Darwin at an American University

COULD Darwin be produced in an American university to-day? is a question recently discussed in academic circles. Put in this form the question is easily answered. Such men are not produced in any university. They are God’s favorite children; and of the education of his favorites He is in no wise particular. Like the poets, they are born, not made; or as Professor Osborn of Columbia puts it, ‘The first secret of greatness is to be born great — unfortunately a difficult task.’ No one, however, even professes to be so much in the secrets of Providence, or to have penetrated so far into the mysteries of heredity, as to suggest that the difficulty of being born great is more formidable in America than elsewhere.

Yet one may be born for great things and fail to perform them through adverse circumstances. And so it is suggested that, had Darwin’s experiences of a university been like those afforded in America to-day, his development would have been retarded if not entirely checked. It is submitted, by way of rebuttal, that Darwin survived the influences of the British universities. At Edinburgh, he found the lectures incredibly dull, ‘as dull as the lecturers themselves.’ His language with regard to these lecturers is in striking contrast to his references to sport, at the same period. ‘How I did enjoy shooting!’ When he went from Edinburgh to Cambridge, things did not mend much so far as lectures were concerned, although here, too, there were compensations: — ‘Upon the whole, the three years that I spent at Cambridge were the most joyful in my happy life.’

It is not suggested by the severest critics of our institutions that Darwin would have brought the same charges against our lecturers that he brought against those of his own country. Lectures, however, are but a part, and for a man like Darwin, a small part, of academic life. Are the other influences at work favorable or unfavorable to the development of a man with native power to advance the bounds of knowledge? Many of those who have taken part in the discussion of this question have adopted a despondent tone. Let us look at the matter calmly.

We are bound to recognize the fact that, in spite of the splendid provision for research that is so marked a feature of this country, there is much misgiving as to the future. Indeed no one can fail to be impressed with the striking contrast that is presented between the prevailing pessimism with regard to culture, and the prevailing optimism with regard to material advancement. If we put aside the jibes of those who speak as if success in anything obtained by honorable means may be a proper subject for a sneer, we find little serious criticism of our business methods (apart from the moral issues that they raise). When our visitors have overcome their first surprise at the height of our buildings and the size of the headlines in our newspapers, then, if the music of praise be in them at all, they point to our wonderful material successes and sing pæans over our time-saving devices and other evidences of skill in ‘practical’ affairs. Soon, however, they begin to shake their heads (and too often we shake ours in stupid unison) over the outlook on the side of culture. They say that we cannot create literature, or advance science, or paint pictures. My own view is that all this is nonsense. I agree neither with the pessimists nor with the optimists. Not with the optimists, for although there is much that is admirable in the conduct of our business, vast improvements could be effected almost everywhere by the adoption of more scientific methods. What we do, we do on a great scale, but we often do it very badly; and it is mainly owing to our exceptional opportunities that we have had exceptional success. Nor am I on the side of the pessimists. I do not merely think that we can produce firstrate men of science, I know that we do produce them. The deplorable fact is that, as a rule, we have not the grace to recognize them. Let me cite a few examples, out of many that might be adduced, from the field of my own special interests.

Take first the case of J. Willard Gibbs of Yale. Of him Sir Joseph Larmor, addressing the Royal Society of London, and doubtless weighing his words before such an audience, said, ‘The nineteenth century will be remembered as much for the establishment of the dynamical theory of heat at the very foundation of general physics, as for the unravelment of the nature of radiation and of electricity, or the advance of molecular science. In the first of these subjects the name of Carnot has a place by itself; in the completion of its earlier physical stage the names of Joule and Clausius and Kelvin stand out by common consent; and it is not too much to say that, by the final adaptation of its ideas to all reversible natural operations, the name of Gibbs takes a place alongside theirs.

Gibbs’s chief achievement was the development of the fundamental principles that regulate the trend of transformation in chemical and physical processes. In science, to know is to predict; and when one can predict changes in physical state one must be near the root of the matter. And so all competent authorities recognize that Gibbs rendered the greatest service to chemistry by definitely marking out the channels within which a scheme of reactions can proceed. In spite of this he was hardly known in this country at the time when he was making these great advances. He was discovered by a foreigner, Maxwell, who in 1876 contributed an enthusiastic exposition of Gibbs’s work to the Cambridge Philosophical Society in England. This introduced Gibbs to Europe, and particularly to the great physical chemists of the Dutch school, who quickly recognized the importance of his work and developed it experimentally. After this, of course, Gibbs was honored by scientific societies at home as well as abroad, but even now few, outside a very limited scientific circle, have ever heard of him.

