Buckle Henry Thomas
History of Civilization in England, Vol. 2 of 3
Whoever has reflected much on the different stages through which our knowledge has successively passed, must, I think, be led to the conclusion, that while fully recognizing the great merit of these investigators of the animal frame, our highest admiration ought to be reserved not for those who make the discoveries, but rather for those who point out how the discoveries are to be made.1109 When the true path of inquiry has once been indicated, the rest is comparatively easy. The beaten highway is always open; and the difficulty is, not to find those who will travel the old road, but those who will make a fresh one. Every age produces in abundance men of sagacity and of considerable industry, who, while perfectly competent to increase the details of a science, are unable to extend its distant boundaries. This is because such extension must be accompanied by a new method,1110 which, to be valuable as well as new, supposes on the part of its suggester, not only a complete mastery over the resources of his subject, but also the possession of originality and comprehensiveness, – the two rarest forms of human genius. In this consists the real difficulty of every great pursuit. As soon as any department of knowledge has been generalized into laws, it contains, either in itself or in its applications, three distinct branches; namely, inventions, discoveries, and method. Of these, the first corresponds to art; the second to science; and the third to philosophy. In this scale, inventions have by far the lowest place, and minds of the highest order are rarely occupied by them. Next in the series come discoveries; and here the province of intellect really begins, since here the first attempt is made to search after truth on its own account, and to discard those practical considerations to which inventions are of necessity referred. This is science properly so called; and how difficult it is to reach this stage, is evident from the fact, that all half-civilized nations have made many great inventions, but no great discoveries. The highest, however, of all the three stages, is the philosophy of method, which bears the same relation to science that science bears to art. Of its immense, and indeed supreme importance, the annals of knowledge supply abundant evidence; and for want of it, some very great men have effected absolutely nothing, consuming their lives in fruitless industry, not because their labour was slack, but because their method was sterile. The progress of every science is affected more by the scheme according to which it is cultivated, than by the actual ability of the cultivators themselves. If they who travel in an unknown country, spend their force in running on the wrong road, they will miss the point at which they aim, and perchance may faint and fall by the way. In that long and difficult journey after truth, which the human mind has yet to perform, and of which we in our generation can only see the distant prospect, it is certain that success will depend not on the speed with which men hasten in the path of inquiry, but rather on the skill with which that path is selected for them by those great and comprehensive thinkers, who are as the lawgivers and founders of knowledge; because they supply its deficiencies, not by investigating particular difficulties, but by establishing some large and sweeping innovation, which opens up a new vein of thought, and creates fresh resources, which it is left for their posterity to work out and apply.
It is from this point of view that we are to rate the value of Bichat, whose works, like those of all men of the highest eminence, – like those of Aristotle, Bacon, and Descartes, – mark an epoch in the history of the human mind; and as such, can only be fairly estimated by connecting them with the social and intellectual condition of the age in which they appeared. This gives an importance and a meaning to the writings of Bichat, of which few indeed are fully aware. The two greatest recent discoveries respecting the classification of animals are, as we have just seen, the result of his teaching; but his influence has produced other effects still more momentous. He, aided by Cabanis, rendered to physiology the incalculable service, of preventing it from participating in that melancholy reaction to which France was exposed early in the nineteenth century. This is too large a subject to discuss at present; but I may mention, that when Napoleon, not from feelings of conviction, but for selfish purposes of his own, attempted to restore the power of ecclesiastical principles, the men of letters, with disgraceful subserviency, fell into his view; and there began a marked decline in that independent and innovating spirit, with which during fifty years the French had cultivated the highest departments of knowledge. Hence that metaphysical school arose, which, though professing to hold aloof from theology, was intimately allied with it; and whose showy conceits form, in their ephemeral splendour, a striking contrast to the severer methods followed in the preceding generation.1111 Against this movement, the French physiologists have, as a body, always protested; and it may be clearly proved that their opposition, which even the great abilities of Cuvier were unable to win over, is partly due to the impetus given by Bichat, in enforcing in his own pursuit the necessity of rejecting those assumptions by which metaphysicians and theologians seek to control every science. As an illustration of this I may mention two facts worthy of note. The first is, that in England, where during a considerable period the influence of Bichat was scarcely felt, many, even of our eminent physiologists, have shown a marked disposition to ally themselves with the reactionary party; and have not only opposed such novelties as they could not immediately explain, but have degraded their own noble science by making it a handmaid to serve the purposes of natural theology. The other fact is, that in France the disciples of Bichat have, with scarcely an exception, rejected the study of final causes, to which the school of Cuvier still adheres: while as a natural consequence, the followers of Bichat are associated in geology with the doctrine of uniformity; in zoology, with that of the transmutation of species; and in astronomy, with the nebular hypothesis: vast and magnificent schemes, under whose shelter the human mind seeks an escape from that dogma of interference, which the march of knowledge every where reduces, and the existence of which is incompatible with those conceptions of eternal order, towards which, during the last two centuries, we have been constantly tending.
