The Story of Mankind [169]
had destroyed the classical
world of the Mediterranean, and the Christian Church, which
was more interested in the life of the soul than in the life of the
body, had regarded science as a manifestation of that human arrogance
which wanted to pry into divine affairs which belonged
to the realm of Almighty God, and which therefore was closely
related to the seven deadly sins.
The Renaissance to a certain but limited extent had broken
through this wall of Mediaeval prejudices. The Reformation,
however, which had overtaken the Renaissance in the early 16th
century, had been hostile to the ideals of the ``new civilisation,''
and once more the men of science were threatened with severe
punishment, should they try to pass beyond the narrow limits
of knowledge which had been laid down in Holy Writ.
Our world is filled with the statues of great generals, atop
of prancing horses, leading their cheering soldiers to glorious
victory. Here and there, a modest slab of marble announces
that a man of science has found his final resting place. A thousand
years from now we shall probably do these things differently,
and the children of that happy generation shall know
of the splendid courage and the almost inconceivable devotion
to duty of the men who were the pioneers of that abstract
knowledge, which alone has made our modern world a practical
possibility.
Many of these scientific pioneers suffered poverty and contempt
and humiliation. They lived in garrets and died in dungeons.
They dared not print their names on the title-pages of
their books and they dared not print their conclusions in the
land of their birth, but smuggled the manuscripts to some secret
printing shop in Amsterdam or Haarlem. They were exposed
to the bitter enmity of the Church, both Protestant and Catholic,
and were the subjects of endless sermons, inciting the parishioners
to violence against the ``heretics.''
Here and there they found an asylum. In Holland, where
the spirit of tolerance was strongest, the authorities, while
regarding these scientific investigations with little favour, yet
refused to interfere with people's freedom of thought. It became
a little asylum for intellectual liberty where French and
English and German philosophers and mathematicians and
physicians could go to enjoy a short spell of rest and get a
breath of free air.
In another chapter I have told you how Roger Bacon, the
great genius of the thirteenth century, was prevented for years
from writing a single word, lest he get into new troubles with
the authorities of the church. And five hundred years later, the
contributors to the great philosophic ``Encyclopaedia'' were under
the constant supervision of the French gendarmerie. Half
a century afterwards, Darwin, who dared to question the story
of the creation of man, as revealed in the Bible, was denounced
from every pulpit as an enemy of the human race.
Even to-day, the persecution of those who venture into the
unknown realm of science has not entirely come to an end.
And while I am writing this Mr. Bryan is addressing a vast
multitude on the ``Menace of Darwinism,'' warning his hearers
against the errors of the great English naturalist.
All this, however, is a mere detail. The work that has to
be done invariably gets done, and the ultimate profit of the
discoveries and the inventions goes to the mass of those same people
who have always decried the man of vision as an unpractical idealist.
The seventeenth century had still preferred to investigate
the far off heavens and to study the position of our
planet in relation to the solar system. Even so, the Church had
disapproved of this unseemly curiosity, and Copernicus who
first of all had proved that the sun was the centre of the universe,
did not publish his work until the day of his death. Galileo
spent the greater part of his life under the supervision of the
clerical
world of the Mediterranean, and the Christian Church, which
was more interested in the life of the soul than in the life of the
body, had regarded science as a manifestation of that human arrogance
which wanted to pry into divine affairs which belonged
to the realm of Almighty God, and which therefore was closely
related to the seven deadly sins.
The Renaissance to a certain but limited extent had broken
through this wall of Mediaeval prejudices. The Reformation,
however, which had overtaken the Renaissance in the early 16th
century, had been hostile to the ideals of the ``new civilisation,''
and once more the men of science were threatened with severe
punishment, should they try to pass beyond the narrow limits
of knowledge which had been laid down in Holy Writ.
Our world is filled with the statues of great generals, atop
of prancing horses, leading their cheering soldiers to glorious
victory. Here and there, a modest slab of marble announces
that a man of science has found his final resting place. A thousand
years from now we shall probably do these things differently,
and the children of that happy generation shall know
of the splendid courage and the almost inconceivable devotion
to duty of the men who were the pioneers of that abstract
knowledge, which alone has made our modern world a practical
possibility.
Many of these scientific pioneers suffered poverty and contempt
and humiliation. They lived in garrets and died in dungeons.
They dared not print their names on the title-pages of
their books and they dared not print their conclusions in the
land of their birth, but smuggled the manuscripts to some secret
printing shop in Amsterdam or Haarlem. They were exposed
to the bitter enmity of the Church, both Protestant and Catholic,
and were the subjects of endless sermons, inciting the parishioners
to violence against the ``heretics.''
Here and there they found an asylum. In Holland, where
the spirit of tolerance was strongest, the authorities, while
regarding these scientific investigations with little favour, yet
refused to interfere with people's freedom of thought. It became
a little asylum for intellectual liberty where French and
English and German philosophers and mathematicians and
physicians could go to enjoy a short spell of rest and get a
breath of free air.
In another chapter I have told you how Roger Bacon, the
great genius of the thirteenth century, was prevented for years
from writing a single word, lest he get into new troubles with
the authorities of the church. And five hundred years later, the
contributors to the great philosophic ``Encyclopaedia'' were under
the constant supervision of the French gendarmerie. Half
a century afterwards, Darwin, who dared to question the story
of the creation of man, as revealed in the Bible, was denounced
from every pulpit as an enemy of the human race.
Even to-day, the persecution of those who venture into the
unknown realm of science has not entirely come to an end.
And while I am writing this Mr. Bryan is addressing a vast
multitude on the ``Menace of Darwinism,'' warning his hearers
against the errors of the great English naturalist.
All this, however, is a mere detail. The work that has to
be done invariably gets done, and the ultimate profit of the
discoveries and the inventions goes to the mass of those same people
who have always decried the man of vision as an unpractical idealist.
The seventeenth century had still preferred to investigate
the far off heavens and to study the position of our
planet in relation to the solar system. Even so, the Church had
disapproved of this unseemly curiosity, and Copernicus who
first of all had proved that the sun was the centre of the universe,
did not publish his work until the day of his death. Galileo
spent the greater part of his life under the supervision of the
clerical