- [nearly constant war]
-
About then, England went to war roughly every three and a half years.
Just within the 50-year span bracketing 1665, England warred:
with itself (1642),
Scotland (1648),
Ireland (1650),
Scotland (1651),
Holland (1652),
Spain (1656),
with France against Spain (1658),
Holland again (1664),
with Portugal against Spain (1665),
Denmark and France (1666),
with Holland and Sweden against France (1668),
with France against Holland (1672),
itself (1688),
then against Ireland and France (1690).
- [many sects in Europe]
-
Here’a a list for England alone:
Anglicans (who were the official Church of England),
Catholics (who were despised in England at this time),
the three main non-Anglican Protestants
(Presbyterians, Baptists, Congregationalists),
plus Quakers, Shakers, Ranters, Seekers, Levellers, Diggers,
Independents, Arians, Arminians, Lutherans, Socinians, Anabaptists,
Muggletonians and Gindletonians,
and other sects and sub-sects, all lumped under generic terms like
‘Puritans,’ ‘Dissenters,’ or ‘Noncomformists.’
History of the English-Speaking People:
The New World,
Winston Churchill,
Dorset, 1956.
Some Intellectual Consequences of the English Revolution,
Christopher Hill,
Wiedenfeld and Nicholson, 1980.
The World Turned Upside Down:
Radical Ideas During the English Revolution,
Christopher Hill, 1972,
Penguin, Reprint Edition, 1991.
- [...then they ran away]
-
In England,
immigration started as early as 1607,
when famine, plague, cold, and persecution
drove a few Puritans as far as Plymouth Rock.
After the Restoration in 1660,
persecution was intense from 1662 to 1664.
Dissenter families were fined, imprisoned, molested at worship,
and their children were pilloried and publicly scourged,
with children as young as twelve sent to
Bridewell prison at hard labor.
“[S]uch Fines levied upon them, so many ruined, so many imprison’d, and so
many murthered.”
Wise as Serpents,
Daniel Defoe,
quoted in
Daniel Defoe, His Life,
Paula Backscheider,
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989, pages 10-11.
- [Protestantism and science]
-
A story is being told these days that Protestantism led to science (rather
than both being outgrowths of the printing press).
It’s true that today’s worship of
the freedom to choose came from the greatest of all heresies, the
Protestant Reformation, which the Roman Church opposed—virulently—and
millions died. But not even Protestantism alone can be the full explanation
of the philosophical change of what we today would call scientific thought
because many Protestant cities were even more opposed to the new philosophy
than the Catholic Church was. Martin Luther, for example, the paragon
of Protestantism, was hardly the saint of tolerance. A vicious anti-Semite
(Hitler took lessons from his writings),
he was also vehemently against any teaching of Copernician
natural philosophy. He, though, was an equal-opportunity hater.
He despised Aristotle, too.
- [Aristotle and women’s teeth]
-
History of Animals,
Aristotle,
Book II, Part 3.
- [Aristotle predates algebra]
-
Credit for naming and expanding, if not actually inventing, algebra, goes
to several people, not least of whom is Mohammed ibn-Musa al-Khwarizmi,
a mathematician and astronomer who lived and taught in Baghdad
from around 800 to some time after 847.
His book Al-jabr wa’l muqabalah gave algebra its name.
History of Mathematics,
Carl B. Boyer,
John Wiley & Sons, Second Edition, pages 228-230.
Incidentally, his name, al-Khwarizmi, is also the source of our modern word
‘algorithm,’ without which computer science wouldn’t now exist.
- [Aristotle and ‘purpose’]
-
Aristotle didn’t necessarily mean that everything had been designed
by a Prime Mover for some specific purpose (its ‘final cause’), even
though that’s how the medieval Church interpreted his philosophy.
He did, however, believe that form was an objective part of the
universe (that is, not just an observed or accidental part of a thing),
and that everything was actively striving to reach its ultimate form.
So, for him, the ‘final cause’ of an acorn was its final form, an oak tree.
His notion of form was much stronger than the modern notion of
‘information.’
For him, everything, whether made by human hands or not, had four ‘causes.’
But we must be careful how we interpret the word ‘cause.’
The Greek word αιτια
(aitia) roughly means ‘cause’ or ‘reason,’
but it can also mean ‘makes’ or ‘signifies’ or ‘produces’ or even ‘explains.’
For Aristotle,
when asked:
‘Why this end?’
an aitia is anything that we can give as a means to that end.
“
‘Cause’ means
(1) [Material Cause:] that from which, as immanent material, a thing comes
into being,
e.g. the bronze is the cause of the statue and the silver of the saucer....
(2) [Formal Cause:] The form or pattern, i.e. the definition of the essence...
(e.g. the ratio 2:1 and number in general are causes of the octave)....
(3) [Efficient Cause:] That from which the change or the resting from change
first begins;
e.g. the adviser is a cause of the action,
and the father a cause of the child, and in general the maker a cause of the
thing made....
(4) [Final Cause:] The end, that for the sake of which a thing is;
e.g. health is the cause of walking. For ‘Why does one walk?’
we say:
‘that one may be healthy’;
and in speaking thus we think we have given the cause.”
The Works of Aristotle,
Volume VIII:
Metaphysics,
Book V, Part II,
W. D. Ross (translator and editor),
Oxford University Press, Second Edition, 1928.
- [Aristotle built on many others]
-
Starting with Thales, two centuries before him.
The tradition is that Thales taught Anaximander, who taught Pythagoras.
Then a second wave started with Anaxagoras and Empedocles,
then Democritus, Hippocrates, Socrates, and Plato, then Aristotle.
Thales, and many others, also based his work on earlier Persian, and before
them, Egyptian, Sumerian, and Indian, thought.
For example, the result that everyone today knows as “the
Theorem of Pythagoras” predates Pythagoras.
Pythagoras was still important to the theorem in its complete form, even
though the idea was known before him.