These great phenomena, which the French intellect presents, and of which I have only sketched a rapid outline, will be related with suitable detail in the latter part of this work, when I shall examine the present condition of the European mind, and endeavour to estimate its future prospects. To complete, however, our appreciation of Bichat, it will be necessary to take notice of what some consider the most valuable of all his productions, in which he aimed at nothing less than an exhaustive generalization of the functions of life. It appears, indeed, to me, that in many important points Bichat here fell short; but the work itself still stands alone, and is so striking an instance of the genius of the author, that I will give a short account of its fundamental views.
Life considered as a whole has two distinct branches;1112 one branch being characteristic of animals, the other of vegetables. That which is confined to animals is called animal life; that which is common both to animals and vegetables is called organic life. While, therefore, plants have only one life, man has two distinct lives, which are governed by entirely different laws, and which, though intimately connected, constantly oppose each other. In the organic life, man exists solely for himself; in the animal life he comes in contact with others. The functions of the first are purely internal, those of the second are external. His organic life is limited to the double process of creation and destruction: the creative process being that of assimilation, as digestion, circulation, and nutrition; the destructive process being that of excretion, such as exhalation and the like. This is what man has in common with plants; and of this life he, when in a natural state, is unconscious. But the characteristic of his animal life is consciousness, since by it he is made capable of moving, of feeling, of judging. By virtue of the first life he is merely a vegetable; by the addition of the second he becomes an animal.
If now we look at the organs by which in man the functions of these two lives are carried on, we shall be struck by the remarkable fact, that the organs of his vegetable life are very irregular, those of his animal life very symmetrical. His vegetative, or organic, life is conducted by the stomach, the intestines, and the glandular system in general, such as the liver and the pancreas; all of which are irregular, and admit of the greatest variety of form and development, without their functions being seriously disturbed. But in his animal life the organs are so essentially symmetrical, that a very slight departure from the ordinary type impairs their action.1113 Not only the brain, but also the organs of sense, as the eyes, the nose, the ears, are perfectly symmetrical; and they as well as the other organs of animal life, as the feet and hands, are double, presenting on each side of the body two separate parts which correspond with each other, and produce a symmetry unknown to our vegetative life, the organs of which are, for the most part, merely single, as in the stomach, liver, pancreas, and spleen.1114
From this fundamental difference between the organs of the two lives, there have arisen several other differences of great interest. Our animal life being double, while our organic life is single, it becomes possible for the former life to take rest, that is, stop part of its functions for a time, and afterwards renew them. But in organic life, to stop is to die. The life, which we have in common with vegetables, never sleeps; and if its movements entirely cease only for a single instant, they cease for ever. That process by which our bodies receive some substances and give out others, admits of no interruption; it is, by its nature, incessant, because, being single, it can never receive supplementary aid. The other life we may refresh, not only in sleep, but even when we are awake. Thus we can exercise the organs of movement while we rest the organs of thought; and it is even possible to relieve a function while we continue to employ it, because, our animal life being double, we are able for a short time, in case of one of its parts being fatigued, to avail ourselves of the corresponding part; using, for instance, a single eye or a single arm, in order to rest the one which circumstances may have exhausted; an expedient which the single nature of organic life entirely prevents.1115
Our animal life being thus essentially intermittent, and our organic life being essentially continuous,1116 it has necessarily followed that the first is capable of an improvement of which the second is incapable. There can be no improvement without comparison, since it is only by comparing one state with another that we can rectify previous errors, and avoid future ones. Now, our organic life does not admit of such comparison, because, being uninterrupted, it is not broken into stages, but when unchequered by disease, runs on in dull monotony. On the other hand, the functions of our animal life, such as thought, speech, sight, and motion, cannot be long exercised without rest; and as they are constantly suspended, it becomes practicable to compare them, and, therefore, to improve them. It is by possessing this resource that the first cry of the infant gradually rises into the perfect speech of the man, and the unformed habits of early thought are ripened into that maturity which nothing can give but a long series of successive efforts.1117 But our organic life, which we have in common with vegetables, admits of no interruption, and consequently of no improvement. It obeys its own laws; but it derives no benefit from that repetition to which animal life is exclusively indebted. Its functions, such as nutrition and the like, exist in man several months before he is born, and while, his animal life not having yet begun, the faculty of comparison, which is the basis of improvement, is impossible.1118 And although, as the human frame increases in size, its vegetative organs become larger, it cannot be supposed that their functions really improve, since, in ordinary cases, their duties are performed as regularly and as completely in childhood as in middle age.1119
Thus it is, that although other causes conspire, it may be said that the progressiveness of animal life is due to its intermittence; the unprogressiveness of organic life to its continuity. It may, moreover, be said, that the intermittence of the first life results from the symmetry of its organs, while the continuity of the second life results from their irregularity. To this wide and striking generalization, many objections may be made, some of them apparently insuperable; but that it contains the germs of great truths I entertain little doubt, and, at all events, it is certain that the method cannot be too highly praised, for it unites the study of function and structure with that of embryology, of vegetable physiology, of the theory of comparison, and of the influence of habit; a vast and magnificent field, which the genius of Bichat was able to cover, but of which, since him, neither physiologists nor metaphysicians have even attempted a general survey.
