain and Ghent, which the Netherlands lost to Belgium in 1832) survived the Napoleonic interregnum; it was not until after the middle of the nineteenth century that Leiden and Utrecht began to benefit again from Dutch colonial prosperity. Then, too, the Scottish medical faculties overwhelmed arts and sciences, which never succeeded in organizing a doctoral programme. Some of these conditions also applied to Germany, of course, which lost a good number of universities to Napoleonic reorganization. But eighteenth-century Germany nevertheless pioneered a new kind of university, where priority went to the philosophy faculty, and this is the image we see everywhere today, when we are accustomed to ‘doctor of philosophy’ degrees in such unphilosophical subjects as nursing, engineering, and agriculture.

The German universities benefited from competition among the various German states in attracting students and generally building up academic prestige. The dominant late seventeenth-century universities were at Leipzig (belonging to Saxony) and Jena (belonging to Weimar). Prussia then founded Halle in 1694 to siphon off talent from nearby institutions. Hannover founded Göttingen in 1737 to remove the shine from Halle. Maria Theresa revived the moribund universities under Austrian care beginning in the 1750s, banishing Aristotelian scholasticism in favour of experimental physics; her reorganization affected Freiburg im Breisgau, Graz, Innsbruck, Prague, and Vienna, and it had a notable impact on collegiate-structured Pavia, in Austrian Italy. To make their mark, these new universities were charged by their state to teach and inspire by propagating and contributing to the stock of knowledge. This notion appeared early in the eighteenth century under the Leibnizian natural philosopher Christian Freiherr von Wolff (1697–1754), who lectured and wrote from Halle and Marburg, consulted widely across Europe, and turned down a dozen or so university calls.

Emphasizing research in a teaching climate followed the rationalist precepts that had taken Europe by storm in the seventeenth century – notably those of Descartes, Newton, and Leibniz. Uniting research with teaching fitted well with the emphasis on facts and experience that radiated from the writings of the foremost proponent of the new science, Francis Bacon. For the most part the innovation occurred earliest in universities without a medieval pedigree. The receptivity of institutions to change is related inversely to their entrenched traditions.

The professorial research function was opposed by privileged members of scientific societies, who received state emoluments for innovating without having to lecture. But the new style universities were adamant about encouraging research, and they made producing new knowledge a condition of professorial appointment, as, for example, with Johann Tobias Mayer’s (1723–1762) chair of physics at Göttingen in 1750. The condition extended to all fields of learning, and universities that ignored it – for example Basle, which at the time chose professors by lot from a slate of three men who usually belonged to the local patriciate – did so at their peril. It gave rise especially to the earliest institutional union of research and teaching known as the philological seminar.

The eighteenth-century university seminar was a key development, and it emerged from the discipline of comparative philology. Two hundred years of European expansion had stockpiled an astonishing variety of tongues. The literature in some of these was sophisticated and not completely foreign to European minds. Sanskrit – the Latin of India – found great appeal among scholars at the new universities, who set out to relate it to everything else they knew, dead or alive. The puzzle had endless parts, each one of which was ideally suited for a doctoral dissertation. The programme demanded specialized libraries, which would be increased from one generation to the next; it required a home and a budget, which university authorities then (no different from now) grudgingly provided. The doctoral seminar was thus born in a room surrounded by dictionaries and reference works. It has remained there ever since.

The doctoral seminar did not extend easily to France.

Napoleonic Europe, focusing on grand state institutions, was no friend of independent corporations with a royalist heritage. In the wake of the French Revolution, Napoleon created a score of pyramidal educational authorities, each one consisting of faculties, lycées, and elementary schools, all ultimately responsible to functionaries in Paris. This University of France continued through the nineteenth century, recruiting teenagers to become schoolteachers and, later in the century, becoming a motor of regional economic growth. Higher scientific learning was transmitted in special grandes écoles outside the university. The most important of these early in the century was the Ecole Polytechnique, governed then (as now) by the Ministry of War and designed to produce military engineers. There was also the Ecole Normal Supérieure, the national school that set norms for schoolteachers, which at mid century, under the inspired direction of Louis Pasteur, became a privileged conduit to a scientific career. By the twentieth century there were a score of these grandes écoles, which recruited by competition and which promised graduates a civil-service posting in diverse technical fields. The French universities have never received their place in science, but a comeback of sorts was made at the end of the nineteenth century in direct response to developments outre-Rhin.

Beyond the borders of France, Napoleon engineered the end of a number of universities in the Netherlands and German-speaking Europe. German rulers used the occasion of their new independence to open new universities in propitious administrative seats like Berlin, Breslau, Bonn, and eventually Munich. The notion of pure learning, or Wissenschaft (a neologism from the German Enlightenment intended to denote scholarship and science), lay at the centre of the reorganized and the new universities, especially in Prussia. The research spirit permeated the University of Berlin, created in 1810 with the guidance of historian Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835), brother of the naturalist Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859). Over the next generation research became a way of life for German university professors, as councillors of the various kings, princes, dukes, following a long tradition, competed for prominent men of science.