History of Mathematics,
Carl B. Boyer,
John Wiley & Sons, Second Edition, 1989, pages 34-37.
- [Aristotle’s physics]
-
It’s an anachronism to speak of ‘Aristotelian physics’ in that
Aristotle was most certainly not a mathematician
and modern physics is understood
largely in terms of mathematics. What we take to be ’Aristotelian physics’
today is a sort of reinterpretation in mathematical terms of what Aristotle
might have believed had he had any mathematical talent at all. For example,
around 1328 Thomas of Bradwardine, an English philosopher and theologian,
wrote a book on motion based on what he understood to be
Aristotle’s beliefs about motion.
Bradwardine showed that Aristotle’s theory of motion was inconsistent.
First, Aristotle claimed that a body could be in motion only when the force
acting on it exceeded the resistance to its motion through the medium.
Second, Aristotle claimed that a body’s velocity
was proportional to the force acting on it divided by the
resistance of the medium it moved through.
Bradwardine showed inconsistency between these two Aristotelian tenets by
assuming an initial force and resistance,
then asked what would happen if the resistance were continually increased
while keeping the force constant.
At some point the resistance will
exceed the force so the body cannot move. But its velocity, which
supposedly was its acting force divided by the resistance, could not then
also be zero.
Thomas of Bradwardine, his Tractus de Proportionibus:
its significance for the development of Mathematical Physics,
H. Lamar Crosby, Jr. (editor and translator),
University of Wisconsin Press, 1955.
- [what is science?]
-
In my view, the process of doing science
is much less amenable to philosophizing
than is commonly supposed. Science depends on a certain kind of personality
type and a certain skepticism of thought. Not everyone has both.
Above all, good scientists (not all scientists are good) are
anti-authoritarian. They don’t take a result as true just because someone
says so. They’re all about “show me.”
Everything else—publication,
peer review, replication, degree-granting institutions, funding, credit,
priority, reputation—is method.
To the extent that science is honest, what keeps it so is partly all that,
but mostly that once
interesting results appear in good journals they get talked about,
argued about, worried over, tested, and used. Uninteresting results in good
journals, and many results in most other journals are mostly ignored.
“There seems to be no study too fragmented, no hypothesis too trivial, no
literature citation too biased or too egotistical, no design too warped, no
methodology too bungled, no presentation of results too inaccurate, too
obscure, and too contradictory, no analysis too self-serving, no argument
too circular, no conclusions too trifling or too unjustified, and no
grammar and syntax too offensive for a paper to end up in print.”
D. Rennie,
“Guarding the guardians,”
Journal of the American medical Association,
256(17):2391-2392, 1986.
“Editorial,”
D. Rennie,
Fourth International Congress on Peer Review in Biomedical Publication,
Journal of the American medical Association,
287(21):2759-2760, 2002.
It’s possible that nearly everything produced in
second-tier and lower journals is rubbish, yet even were that true,
it so far doesn’t seem to matter much at all.
Of course, things may change as we approach data-overload.
But by then we’ll have made up penalities for scientific fraud simply
because we’ll have so much data coming out of science and so much of it
will be vitally important in medicine, engineering, and other fields.
Philosophical ideas on what science is have been raging for at least the
last two centuries. Every formal definition that philosophers have come
up with has been shot down in one way or the other.
Scientists, though, still know what constitutes science and what does not.
For two recent contrasting overviews of scientific methods,
see:
“Reflection on rules in science:
an invisible-hand perspective,”
T. C. Leonard,
Journal of Economic Methodology,
9(2):141-168, 2002.
and
“The Invisible Hand and Science,”
P. Ylikoski,
Science Studies,
8(2):32-43, 1995.
Roger Bacon, William of Ockham, then Francis Bacon and later David Hume,
William Whewell, and John Stuart Mill,
and others started the philosophical argument
from the thirteenth to nineteenth centuries,
arguing about the various roles of induction versus deduction.
The three dominant philosophical threads these days are:
Pragmatism, Realism, and (the one that’s ignored by most scientists),
Social Relativism.
Here are a few of the main modern references in the area:
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions,
Thomas S. Kuhn,
University of Chicago Press,
Second Edition, 1970.
The Aim and Structure of Physical Theory,
Pierre Duhem,
Atheneum, 1962.
“Natural Kinds,”
W. V. O. Quine,
in
Ontological Relativity and Other Essays,
Columbia University Press, 1969.
The Logic of Scientific Discovery,
Karl Popper,
Hutchinson,
Sixth Edition, 1974.
Progress and Its Problems,
Lawrence Laudan,
University of California Press, 1977.
“Falsification and the methodology of scientific research
programmes,”
I. Lakatos,
in
Criticism and the Growth of Knowledge,
Imre Lakatos and Alan Musgrave (editors),
Cambridge University Press, 1970.
Against Method,
Paul K. Feyerabend,
Verso, 1975.
Science as a Process:
An Evolutionary Account of the Social
and Conceptual Development of Science,
David Hull,
University of Chicago Press, 1988.
The Semantic Conception of Theories and Scientific Realism,
Frederick Suppe,
University of Illinois Press, 1989.
As usual, there’s a lot of wind out there, but
as the philosophical and sociological arguments rage,
most scientists ignore them as they go on reinventing our universe.
- [waves of the scientific revolution]
-
As in all things we do, 1666 was no sudden flowering in barren earth. Long
before even the sixteenth century, many philosophers, Arabic and
European, had challenged Aristotle on numerous details, but rarely on
the foundations of his whole philosophy. It seemed obvious to all that
Aristotle was right, that the universe was animate and purposeful.