This stationary condition, during the present century, of a subject of such intense interest, is a decisive proof of the extraordinary genius of Bichat; since, notwithstanding the additions made to physiology, and to every branch of physics connected with it, nothing has been done at all comparable to that theory of life which he, with far inferior resources, was able to construct. This stupendous work he left, indeed, very imperfect; but even in its deficiencies we see the hand of the great master, whom, on his own subject, no one has yet approached. His essay on life may well be likened to those broken fragments of ancient art, which, imperfect as they are, still bear the impress of the inspiration which gave them birth, and present in each separate part that unity of conception which to us makes them a complete and living whole.
From the preceding summary of the progress of physical knowledge, the reader may form some idea of the ability of those eminent men who arose in France during the latter half of the eighteenth century. To complete the picture, it is only necessary to examine what was done in the two remaining branches of natural history, namely, botany and mineralogy, in both of which the first great steps towards raising each study to a science were taken by Frenchmen a few years before the Revolution.
In botany, although our knowledge of particular facts has, during the last hundred years, rapidly increased,1120 we are only possessed of two generalizations wide enough to be called laws of nature. The first generalization concerns the structure of plants; the other concerns their physiology. That concerning their physiology is the beautiful morphological law, according to which the different appearance of the various organs arises from arrested development: the stamens, pistils, corolla, calyx, and bracts being simple modifications or successive stages of the leaf. This is one of many valuable discoveries we owe to Germany; it being made by Göthe late in the eighteenth century.1121 With its importance every botanist is familiar; while to the historian of the human mind it is peculiarly interesting, as strengthening that great doctrine of development, towards which the highest branches of knowledge are now hastening, and which, in the present century, has been also carried into one of the most difficult departments of animal physiology.1122
But the most comprehensive truth with which we are acquainted respecting plants, is that which includes the whole of their general structure; and this we learnt from those great Frenchmen who, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, began to study the external world. The first steps were taken directly after the middle of the century, by Adanson, Duhamel de Monceau, and, above all, Desfontaines; three eminent thinkers, who proved the practicability of a natural method hitherto unknown, and of which even Ray himself had only a faint perception.1123 This, by weakening the influence of the artificial system of Linnæus,1124 prepared the way for an innovation more complete than has been effected in any other branch of knowledge. In the very year in which the Revolution occurred, Jussieu put forward a series of botanical generalizations, of which the most important are all intimately connected, and still remain the highest this department of inquiry has reached.1125 Among these, I need only mention the three vast propositions which are now admitted to form the basis of vegetable anatomy. The first is, that the vegetable kingdom, in its whole extent, is composed of plants either with one cotyledon, or with two cotyledons, or else with no cotyledon at all. The second proposition is, that this classification, so far from being artificial, is strictly natural; since it is a law of nature, that plants having one cotyledon are endogenous, and grow by additions made to the centre of their stems, while, on the other hand, plants having two cotyledons are exogenous, and are compelled to grow by additions made, not to the centre of their stems, but to the circumference.1126 The third proposition is, that when plants grow at their centre, the arrangement of the fruit and leaves is threefold; when, however, they grow at the circumference, it is nearly always fivefold.1127
This is what was effected by the Frenchmen of the eighteenth century for the vegetable kingdom:1128 and if we now turn to the mineral kingdom, we shall find that our obligations to them are equally great. The study of minerals is the most imperfect of the three branches of natural history, because, notwithstanding its apparent simplicity, and the immense number of experiments which have been made, the true method of investigation has not yet been ascertained; it being doubtful whether mineralogy ought to be subordinated to the laws of chemistry, or to those of crystallography, or whether both sets of laws will have to be considered.1129 At all events it is certain that, down to the present time, chemistry has shown itself unable to reduce mineralogical phenomena; nor has any chemist, possessing sufficient powers of generalization, attempted the task except Berzelius; and most of his conclusions were overthrown by the splendid discovery of isomorphism, for which, as is well known, we are indebted to Mitscherlich, one of the many great thinkers Germany has produced.1130