Think next of G. W. Hill, a graduate of Rutgers College, one of the most original characters in the history of American science. He is happily stil with us, living apart from the rushing tide that surges in the neighborhood of New York, on his peaceful farm in the valley of the Hudson. What proportion of the graduates of American colleges know anything of Hill, although the most famous of French mathematical physicists, Poincaré, says, ‘His theory of the moon will make his name immortal. In that work he proves himself not only a skilled artist and persistent investigator, but a profound and original inventor.’

These two men belonged to an earlier generation, and it may be suggested that things have changed of late. Let us take then a thoroughly modern instance. George E. Hale graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1890. The thesis for his degree was entitled Photography of the Solar Prominences, and in his hands it quickly led to developments which in the opinion of the highest authorities mark the beginning of a new era in astronomy. He has taught us a selective method of photography by means of which we can obtain a picture of the clouds of hydrogen in the sun, another of the clouds of calcium vapor, and so of other elements. From this he has gone on from strength to strength, and since the resources of the Mt. Wilson Observatory, supported by the Carnegie Institution, have been at his disposal, he has unraveled many of the mysteries of the sun-spots and made possible not only the detection, but the measurement, of the magnetic forces that play around the sun. For such work he has been crowned with honor abroad, and warmly acclaimed by a small band of scientists at home. Outside this band, however, his name is scarcely known, even where one might expect otherwise.

Some few months ago Mr. Carnegie announced that he had added ten million dollars to his splendid endowment of research. In making this gift, he remarked that all that he had done for the advancement of science had been fully justified by the work of one genius, — Professor Hale, the director of the Mt. Wilson Observatory; — and he added, ‘All the world will listen to the wizard on the top of Mt. Wilson.’

Such praise from such a source naturally attracted attention. All the newspapers had much to say of Mr. Carnegie, and some of them referred to Mr. Hale. The latter’s name, however, was evidently new to most of them, and in Boston itself I saw no immediate recognition of the fact that this ‘wizard’ was trained at one of the great educational institutions of that city and did epoch-making work there twenty years ago. Had he been an equally distinguished foreigner, the very details of his domestic life would have been displayed for our edification.

This comparative neglect of our fellows is all the more surprising in view of Mr. Bryce’s statement that we have ‘enthusiasm for anything that can be called genius, and an over-readiness to discover it.’ Our newspapers, even the best, are conspicuously ill-informed on matters of science; but for the real explanation of the constant heaping of honors on the wrong man, we should have to search much deeper. That, however, would lead us astray, for the main purpose of the citations that have been given is to prove that as a matter of fact we do produce front-rank men. Whether, having regard to the general level of intelligence and to the special educational opportunities that are presented , we produce as many great names as should be expected, is another question. It is, however, idle to discuss it, for the only practical question is this: can anything be done to improve our condition, whether it be good or bad?

There can be little doubt that there are many forces at work here that are adverse to the scholarly life. The influence in this direction that is most commonly discussed is our devotion to material success. Men are probably just as keen to grow rich in other lands, but their chances of success are smaller. Here almost every man of brains is made to feel that there is nothing but self that can permanently exclude him from the circle of the rich. The bait is placed so temptingly before so many that it is not surprising that many swallow it. It is a bait, too, that attracts men of large vision, for the scale of business is unusually great and many of its larger problems are of a character that appeals to the imaginative mind. And so it comes about quite naturally that an unusually large percentage of the best brains go into the business of America.

Then it must be admitted that the rewards of the scholar are smaller here than in older lands. This may not be true of the scholar who becomes famous, but it is true of the larger body that are never heard of. There is not the same respect here as elsewhere for the scholar as such, whether he be successful or not. After all, fame is the last infirmity of noble minds, and it does not help a man very much in his dark days to know that he will be appreciated if he become famous. He is not made to feel that he is on the right track, whether he win success or not, and that his mere efforts to succeed in the scholarly calling will win him respect. And so he often loses heart before success crowns his efforts.