The long philosophic change we now call the scientific revolution started
mainly in the middle and late sixteenth century (after the printing press
in 1452), with Nicolaus Copernicus, Niccolò Tartaglia, Lodovico
Ferrari, Girolamo Cardano, Andreas Vesalius, Giovanni Benedetti, Tycho
Brahe, Giordano Bruno, Simon Stevin, Galileo Galilei, and others. Then,
building on that work, the first big mechanist wave followed in
the early seventeenth century with William Gilbert, Johannes Kepler,
Francis Bacon, Jan van Helmont, William Harvey, René Descartes,
Evangelista Torricelli, Blaise Pascal, Pierre Fermat, Otto Guericke,
John Napier, and others. Then, as young natural philosophers grew up with
the insights of the first two waves, the mechanist tide started to crest
with Robert Boyle, Christopher Wren, Jeremiah Horrocks, Edmond Halley,
Giovanni Cassini, John Wallis, John Flamsteed, Anton van Leeuwenhoek,
Marcello Malphigi, Jacob Bernoulli, Ole Rømer, Christiaan Huygens,
Robert Hooke, Gottfried Leibniz, and Isaac Newton. Newton, born the year
the English Civil War started, and a year after Galileo died (blind,
and under house arrest in Florence) was also lucky enough to concern
himself with physics, the most sharp-edged part of the new natural
philosophy as it is the most universal, the most easily mathematized,
and the most easily tested. Newton was an inheritor as a well as
a creator. (Note:
Many books state that Newton was born the same year that
Galileo died. However, it was actually a full year later. Galileo died
January 8th, 1642. Newton’s birth date is usually given as Christmas
Day, December 25th, 1642, but England was still using the old (Julian)
calendar at the time instead of the new (Gregorian) calendar so on the
continent it was actually 10 days later, January 4th, 1643.)
It’s odd that similar waves of scientific thought had earlier happened
around the eastern Mediterranean over 26 centuries ago. Thales of
Miletus, building on earlier Egyptian and Chaldean mathematics and
astronomy, started the ball rolling, just as Copernicus was to do much
later. Thirty years later came Anaximander, then twenty years after that,
Anaximenes (all from Miletus in today’s Turkey). About fifteen years
after Thales, Pythagoras was born on Samos, 160 kilometers (about 100
miles) from Miletus. He then moved to Croton, in today’s southern Italy,
and his school also flourished. The tradition is that Thales taught
Anaximander, who taught Pythagoras. Then a second wave started with
Anaxagoras and Empedocles, then Democritus, Hippocrates, Socrates, and
Plato, then Aristotle. Then yet another wave with Euclid, Aristarchus,
Archimedes, and Erastothenes. Then it petered out. So perhaps Europe’s
new natural philosophy would have petered out as well, had not an
industrial revolution followed it.
For an interesting theory about this, see
The Forgotten Revolution:
How Science Was Born in 300 BC and Why It Had to Be Reborn,
Lucio Russo,
Birkhäuser, 2004.
- [Newton’s physics]
-
Never At Rest:
A Biography of Isaac Newton,
Richard S. Westfall,
Cambridge University Press, 1980.
The more mathematically interested might try
Huygens and Barrow, Newton and Hooke:
Pioneers in Mathematical Analysis and
Catastrophe Theory from Evolvements to Quasicrystals,
Vladimir I. Arnol’d,
Birkhäuser Verlag, 1990.
The less mathematically interested might try:
Isaac Newton:
The Last Sorcerer,
Michael White,
Fourth Estate, 1997,
or
Isaac Newton,
James Gleick,
Vintage, 2004.
- [mathematics and science]
-
It’s difficult to truly understand modern science without mathematics.
Start with Erastothenes 2,600 years ago putting sticks into the earth at
different places and from their heights and shadow lengths,
and the geometry of similar
triangles, working out the circumference of the earth.
Then take one of the sticks and sketch some crude geometric diagrams
in the dirt with Euclid and discover the proof found by Pythagoras and many
others that
the square of the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle equals the sum of
the squares of the other two sides, a result known to the Mesopotamians
nearly two millennia before Pythagoras, and to the
Indians over 2 millennia ago—and probably the Egyptians and Chinese, too.
From there jump with Descartes
to map a circle centered on two right-angled axes, x and y.
Observe that because of Pythagoras’ theorem,
each point, (x, y), on a circle of radius r must obey the equation:
x2 +
y2 =
r2
Now redraw the circle and axes but on a sheet
of rubber, and pull on the rubber horizontally or vertically and you’ll see
the circle turn into an ellipse. A ellipse is like a circle except with two
focal points instead of one.
All points on that ellipse will obey the more general equation:
(x/a)2 +
(y/b)2 =
1
The constants a and b reflect the amount of
horizontal (x) and vertical (y) distortion that your pulling caused.
Now recall with Kepler, based on Brahe’s observations,
that the planets move in ellipses with
the sun at one of the ellipse’s focal points,
then contemplate that fact with the genius of
a Newton or Hooke or Huygens and deduce that elliptical orbits
imply that the force binding a
planet to the sun must vary in inverse proportion to the square of the
distance between them. Combine that insight with various
estimates we produced over the millennia for the mass of the earth and you can
estimate the mass of the sun.
Now that you have all that, you can predict when the sun
will come up next Tuesday. Once you have good telescopes,
you can then relate the tides on earth to the
orbit of Jupiter.
You can then derive distances, and then deduce, with Rømer,
that light has a
speed—it isn’t instantaneous. You can also predict, with Newton,
that the earth’s poles
must be flattened compared to the earth’s equator.
More than that, though, as you stare at your little diagram
sketched in the sand
you realize that the planets wish to move off in a straight line from their
direction of orbit. Perfect the calculus with Newton or Leibniz and you can
calculate just how much they want to do so. From that you can tell the orbit
of comets, and predict which will hit the earth and which will not.
More prosaically, you can
also tell a cannoneer how to aim his cannon to best destroy his enemy.
You can model many things now that you can integrate as well as differentiate.
You can use your new powers to find the minimum curve of a hanging
chain, or tell the amount of iron you need to make a bell of a given volume,
or derive the speed of a coach from measurements at its axle, or how to shape
a ship’s sail or keel or prow for maximum effect and minimum cost,
or what shape to make a
reflector to best collect light and so make better telescopes or lighthouses.