Although the chemical department of mineralogy is in an unformed and indeed anarchical condition, its other department, namely, crystallography, has made great progress; and here again the earliest steps were taken by two Frenchmen, who lived in the latter half of the eighteenth century. About 1760, Romé De Lisle1131 set the first example of studying crystals, according to a scheme so large as to include all the varieties of their primary forms, and to account for their irregularities, and the apparent caprice with which they were arranged. In this investigation he was guided by the fundamental assumption, that what is called an irregularity, is in truth perfectly regular, and that the operations of nature are invariable.1132 Scarcely had this great idea been applied to the almost innumerable forms into which minerals crystallize, when it was followed up with still larger resources by Haüy, another eminent Frenchman.1133 This remarkable man achieved a complete union between mineralogy and geometry; and, bringing the laws of space to bear on the molecular arrangements of matter, he was able to penetrate into the intimate structure of crystals.1134 By this means, he succeeded in proving that the secondary forms of all crystals are derived from their primary forms by a regular process of decrement;1135 and that, when a substance is passing from a liquid to a solid state, its particles are compelled to cohere, according to a scheme which provides for every possible change, since it includes even those subsequent layers which alter the ordinary type of the crystal, by disturbing its natural symmetry.1136 To ascertain that such violations of symmetry are susceptible of mathematical calculation, was to make a vast addition to our knowledge; but what seems to me still more important is, that it indicates an approach to the magnificent idea, that every thing which occurs is regulated by law, and that confusion and disorder are impossible.1137 For, by proving that even the most uncouth and singular forms of minerals are the natural results of their antecedents, Haüy laid the foundation of what may be called the pathology of the inorganic world. However paradoxical such a notion may seem, it is certain that symmetry is to crystals what health is to animals; so that an irregularity of shape in the first, corresponds with an appearance of disease in the second.1138 When, therefore, the minds of men became familiarized with the great truth, that in the mineral kingdom there is, properly speaking, no irregularity, it became more easy for them to grasp the still higher truth, that the same principle holds good of the animal kingdom, although, from the superior complexity of the phenomena, it will be long before we can arrive at an equal demonstration. But, that such a demonstration is possible, is the principle upon which the future progress of all organic, and indeed of all mental science, depends. And it is very observable, that the same generation which established the fact, that the apparent aberrations presented by minerals are strictly regular, also took the first steps towards establishing the far higher fact, that the aberrations of the human mind are governed by laws as unfailing as those which determine the condition of inert matter. The examination of this would lead to a digression foreign to my present design; but I may mention that, at the end of the century, there was written in France the celebrated treatise on insanity, by Pinel; a work remarkable in many respects, but chiefly in this, that in it the old notions respecting the mysterious and inscrutable character of mental disease are altogether discarded:1139 the disease itself is considered as a phenomenon inevitably occurring under certain given conditions, and the foundation laid for supplying another link in that vast chain of evidence which connects the material with the immaterial, and thus uniting mind and matter into a single study, is now preparing the way for some generalization, which, being common to both, shall serve as a centre round which the disjointed fragments of our knowledge may safely rally.
These were the views which, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, began to dawn upon French thinkers. The extraordinary ability and success with which these eminent men cultivated their respective sciences, I have traced at a length greater that I had intended, but still very inadequate to the importance of the subject. Enough, however, has been brought forward, to convince the reader of the truth of the proposition I wished to prove; namely, that the intellect of France was, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, concentrated upon the external world with unprecedented zeal, and thus aided that vast movement, of which the Revolution itself was merely a single consequence. The intimate connexion between scientific progress and social rebellion, is evident from the fact, that both are suggested by the same yearning after improvement, the same dissatisfaction with what has been previously done, the same restless, prying, insubordinate, and audacious spirit. But in France this general analogy was strengthened by the curious circumstances I have already noticed, by virtue of which, the activity of the country was, during the first half of the century, directed against the church rather than against the state; so that in order to complete the antecedents of the Revolution, it was necessary that, in the latter half of the century, the ground of attack should be shifted. This is precisely what was done by the wonderful impetus given to every branch of natural science. For, the attention of men being thus steadily fixed upon the external world, the internal fell into neglect; while, as the external corresponds to the state, and the internal to the church, it was part of the same intellectual development, that the assailers of the existing fabric should turn against political abuses the energy which the preceding generation had reserved for religious ones.