A strong force making against firstrate work is the lack of repose that characterizes our people. If we are not always in a hurry we are nearly always restless. This restlessness shows itself clearly in the field of science. Darwin was a young man when his great theory of the origin of species was clearly conceived, and yet he waited and worked until he was fifty before giving his theory to the world. I gained much by the delay,’ he says. Our young men rarely stick long to a special line of research. They are too ready to plunge into new fields, into any region, indeed, that happens to be prominent at the moment, in forgetfulness of Darwin’s favorite maxim, ‘It’s dogged that does it.’

Perhaps it is true that too many of our universities are in, or near, great cities, which present too many distractions — social and political. Of course great work has been done in London, Paris, and Berlin, but almost invariably by men strong enough to keep out of the rush. Darwin found the social life of Cambridge ‘too pleasant for work, and although he made some progress in the metropolis, it was only because ‘if one is quiet in London, there is nothing like its quietness.’ However, apart altogether from the throbbing life of a great city, there are usually more than enough distractions within an American university itself. We hear complaints on all hands of the multiplication of machinery, the endless reports that are called for, the crushing load of committee meetings that must be borne. Perhaps our scholars are too ready to assume such burdens, or devote themselves with needless seriousness to such interests. It must be admitted, however, that here and elsewhere men have done great things while burdened with the routine duties of administrative office. Adams, who discovered Neptune, was the bursar of a Cambridge college, and many similar examples might be cited from the leading men of to-day. The strong and determined override all obstacles, and yet we should not forget that Darwin doubted whether he would have achieved much in science had he not had ample leisure from not having to earn his bread.

A serious source of danger lurks in an otherwise excellent thing — our peculiar devotion to institutions. Practically in all cases the institution overshadows the man. That this should be the case with the mass of students is not at all surprising; but it is surprising with the few who make mastery of some subject the object of their ambition. It is almost incredible that these should fail to recognize the importance of coming into close personal contact with the greatest in their chosen field. In the realm of physics an Englishman who has selected his life-work does not go to Cambridge, but to J. J. Thomson or to Larmor, just as a Scotsman did not go to Glasgow, but to Kelvin, nor a German to Berlin, but to Helmholtz. Our men are learning this lesson slowly, but they still go far too much to Harvard, or to Yale, or to Columbia.

I fear that the character of our teaching must be included among the forces making for the triumph of mediocrity. The fact is that we teach too much, that we spoon-feed our students and do not throw the better ones upon their own resources nearly enough. Darwin learned little from the professors at Edinburgh, but much from the undergraduate members of the Plinian Society. At Cambridge at least he had liberty, and ‘no pursuit was followed with so much eagerness as collecting beetles.’ He got nothing of importance from direct teaching, but his social intercourse with leading scientists, and in particular his historic ‘walks with Henslow’ were among the great formative influences of his life. It is hard to realize that he did not aspire to ‘ honors,’ and consequently that he knew nothing by actual experience of the honor system at Cambridge. Would he have accounted it good or bad, had he tried it? It would seem absurd to suggest that good teaching can fail to be helpful or that bad teaching can be good, and yet perhaps Darwin might have found some grain of truth in the suggestion that a peculiar merit of the Oxford and Cambridge ‘honor’ system is the ‘badness’ of the teaching. The students are brought face to face with really eminent men; these guide them more or less haphazardly into the mine and let them learn as best they may to recognize real gold when they see it. The system, or lack of system, may be hard on the average student, but it may have its merits for the bright ones. Here, unfortunately, we run some danger of sacrificing everything to the average.

It is sometimes said that we have too many facilities for research, and certainly Darwin’s equipment was remarkably modest. ‘With us,’ says President Jordan, ‘every usable drug and every usable instrument is on tap. A button brings the investigator all the books of all the ages, all the records of past experience, carrying knowledge far ahead of his present requirements.’ Of course this is not meant to be taken literally, such facilities being all for good in the saving of valuable time, The danger lies in attaching undue importance to the mere equipment for research, and in paying more attention to the machinery than to the man that makes use of it.