Link that power to mechanics
and you can derive the strength of various materials even before you create
them, or the mass of a planet you’ve never set foot on. Go far enough down
in size
and you can predict how strong or weak a material will be, how much you need
of it to build a bridge over a certain span that must take a certain weight,
how to build a rocket fast enough to reach orbit. From there you can see,
unhindered by an atmosphere, far enough to imagine and begin to calculate
how far back in time the universe goes.
From scratching simple diagrams in dirt
to understanding the beginning of the universe,
in mathematics everything connects to everything else.
There is a passion here, a wondrous excitement at the relatedness of things,
and a reveling in the ability to play at this level.
Few of us ever gain the mathematical prowess to see all this immense beauty,
but it is there, nonetheless.
And no one knows why.
- [...no one liked it much]
-
The problems of natural philosophy had to do with acceptance, and they
were many—and many are still with us today.
If we’re just a kind of complex
machine, where does God fit? What’s the point of life? What about sin and
free will? If we’re simply acted upon by unwilled forces, how do we assign
praise and blame for our actions? What supports our legal system? And
what do we tell our kids about moral choice? For the few Europeans who
had any idea what the new philosophers were talking about, the new belief
network was just too much. It wasn’t merely that its results were hard to
swallow. (The earth rotated about the sun, you say? And it spins? And it
spins so fast that it bulges? What?) The method itself meant rejecting
everything that everyone was sure of. For one, it meant ignoring dogma,
authority, and spirits, all the things that nearly all of us had believed
for millennia. It further meant replacing them with instruments, math,
and tests—none of which we’re good at. We’re good at biology’s four Fs:
fighting, fleeing, feeding, and, er, reproduction. And it’s good that
we’re good at them. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t be here to whine about
not being good at anything else.
For example, not even Newton liked his own theory.
It’s tempting, and easy, and common,
to make Newton into some sort of scientific
saint. Certainly nearly all the science writings about him make him out to
be such, but that’s far more to do with
what modern scientists and technologists wish to believe about themselves
than anything to do with the real Newton. Like all of us,
Newton was a child of his time.
He was a stupendous thinker, but he still carried a huge and unavoidable set of
assumptions about how the world works, which he inherited from the deep past.
For example, Newton produced many more writings on what we would today call
occult matters than scientific matters. But only the science gets published.
On his death, the Royal Society refused to accept most of his writings and
returned them to his family. Decades later, his first serious editor,
Samuel Horsely, saw the papers and he “slammed shut the lid of the trunk that
held them.”
His papers lived in that trunk until the middle of the twentieth century,
where they were auctioned, and spread piecemeal among many institutions:
Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cambridge, the British Museum, and Jerusalem
University,
most of which wanted nothing to do with the rest of the collection.
John Maynard Keyes then scavenged some of the manuscripts and concluded
that instead of being the first real scientist Newton was “the last of the
magicians.”
Only toward the end of the twentieth century did most of Newton’s
science-related writings
finally see the light of day, and even today, nearly three centuries after
he died, most of his other writings still have not.
For Newton, those writings were at least as important as those we accept
today as ‘scientific.’
All were parts of his carefully
thought-out, and slavishly worked-on, grand unified theory of the universe.
The Birth of Modern Science,
Paolo Rossi,
translated by Cynthia De Nardi Ipsen,
Blackwell, 2000, page 215.
What is true of Newton is also true for all
Europe’s early natural philosophers, including Spinoza, perhaps the most
relentlessly rationalist of them all—at least until Laplace in the late
eighteenth century.
Kepler, for example, devised his system of planetary orbits but named the
thing that moved them the ‘Holy Spirit Force.’ Physics students rarely
hear that he
lived in an era that imprisoned his 73-year-old mother for witchcraft,
and would have burnt her too, were it not for his years-long efforts.
Kepler’s Witch:
An Astronomer’s Discovery of Cosmic Order Amid Religious War, Political
Intrigue, and the Heresy Trial of His Mother,
James A. Connor,
HarperSanFrancisco, 2004.
All that is elided from
physics books as scientists continue to pretend that there is some
deep division between what we can prove about the universe and what we wish to
believe about it.
On the other hand, it is easy to
claim that there is no distinction at all between science
and other ways of understanding the universe, as if science is just some
random collection of made-up stories.
A hilarious recent book of some examples of the extremes
of that particular trend is:
Fashionable Nonsense:
Postmodern Intellectuals’ Abuse of Science,
Alan Sokal and Jean Bricmont,
Picador, 1998.
More generally, though, the following neuroscience book
points out the folly of trying to rigidly separate reason and emotion:
Descartes’ Error:
Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain,
Antonio Damasio,
Grosset/Putnam, 1994.
This desperate need of ours to separate, to make an ‘us’ and a ‘them’ in all
things, is foolishness. But then lacking so very much knowledge of
reality, foolishness must always be the one thing we’re most expert about.
If Newton, or Leibniz, in indeed most natural philosophers of the time,
were alive in today’s secular times, they’d pray for us.
Like Leibniz, and many other proto-scientists,
Newton couldn’t imagine a universe without God. They only argued about how God
manifested. All of their contemporaries, except perhaps Hooke and
maybe Huygens, were theists or, at most, deists.
- [Europe in 1665]
-
In 1665, the series of stupidities and atrocities
that historians now politely call ‘The Thirty Years War’ was just over, but
all Europe still felt its effects. Germania had just lost more than half
its population to war, famine, and disease—perhaps eight million
dead. Poland was a smoking ruin, with millions dead. Ireland, raped by
England, was starving and destitute, with half its population dead, forced
to emigrate, or enslaved in England’s colonies. Mercenary bands, which
were what then passed for armies, roamed Europe, burning and pillaging, raping
and killing. The Inquisition was still tromping around—happily torturing or
burning heretics, Jews, crypto-Jews, Muslims, gypsies, vagrants—all
over Iberia, the small Iberian colonies in Africa and southeast Asia,
and the future Latin America. In the Americas, women were being burned alive
for witchcraft, Africans were beginning to be enslaved and transported by the
million, and genocide against natives in the Americas was just about to begin
in earnest as the new European colonies began to expand—in the north,
the south, in the Caribbean—in Spanish, French, Dutch, Portuguese,
and British Americas.