Thus it was that the French Revolution, like every great revolution the world has yet seen, was preceded by a complete change in the habits and associations of the national intellect. But besides this, there was also taking place, precisely at the same time, a vast social movement, which was intimately connected with the intellectual movement, and indeed formed part of it, in so far as it was followed by similar results and produced by similar causes. The nature of this social revolution I shall examine only very briefly, because in a future volume it will be necessary to trace its history minutely, in order to illustrate the slighter but still remarkable changes which in the same period were going on in English society.
In France, before the Revolution, the people, though always very social, were also very exclusive. The upper classes, protected by an imaginary superiority, looked with scorn upon those whose birth or titles were unequal to their own. The class immediately below them copied and communicated their example, and every order in society endeavoured to find some fanciful distinction which should guard them from the contamination of their inferiors. The only three real sources of superiority, – the superiority of morals, of intellect, and of knowledge, – were entirely overlooked in this absurd scheme; and men became accustomed to pride themselves not on any essential difference, but on those inferior matters, which, with extremely few exceptions, are the result of accident, and therefore no test of merit.1140
The first great blow to this state of things, was the unprecedented impulse given to the cultivation of physical science. Those vast discoveries which were being made, not only stimulated the intellect of thinking men, but even roused the curiosity of the more thoughtless parts of society. The lectures of chemists, of geologists, of mineralogists, and of physiologists, were attended by those who came to wonder, as well as by those who came to learn. In Paris, the scientific assemblages were crowded to overflowing.1141 The halls and amphitheatres in which the great truths of nature were expounded, were no longer able to hold their audience, and in several instances it was found necessary to enlarge them.1142 The sittings of the Academy, instead of being confined to a few solitary scholars, were frequented by every one whose rank or influence enabled them to secure a place.1143 Even women of fashion, forgetting their usual frivolity, hastened to hear discussions on the composition of a mineral, on the discovery of a new salt, on the structure of plants, on the organization of animals, on the properties of the electric fluid.1144 A sudden craving after knowledge seemed to have smitten every rank. The largest and the most difficult inquiries found favour in the eyes of those whose fathers had hardly heard the names of the sciences to which they belonged. The brilliant imagination of Buffon made geology suddenly popular; the same thing was effected for chemistry by the eloquence of Fourcroy, and for electricity by Nollet; while the admirable expositions of Lalande caused astronomy itself to be generally cultivated. In a word, it is enough to say, that during the thirty years preceding the Revolution, the spread of physical science was so rapid, that in its favour the old classical studies were despised;1145 it was considered the essential basis of a good education, and some slight acquaintance with it was deemed necessary for every class, except those who were obliged to support themselves by their daily labour.1146
The results produced by this remarkable change are very curious, and from their energy and rapidity were very decisive. As long as the different classes confined themselves to pursuits peculiar to their own sphere, they were encouraged to preserve their separate habits; and the subordination, or, as it were, the hierarchy, of society was easily maintained. But when the members of the various orders met in the same place with the same object, they became knit together by a new sympathy. The highest and most durable of all pleasures, the pleasure caused by the perception of fresh truths, was now a great link, which banded together those social elements that were formerly wrapped up in the pride of their own isolation. Besides this, there was also given to them not only a new pursuit, but also a new standard of merit. In the amphitheatre and the lecture-room, the first object of attention is the professor and the lecturer. The division is between those who teach and those who learn. The subordination of ranks makes way for the subordination of knowledge.1147 The petty and conventional distinctions of fashionable life are succeeded by those large and genuine distinctions, by which alone man is really separated from man. The progress of the intellect supplies a new object of veneration; the old worship of rank is rudely disturbed, and its superstitious devotees are taught to bow the knee before what to them is the shrine of a strange god. The hall of science is the temple of democracy. Those who come to learn, confess their own ignorance, abrogate in some degree their own superiority, and begin to perceive that the greatness of men has no connexion with the splendour of their titles, or the dignity of their birth; that it is not concerned with their quarterings, their escutcheons, their descents, their dexter-chiefs, their sinister-chiefs, their chevrons, their bends, their azures, their gules, and the other trumperies of their heraldry; but that it depends upon the largeness of their minds, the powers of their intellect, and the fullness of their knowledge.