Some say that we encourage research too much, and stimulate it artificially. Talk of this kind is, for the most part, nonsense. There is certainly much that goes by the name of research that might well be dispensed with. The Atlantic Monthly has satirized researches to discover ‘the prefixes in P to be found in Plautus, the terminations in T of Terence, and so forth.’ Such work ought never to be dignified by the name of research, its only use being to keep men out of mischief. Some, who have more serious efforts in mind, complain that much of our research is mediocre in quality and that from the tons of theses that our young graduates produce, nothing of any real value ever comes. This is doubtless an exaggeration, but we miss the whole point of all ‘ research ’ of this class if we fail to see that the effort to be productive is an all-important part of genuine education. As Osborn has recently reminded us, ‘One can not too often quote the rugged insistence of Carlyle; “Produce! Produce! Were it but the pitifulest infinitesimal fraction of a product, produce it in God’s name. ’T is the utmost thou hast in thee, out with it, then!’

In this field it is certainly ‘ better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.’ One may easily get a better grasp of what learning really means, one may get far more insight into real culture, if he honestly tries to advance the bounds of knowledge and fails, than if he spends his days in reading of the efforts of those who have been conspicuously successful as pioneers of learning. It is the failure to recognize the fact that it is the giving out rather than the taking in that, more than all else, makes an educated man or woman, that lies at the base of most that is really disquieting in the popular criticisms of education.

After all, however, most of these drawbacks that have been mentioned — materialism, lack of repose, bad teaching, and the like — are external, and can be overcome. If we fail, the fault is not in our stars but in ourselves. Too often, while professing to be scholars, we do not take the scholarly calling with sufficient zeal. A religious friend, to whom I had commended the life of Wesley for its literary merits, remarked after reading the book, ‘The religious men of to-day are not like Wesley, and they do not want to be like him.' If we are not like the great scholars of other lands and other days, do we really want to be like them? Is scholarship with us a consuming passion, and does all else seem comparatively trifling? Can we say with Darwin, ‘My love of science is not only steadfast, but ardent ’? I often doubt it. Last year I met in Europe a group of young physicists. They talked of little else than recent theories of the ether, and recent speculations as to the nature of electricity and of matter. Everything else seemed to them trivial. Returning to this country, I met a similar group, or rather a group professing similar interests. They too were ready to discuss such matters if they were encouraged to do so; but other thoughts were evidently more in their minds. They had a dozen interests quite as strong as that in physics.

Science and art are in spirit the same, and they must be pursued with the same ardor. The scientist, like the artist, must be ready to do anything and to go anywhere to get in touch with masters in his chosen field. He must deem no sacrifice of time or money too great to secure a real mastery of the technique of his profession, and should take warning from the fact that it is through weakness in technique that much of our science presents so amateurish an appearance.

We must recognize our shortcomings; but, after all, the outlook for research is distinctly encouraging. There has been much to complain of in some of our universities, but in others the conditions for research have been almost ideal. It is to be expected that they will improve everywhere under the competition between the universities and the institutions that are now richly endowed for research alone; and it is certainly to be hoped that there will be no unnecessary divorce between teaching and research. Here, as in every field, the great desideratum is men.

Of the older men, it would be an impertinence to say anything save by way of reminder that the conquests they have already achieved have won them honor throughout the world. There is much too that is promising among the young men—they are keen, energetic, and full of hope. And they have ground for hopefulness, for they live in stirring times. ‘The new discoveries,’ said J. J. Thomson recently, ‘made in physics during the last few years, and the ideas, and potentialities suggested by them, have had an effect upon workers in that field akin to that produced by the Renaissance. Enthusiasm has been quickened, and there is a hopeful, youthful, perhaps exuberant, spirit abroad which leads men to make with confidence experiments that would have been thought fantastic twenty years ago. It has quite dispelled the pessimistic feeling not uncommon at that time, that all the interesting things had been discovered, and all that was left was to alter a decimal or two in some physical constant. There never was any justification for this feeling, there never were any signs of an approach to finality in science. As we conquer peak after peak, we see regions in front of us full of interest and beauty, but we do not see our goal, we do not see the horizon; in the distance tower still higher peaks, which will yield to those who ascend them still wider prospects.’

My examples have been taken mainly from physics, because it is there that my special interests lie, but I do not. mean to suggest for a moment that that region has a monopoly of the alluring peaks of human knowledge. There are doubtless equally fascinating ranges for exploration in other lands where the spirit of hope is also abroad.