France, with its enormous wheat fields and army,
was the power in Europe at the time, with land power partly shared by
Sweden and Poland-Lithuania, and sea power going mostly to the
Dutch, English, Portuguese, and Spanish. The Portuguese, though, were just
in the process
of slitting their own economic throats, just as the Spanish had earlier
done, by having the
Inquisition largely destroy their educated commercial class—mostly Jews
and Protestants—and now were rapidly losing trade routes to the Dutch,
who later lost out to the English (hence the series of wars between them
around this time). France, too, had tried to commit
economic suicide in nearly the same way, and had almost succeeded. Its
Protestants, the Huguenots, had been persecuted then massacred, or had
fled to Holland, England, Protestant parts of Germania, South Asia,
or various colonies.
See, for example,
“The Inquisition and the Portuguese Economy,”
L. M. E. Shaw,
Journal of European Economic History,
18(2):415-431, 1989.
“The First Global War:
The Dutch versus Iberia in Asia, Africa and the New World, 1590-1609,”
P. C. Emmer,
e-Journal of Portuguese History,
1(1), 2003.
- [estimates of European readers in 1727]
-
Voltaire, writing after Newton’s funeral, which he attended in 1727—after
fleeing France to escape jealous husbands, several creditors, and
deadly political foes—said that perhaps five percent of Europeans
could read,
and perhaps five percent of that five percent would read philosophy.
(“Divisez le genre humain en vingt parts:
il y en a dix-neuf composées
de ceux qui travaillent de leurs mains, et qui ne sauront jamais s’il y a
un Locke au monde; dans la vingtième partie qui reste,
combien trouve-t-on peu d’hommes qui lisent!
Et parmi ceux qui lisent, il y en a vingt qui lisent des romans,
un qui étudie la philosophie.”)
Lettres Philosophiques,
Voltaire,
Letter 13, circa 1734.
His estimate for all Europe may be reasonable but, acerbic as usual,
he may also have been exaggerating a bit for humorous effect.
England’s literacy rate, at least, was likely higher.
Based on school creation rates and percentages of people who could sign
their names on official documents,
Cressy estimates that about 25 percent of the
English population were literate by 1665.
And that was a big step up, because
in Henry VII’s time (around 1520),
90 percent of men and 99 percent
of women were illiterate. By 1642, over 70 percent of men
and 90 percent of women were still illiterate.
Of course, Voltaire may still have been correct, since ‘literacy’ can mean
many things. Just because someone can, with effort, pick our printed words,
doesn’t mean that they regularly read books—or even can read handwriting,
for that matter.
Further, literacy was (and is)
strongly related to urban versus rural divisions and
to class (and income) divisions.
In Norwich at the time, for example,
98 percent of the gentry could sign their names, compared to 65
percent of yeomen, 56 percent of tradesmen, 21 percent of husbandsmen, 18
percent of servants, and 15 percent of laborers.
Literacy and the Social Order—Reading and Writing in Tudor and Stuart
England,
David Cressy,
Cambridge University Press, 1980.
- [Surrey woman gives birth to rabbits]
-
The Girl Who Gave Birth to Rabbits:
A True medical Mystery,
Clifford A. Pickover,
Prometheus Books, 2000.
- [communication was difficult in Newton’s time]
-
That summer, the summer of 1666, one of those natural philosophers,
Isaac Newton, was just 23. Long-distance data exchange was hard in his
time compared to today, but the cheap books produced by two centuries
of the printing press had eased it. Also thanks to the press, and the
spread of Arabic and Greek ideas it had encouraged, he’d inherited over
two millennia of Eurasian thought about nature. Also thanks to the press,
and the literacy it spread, he was part of a network of dozens of new
thinkers, powered by the new books and the growing postal service. Their
musings about the force that kept the heavens together had shaped
his thought. Also thanks to the press, he’d been taught the best math
available at the time, including an early version of calculus. Armed with
all that, plus his own immense genius, he began to think about gravity as
a force, a force extending at least as far as the moon. He began to grasp
the entirety of the cosmos—falling apples, circling moons, orbiting
planets, shooting stars, spinning suns, spiraling galaxies, everything.
Even with the printing press,
paper was still expensive in England.
Newton, from a fairly well-to-do farming family (they owned several sheep
and had tenant farmers) rejoiced that when his stepfather died
he inherited a large notebook. Newton wrote small and made it last for
many years.
Translations, too, were uncommon,
so even though Galileo, for example, had written several books in the
early seventeenth century,
he wrote most of them in Italian, which few in England could
read. Even when Latin translations existed, foreign books in England
were expensive and closely guarded.
Even when books were easily available, you still
had to travel to cities to get them. And in those days, a good rider on
a fresh horse traveling a safe road on a fair day would be lucky to do
65 kilometers (about 40 miles) that day.
Further, while travel by sea was faster,
at sea you also had to worry about pirates—for example,
Isaac Barrow,
Newton’s tutor at Cambridge,
fought pirates after being boarded in the Mediterranean sea.
What made Europe’s
new natural philosophy go was a few cheap printed pamphlets,
plus the new clubs
and coffehouses, and a postal service supporting letters between savants,
with good translators in each country. That, plus the printing press, the
lens, the clock, and the growing importance of trade, started the philosophic
fire.
- [“shoulders of giants”]
-
“But in ye meane time you defer too much to my ability for searching into
this subject [optics]. What Des-Cartes did was a good step. You have added
much
several ways, & especially in taking ye colours of thin plates into
philosophical consideration. If I have seen further it is by standing on ye
sholders of Giants.”
Newton to Hooke, February 15th, 1676.
The Forgotten Genius:
The Biography of Robert Hooke 1635-1703,
Stephen Inwood,
MacAdam Cage, 2003, page 216.
Originally published as
The Man Who Knew Too Much,
Macmillan, 2002.
(Note:
The letter itself was dated as ‘5 February 1675.’
The (old) Julian Calendar was still in use in England at that time.)
The quote’s originator,
Bernard of Chartres, was
a Breton monk who ran the Chartres cathedral school in France from
1114 to 1124.
Merton traces the quote’s history forward from the twelfth century,
and backward to Priscian, a sixth-century Constantinople grammarian,
whose grammar Bernard had followed assiduously.
On the Shoulders of Giants:
A Shandean Postscript,
The Post-Italianate Edition,
Robert K. Merton,
Chicago University Press, 1993.
- [Greek myth of Orion]
-
In one (of many) versions of the Orion myth,
Poseidon’s giant son, Orion, who gives his name today
to the constellation of the hunter,
tried to rape Merope and her father blinded him, after which Hephaestus,
gave him one of his men, Kedalion, to carry on his shoulders to see for
him.
Bulfinch’s Mythology,
The Age of Fable or Stories of Gods and Heroes,
Thomas Bulfinch, 1855.
But of course the story of this ancient idea may not originate there.
Or it may have, but may go even further back in time. Who knows.
- [myth speaks of us]
-
Or, as Aristotle says,
“... it is not the function of the poet to relate what has happened,
but what may happen,—what is possible according to the law of probability
or
necessity.
The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose.
The work of Herodotus might be put into verse,
and it would still be a species of history,
with meter no less than without it.
The true difference is
that one relates what has happened, the other what may happen.
Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history:
for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular.”
Poetics,
1451a, Section I, Part IX,
S. H. Butcher Translation,
Macmillan, 1898, page 35.
- [Newton built on others]
-
One example should suffice. Isaac Barrow, Newton’s tutor, gave a series
of 13 lectures, which Newton attended, just before 1665, the year Newton,
driven off by the plague left Cambridge for Woolsthorpe and invented the
calculus.
In Barrow’s lectures, later published as
Lectiones Mathematicae
in 1683,
he showed how to crudely derive tangents to curves,
find the length of curves, and
find the areas below them (three typical applications of what we today call
the calculus).
Here is a simplified example in modern terms:
Barrow, wishing to show how to
calculate the slope of the tangent to the curve:
x2 +
y2 =
r2
(that is, a circle) considered the point (x, y) on the curve and a nearby
point (x + Dx, y + Dy) where Dx and Dy are extremely small.
Since the second point is also on the circle, then:
(x + Dx)2 +
(y + Dy)2 =
r2
So
x2 +
2xDx +
Dx2 +
y2 +
2yDy +
Dy2 =
r2
But since (x, y) is a point on the circle, we can subtract the first
equation to get:
2xDx +
Dx2 +
2yDy +
Dy2 =
0
Now he discards all terms involving higher powers or products of Dx or Dy
on the grounds that since they are each small, powers of them are negligible.
Thus giving:
2xDx + 2yDy = 0
So
Dy/Dx = -x/y
which is the slope of the tangent of the circle at the point (x, y).
The History of Mathematics:
An Introduction,
David M. Burton,
Allyn and Bacon, 1985, pages 364-365.
This argument is not rigorous to modern mathematical eyes, but
its shape is clear and it is substantially what we do today.
Of course, Barrow didn’t see that this idea can be generalized quite
considerably to do more powerful things, while Newton did.
But then, so did Leibniz.
Barrow himself was hoeing a furrow well traveled by many long before
him—Archimedes, for example, who, two millennia before,
estimated the area of a circle (and
other areas, surfaces, and volumes) with
a very early form of integration (he approximated the circle with
triangulation and dissection).
But the seventeenth century
was when the true explosion began with Johannes Kepler, Pierre Fermat,
Gilles Roberval, and Bonaventura Cavalieri.
A case could even be made that Fermat, not Newton and Leibniz, invented
the calculus first.
The Historical Development of the Calculus,
Charles Henry Edwards, Jr.,
Springer-Verlag, 1979.
“Precalculus, 1635-1665,”
K. Andersen,
in
Companion Encyclopedia of the History and Philosophy
of the Mathematical Sciences,
I. Grattan-Guinness (editor),
Routledge, 1994, pages 292-307.
- [science grew for political reasons]
-
Besides the practical side of new tools and weapons,
newly rich merchants, made fat with Europe’s growing trade,
slave income, finance, and industry, were some of the earliest adopters of
the new mechanical idea. Not that they much cared if it was true or not;
adopting it was just one more way to distinguish themselves. They were
out shopping for family heirlooms to fake a landed ancestry. This was just
more of the same. The new belief network also fit with their aspirations
better than did the old worldview that their lords spiritual and temporal
still clung to. So as they gained power, the new ideas spread.
- [even politicians and poets...]
-
For example, Newton died in 1727. In 1730 Alexander Pope composed the
following epitaph for his monument at Westminster Abbey:
“Quem Immortalem /
Testantur Tempus, Natura, Cœlum: /
Mortalem /
Hoc Marmor fatetur. /
Nature, and Nature’s Laws, lay hid in Night. /
God said, Let Newton be!, and All was Light.”
The Poems of Alexander Pope,
John Butt (editor),
Routledge, 1966, page 808.
- [Adam Smith inspired by Isaac Newton]
-
“Essay on the History of Astronomy,”
Adam Smith,
in
The Early Writings of Adam Smith,
J. R. Lindgren (editor),
Kelley, 1967.
- [Newtonianism not accepted at first]
-
Newton’s contemporaries were not wrong to be squeamish about some of his
ideas. For example, he postulated that gravity acted instantaneously across
any distance.
That’s wrong.
Since Einstein, we now know that the force of gravity is transmitted
at the speed of light.
Further, even today we still haven’t
found the graviton, the particle we believe should carry
the force of gravity, and our
current theories of quantum gravity are still more wish than reality.
The best candidate so far is string theory, and it is, so far,
completely untestable.
It’s not physics; it’s poetry.
Finally, physics today now has to contend with true
instantaneous action-at-a-distance.
Alain Aspect’s experiment showed spacelike coupling of paired photons,
thus invalidating the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen (or EPR) paradox.
“Experimental test of Bell’s Inequalities using Time-Varying Analyzers,”
A. Aspect, J. Dalibard, G. Roger,
Physical Review Letters,
49(25):1804-1807, 1982.
We have no idea what this means yet.
- [...began to believe problems were solvable]
-
Seventeenth century natural philosophy did something far more important
than simply clearing up some of our misunderstandings about gravity—it
created for the ambitious a wholly new career, natural philosophy. Instead
of being the idle hobby of a few rich or extremely bright dabblers spread
over centuries, what we would one day call science
was beginning to grow into a field, a field that
the clever children of the rising merchant class could get jobs in.
Although England’s new Royal Society, created in 1660,
was stuffed with noble twits,
almost none of the productive natural philosophers we remember today
were from the moribund Anglican
universities, Oxford and Cambridge, which at the time were mainly
sink-holes for educating the clergy and the more useless children of the
nobility. And almost all of them were non-Anglican Protestants, desperate
for a way to gain power in a society otherwise closed to them. Which
is perhaps a clue to why natural philosophy became a vogue in Europe
around the same time as Europe was inventing modern banking, and while
its stock markets were beginning to grow, and while women were first
allowed on stage in the largest cities, and while, in those same cities,
newly rich merchants were out shopping for family heirlooms to fake an
ancestry.
The merchant class was rising relative to the nobility and clergy
in agrarian Europe, like magma seeking any way up through a mantle of
cracking rock. The steam engine, first created by Thomas Savery in 1698,
was only one of many blooms to emerge from the new natural philosophic
way of thought. Natural philosophers at last had enough tools to began
to build on each other, erecting a new kind of thing, a nest for the
mind to clamber around in. A few of us in Paris, Amsterdam, Leipzig,
and London started questioning our ages-old explanations for how matter
moved and what made up the world we lived in, both in the large and
in the small. Natural philosophers, massing on each other’s insights,
were coming up with new ideas, and more importantly, new instruments
to measure the world, and new machines to begin to change it. But that
was still in the future. At this time, 1666, while there were changes
in London, most of the rest of England, Cornwall, Wales, and Scotland,
with the exception of a few stray sparks in small towns like Edinburgh,
Manchester, and Birmingham, were still deep in the agrarian world that
had lasted for at least the last 6,000 years.
- [broadening impact of science]
-
Many scribblers now reasoned that since Newton had found universal
laws for all material bodies, perhaps there were universal laws for all
human groups too. Voltaire, Montesquieu, Turgot, Condorcet, and many
others in France, Scotland, Germany, then all over Europe and British
America, drooled at the thought of fundamental insight, followed
by fundamental change. Maybe, they thought, Europe’s incessant
warfare, poverty, cruelty, slavery, and corruption could actually
change. A new field, called ‘social physics,’ ‘the social art,’ or
‘the science of man,’ and today known as sociology, was born. A new
literature, ‘the tale of futurity,’ today known as science fiction,
also was born. And the incense of a new sacred idea, ‘progress,’ began
to fill the air outside the new laboratories.
The newly optimistic tone shifted after a major earthquake destroyed
Lisbon in 1755. The usual cruelties, wars, and slaughters didn’t help
either. (To give some vague idea of the era, in 1718 Peter I, Czar
of Russia, tortured and killed his own son.) But still an irrepressible
Voltaire would write in 1756 that “reason and industry will always bring
about new progress.” However, he also covered his bets in 1759 by making
Candide ping-pong between Pangloss and Martin. By 1783, he was five years
dead when British America became the United States of America. Its whole
system of government came to be based on the new ideas, the first time
that happened. That same year, perhaps four hundred thousand Parisians,
about half the city, crammed themselves into the Tuileries Gardens. They
were there to watch two men ascend in a balloon, like godlings spurning
the earth. The news stunned both Europe and the brand new United
States. That, plus two other new amusements—electricity and ‘animal
magnetism’—convinced Europe’s few urbanites, male and female, young
and old, that they would soon be living in a new age. Now not just the
strange new natural philosophers, or their new mercantile or political
hangers on, but anyone who could afford the coin to see the new marvels
stood agape, dreaming of yet another new thing: ‘the future.’ Then,
just ten years later, the guillotine began to fall, the tumbril to roll,
and the gutters to run with blood. The Terror had come.
Voltaire on progress:
Quoted in
The Idea of Progress:
An Inquiry into Its Origin and Growth,
John Bagnell Bury,
Kessinger Publishing, Reprint Edition, 2004, page 99.
As in most things mentioned in the text,
the idea of progress itself has a quite complicated history.
For more background see also:
The Idea of Progress:
History and Society,
Sidney Pollard,
Pelican Books, 1971.
History of the Idea of Progress,
Robert Nisbet,
Basic Books, 1980.
Balloon ascent on December 1st, 1783:
The Pattern of Expectation, 1644-2001,
I. F. Clarke,
Jonathan Cape, 1979, pages 29-30.
Popular Science And Public Opinion in Eighteenth-century France,
Michael R. Lynn,
Manchester University Press, 2006, page 126.
The impact of balloons on Europe: The following might give some idea of
the tenor of the times: “Balloons occupy senators, philosophers,
ladies, everybody.... When the arts are brought to such perfection in
Europe, who would go, like Sir Joseph Banks, in search of islands in the
Atlantic, where the natives in six thousand years have not improved the
science of carving fishing-hooks out of bones or flints! Well! I hope
these new mechanic meteors will prove only playthings for the learned
and the idle, and not be converted into new engines of destruction to
the human race, as is so often the case of refinements or discoveries
in science.”
From
“Letter 2283, to Sir Horace Mann, December 2, 1783,”
in
The Letters of Horace Walpole, Fourth Earl of Orford,
Horace Walpole,
Peter Cunningham (editor),
Volume VIII,
Richard Bentley and Son, 1891,
page 438.
- [London in 1665-1666]
-
In the summer of 1665, the summer before Newton’s first real insight,
London’s weather was hot and dry. That summer the English were at war with
the Dutch when plague once again came to London. Everyone who could flee,
fled, leaving the poor to die. Perhaps 80,000 did. London remembers it
as the Great Plague. That winter, with Europe still in the grip of the
Little Ice Age, a cold snap froze the Thames up to London Bridge. It
was London’s Great Frost. That in turn stopped London’s lifeblood,
river trade. Then another hot, dry summer brought drought. With it, came
rising food prices, then starvation. Meanwhile, the heat thoroughly dried
out the city’s splay-shouldered, wattle-and-daub buildings. That fall,
a burning bakery set fire to the whole city. Perhaps 70,000 Londoners
went homeless. It was the Great Fire of London. That winter came another
Great Frost, and cheap coal for fuel and grain for food vanished. Tens of
thousands of Londoners, freezing, starving, homeless, fled into Moorfields
and Finsbury Fields to the north. War, plague, drought, fire, frost—for
many Londoners, 1666 signaled the beginning of the end of the world.
- [plague in 1665 London]
-
The figure of 80,000 deaths is a guesstimate, although widely reported.
(However, Moote and Moote, below, report “nearly 100,000”.)
The bills of mortality for each parish in London account for 68,561 deaths
from plague in 1665. That, however, doesn’t count all those deaths that
went unreported—which likely was very many, considering
what happened if you reported having a plague
victim in the family. Any identified victim’s house was nailed shut, with
the entire family still inside, and left for 40 days,
often without food, until they all died, or miraculously survived.
The city itself was also sealed off, with anyone wishing to leave having
to get a pass, and few were given. Forgeries flourished.
A Journal of the Plague Year:
being observations or memorials of the
most remarkable occurrences, as well public as private, which happened in
London during the last great visitation in 1665. Written by a Citizen who
continued all the while in London. Never made public before.
Daniel Defoe, 1722,
Anthony Burgess and Christopher Bristow (editors),
Penguin, Reprint Edition, 1966.
Fires burned in front of every twelfth house to ward off the plague, and
10,000 people lived on boats in the Thames, hoping to avoid the plague.
London was a ghostcity that summer and fall.
“A letter of an eyewitness,”
by John Allin, reprinted in
Unknown London,
Walter George Bell,
John Lane, 1919.
The Great Plague:
The Story of London’s Most Deadly Year,
A. Lloyd Moote and Dorothy C. Moote,
The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006.
The plague didn’t end in 1665. Winter
killed off many of the rats carrying it,
but it resurged the following spring.
The 1665 plague also visited other places in England besides London (not
counting its continental toll). York, for example, was particularly hard
hit.
Finally, plague was no stranger in London. Ever since 1348 it had been
taking lives almost yearly, some years more than others.
In 1563, 1603, and 1625, in particular, it had taken between a fifth and a
quarter of all London.
The plague usually peaked in August or September, after the harvest,
especially after hot summers.
For epidemiology of the 1665 plague visit, see
“Plague in London:
spatial and temporal aspects of mortality,”
G. Twigg,
Epidemic Disease in London,
J. A. I. Champion (editor),
Centre for Metropolitan History Working Papers Series,
Number 1, pages 1-17, 1993.
- [fire in 1666 London]
-
The Dreadful Judgement:
The True Story of the Great Fire of London 1666,
Neil Hanson,
Doubleday, 2001.
By Permission of Heaven:
The Story of the Great Fire of London,
Adrian Tinniswood,
Jonathan Cape, 2003.
- [famine in England near 1665]
-
Around that time, England experienced bad harvests or actual famine in
1623, 1630, 1647-49, 1661 and during the 1690s.
Famine in Tudor and Stuart England,
Andrew B. Appleby,
Stanford University Press, 1978.
The earlier famines of 1543 to 1586
had led to the Poor Laws,
which in turn led to severe restrictions on travel in England.
The poor needed a pass to move from one place to another
because no parish would support non-residents.
Unmarried pregnant women were treated worst of all,
since they were the least able to work and the most expensive to support.
This continued for centuries.
- [London weather in 1665-1666]
-
Drawn from the diaries and letters of Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn.
The Diary of Samuel Pepys,
Richard le Gallienne (editor),
Modern Library Edition, 2001.
(Note:
Samuel Pepys liked the ladies.
This is the bowdlerized edition;
for the juicy details, see
Samuel Pepys The Unequalled Self,
Claire Tomalin,
Vintage, 2003.
The edition by Richard Latham and William Matthews (in 11 volumes)
records his coded entries, but does not explain them.)
Particular Friends:
The Correspondence of Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn,
Guy de la Bédoyère (editor),
Boydell and Brewer, Woodbridge, 1997.
The Diary of John Evelyn,
Guy de la Bédoyère (editor),
Boydell and Brewer, Woodbridge, 1995.
The Diary of John Evelyn,
Esmond S. de Beer (editor),
six volumes,
Clarendon Press, 1955.
- [plague, famine, and cold in London]
-
Europe in 1665 still
languished in the Little Ice Age and the same sequence of events, almost
exactly, had happened before in 1607-08, with insurrections fueled by
famine and enclosures in the spring; plague killing thousands and closing
the theaters and putting Shakespeare out of work in the hot dry summer;
and a great frost freezing the Thames in the winter, with ships frozen
in ice kilometers out into the North Sea.
That was the world that the Puritans who eventually saw Plymouth Rock fled.